by J. D. Horn
“Hey, Mama,” Manon said in a playful voice. “You remember the Thanksgiving when Remy asked if he could take some food to that homeless guy he’d met in the park? You and Daddy said yes, thinking he’d just take him a plate, but he got his wagon out and took the guy our whole turkey?” She laughed and turned to Michael. “It’s true. Twenty minutes before our guests showed up. Mama”—she laughed again, her face so bright, so beautiful—“walked into the kitchen to find the oven door wide open and the turkey gone. A coconut crème pie, too.” She pulled a look of mock disapproval. “Though seeing as how it was little Prince Remy, he didn’t get into trouble.” Manon said that for Michael’s benefit. Truth was, Remy hadn’t been punished because Lisette and Isadore had realized they should’ve had their boy invite the man to eat with them. “Mama hurried up and fried a chicken for the guests. We had hot dogs and sweet potatoes.” Her expression softened, and she got a wistful, faraway look in her eyes. “You know, Mama, I think that may have been the best Thanksgiving we ever had.” Fat tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Ah, sweetie.” Michael dropped his knife to the chopping board and approached Manon.
She wiped away her tears, forcing a smile. “Nothing. It’s nothing. Just these danged hormones.” Lisette knew that was only half true. Manon had been thinking on how close she’d come to not being able to share the holiday this year with her mother. Manon gave Michael a gentle push. “No one said you could stop working.”
Michael sighed as he returned to his station. “The life of a sous-chef.”
Lisette rubbed her left arm. She still couldn’t move the damned thing, even though she often felt prickles of pain in it. She hated not to feel one hundred percent grateful, but she wished she could chase the boy out of her kitchen and spend the day cooking the meal with her daughter. Lisette would have made sure to share the secrets to her recipes, spices, and methods of preparation—the things she never wrote down when she shared the recipes with others. Make sure her dishes could live on even after . . .
Stop it. Lisette felt a fire rise up her spine. This wasn’t like her, to be sitting here planning for her own demise. It felt almost as if this lack of hope, this outright morbidity was coming at her from outside herself. She froze. Was a sense of disassociation a sign of a worsening condition? Michael leaned over the counter, grinning at her. She tried to return the smile, but only ended up trembling.
“Speaking of Remy,” Michael said, even though they hadn’t been, at least not for a beat or two, “where is he? Not over at the Marin girl’s, I hope.”
Manon gave him a withering look.
“I’m just saying, your grandfather will have a fit if he even suspects it.”
“There’s no reason he should. Remy isn’t there. He went out for a run, that’s all.”
“Three hours ago,” Michael said. His tone fell a hair’s width on this side of dubiousness.
“A long run,” Manon said, chewing out each word. They stared into each other’s eyes. A silent challenge. He shrugged. Lisette didn’t get why Michael would even care. She came close to suspecting him of trying to sow discord, but then again, Lisette had read the boy wrong from the beginning. Manon loved him. She had to place her trust in that.
Lisette knew Manon was covering for her brother, even though Manon herself would be the first to complain that the boy always got away with stuff he shouldn’t be doing.
Lisette couldn’t pinpoint the moment when she’d had a change of heart, and she certainly couldn’t supply a precise reason why, but she found herself hoping that her boy was out with Lucy. If her Remy loved Fleur Marin’s girl, Lisette was not going to commit the same mistake her own mother had made. The pair might be ecstatic together, or they might end up miserable. Lisette couldn’t say, but she knew for damned sure that she wouldn’t stand between them.
“We could use his help is all I’m saying. Or someone’s help. Shouldn’t her aide be here by now?”
Her. Michael had called Lisette “her.” Like she wasn’t sitting right here, ten feet from him.
“I don’t know.” Manon didn’t seem to pick up on the slight. She grabbed his wrist and checked his fancy watch, even though there was a perfectly good clock on the wall. The same damned clock Manon had been using to tell time since she’d learned how. Manon sighed. “Yes, she’s late.” She came to the table and picked up her cell. “No message even.” She started to dial.
“Holiday,” Michael said, and Manon dropped the phone back on the table. “I bet she’s blowing us off, so she can be with her family.” Manon looked down at her phone, confused as it clattered against the wood. Lisette grasped that Manon hadn’t meant to put the phone down, let alone drop it. It almost seemed like she’d been willed to do so.
“She wouldn’t leave us in the lurch . . .”
“Why don’t you help get your mother ready?”
Lisette tensed. She hated having to let her girl take care of her physical needs. It was a blessing that their insurance had covered a visiting aide. “I’ll keep an eye on everything here.” His lip curled up. “Maybe a nice sponge bath to help freshen her up.” He focused on Lisette. “You’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you, Mrs. Perrault?” He spoke to her as if she were a child. Or worse, an addled geriatric. He was piling indignity on top of humiliation.
Outside a dog began barking, howling really, though neither Michael nor Manon seemed to notice. The dog’s bark grew a lot louder, like it had jumped their fence and landed beneath the window.
“You don’t mind?” Manon said to Michael.
Lisette turned her face to the window. A man stood outside. A bent old man in a worn straw hat. He tapped the window with his cane, and Lisette felt sure her daughter would react, but she went and placed a kiss on the equally oblivious Michael’s lips.
“Papa,” Lisette spoke the word without difficulty.
Manon tilted her head, listening for signs of her father. “No, Mama, I don’t think Daddy is back yet.” Michael looked at Manon, raising an eyebrow but keeping silent.
Legba tapped the head of his cane against the glass once more. Lisette turned back toward the sound, though the others didn’t. The little old man raised his hand and pointed at Michael.
“I don’t mind at all,” Michael said, picking up their conversation where they’d left off. “Go on. I got this.”
Legba pressed his palm to the glass, then faded away.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Nathalie Boudreau knew better than to open that damned door.
She leaned a bit to the right, so she could peek through the café’s window. Alice sat there, her back to the window, a ray of golden light caressing the nape of her slender neck. Nathalie almost cried at the sight.
If she turned around now, she could hold this moment, pure and unspoiled, in her memory. Never let reality reach in and ruin it. Already Nathalie could sense the storm brewing. No way she’d get out of this without losing something.
She’d had a long stretch of losing. From the moment her boss called her into his office to tell her that he and his wife had been praying real hard on things and decided they couldn’t employ “her kind” anymore. Even though she’d never missed a shift and had always filled in without warning—and without complaint—whenever someone else called in sick at the last moment. Even though she’d stopped two robberies. Even though she’d taken care of the boss’s dog when the same wife who’d prayed her into unemployment had been hospitalized for appendicitis, and again when she’d wanted to vacation two weeks in Hawaii. No pay. Just a box of chocolate-covered macadamias to thank her. A small one that still had the price tag from a dollar store in Kenmore stuck on its back.
“They not open?” a man spoke from behind her.
Nathalie realized she was standing there gaping through the window and blocking the door. “Oh, yeah. Sorry.” She stepped aside and let the guy pass. He stopped and held the door open for her. “Thanks.” She didn’t mean it.
She touched the door like it was going to bite her
and closed it behind her with great care. Still, the slight click managed to alert Alice to her arrival. The second Alice looked over at her, the ray of sunlight illuminating her neck disappeared, like someone had flicked a switch. Nathalie felt like someone had flicked a switch in her, too. She felt a smile quiver on her lips, just as sweat broke out on her forehead. Her eyes went wide in a “so happy to see you” set. She caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror on the wall.
She looked like an utter maniac.
She almost gave herself facial whiplash trying to adjust her expression to something near normal, ultimately settling for wiping her brow as she read the placard affixed to the bottom of the mirror’s frame: “Our Favorite Customer.” She let her eyes drift up to meet their reflection, growing even more embarrassed due to the redness of her face.
“Nathalie.” Alice waved her over. “Did you just get here?”
Damn. Nathalie’s abilities made it clear to her that Alice was trying to pretend she hadn’t witnessed her lumbering clown show. “I . . . I’m sorry,” she said. “To keep you waiting,” she added, though she was even sorrier for her foolishness.
“Not at all,” Alice said, then lowered her eyes.
For a split second Nathalie panicked, thinking she’d strolled in with her blouse unbuttoned or her trousers wide open. A quick pat down assured her all was well. At least on that front.
“I won’t keep you long,” Alice said, drawing Nathalie’s eyes to her own.
“Oh, I got all morning,” Nathalie said. “Evangeline’s doing a lunch over at Bonnes Nouvelles for her employees and their families at noon.” Nathalie turned a chair around and sat, draping her arms over the chairback. “I’m kind of both, you know? Two of my cousins have moved here, and they’re working at the club. I didn’t even know they were here, but Lincoln—that’s my cousin—said he and his little brother Wiley came to town back in early June.”
“I’ve met Wiley—”
“He’s great, isn’t he?” Nathalie knew it was rude to interrupt Alice, but she couldn’t help herself. She could feel the rumbling on the tracks. The train was speeding her way—no room in the tunnel to get off the tracks, so her only hope was to keep running ahead. “Yeah, he and Hugo, your brother . . . well, you know he’s your brother, they’ve really hit it off. Lincoln says he’s never seen Wiley this serious about anyone before, and Hugo . . .”
“Hugo’s in love.” Alice reached over and laid her hand on Nathalie’s forearm. “And he wants everyone else to be in love, too.”
“Looks like he’s gonna get his wish,” Nathalie plowed on, even though on the inside she was screaming Shut up, shut up, shut up! at herself. “Lincoln and Evangeline. They’re shooting sparks all around, too, if you know what I mean.” She laughed. Her laugh sounded so, so stupid. “But that. The lunch. It’ll be over by two, and the club doesn’t open till nine tonight. Oh, that’s what I mean about being both. Evangeline has hired me to work the door. Pretty cool, right? Then dinner with your family is at six . . . Fleur invited me, you know that, right? Really nice of her to include me.”
“Nathalie,” Alice said.
“Don’t worry, though. I’m going to go home and put on something nice before—”
“Nathalie.” Alice spoke her name, each syllable an emphatic request for silence.
Nathalie fell dumb. Damn. Here comes the engine. Should’ve known she’d never outrun it.
“It’s about Fleur’s dinner.” Alice looked down at the table. She was searching for a way to let Nathalie down easy. No doubt, she’d prepared a nice speech, but Nathalie’s blabbering had derailed her.
“Truth is, I’ll end up having to shave it close,” Nathalie improvised. “Having to run back home and change again before heading to the club. I’m glad we got to talk this morning, see. I feel terrible canceling at the last minute, but I didn’t have a gig when Fleur invited me. I’d hate to do it over the phone. Would you mind taking her my regrets?”
“Regrets,” Alice said, then looked up through the tears flooding her eyes. They ran down her cheeks, but she didn’t pay them any mind. Nathalie reached out and took Alice’s napkin, dabbing at the tears. Alice’s hand brushed hers, and Nathalie felt her heart skip. This Alice had little to do with the idealized fantasy Nathalie had conjured. Sure, Nathalie had made a lucky guess about Alice’s favorite flavor of ice cream, and Alice did in fact love dogs, but that was about it. It didn’t matter though—this Alice was real, and that made her better than any fantasy. Alice was blooming before her eyes, revealing more of her true self to Nathalie with every encounter. And each revelation came as a gift.
Alice took the napkin from Nathalie’s grasp. “People have controlled me my whole life.” She wiped her eyes and crumpled the napkin, dropping it on the table like she was announcing crying time was done.
She lifted her hand and motioned around the room. “I used to own this place. Though then we called it ‘Muddied Waters.’ I can’t even think what it’s called here.”
“Hank’s,” Nathalie volunteered, pointing at the window where the name showed in reverse, then instantly regretted having done so.
“Hank’s,” Alice said, lost between sadness and amusement. “I owned this place.” She fixed Nathalie with her gaze. “For seven years.” Nathalie understood the math of Alice’s time on the Dreaming Road. In the common world Alice was going on twenty-two, but in terms of Alice’s own experience, she was pushing thirty. Nathalie could hear the anger growing in Alice’s voice, but then it seemed to fall away as quickly as it had arisen.
Alice glanced around the café. “I’d never been inside this place in the real world, so the interior was different. In fact, the layout was almost reversed.” She pointed toward a corner behind Nathalie. “There were stairs over there that led to my apartment.” She paused. “Our apartment.” Her eyes drifted up little by little, like she was letting them mount the now invisible steps. “I ran the café with my partner, Sabine.” She grasped the balled-up napkin, but didn’t pick it up. “I let myself pretend that I was free there. Safe. Loved.” She shook her head. “But it wasn’t real. Any of it. Not the place. Not the time. And certainly not the love. My ‘love’ was a demon, a dark spirit sucking the light and life out of me.”
“You’re not the first woman to feel that way about her ex,” Nathalie said before she could stop her fool mouth.
Alice looked up at her with wide, surprised eyes, then burst out laughing. She offered Nathalie her hand, and Nathalie damn near flipped her chair reaching out to take it. She grasped Alice’s slight hand in her own, wishing to God she’d never have to let go, but knowing all along she was walking out of here alone. This was the moment to enjoy. This was the only guarantee.
“I thank you for helping me,” Alice said. “I thank you for putting yourself at risk to save a stranger. My dear Daniel trusted you. He believed in your goodness. That tells me everything I need to know about the person you are.” She lowered her light brown eyes. When she looked back up at Nathalie, a sparkle glimmered in her gaze. That sparkle destroyed Nathalie. So did Alice’s soft smile. “Maybe there is something to this rightful destiny thing.” She pulled her hand back, and Nathalie felt a chasm open between them. “But my free will has been negated just about every day of my life. I’m not going to be compelled into a relationship by any force.”
“Not even love?” Nathalie put her hand on the table, palm up. Hoping, just hoping, Alice would once again rest her hand there.
Alice’s smile held, but it hardened. “Especially not love. Not today. Maybe tomorrow, but not today.” She clasped her hands together and stared down at them. “I can’t think about destiny when my life has been hijacked.” A dry chuckle. “At least twice. Maybe we will be each other’s happy ending. I don’t know. Right now, I don’t even know who I am. I need time to figure out the woman I want to be and to start working on her.”
Nathalie moved her hand, placing it alongside, but not touching, Alice’s. “You’ve got it.”
Alice rewarded her with a look of gratitude. Maybe this was it, a single genuine moment with all their cards laid out between them. Maybe this look was all of Alice Nathalie would ever have. If so, it would be enough. “You’ll give Fleur my apologies?”
Alice nodded. “Of course.”
Nathalie rose and rapped her knuckles against the tabletop. “You have a happy Thanksgiving, okay?” She turned and made her way to the door.
“Nathalie.” Alice’s voice stopped her cold.
She looked back. The ray of sunlight had returned, bathing Alice in a golden glow. That moment erased any doubt. Nathalie would wait till the end of time for this woman. “Yes,” Nathalie said, struggling not to sound flustered.
Alice rose and drew near. “When you see Evangeline, will you tell her she should come pick up her cat? I know she feels bad about taking Sugar from me, but I’m not her home. Evangeline is.”
“Sure,” Nathalie said with a quick nod. She grasped the door handle before stopping again. She pulled her phone from her pocket and tapped the screen, opening the driver’s app. “Hey, if you ever need a ride . . .” She closed the app. “No need to use this, actually.” She slipped it back into her pocket. “I’ll just know.”
Alice shook her head. But by God, she was smiling. And that was a win.
EPILOGUE
No Hugo. No Alice. The scent of that man, the one who discomforts, everywhere Sugar went in this house. Nicholas. A low growl as his image shimmered. Flashes. This house. Almost memories of the time before.
