Putty in Her Hands

by Lynn Shurr

  “I’ll go with you. I want to see your operation.”

  “If this is really about Todd…”

  “No, it isn’t.” Maybe it was a little bit, but he didn’t have to admit that. “What time do you want to leave?”

  “Five a.m. I can get there and back the same day even if I’m ambushed for lunch or dinner by my mom.”

  “I’ll be ready to go. Your truck or mine?”

  “Mine. I’ll pick you up.”

  “Won’t you consider coming back to the Box tonight?”

  “Like I said, I need to think. See you tomorrow, five sharp.”

  “I’ll be ready.” He cast Todd’s lifeline aside and climbed down. As he passed the highly amused uncles, he muttered. “She’s tough.”

  “You better believe it. That’s our Jules,” Sal said, knowing his niece heard.

  Sammy whispered in his ear, “But so worth the effort.”

  Remy nodded and went about his business for the day, checking the framing of the doorways and bathrooms on the upper floors. He found a couple of doorframes so poorly done he summoned the foreman. “This is crappy work. The lintel isn’t even level. Rip this mess out.”

  “Sorry. New apprentice. I’ll make him do them again and stand over him while he does.”

  Apprentices, the bane of Remy’s existence right now. He’d like to take the hide off this Todd substitute, but wisely left it to the foreman. “I’ll be back to inspect again before I leave for the day.”

  He took himself off to supervise the laying of the slab for the new kitchen and hoped that would take his mind off of Julia for a few hours. He knew he wouldn’t sleep well tonight, not without her within his arm’s reach, her warmth burning off the chill of their argument. Five a.m., he’d be ready to go.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Jules knew she’d been spoiled by Remy. For one thing, even with the new bump in his nose, he didn’t snore nearly as hard as her uncles. The tepid shower in the motorhome hardly compared to the luxurious bath and shower in the Black Box, both big enough to fit two. As usual, Sal and Sam went out for something fried for dinner and insisted she go along as pie and ice cream in the morning did not make a meal, and she hadn’t touched the box of donuts during break. Oh, for Remy whipping up an omelet or ordering takeout because she was too tired to cook. And for the king-sized bed with Remy in it, a solid presence against her back, one she could turn to any time she wanted.

  No, she would not make this easy on him. The gates at the Black Box stood wide open like welcoming arms waiting to receive her at five a.m. Nicely dressed for the excursion, Remy had gone with pressed khakis and blue chambray open at the collar, so tempting, so inviting with that deep-dimpled smile on his face. Really, they didn’t need to leave before sunup. They could…no!”

  Remy climbed aboard, briefly noting her all-business work jeans and Regal Restorations shirt, but saying nothing except, “I made coffee for the trip. It’s for both of us.” He held up a stainless-steel thermos.

  “Thoughtful of you.”

  “I know a hole-in-the-wall place on the way with the best biscuits. They’ll stuff them with whatever you want: a fried egg, ham, bacon, sausage, cheese, all of the above.”

  “I think that’s called McDonald’s.”

  “No, better than that. They’ll do steak too, even fried catfish. Mind if I turn on the radio?”

  “Whatever you want.” She’d decided on crabby as the best way to keep him at bay. Julia let the classical music flow over her, replacing conversation, then the usual depressing news of the day as the sun rose hot enough to fry the aforementioned egg on the concrete highway as they passed thorough small towns and over swampy ground. Remy poured coffee for her and put it in the cup holder, probably hoping to get her in a better mood. At the rundown diner, he took her order, went inside and waited since she’d made it clear she didn’t want to get down and waste time. Truly, she feared facing him in a cracked vinyl booth and feeling the tug of his attraction. They might end up in a motel along the way.

  Julia ran the air-conditioning and drank the coffee as she waited for breakfast to be delivered directly into her hands. An only child, her father called her headstrong, her mother stubborn, and her many cousins, bossy. She guessed she was and probably couldn’t cure herself enough to be anyone’s wife. No reason to tell him right now. He stepped into the cab, bringing with him the aroma of bacon and the steam of hot biscuits. She accepted one with no egg, suspecting she’d be wearing the dribbles on her shirt if she did, and set out on the road to New Orleans again.

  “I could drive while you eat,” Remy suggested.

  “No, I’m fine.” Let him see how willful she was. Let him be the one to call things off between them because hard as she tried, she couldn’t end it.

  Julia selected an off-ramp well before they reached the heart of New Orleans. She took Remy to an area of warehouses, row upon row, and parked beside one with Regal Restorations scrolling out along its exterior in blue paint. Other than that, her base of operations appeared crude and unadorned. She led Remy inside where her crew of thirty plaster artisans already worked hard on their individual repair projects using instruments as fine as dental picks and tiny brushes. All was as Julia demanded it be: molds mounted on the walls out of the way, the saws and drill presses gleaming and ready for use, the area for the making of metal templates already busy with workers cutting, filing, and sanding the blades needed to form exact reproductions. Only a few raised their eyes and voices to greet her.

  An impressively feathered plaster eagle, taller than she, perched in one corner keeping a keen and beady eye on the operations. “Our mascot, Egg Head, we salvaged him from a building we were unable to save.”

  Along one wall a master artisan berated a small clutch of apprentices examining a batch of newly cast crown moldings in the egg and dart pattern consisting of a series of ovals and points. Jules recognized Todd, gangling and blond, standing among the dark and stocky descendants of Italian immigrants as if he’d been hatched in the wrong nest.

  “Do you see the flaws here? You must constantly run a blade across the top until it dries. Otherwise, the plaster swells out of the mold. Never turn your back on it. We’ll try this again, mix, pour, set, unmold.” Row upon row of plaster moldings curing in casts spread out across the floor.

  Julia heard a low whistle behind her. “Impressive,” Remy said.

  “Thank you, but take a look at the men working at the tables. What color is their hair if they still have any left?”

  “Gray.”

  “Yes, it takes ten years to master ornamental plaster. I’ve known some of these men since I was child. They’d let me cast plaster rosettes and paint them. Mostly, their children aren’t going into the trade. We need people with heart, stamina, and a good grasp of mathematics to do what we do here. They’re dying out. That’s why I require guys like Todd.”

  “I hate to admit architects are a dime a dozen in New Orleans, my primary reason for being in Chapelle.”

  “Well, it is more glamorous than plasterwork. You are the designers. We are the restorers.”

  “How much room do you have here?”

  “Eighteen-thousand square feet, all of it in use.”

  Remy pointed to a complex mold. “I recognize that, the Corinthian molding from Alleman.”

  “Yeah, incredibly difficult, all that detail.”

  “You don’t use silicone for the molds?’

  “No, urethane rubber. It’s far cheaper and can reproduce the finest detail.”

  Remy continued to ask intelligent questions and did not mask the admiration in his voice. “Where are all the others, the roofers, the floor refinishers?”

  “Files on my computer. They are sub-contractors we call in for big projects, but plaster is my true love.”

  “You really don’t need a spare architect, do you?” Did she detect regret in that last statement?

  “Depends on the architect,” she answered at once. “Seen enough?” />
  “Maybe too much.”

  “Almost time for the lunch break. Someone informed my mother I’d be in town. We’re expected at her house for pasta salad.”

  The clock struck noon, and the artisans carefully laid aside their tools, headed for a break room, and opened old-fashioned lunchboxes releasing the odors of salami and garlic. Some moved toward the food trucks parked along the road this time of day, Todd among them.

  “Hey, Ms. Rossi,” he said carefully in front of his coworkers bound to take offense if he seemed too familiar with the boss. “Can I get you something from one of the trucks?”

  “Don’t you have moldings to watch over?” Remy asked.

  “We’re taking turns during the break.”

  “Thanks, Todd, but my mother expects us.”

  “Nice lady, your mom. She fed me a few times. It’s always good. I wish I didn’t have to stay here.”

  “Are you getting a good taste of all we do?”

  “Yes, ma’am. But I’m not nearly good enough to do most of the work. I don’t like babysitting the molds.” He looked at Julia with pleading gray eyes.

  “Being a cornice hen is an important job. Stay with it. I’ll be back to get a couple of the new coffers for the Queen’s ceiling to try out.”

  “I’d like to see how they fit in person.”

  “Maybe that can be arranged.” Julia waited for a protest of some sort from Remy, but none came. “Off we go to Little Palermo.”

  “Looks like the French Quarter to me,” Remy remarked as they left the highway for the Vieux Carre and delved into a side street near St. Mary’s Church and the Old Ursuline Convent.

  “With so many Italians settling here after the Civil War they started calling this section the Sicilian Quarter. A lot of the old families have pulled out for the suburbs, but not mine. We own most of the block.”

  Jules failed to find a space in front of the brick row homes and turned down a narrow alley. She parked near a locked rear gate and let them into a long, skinny yard where staked tomato plants, bushy eggplants, and zucchini vines yellowed, long past the end of their season under the onslaught of the August sun. They made their way up a brick walk and mounted three tall cement steps to the backdoor. Jules banged on it with a fist, then tried the knob.

  Unlocked. They entered an old-fashioned kitchen painted a cheery yellow and hosting a linoleum-topped table with three chairs guarded by a print of the Holy Family along one wall and an array of outdated appliances along the other. Judging by the wear on the surface of the table, and the ring left by a cup near the sugar bowl, Mrs. Rossi took her coffee and most of her meals there, but the woman was nowhere in sight.

  “In here, my darlin’ daughter,” she called from another room.

  “Mama, how many times have I told you to keep your backdoor locked? This neighborhood isn’t as safe as it was when I was little.”

  “What are they going to steal? Eggplants from the garden? Great-aunt Gertie’s antimacassars?” Mrs. Rossi entered, shorter and plumper than her daughter, dark auburn hair streaked with gray, a smile of welcome on her face, but a wee bit of a bite to her words. “So, this is the young man who seduced my daughter.”

  She eyed him head to toe much as Julia had once done. Jules watched Remy go off-kilter for a few seconds. Then, he unleashed his enticing smile. “I believe she might have seduced me. I can certainly see where she gets her Irish blue eyes and dazzling smile.”

  “As my granny would say, this one kissed the Blarney Stone. She also warned me to stay away from the Italian boys. I think Cajun lads might fall into the same category.”

  “You married an Italian boy, Mom.”

  “Exactly. I didn’t take her advice. Maybe you shouldn’t take mine. Well, the table is set for lunch. Go right in and seat yourselves.”

  Julia led the way to a dining room dominated by a Victorian breakfront full of knickknacks from a pottery rooster pitcher to fancy floral-painted teacups too nice to be used, and a large mahogany table. A starter plate of garden fresh tomatoes and mozzarella slices sat at each place on Irish linen placemats edged in lace. Cruets of vinegar and olive oil were placed handily nearby along with a sliced loaf of Italian bread on a marble slab, and a bowl of pasta salad studded with ham that appeared large enough to feed half of Julia’s work crew. Mrs. Rossi had iced tea poured, but offered lemonade or wine. Remy accepted a glass of the latter. “I’m not the one driving,”

  “My Marco would never let me drive.” Mrs. Rossi passed the pasta bowl. “Sometimes I miss his bossy ways—but then I still have Julia always telling me what to do.” Clearly, she knew her daughter well.

  Remy sidestepped the trap of agreeing with her. “This is a delicious meal,” he said instead.

  “A fine lunch for summer. We have lemon icebox pie for dessert. You’ll have to come back in winter for my Irish stew and soda bread.”

  “I’d like that if Julia keeps me around.”

  Jules didn’t fall into that pit either. “Who knows what the future holds?”

  “I can recommend a fortuneteller by Jackson Square who might know. She said my daughter would meet a tall, dark, handsome stranger, and she so has.”

  “I’m fairly certain she tells every woman something like that.” Julia steered the conversation to another topic. “You know I could renovate this place for you, new kitchen, open up these small rooms to make it more spacious like my place.”

  “I lived here with your father for thirty-five years. You won’t touch a thing.”

  “Stubborn.”

  “Like my daughter. She wouldn’t be this way if we’d had more children, some brothers to keep her in line, but it wasn’t to be. Bad complications after her birth. My hysterectomy—”

  “Mama, please, not the hysterectomy story at lunch.”

  “Well you see, my daughter is my only hope for grandchildren and not getting any younger. Would you like to have a family, Mr. Broussard?”

  “Oh, six at least. My family is big on reproduction.” Remy winked at Jules across the table. “Please call me Remy.”

  “Mom, his house has only one bedroom. He didn’t plan any space for children.”

  “He an architect, now, isn’t he? Certainly, he could build another place if he wanted.”

  Jules declined to answer the obvious. Yes, he could if he wanted a family, but Remy had shown no sign that he did, six indeed! She started telling her mom of their progress on the Queen and held onto the topic until the icebox pie was consumed and coffee served.

  Julia breathed a sigh of relief when they prepared to leave burdened down by containers of pasta salad including some for the uncles and a small one for Todd. “Such a nice young man but far too skinny.”

  Jules didn’t want to get her started on Todd. “We need to go. I have to pick up the ceiling coffers. Coming, Remy?”

  “As soon as I thank your mother for the wonderful hospitality. Mrs. Rossi, it has been a pleasure.”

  “It’s Katie to you.” Her mother fluttered.

  As she headed for the door, Julia wished she hadn’t heard her mom’s last remark to Remy. “I do like Todd, but Jules has ten years on him. I think you have the edge.”

  “Are you coming or not?” With Remy trailing, Julia paused at the gate, loaded him with the stack of plastic containers, and let them out. In the alley, she tested him again. “I want Todd…”

  “If he’s what you want, then I guess we’re…” Grim described his face.

  Done. Over. C’est finis as the French would say. Julia rushed to finish her sentence. “I want Todd to return as my assistant at the Queen if the two of you won’t bicker.”

  Relief washed over his handsome features. “I can keep up my end of the bargain if he keeps his.”

  “Good. We’ll take him back with us.” She handed him the truck keys and scooped up the containers.

  “What, me take the wheel under the influence of one glass of rather sweet wine?”

  “I think you are sober enough for both of
us. See, I’m sharing.”

  “And I’m sharing this.” He bent for a kiss that would have been way better and lasted much longer if the pasta containers weren’t in the way. Remy opened the passenger door for her and waited until she stowed the leftovers in the back before taking the chance that she’d kick him when he twirled her around and lifted her into the seat. Julia did not protest.

  Miss Lolly knew a thing or two for a maiden lady. Sometimes you had to let a man be a man.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Only off the site one damn day and the framing of the upstairs rooms had gone to hell again. Remy couldn’t blame Todd for any of it. No, the apprentice squeezed behind the front seat among the pasta containers for the long ride back to Chapelle as happy as man newly released from prison. They had to go by Sammy’s house to collect Todd’s belongings, which meant meeting Sam’s wife and several of his daughters, one of whom seemed really, really sad the apprentice was leaving. Pressed to stay for coffee and Italian cream cake, they did, and that meant stopping for dinner at an IHOP on the way back and arriving at the Queen around eight to drop Todd at the motorhome.

  As the uncles accepted the pasta salad and additional slices of cream cake, Todd unfolded his long, cramped legs and hauled his stuff to the RV. After Julia took him aside at the Regal Restorations building, he’d remained mostly silent on the trip, probably sleeping when he wasn’t raiding the leftovers with a plastic fork. Now, uncertainty hung in the air like the ninety-eight percent humidity left behind by the afternoon thunderstorm.

  In Todd’s absence, Remy asked in a low tone the uncles wouldn’t hear, “Are you coming back with me?”

  Julia’s lips quirked. “Did you think I’d sleep with Todd in the over-cab bunk?”

  “I never know what you’re going to do next.”

  “That’s good for you. Keeps you on your toes. Yes, I’ll be coming home with you.”