Meghan was looking at me strangely, and for a moment I was worried she might ask me about Amelia, but she didn’t. “Well, it’s not Charles, is it? ’Cause he’s called me a few times to get your number. I told him if you hadn’t given it to him, it was none of my business.”
I shook my head quickly.
“What happened with you guys, anyway? One minute you’re ready to move in with him, and the next you don’t want to see him again.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I said quietly.
Meghan was quiet for a long time after this, and I felt her body freeze up with tension. “Did he hurt you?” she finally asked.
I didn’t respond and kept staring at the floor. Meghan sprang to her feet and stood in front of me long enough that I was finally forced to look up at her. Her eyes were blazing with rage. “What the hell did he do?”
“It wasn’t that bad,” I said, trying to calm her down.
“That doesn’t answer the question, Chloé. What did he do?”
I sighed, and a feeling of shame and fright swept through me again at the memory. “Can we not talk about this? I-I don’t want to think about it anymore.”
“Jesus, Chloé! He should go to jail!”
“It wasn’t that bad,” I said again, looking down. “He just groped me a little. I told him to stop and he wouldn’t, and then I got away.”
Meghan’s face was a mask of anger and horror. “Jesus Christ! I’m going to kill him. I am literally going to kill him. And I’m going to kill his brother while I’m at it. He should have told me Charles was a fucking psychopath.”
“Meghan, please don’t do anything. It’s over, okay? It’s my choice, and I choose not to do anything about it.”
“Goddamn it, Chloé,” Meghan said, her anger now turning on me, “you’re so fucking passive. It’s no wonder you’re still single.” Realizing what she’d just said, she clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide with horror.
I sighed and got to my feet. “This conversation is over,” I said, the weariness of the day finally catching up to me.
“I’m so sorry, Chloé.” She clutched my arm. “I don’t know why I said that. I didn’t mean it.”
I sighed. “It’s okay. You’re probably right.”
“That doesn’t mean I should have said anything, especially after what you just told me. I’m really sorry. It wasn’t your fault. He’s the asshole, not you.”
Suddenly bone weary, I decided to end the conversation. “Let’s go join the others, okay? I need a drink.”
I left Meghan with Zach in the living room and went directly to the kitchen without saying another thing to her. I knew I was being childish, but I was pretty sure at that moment that if I said anything to her we’d end up fighting all night. The dinner was meant to be a chance for all of us to get to know each other, especially the two new men in Aunt Kate and Meghan’s lives, and I didn’t want to ruin it for Aunt Kate. Still, I would have given anything just to leave and go hide somewhere for the evening rather than face another moment of Meghan’s inquiring eyes.
The kitchen was a disaster—the usual state of things when my Aunt Kate cooks a big meal, or, well, anything. There was flour everywhere from the bread and roux, and the floor and counters were covered with a thin, tacky layer of various foodstuffs. Still, it smelled wonderful, as always, the air hot and heavily redolent of spices and baking bread.
My family is Creole going back several generations and, in our particular branch, almost entirely French. New Orleans was settled by the French and later the Spanish, and both groups were eventually referred to as “Creole,” which simply means native-born. So, in the case of my ancestors, Creole refers to French men and women born in Louisiana. During the generations of the late nineteenth century and earlier, my ancestors grew up speaking only French at home and attended French-taught schools. This all changed in the early twentieth century, in part because of large immigration movements at the turn of the century that necessitated English-only schools. This meant that by the time my grandparents were growing up, it was unusual to speak only French at home. A phrase or two in French was common to most French Creole people today, but I was the first person in two generations in my family to be fluent in the language.
While the language might be lost, on the whole, to most Creole families in New Orleans (though it was spoken by some Creole people outside of the city), the food hadn’t changed. Visitors to Louisiana generally conflate Creole and Cajun cooking, much to both groups’ disgust. While there is a lot of crossover between Creole and Cajun cuisine, the two are significantly different in a number of ways. During the eighteenth and nineteenth century, as the two cuisines developed, the Creoles, in general, had more money than the Cajuns, in part because they’d been there longer, and in part because, for a long while, some Creoles were part of the ruling class in New Orleans and Louisiana. This wealth meant that Creole cooking developed early on with more ingredients than the Cajuns could afford—things like butter and flour, and, most particularly, the tomato, which is traditionally not used in Cajun food.
If, like me, you grew up in a Creole home, you learned how to cook various Creole dishes, but these could vary from family to family quite significantly, in part because most Creole families have Spanish, Irish, Native American, and African-American branches now.
One thing common to many Creole family kitchens today is a bread recipe that has been passed down through the generations. We had one ancestor who was a baker, and we still make his bread, particularly his baguettes. My aunt bakes her bread fresh twice a week, and, even in France, I’ve never eaten its like. Her bread will ruin you for every other bread in the world.
Hearing me come in, Aunt Kate spun around to greet me, and I had to laugh at the sight of her. She was covered head to toe in flour and sauces, as if something somewhere in the kitchen had blown up on her. She’d neglected, as usual, to don an apron, so her clothes were, at best, filthy, but probably ruined.
“You’re home!” she said, grinning. She walked toward me with open arms and I shied away, not wanting an afternoon of mess on my clothes. She looked down at herself and laughed. “Probably a good plan to stay away from me right now. How was your day?”
“It was fine.”
I was still smarting from my conversation with Meghan, and my words didn’t convince her. She looked at me critically for a moment and, without saying a thing, went directly to the liquor cabinet. She pulled out the Cognac and poured me a small glass. I took it from her and drained it in one go, shuddered slightly at its thick sweetness.
“Better?” she asked.
I nodded, my eyes watering a little from the liquor.
“Okay,” she said. “If you want to talk about it, we can, but otherwise I won’t bother you about it, whatever it is.”
Grateful, I took her up on the offer and changed topics immediately. “When will Jim get here?”
“Any time now,” she said, and I saw a flash of nervous energy go through her as she glanced up at the kitchen clock.
“Do you want to go get ready? I can finish up here.”
Her face melted in gratitude, and this time, when she hugged me, I forgot how filthy she was and hugged her back, both of us squeezing the other fiercely. Pulling apart, we both looked down at my jeans and shirt, now with roughly half of Aunt Kate’s mess squished into them.
“Well, at least you just got some new clothes,” Aunt Kate said, and we both laughed.
Chapter Eight
My first official dinner party as Amelia Winters’s assistant was held in the Federal Ballroom a block outside of the French Quarter. The event was ostensibly a charity ball for the Louisiana wetlands, but, like most $10,000 dinners, it also functioned as a means for the rich to rub elbows with each other and show off their new trophy wives. All of what would once have been known as the “blue bloods” were in attendance, along with a good selection of the newly rich, up-and-coming businessmen and women who wanted to be seen with old money.
I saw a few people I recognized from politics and from society gossip columns, as well as the man rumored to be the head of the local mafia. If there’s one thing that’s true about the moneyed gentility in New Orleans, it’s that everyone simply ignores the bad things about everyone else—at least to their face.
I was nothing but a bundle of nerves from the second we arrived, and I found myself rather quickly grabbing my third glass of champagne. Realizing that I’d be slurring my words if I kept up this pace, I made myself sip it, slowly, looking up from my glass to scan the room for the ten potential buyers I’d selected for tonight. I had some back-up possibilities, but the men I was looking for were the ones I knew we should approach first. I spotted one and touched Amelia’s elbow, lifting my chin at him slightly. She looked away from the older gentleman she was talking to and nodded at me briefly.
“Phil, I hope you’ll excuse me,” she said.
He smiled at her. “Of course, dear. Just let me know about that figurine when you hear something.”
“I will,” she said. They kissed each other’s cheeks and then she grabbed my elbow and walked us slowly toward the man I’d indicated.
“Tell me about him,” she said quietly as we approached.
“His name is Brent Cameron. He’s divorced. Fairly new to the city, but from the South—one of the Carolinas. He just bought a rather large share of a local marketing firm, and he owns a big part of the Upriver District development that’s about to break ground in the Irish Channel.”
Brent turned toward us as we approached, and his face lit up. “Well, aren’t you ladies a sight for sore eyes,” he said. “I was afraid nothing but old trolls were here tonight, but you’ve proven me wrong.”
We both forced a laugh at his “witticism,” and I stood by for the next few minutes, watching Amelia weave her magic. Since we’d arrived about an hour ago, she’d already managed to create ten potential sales. She was incredibly impressive.
“You know you’re right,” he said after listening to her for a while. “My new place does need a little something for the walls. I don’t know about that modern shit, though. I’m more of an old-fashioned kind of guy myself. Portraits, landscapes—that’s my bag.”
“We deal in all kinds of artwork, Mister Cameron,” Amelia said smoothly, unruffled by his vulgarity. “With new clients, we assess the location and then make suggestions based on your tastes.”
“That sounds just fine, especially if it means getting one of you lovely ladies over to my place for dinner first.”
We both forced another laugh. “Of course,” Amelia said, smiling. “Whenever you’re available.”
Brent fished around in his pocket for a moment and withdrew his card, handing it to her. “That’s my office line, but I’ve got my cell-phone number on the back for you, sweetie.” He winked slyly. “Have your girl call my girl, and we’ll set something up for next week.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” Amelia said.
“Until then.” He tipped an invisible hat before walking away.
When he was out of earshot, Amelia turned toward me, looking genuinely pleased. “He was a perfect choice,” she said. “Moneyed and stupid.”
I laughed. “I don’t know how you did that so smoothly. Five minutes and he was eating out of your hand.”
“You’ll get the hang of it.” She patted my shoulder and then glanced at her watch. “I think dinner is about to start. I managed to get us a seat at the table closest to the mayor’s table. Plenty of rich pickings for us to talk to while we eat.”
“Us?” I asked, my heart in my throat.
She touched my shoulder again. “There’s nothing to it. Get them talking about anything but artwork and then bring it up casually. Flatter them, flatter their wives and girlfriends, and then drop the hint.”
“I’m not so sure—”
“Don’t worry. You’ll do just fine. Consider this a practice run. There’s no pressure here tonight.”
I was still uncertain as we made our way over to our table. Of the ten chairs, it appeared that the other eight were filled with couples, most of them in their fifties and sixties. All the men sat up a little straighter when we sat down, and I saw several of the women frown at me. So far, Amelia had been talking exclusively to men, so I wasn’t quite sure how to even begin to speak with these women.
“That’s a lovely shawl,” I told the older woman seated next to me.
Some of the tension left her face. “Thank you. It was my mother’s.”
I continued to look at it. “I just love family heirlooms. They mean so much more than the things we buy.”
“I agree completely.” She looked surprised.
The rest of the conversation was actually far easier than I’d anticipated. Taking Amelia’s advice, I kept the conversation to heirlooms for a couple of minutes before talking about a painting I’d inherited from my parents and then to the company I worked for. The woman recognized the name Winters and immediately asked her husband if she could make an appointment for a home consultation. He rolled his eyes but agreed, and my heart lifted in jubilation. While it was only a potential sale at this point, I was fairly certain that, after a visit, I would be able to get them to buy something. I saw Amelia wink at me as I put the woman’s card in my purse, and I smiled back at her.
The dinner was surprisingly bland, given the cost, but I felt that I managed to comport myself fine, only hesitating between two forks for a couple of seconds before watching Amelia choose the right one. Dinner was followed by a silent auction. Amelia made a bid on a small painting that she won, and I could see that she was extremely pleased with her winnings.
Once we all stood up for the reception, she pulled me aside, shaking her head in disbelief.
“That painting is worth over four times what I paid for it,” she whispered conspiratorially, her eyes merry. “Whatever numbskull decided to donate it doesn’t know what he’s doing. I just made back the cost of our dinners.”
We made our way over toward the dance floor, Amelia looking around carefully for past clients. We stood there for a long while on the edge of the dancing, and I spied another potential new mark I’d researched this week. I touched her elbow again, and she turned toward me, her body and face inches from mine.
“See another target?” she asked quietly. Almost exactly my height, she was close enough that I could see the flecks of gray in her dark-blue eyes.
“Across the dance floor. He’s standing next to that leggy blonde. His name is Peter Donaldson. He’s Scottish. Rich. Shipping magnate. I think his girlfriend’s name is Kelly, but she could be a new one.”
Amelia looked back over at him, appearing devious. She turned back to me. “The only way over there is to dance our way to him.”
I swallowed. “Dance?”
“It’s rude to walk across a dance floor.” She paused, and then, seeing my face, she added, “And it’s bad luck.” She raised an eyebrow at me to show that she was kidding.
“I’m not very good at dancing,” I admitted, looking anywhere but at her.
“That’s okay. I’ll lead.”
I looked around the room, panic rising. “Won’t it be strange that, I mean, that you and I—”
She laughed. “People are used to seeing me dance with other women, Doctor. Don’t worry about it.”
I swallowed again and nodded, my heart racing. She held out her hand and pulled me into a twirl, and we were soon dancing our way around the small floor. She was an incredible dancer, as I knew she would be, and as we moved her hand rested on my bare back, exposed because of my dress. The touch of her fingers sent tingles up and down my spine, and I felt hot and dizzy at the same time. I was vaguely aware that people had stopped to watch us dance, but my attention was rooted to her and her hand.
She pulled me a step closer to her and put her mouth close to my ear, her voice barely above a whisper. “Have I told you how incredible you look tonight?”
I shook my head a little, too terrified to resp
ond.
“Well, you do. You’re the most stunning woman in the room.”
“Hardly.”
“Your modesty is very becoming, Doctor, but in this case it’s misguided. You’re beautiful.”
The whirling motion of the dance and the heat spreading out from the hand on my back was beginning to make my head spin, but I couldn’t wrench my eyes from hers.
“There’s no one more attractive here than you, Miss Winters,” I managed to say.
She threw her head back and laughed, then steered me around an older couple who glanced at us as we danced by them. “I love your flattery.”
“It’s the truth,” I replied.
She laughed again. I was vaguely aware of a flash out of the corner of my eye but dismissed it, my eyes still rooted to hers. She moved her face toward mine, and for a moment I was certain she was about to kiss me. I held my breath, waiting.
“I think we’ve made our point,” she said quietly. “On the next pass, I’m going to stop and lead us over to your Mister Donaldson.”
I felt my face fall in disappointment and saw Amelia lift an eyebrow at me, but we were soon drawing apart as we hit the edge of the dance floor. Several men were watching us, openly interested. Amelia shook her hair back from her shoulders and looked over at me. “Ready?”
I could only nod.
As she schmoozed Mister Donaldson, I tried to center myself and calm down, but my body was a cascade of emotions and sensations, my head still spinning. My back still felt hot, as if her hand still touched it. I imagined I could look in the mirror and see the red outline of her handprint. My stomach clenched tight with something like panic, and my heart was pounding. My body was covered in a layer of cold, clammy sweat. Worst of all, however, were my racing thoughts. I kept chastising myself for overacting, but it was no good. I felt unmoored, confused, and distracted. I did, however, manage to nod in the appropriate places as Amelia made plans for another appointment with the potential new client. Once she’d stowed away his card, she grabbed my elbow and led me away from him and over to a small table.
A Palette for Love Page 7
