by Linda Joyce
When Greta reached the door to leave, Biloxi asked, “What does one wear to meet the enemy?”
Chapter 4
“I would’ve preferred The Old Coffee Pot,” Biloxi grumbled, making her way from the parking lot next to the mall at the old Jax Brewery to Café Du Monde in New Orleans. The light blue, cotton-jersey dress was cooler than jeans and a blouse in May’s humidity. Walking on uneven bricks and sidewalks, she picked her way at a slower pace than her usual brisk steps to ensure the wedged heels didn’t cause her to trip. Regular heels were out. Not safe footwear in the French Quarter where, even stone-cold sober, someone could trip. Sunglasses protected her eyes from the peek-a-boo sun shining between buildings and allowed her to observe others without making obvious eye contact. She needed anonymity, even the tiniest bit, to tamp down her rising vulnerability.
What she was walking into?
Navigating around and through the throng of tourists, she sidestepped a woman in a caftan and turban. One of the many street vendors, she assumed, setting up tables in front of St. Louis Cathedral.
“Chantel could’ve chosen someplace more out of the way. But nooo, not her.”
Tourists never seemed to mind the heat and humidity. Just another excuse for walking around with a frozen daiquiri in hand. The worst of the summer was yet to come. Locals went into hiding then, except at night when cool breezes blew across the river and bands cranked up for their musical sets. Then locals ventured out. Maybe that ambiance gave credence to the theory that New Orleans was a haven for vampires. That, and stories by author Anne Rice.
She dodged a woman walking three dogs.
“At least I’ll be close to Dutch Alley,” she muttered. There she hoped to find pearl earrings as special gifts for each of her attendants. The artist co-op displayed photography, paintings, jewelry, pottery, and fabrics, all wonderful original works by local artisans. If she lived closer to the city, she’d consider trying to show her own photographs at the gallery.
She selected a seat under the mostly empty green and white striped canopy with an open view, easy to spot Chantel, then checked her phone for the time. Fifteen minutes before the scheduled meeting. Just enough time to enjoy a treat.
Folding a ten-dollar bill into her palm, she scooted closer to the table, crossed her legs, and sat upright, hoping to strike a relaxed yet bored pose, as though the meeting carried little significance. When she caught herself drumming her fingers on the table, she rested one hand on top of the other to cover any signs of anxiousness.
“Order?” a waitress asked.
“Beignets and hot chocolate, please.” She held up cash to pay.
“Thank you. Back in a moment.”
After forcing herself to breathe, Biloxi turned her thoughts to Nick. If he had any idea where she was and why, his anger might finally show. The man always remained in control of his emotions…except when they were in bed. She chuckled.
But he wasn’t like other men she’d cared about in the past. He never showed anger. Never shouted or got drunk. Would he consider this rendezvous deceptive? The last thing she wanted was to give him a reason for mistrust.
Her conscience took only a small hit when she agreed to meet Chantel without his knowledge. Thankfully, she hadn’t lied when she explained to him about her day. The trip to the city allowed her to checkoff a line item on her wedding to-do list. But when and how she’d share about this meeting with Chantel and its outcome hinged on a lot of different maybes.
Last night, they’d had sweet make-up sex during their picnic in bed. As of this morning, everything between them appeared normal.
But it wasn’t.
She was meeting a woman she didn’t trust—Chantel had tried to steal Nick away and caused heartbreaking pain—to conspire to meet Nick’s mother. But it had to be done to protect him. Who knew what reason this woman claiming to be his mother had in mind. She held the power to hurt Nick. Biloxi would do nearly anything to prevent him from suffering more pain.
“Where is she?” Biloxi checked her phone again for the time. “Leave it to Chantel to arrive fashionably late. I’ll wait ten minutes, no more.” Her shoulder muscles cramped.
“Your order.” The waitress set a plain mug and a plate of fried puffed dough covered in white powdered sugar on the table.
Biloxi’s mouth watered. Beignets would make the time pass tolerably while she waited. “Thank you. Keep the change,” she told the waitress.
For an added distraction, she tasted the warm sweet dough and sipped her hot drink while perusing photos she’d taken on her phone of several Royal Street addresses.
“Which one is Cat’s?” A flush of self-consciousness washed over her. She managed a quick look around. While she’d been taking photos, had the woman been watching her from behind the slats of a shutter or peering around drapes? Could she be hiding in plain sight somewhere in the crowd? Anxiety ramped up. Maybe Chantel told Cat of this meeting, and she was watching now. Biloxi dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin.
Nick’s mother had the advantage. Cat knew what she looked like from the engagement photo in the paper, which had identified the engaged Biloxi Dutrey and Nicholas Trahan. She had taken the photo herself. Whereas, the only image she had of Cat was her wedding photo from thirty-plus years ago. It was dubious as to whether or not the blurry one Suzette captured of a woman in a scarf was truly Nick’s mother.
“There you are.”
Biloxi looked up when she heard Chantel’s voice and grinned halfheartedly.
Chantel waved. The woman looked like a model for summer seersucker suits. White and light blue stripped slacks and jacket and a soft white silk blouse with the opening plunging nearly to her waist. It wasn’t hard to hate Chantel with her long legs, long flowing hair, and perfect model figure.
“Same,” Chantel said to the approaching waitress as she swirled her finger over Biloxi’s food.
“You eat like a real person?” Biloxi felt the expansion of her curves. She slid the plate—minus one beignet—away.
Metal legs scraped the concrete when Chantel pulled out a chair directly across the table. She grasped Biloxi’s offered hand and kissed the air beside her cheek. “See,” she said smiling. “We can get along.”
“As long as you remember who’s engaged to marry Nick.”
“Ah, well then, we’ll dispense with the pleasantries and get down to business. Shall I begin or do you want that honor?”
“You start.” Biloxi didn’t intend to reveal anything. Better to let Chantel spill her news before picking it apart with questions. She sipped her cooling chocolate drink trying to appear utterly nonchalant.
“I can only assume—”
“Don’t assume anything. Just say what you know, what you’ve been instructed to tell me,” Biloxi insisted. She wanted the facts, only the facts, thank you very kindly.
Chantel paused as the waitress placed her order on the table. She paid the woman, then clutched the cup, her blood-red fingernails a stark contrast against the white of the mug. Biloxi blinked and took a second look—Chantel’s hands were shaking.
“I did not ask for this job. I don’t like being a messenger. However, I agreed to help because I know of Nick’s longstanding desire to find his mother.”
“How were you recruited?”
“A priest called me.”
Biloxi harrumphed. “Don’t try to suggest this is heaven ordained.”
“He said he placed the call at Cat’s request.”
“Cat, is it…very chummy of you. I understand she’s more comfortable going by Aurélie Dubois.” Maybe if she tossed out a nugget of knowledge, Chantel would think she wasn’t totally in the dark about the longtime missing Mrs. Trahan.
“I’m told that’s her mother’s name,” Chantel said, appearing completely unruffled. “I don’t know anything about her time in France. I don’t know much beyond the one conversation I had with her. In fact, if the family attorney hadn’t vouched for her, I wouldn’t have taken her call, would
n’t be here discussing this with you.” She reached across the table and placed her hand on Biloxi’s arm. “I am on your side in all of this.”
Biloxi looked down her nose to the spot where Chantel’s hand rested. “We shall see.” Every nerve in her body urged her to fling Chantel’s hand aside, but rudeness wouldn’t solve anything. How else would she find Mrs. Trahan? It irked her to know the family attorney, a priest none them knew, and Chantel had contact with Cat—when Nick had been waiting for years to hear from her.
“The instructions I’ve been given are to deliver you to her house on Royal Street.”
“When?”
“Today.” Chantel smiled megawatt bright.
“What? No…This makes no sense.”
“Let me finish one beignet and a sip of my…what is it we’re drinking?”
“Hot chocolate.”
“Then we walk.”
“How far?”
“Two blocks up St. Ann to Royal, take a right, and our destination is near the Gallier House. You know. The museum.”
Biloxi shook her head. “None of this feels right.”
Chantel reached across the table and plucked Biloxi’s sunglasses from her face. “There, now I can see the truth in your eyes. You’ll be safe. I’m not going to leave you alone. Nick would kill me, feed me to gators, and no one would ever find me. He’d commit the perfect crime—for you. You and I are going together. I’m here for your support.”
“Still—this is just crazy. Why are you involved?”
“I don’t know why she’s involving me. Shall we ask her together?”
“I’m calling Nick and telling him what I’m doing and where I’m going.”
“If you thought that was wise, he’d already know. You would’ve told him before you came.” Chantel stood. “Let’s go.”
Biloxi pondered her sanity while her nerves screamed disaster. Maybe if she managed to reunite Nick with his mother, maybe he’d not cause a rift in the family by asking her brother to step aside as his best man. “Let’s get this over with.” Rising, she headed for the exit and slipped her sunglasses back in place.
Chantel did nothing to hurry her along as they trekked toward their destination. On Royal Street, the clop of horse hooves and the chatter of guides in carriages carrying tourists through the French Quarter punctuated the air, along with the music of the calliope on the riverboat docked on the banks of the Mississippi River. Biloxi navigated the uneven sidewalks—banquettes—and the brick streets, musing all the while that never in her wildest imaginations did she dream she’d be meeting Nick’s mother before him. Slowing her lead, she turned to Chantel. “I’m not sure this is a good idea. Let’s not go.”
Chantel halted. “You don’t want Nick hurt. I understand. If you go ahead with this, you could be protecting him. If she’s nuts, and she might very well be crazy, he’ll never need to know unless you decide to tell him. You, not me, are the go-between. I’m just the escort. You’re her ticket to Nick.” Chantel ran her hand down Biloxi’s arm and gently squeezed her wrist. “I understand your reticence to trust me, but please, I assure you, I’m here to help.”
The sincerity of her tone struck a chord. Biloxi sighed. “All right. Let’s continue. “
As they walked, Biloxi doubted her sanity. No one knew where she was or what she was doing. Not even Greta. If something happened to her, how long before Nick would begin a search for her? And what about the PI? Did Nick’s mother know the reason for the meeting he’d set up with her? Her letter had been written after the appointment was set, and she was under the impression Nick had already married.
Biloxi winced. Confusion swirled in her mind like a slow-moving hurricane. In another block, in a matter of minutes, she might have all her questions answered by the one woman she never thought she’d meet—Cat Trahan.
“We’re almost there,” Chantel said, slowing. “Let’s pause here for a moment.”
“Which house?”
“The one with the dark blue shutters.” Chantel pointed across the street to a two-story yellow house with iron posts supporting a second-floor balcony.
“I think someone’s watching us.” Biloxi slanted her gaze upward. “The curtains moved. Upstairs window.” She chewed her bottom lip. No turning back now. Her palms moistened. Her heart pounded double time. What if Cat was crazy? How could she deliver that news to Nick?
“I meant what I said. I won’t leave you alone…unless once we’re inside, you want me to step out. Just say the word. I’ll wait for you right here.” Chantel linked her arm with Biloxi’s. “Deep breath. Let’s go.”
Together, steps in sync, they crossed the street. Chantel used the fleur de lis knocker to announce their arrival.
The door opened. A teenager in white walking shorts and a white cotton blouse with at least ten silver bangles dangling from her wrist greeted them. She smiled shyly. Her asymmetrically cut blue-black hair fell to her jawline on one side, the other side ended over her ear. Her lips were red and her nails matched, a fashionable look for someone who probably hadn’t celebrated a sixteenth birthday. “I’m Biloxi Dutrey. I’m here to meet Mrs. Trahan.”
Biloxi tried not to stare. The girl had Nick’s mouth and his eyes. Who was she? A relative to be sure, but what was the exact connection?
“Yes. I know who you are.”
Biloxi noted her French accent.
“My maman is waiting to meet you.”
“Mother?” Biloxi and Chantel said in unison.
“This way, s’il vous plaît.”
Biloxi followed her through a living room with high ceilings to a hall where double doors opened onto a brick patio shaded by a beige sailcloth canopy that offered protection from the sun. A woman in a tailored red and white print dress and red shoes rose from a chair. Beside her was an iron bistro table with four tall glasses of lemonade, complete with thin slices of lemon floating with the ice. In the center of the table, a three-tier cake holder displayed pink petit fours with tiny white roses and green leaves. Cloth napkins had been neatly placed on the table in front of each chair. The setting was inviting, as though they did this often.
“I am Catherine Trahan. This is my daughter, Sophie.” The woman’s accent was clearly southern. She moved five steps to Biloxi. “You must be my daughter-in-law. I recognize you from your photograph.” She grasped Biloxi’s hands, leaned in, and kissed the air beside her cheeks. “And you must be Chantel. Merci beaucoup. You brought my family to me.”
Stunned speechless, Biloxi blinked. No one could ever doubt this woman was Nick’s mother. They had the same smoky topaz eyes. The ones that had hypnotized Biloxi from their first meeting. The sparkle in Nick’s eye matched the one she spied in this woman. Biloxi sucked in a quick breath. Nick had a mother and a sister. And they lived less than an hour from home. That news would devastate him. What was she going to do? A hurricane of mental confusion whipped faster, swirling so quickly dizziness made her sway.
“Oh darlin’, I’m afraid the shock is too much.” Cat assisted Biloxi to a chair and motioned for the others to sit.
Biloxi sank, her legs about to give out. “If you’re really Catherine Trahan, why haven’t you contacted Nick?” she blurted, manners be damned.
Sophie offered a glass, but Biloxi waved it away. She wanted an answer from the woman who claimed to be her fiancé’s mother. “He has a sister? There’s nothing more dear to Nick than family. Why haven’t you contacted him?” Her heart ached for him. He had a younger sister he’d never met.
“It’s complicated,” Cat began.
“No. It’s. Not,” Biloxi insisted. “Edward came back into his life more than a year ago, after Claude died. Where have you been?”
Chapter 5
With a lighthearted bounce in his step, Nick slid into the seat of a shiny new white convertible. The Infiniti’s red leather interior added a sexy vibe. The price of the car was worth every cent just to see surprise on Biloxi’s face when they departed for their honeymoon after the receptio
n.
He’d heard through the family grapevine how she expected they’d take a ride in Captain Jack’s carriage before flying off somewhere, the same carriage he borrowed when he proposed to her, but also the one Branna and James used in their wedding celebration. For his bride, he wanted something unique, something special. After much contemplation, he settled on the perfect wedding gift—and with the help of Biloxi’s brother, Linc, the car would remain out of sight in a storage unit in Picayune until the perfect moment.
Pulling out of the dealership in Metairie with the top down on the car, Nick headed for a barbeque joint famous for its sliders. His mouth watered. He was meeting the PI for lunch at a food truck parked in a permanent spot where the locals flocked. A TV station featured the place on the evening news as a highlight in the rebuilding of New Orleans, which still moved at a snail’s pace. Reconstruction had a long way to go. So many people weren’t returning.
His stomach rumbled. He couldn’t live on a diet of only gumbo, jambalaya, and fried shrimp po’boys. He craved variety when it came to food. Lucky for him, marrying into the Dutrey family meant he sampled the best home cooking in the county. Biloxi once joked that the only reason he proposed was to gain regular entrance to Greta’s cooking at family dinners. He hadn’t bothered to argue.
Navigating surface streets rather than the interstate, he put the car through its paces. Stop. Go. Blow through a yellow light. Exhilaration thrummed through his body. He gripped the steering wheel, then relaxed his hands. Zipping along, shifting gears, Nick headed eastbound. He chuckled remembering his past visits to New Orleans—drinking parties with his college buddies while they roamed Bourbon Street and the times he carried packages for his grandmother on her shopping trips to Magazine. Adrenaline rushed. He couldn’t wait to meet with the PI before heading home. The man had photos of a woman documented to be Catherine Trahan and a scheduled meeting with her next week. The question remained—was this Catherine Trahan indeed his mother?
