Aunt Yolanda, looking elegant in a pair of black silk pants and a beaded top I’d loaned her, stared at the clubhouse as if she’d never seen anything like it. She probably hadn’t. The clubhouse at The Shores is a three-story building that could have been ripped off the set of Gone with the Wind. Fronted by a circular drive of crushed oyster shells and backed by acres of lush green lawn, tennis courts, and an Olympic-sized swimming pool with views of the club’s world-class golf course, it was way out of our league. The whole area whispers money, history, and long-standing tradition. Though I’m getting more comfortable here, I still sometimes struggle with a sense of inadequacy. I suspected Uncle Nestor was having the same reaction.
While a uniformed valet disappeared with the car, Uncle Nestor climbed the stairs behind us, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched, scowling at everything we passed. The air was cool and dry, lightly perfumed by the flowers blooming on nearby azalea bushes. It was a nearly perfect evening, but Uncle Nestor couldn’t even let himself enjoy it.
When I was a girl, we never went a month without worrying how all the utilities and the rent would be paid. Even if we met those basic needs, we were never sure there’d be enough left over for groceries. Uncle Nestor and Aunt Yolanda had worked long hours to make ends meet, leaving my cousins and me alone a lot as we grew older. My aunt and uncle had never once hinted that I was a burden, but I’d secretly suspected that the extra person to feed and clothe—a girl, no less, who couldn’t even wear their sons’ hand-me-downs—had been the tipping point in their budget.
Aunt Yolanda had taken our circumstances in stride, praising God for blessings she hadn’t yet received and urging us to do the same. But Uncle Nestor had gone down a different path. He’d taken those early hardships as a sign of failure, believing that his circumstances were a punishment for some sin he never talked about. Even now, with Agave a success, he walked through life as uncomfortable with his current good fortune as he was in the suit I’d pulled for him from the spare closet where I’d put Philippe’s clothes. My poor uncle spent his days just waiting for God to throw the next big roadblock in his path.
I’d fallen somewhere in the middle, unable to rise to Aunt Yolanda’s level of faith but not as negative as Uncle Nestor either. I’d found joy in the kitchen as the boys and I scraped together creative meals from the meager contents of our cupboards. Those early days had sparked my love of cooking. Which was actually a little miracle, I guess. It could so easily have gone the other way.
“I didn’t realize Miss Frankie was so well off,” Aunt Yolanda whispered, pulling me back to the moment.
“She has money,” I said, “but it hasn’t gone to her head. She’s as down-to-earth as they come.”
Uncle Nestor eyed the club’s broad verandah with suspicion. “Family money?”
“Some of it,” I said. “I’m not entirely sure where it all comes from.”
He gave me a raised-brow look. “You haven’t asked? Or she won’t tell?”
“I haven’t asked.”
He huffed and turned away, and my nerve endings tingled. I wasn’t imagining it. He really did seem more caustic than he used to be, but why was that? Was he that angry at me for moving to New Orleans?
There was nothing I could do about it now, so I ignored him and took up the conversation with Aunt Yolanda. “You remember how Miss Frankie was at the wedding, don’t you?”
“Utterly charming,” Aunt Yolanda agreed.
“And completely genuine,” I assured her. “I know you’ll like her when you get to know her better.”
Aunt Yolanda smiled. “Don’t worry so much, Rita. I’m sure we’ll like your new friends.”
“She’s not worried about us liking them,” Uncle Nestor groused from behind us. “She’s worried they won’t like us.”
That was so unfair! I turned toward him with a scowl. “That’s not true. The people coming tonight aren’t exactly friends of mine. Their opinions don’t matter.” I hesitated on the threshold, taking in the long central corridor lined with glass trophy cases and an impressive library. I could hear the muted sounds of activity coming from somewhere in the back, but the hushed silence that greeted us told me we were one of the first to arrive. That ought to make Miss Frankie happy.
I swallowed my feelings of inadequacy and kept talking to Uncle Nestor as if I weren’t battling a giant case of nerves. “Other than the staff at Zydeco, I’ve probably only met a handful of these people for about thirty seconds at Philippe’s funeral. I have no idea what I’ll talk about with any of them. I’m a little nervous about that, but there’s also a chance that I can make a good impression on some important potential clients tonight. If I’m distracted and edgy, that’s why. It has nothing to do with you.”
Aunt Yolanda gave me an encouraging hug. “You’re an intelligent woman and you have a great sense of humor. You can talk to them about absolutely anything. Don’t you dare let anyone make you feel inferior.”
I smiled and hugged her back. “Thanks, Tía. You always know just what to say. I don’t expect you and Uncle Nestor to hang around here all night. If you get tired or bored, just say the word. I’ll call a cab so you can go back to my place.”
With a soft snort, Uncle Nestor said, “You stay, I stay.”
Great. I wasn’t worried about Aunt Yolanda. She could hold her own in any social situation, but I wondered if Uncle Nestor would have trouble finding common ground with the other guests in his current mood. He seemed determined to be offended.
I didn’t have time to dwell on my concerns, because at that moment Miss Frankie swept into the foyer, greeting us all with her warm, honey-coated smile. She’s several inches taller than I am and thin as a rail. Even thinner since Philippe’s death. Her chestnut hair had been teased, styled, and sprayed, and the sequins and beads adorning her outfit gleamed in the glow of the crystal chandeliers overhead.
She hugged me briefly, then tugged me inside. “Thank the good Lord you’re here. I was beginning to get worried.” Without missing a beat, she turned her smile on Aunt Yolanda and Uncle Nestor. “And how nice to have the two of you here! Isn’t this wonderful? I was thrilled when Rita called to let me know you’d be joining us.”
That was exactly the reaction I’d been counting on from her.
Miss Frankie snagged Uncle Nestor’s arm and led him down the marble-floored corridor toward the staircase that led to the second-floor ballroom. “Rita tells me you surprised her this afternoon. Isn’t that fun? I just love surprises, don’t you?”
Uncle Nestor has never liked being on the receiving end of a surprise, but he went along without argument and even managed a smile of sorts, which I took as a good sign. Aunt Yolanda and I climbed the stairs behind them and followed them through an archway created by two massive gold-sequined saxophones into the club’s ballroom, where dozens of round tables had been covered in crisp white tablecloths and positioned facing the long rectangular table where the krewe’s highest-ranking officials would sit. Feathered and sequined carnival masks, strings of beads, and Mardi Gras–themed confetti spilled down the center of each table. Huge vases of cut flowers, each decorated with a different musical instrument, stood between support posts swathed in yards of shimmering white satin and twinkling white lights.
Uncle Nestor gave a little gasp of surprise.
Which Miss Frankie mistook for approval. “Don’t you love it? The krewe’s theme this year is ‘Jazz Hot.’ Just wait until the band starts playing. This place will really come to life then.”
I was pretty sure Uncle Nestor didn’t love it, but I was distracted by the mouthwatering aromas that filled the air, reminding me that I’d skipped lunch…again. I often get so wrapped up in my work that I forget to eat. My stomach rumbled and I thought about the menu Miss Frankie and I had spent days planning. I could look forward to bacon-wrapped jalapeños stuffed with cheese, crab cakes fried golden brown and served with a creamy lemon-dill sauce, hot and spicy jambalaya, garlic cheese grits, mounds of fresh
shrimp accompanied by spicy cocktail and remoulade sauces, loaves of crusty French bread and beignets, and an assortment of desserts, the highlight of which would be the King Cakes that Dwight should have delivered by now.
I made a mental note to check on the cakes after my aunt and uncle were settled. At Ox’s urging, I’d delegated the tasks of cutting and serving the cake tonight, and now I was really glad I’d listened to him. Putting Isabeau and Sparkle in charge of the cake service would give me one less thing to think about, especially with Aunt Yolanda and Uncle Nestor here, but I still wanted to make sure the cakes had arrived safely and that someone was on top of the setup.
I was so caught up in my thoughts that I almost plowed into Uncle Nestor’s back before I realized that he’d stopped walking. He paused just inside the archway to look around, and the smile on his face faded bit by bit.
“Nice digs,” he said when he realized we were all looking at him. “But it’s a little out of our league. Wouldn’t you say, Yolanda?”
Aunt Yolanda laughed, smoothing over his comments with her customary grace. “It’s beautiful. And looks like so much fun. Have you been a member of the club long?”
“All my life,” Miss Frankie said. “My mother’s people have been part of The Shores for as long as this building has been standing.”
“How lovely,” Aunt Yolanda said. “Roots are so important. I hope it’s all right for us to join you and your friends this evening. Rita assured us we wouldn’t be in the way.”
“In the way?” Miss Frankie looked astonished at the very idea. “You’re family. How could you be in the way?”
Uncle Nestor tugged at the knot in his tie. “Thanks for having us,” he said in a flat voice, “but we don’t belong here.”
“Neither do half the people on the guest list,” Miss Frankie said with a laugh. “This is just an informal little get-together for the krewe’s board members, the people who’ve run the committees all year and their spouses. A chance to blow off steam before the work begins in earnest and to honor those who’ve been so busy behind the scenes. I’m thrilled as can be that you’re here, and everyone else will be, too.”
Aunt Yolanda ran a glance over the elaborate decorations, the long table laden with dishes for the buffet at the far end of the room, a small four-person jazz band tuning up in one corner, and half a dozen waiters milling about near the kitchen. “This is informal?”
Miss Frankie followed her gaze and laughed again. “We like to do things up big here in the South. It all looks more impressive than it is. Now, why don’t the two of you have a seat? I’ll have someone bring you some drinks while Rita and I run over a few last-minute details.”
“Good idea,” I said. “I’d like to talk to you about Ivanka Hedge before she gets here.”
“We’ll get to that in a minute,” Miss Frankie said. She led Aunt Yolanda to a seat near the captain’s table and motioned for Uncle Nestor to sit by his wife. He hesitated for a moment before taking a seat, probably looking for the plastic cover to keep stains away.
He finally planted himself on a chair and Miss Frankie motioned for me to follow her as she went in search of a waiter. She has more energy than most women half her age. I had to quick-step to keep up with her, and that wasn’t easy in my new sandals. She tossed off instructions as we walked. “I’ll try to stick with you as much as possible in the beginning, but don’t worry if I slip away. You’ll be just fine. Everyone will love you.”
“I’m not worried about that,” I said, trying not to breathe hard. “I’d like to get your take on the best way to approach Ivanka when she gets here.”
Miss Frankie stopped a waiter and sent him to check on Aunt Yolanda and Uncle Nestor before responding to me. “You’re just meeting the woman, sugar. You’re not cinching a deal. Be personable. Be charming. Be approachable. And don’t talk business. With anyone. You promised, remember?”
“I remember,” I said, and I would try, although I had no intention of forgetting my responsibilities completely. But Miss Frankie didn’t need to know that. I’d slip away occasionally to make sure things were running smoothly and she’d be none the wiser.
I must have seemed sincere, because she patted my cheek affectionately and swept an arm to encompass the massive room and all the decorations. “Now, what do you think? How does it look?”
We passed a bank of windows that looked out over the expansive grounds and terraced gardens, where thousands of tiny white lights gave the place an almost magical appearance. “Everything looks great and smells even better. You’ve done an incredible job.”
“Thank you, sugar.” Miss Frankie beamed with pride. “That’s music to my ears.”
“I don’t know why you keep insisting that I should pretend to be the hostess tonight. You’ve done all the work. You should get the credit.”
She laughed and started walking again. “That’s nonsense. It’s your party. I was just happy to help, especially now that your uncle and aunt are here. This will be a great chance for them to see you shine.”
I wondered whether Uncle Nestor would appreciate any shining I might do, but before either of us could say more, we heard footsteps and chatter, warning us that new arrivals were heading our way. Miss Frankie clapped her hands with excitement and signaled the band to start the music as she pressed me into duty. “Your guests are arriving, sugar. Shoulders back. Head high. Put a smile on your face. And remember to relax. Tonight’s all about having fun. Don’t you waste a minute being concerned about your aunt and uncle. I’ll make sure they’re taken care of.”
Relax. Right. I lifted my chin and put a smile on my face, but leaving worry behind was a whole lot easier to say than do.
Six
I spent the next two hours watching for Ivanka Hedge’s arrival and experiencing a little dip of disappointment every time someone who wasn’t Ivanka came through the sparkling saxophones. I met the guest of honor, Musterion’s captain, and his wife, along with the krewe’s first and second lieutenants and more of Philippe’s friends than I could possibly count. I struggled to connect names and faces with the brief histories Miss Frankie had been sharing with me for the past few weeks, and did my best to remember who’d served on which committee, especially those who’d worked on the Social Committee with Philippe.
I heard countless stories about Philippe’s life before we met and more about his life after we separated. Some were charming and amusing. Some made me nostalgic for the early days of our relationship, and some made me wonder how well I’d really known him.
Little by little, most of the staff from Zydeco drifted into the party. Dwight came in first, wearing what passes for formal wear with him—a clean pair of threadbare black pants and a white shirt that looked as if it had been wadded in the bottom of a laundry basket for a month. I saw raised eyebrows as he came through the archway, but he’d knotted a tie—so wide and old-fashioned it must have come from Goodwill—around his neck, and I guess that was enough to put him on the right side of the club’s rigid dress code for one night.
He was followed quickly by Sparkle and Estelle. Sparkle wore a dark purple gown with a tight-fitted corset and black ribbon lacing, which she’d paired with lace-up high-heeled boots. Estelle had also cleaned up nicely. In fact, she looked amazing in a silk turquoise sheath and loose-fitting silk jacket. I was pretty sure the outfits had put a hefty dent in both their budgets, which just proved how important Mardi Gras was to the people around here.
Wearing an expression that clearly said, “Don’t talk to me,” Sparkle settled at a corner table with a glass of champagne, while Estelle drifted from group to group, greeting people she knew. Ox and Isabeau showed up next. After spending the afternoon stuck in traffic, he made a beeline for the alcohol. She headed straight for my aunt and uncle, earning major brownie points and my undying gratitude in the process. Only Abe was missing, but that didn’t surprise me. A party like this would have been hell for him.
By nine o’clock, my mind was a blur of details and m
y feet were killing me—and there was still no sign of Ivanka Hedge. Aunt Yolanda seemed to be making new friends, which didn’t surprise me. Slightly more surprising was the realization that after a second (or maybe a third) beer, Uncle Nestor had actually stopped baring his teeth at people. Maybe things were actually looking up.
After the first hour Miss Frankie started drifting away, leaving me on my own for long stretches at a time. When she wasn’t at my side, she floated from one group of guests to another, greeting old friends with exuberant hugs and kisses and looking interested in what everyone had to say. I tried to follow her lead—minus the physical displays of affection—but I was so far out of my comfort zone, my head felt as if someone had put it in a vise.
Wishing for some ibuprofen, I snagged a fruity Riesling from a passing waiter and sipped gratefully. The wine danced across my tongue and the burst of flavor I experienced as I swallowed made me want more. I drained the glass quickly and contemplated the wisdom of a second. Many of the guests were showing obvious signs of inebriation, and the noise level created by all that music, conversation, and laughter confined in one room had risen to deafening levels as a result. I didn’t want to go overboard with the wine, but a pleasant buzz might ease the ache in my head and even help me relax.
And that was the goal, right?
I left my empty glass on a tray and joined the line of guests waiting to place their drink orders. To my relief, the bartenders were fast, and less than ten minutes later I turned back toward the crowd, running a quick glance over the King Cake service station as I did. I hadn’t had a chance to thoroughly check out the setup, but with Miss Frankie otherwise occupied and a free moment of my own, this seemed like the perfect opportunity.
Cake on a Hot Tin Roof Page 4
