by June Shaw
I grabbed the paper. Bubblegum wrap. Blueberry flavor.
I stared at April’s house. A common wooden fence separated her yard from Stevie’s. April chewed bubble gum. The way she and her child zipped back and forth from there to here, she could have easily dropped the wrapper. The paper could have landed here today. But the bubble she’d blown was pink. Blueberry flavor probably meant the gum from this wrapper was blue.
The gum wrapper reminded me of something that goes in the mouth. It was almost one p.m. Time for lunch. I went inside and tossed the gum wrapper in the trash.
From the table, my laptop stared at me. Ugh. I wanted to go off and find food. But I’d told Benton Hadley I would get back to him soon. Soon would be now.
I jotted my ideas, sent them off to my manager Brianna, and got her on the phone. “Check your E-mail now, and if you agree, get the concept off to Benton Hadley, please.” With work done, I grabbed my purse and took off.
I wanted to talk to more people from The Quitters Group, but wanted food first. I needed to avoid Gil, who might be at his restaurant, so I couldn’t eat there. He was tempting. It seemed as I grew older I became worse at handling temptation.
Driving east I spied a couple of restaurants. Both tiny with not many cars. Lots of cars meant good food. I gave in to my urges, turned around, and drove to Cajun Delights.
As I approached, I thought I’d gotten my directions wrong and was reaching a different restaurant. This one looked like all of Gil’s places—tall gray cypress in front and slinging lower toward the rear. Tin roof. Hot-pepper-red words Cajun Delights on a muted green background. But no cars in the large parking lot.
Passing by, I glanced back. A silver truck was near the fence in back.
Something was amiss. It was Monday—they should be open, and many people should be eating.
I returned to Gil’s restaurant. Probably the day manager would be there. I’d ask her if anything happened.
I trotted to the front door. Locked. I rapped beside the door’s stained-glass insert, knocking as hard as I could.
An image became visible through the glass. A person approached, a person larger than Babs Jacobs.
The lock clicked, and the door opened.
I steadied my legs.
Gil’s smile widened. “What a nice visitor.”
Chapter 15
I started to walk in but noticed all the lights were off. I was standing close to Gil, a deadly place if I wanted to avoid an intimate encounter. Private parts of my body came to life.
I swallowed. Looked at Gil. Backed outside.
He kept the door open. “Aren’t you coming in?” he asked, tone husky.
Mine would get husky, too, the longer I stayed near him.
“Uh, I wanted to eat. But you’re closed.”
Gil glanced at his empty restaurant like he was considering what I said.
Jealousy ran a little streak down my backbone. Suppose he wasn’t alone? He might have a woman in his office or any place else in this large, dark building.
“You want food. This is the place. Come on in.” He opened the door wider.
“But no cooks. Look, no people,” I said. Maybe he was just arriving and hadn’t noticed. But Gil did notice things. Many things.
He kept holding the door wide open. I had to walk in. He glanced down at me. “Had your hair fixed differently, didn’t you?”
I patted the top of my hairdo. “Do you like it?”
“I like anything you decide to do, Cealie.”
My, what a sweet man. I hoped he didn’t notice my mustache. He led the way toward the restaurant’s rear. Faint lights were on, mostly small wall lanterns. “You didn’t have a silver truck,” I said.
“The other one leaked oil. I didn’t want to turn on all the lights,” he said, “because we’re closed today. I didn’t want to attract customers.”
“You’re really closed on a Monday?”
“I guess you didn’t see the sign. One of our large fryers caught fire last night.”
“You had a fire?” I envisioned Gil trapped in a roaring fire. An instinct struck to protect him.
A motherly instinct?
No-o-o, my increasingly horny instincts told me.
I stepped away. This man didn’t need protecting right now. He loomed a foot taller than me, his shoulders extra wide through his knit shirt. His eyes extra dark. His lips extra sensual.
“It was only a small fire,” those lips said, “and they put it out right away. Someone will fix the problem later this afternoon. But we’re closed until then, since we have so many customers during the days of our grand opening. Many of them want their seafood fried.”
“Mmm, crispy and hot,” I said, then noticed him staring at my lips. The invisible magnet tugged. I took a deep breath. “So you need to get it fixed, and I need to go somewhere and eat. I’m starving.”
“I have something for you.”
“I wanted seafood.”
“I know.” He looked me in the eye. “There’s gumbo in small packs in the freezer. I’ll heat some for you.”
How could I resist?
He led me to the kitchen, a vast space with stainless steel appliances and the tempting aroma of fried seafood, tainted by the slightest burnt odor. Gil turned on lights in one section of the kitchen. Everything looked new and sparkly. There were vats for frying and burners and ovens and refrigerators and a microwave. Gil went into the walk-in freezer and came back with a small package. He placed its contents in a bowl and heated it in the microwave. “I’ll see what else I can find for you.”
While he went off, I sniffed the air. I looked around, disappointed not to see any empty sacks. On second thought, maybe the sacks didn’t come into the kitchen.
“You’re checking for boiled crayfish, aren’t you?” Gil asked, coming near.
I nodded and smiled for real. Beyond him, I spied stacks of the large plastic trays used for serving boiled seafood.
“This restaurant is getting crabs now, fairly large ones. But I’m afraid we don’t have any crayfish yet. I checked.”
“You do know me.” I smelled the well-seasoned mixture of seafood gumbo in the bowl he set in front of me on the long stainless steel counter. As in his other restaurants, this was where cooks would set orders for waiters to pick up.
Gil pulled a stool close to my food. “Enjoy. I’ve already had lunch.” He walked off and returned with a tall glass of milk. He set it beside my bowl, then got me a chunk of French bread and a dish of potato salad.
Yum. The gumbo was brown and thick from the roux. It held a little rice and lots of shrimp and crabmeat. I ate three crab claws, sliding the flaky meat off with my teeth.
“That food really turns you on.” Gil stood near with a smile. “Finish that, and I’ll get you some more.”
I grinned at him. Dug into my bowl. Savored the textures and tastes. I bit a piece of bread. Some bites of potato salad, especially good with a pinch of onion. I spooned a small oyster out of my gumbo.
“The Cajun aphrodisiac,” Gil said, his grin wicked.
“It’s a good thing you’re only part Cajun,” I said, and then ate more of this food for the gods. “And it’s a good thing you can’t have this.”
“Not with shrimp in it, but I could eat lots of oysters.” He was allergic to shrimp but not oysters.
Gil moved closer while the food in my bowls emptied. I noticed him. Noticed the darkness beyond our space.
“That was terrific,” I said.
“Ready for dessert?” He stood near, no dishes in his hands.
He placed those warm hands on me. Gil wrapped his arms around me. “I missed you.” He kissed my lips. Pulled his lips away. “I really miss you when you’re not around.” He kissed me longer. Drew his mouth away. “You’re so important to me, Cealie.”
“It hasn’t been that long,” I said, immediately annoyed with my lame response. This man was terribly important to me.
But I didn’t want him to be.
&
nbsp; He shifted even closer. Gil pressed his firm chest against mine. His steel-gray eyes held my gaze. My traitorous body reacted to his.
This man wanted me. And I wanted him.
No, I don’t. I slid off the stool on the opposite side from him. I wanted my freedom. I needed more strength to keep away from him. I called up my mantra—I am woman! I can do anything! Alone.
If I gave in to Gil’s urges and mine now, I’d be back where I was some time in the past. I’d want to be with him all the time. Depending on him.
That last part would be the problem. My self-worth couldn’t depend on having a man near me again.
I gazed at Gil. He watched me from the opposite side of the backless barstool. He was tempting, definitely.
My body told me, Get him. Jump his bones. Do it now!
And he would love that. So would I.
But then…
I shifted my eyes. I needed to call up an image of Gil wearing a crown and sitting on a throne, knowing exactly what he wanted and having all of it set before him.
And then me, the broken half of a couple. Once Freddy died, I no longer knew what I wanted from life except to be with him, and that choice was gone.
So then, who was I?
That’s exactly what I had finally begun to find out. Rediscovering Cealie needed to come first. I wanted romance with Gil. But that would mean I had to give away the freedom to be a complete person, the newfound sense of being an individual who didn’t need anyone to feel whole.
His sexual draw pulled my body.
I placed my hand on the barstool. I wanted to shove it to the floor and grab the man. Then he and I might go down to the floor, too. No, not in this kitchen. We’d kiss and fondle all the way to his office, which must hold a comfy sofa.
No, no, Cealie. You are woman, remember?
He could have smiled, which would have made me angry and broken the moment. Gil might have smiled because he knew the dilemma jamming my mind. He knew me, and knew I wanted sex with him.
He was also a man, one with desire in his eyes and in his heavy breaths. He didn’t break the moment, dammit.
I stepped around the barstool. Moving close to him, I swallowed. Watched his eyes appear to darken while I stepped nearer.
Da-dunt, da-dunt, da-dunt.
“Does that make you want to dance?” I asked Gil, moving away from him and grabbing my phone.
Harsh eyes told all before he spoke. “You don’t have to get that.”
“Yes, I do.” I needed it for my salvation, to keep me from giving in to what my body wanted, but my mind knew better. It was increasingly harder for mind over body to function when it came to Gil.
I stepped farther from him and cheerily answered my phone.
“Where are you?” Stevie sounded worried.
“At a restaurant. I had lunch.”
“You’re just eating now?”
I eyed Gil, eyeing me. “Yes. Why? Are you home?”
“We’re having recess. I wanted to find out what you were doing.”
“Just—eating.” I broke eye contact with the man making me lust.
“And I wanted to find out what you want for dinner. Would you prefer for me to cook, or for us to go and eat at that Cajun restaurant?”
“No!” I watched Gil and took steps farther away from him, heading for the hallway where we’d entered. “That restaurant isn’t open today,” I said to explain my sharp reply to my cousin. I couldn’t tell her the food wasn’t the only tempting thing here. On second thought, I could tell her, but then she might expect to see a romance blossom, and that wasn’t going to happen. I waved good-bye to Gil and mouthed, “Thank you.”
No satisfaction touched his expression. He didn’t wave. Didn’t nod. Gil stood in place in the half-lit kitchen, watching me walk out.
“We could go somewhere else, or I could cook,” Stevie said.
“Don’t worry about cooking.” I made my way through the dim restaurant. “I can pick up something from a supermarket that we could throw in the microwave. I won’t need much to eat.”
“We’ll see. But don’t pick up any food. I need to go outside now and walk around. This is when I want a smoke the most.”
“Exercise is much better. See you later.” I reached the front door, discovered it locked, and grinned. I hadn’t noticed Gil locking us inside. I glanced back and listened for him.
No sound of his approach. He was probably still in the kitchen, unhappily cleaning my mess and putting away my used dishes.
I could at least do that myself, I considered, but only for a moment. And then I turned the lock on the door.
I rushed out and away from Gil’s restaurant.
The moment I drove off from Cajun Delights, my shins hurt.
This wasn’t funny. Had they been hurting all along, but being near Gil made me not notice? Or was the pain starting now, maybe from the position of my legs?
I shifted and gave both legs different angles.
The pain remained. About the width of a dead man’s thighs.
I wiggled my legs, trying to get rid of that feeling and lose the image. The feel of a dead person beneath them and the sight of him stayed. I had to learn more.
I connected with Information on my phone while I drove and had them get me the sheriff’s office. I got Detective Renwick on the line.
“People from your office came to my cousin’s house and took down that yellow tape,” I said. “I’m sure removing it means you have more information about Pierce Trottier’s death.”
“I do.”
“Please tell me.”
“When we’re sure about our findings, I’ll contact you and your cousin.”
“Couldn’t you share a little now? I won’t tell. Promise.”
“It shouldn’t be long. I’ll get back to you.” He hung up.
I needed to get my own information. A combination gas station and pancake house came into view. I hooked into its parking lot and bought a newspaper out front. Inside, I sat at a booth with coffee and turned to the obituaries.
More listings than I would have expected. Almost a whole page worth. Possibly this paper ran obits for longer than one day. I skimmed faces and felt sad for each of them but especially for their families.
Yes! Pierce Trottier.
His obit was brief with no picture. I knew what he looked like dead but would have liked to see him with his eyes open. Alive. Flecks of cut grass had been stuck to his shoes, I recalled now, wondering about that since Stevie’s grass was extra long.
He was fifty-three, a native of Tallulah, Mississippi. Survived by a son and a daughter and a cousin, Jenna Griggs. Jenna was his cousin? And curiously, his children weren’t named. Even more curious, his short obituary said no services were held. It did mention that he was studying to become a minister. It didn’t say a thing about his fiancée that Audrey Ray had told me about.
I had little connection to the people in The Quitters Group but knew I would speak with all of them.
A phone book was attached to the public phone. I looked for Jenna Griggs. She wasn’t listed. Maybe Stevie had numbers for all of her group members. I still didn’t know how Stevie had not seen Pierce Trottier in their small group. Didn’t know if I believed her.
From The Quitters Group, I had spoken to most of the people away from their meetings. I’d gone to see Father Paul Edward and Ish Muller. Ugh, I hated to think of that scene. Besides those men, there was one other man. And then Stevie and two other women. Fawn, the straw sucker, had come over. Maybe I’d talk to her again, maybe not.
In the phone book, I looked for the man I hadn’t spoken with, recalling his name was like an ice cream treat and started with P. I ran my finger down P’s. Parfait. I’d never eaten or seen a real one, but pictures of them always looked tempting.
The phone book showed no person with that name. It listed a business, Parfait’s Parlor.
I returned inside the pancake shop and asked for directions. A man told me which way to go but had n
ever been to the business.
I drove off, hoping it wasn’t an old-fashioned parlor filled with antiques. I hoped it was an ice cream parlor. I really hoped its owner would be the man I was looking for.
Chapter 16
“Yeah,” I said, seeing that Parfait’s Parlor served ice cream. Even if the guy from Stevie’s quitters’ group wasn’t connected with it, I would enjoy being here. Not that I wasn’t already stuffed. But the pictures outside the building were super tempting.
Parfait’s appeared to be a perfect ice cream parlor. Extra clean outside. The pink, red, and white paint was bright. All of its windows were shiny. Pictures on the windows displayed long-stemmed glasses, wide on top and slender at the bottom. The glasses held tilted layers of multicolored ice cream and crushed fruit and syrup. Whipped cream piled on top. Adding to the temptation, tall plants growing on both sides of the parlor were trimmed to resemble parfait glasses.
My stomach made happy jumps. I parked near four other cars and went in.
Red leather barstools enhanced a counter. Small round tables created intimate eating spaces. A family of three appeared happy, gobbling their parfaits. So did the other eaters, mainly couples. A young guy and girl wearing shirts and caps with pink, red, and white stripes took the orders. No sign of the Parfait man I’d met at the stop-smoking group. Possibly he wasn’t connected to this place.
I really shouldn’t eat more, I told myself, but then convinced myself I should. I’d had gumbo for lunch. Gumbo seemed filling when you ate, but it contained lots of water. I’d probably get hungry again soon. My mind showed me the potato salad and French bread I’d gobbled along with that gumbo, but I blanked out that picture. I wanted a parfait.
“I’ve never eaten one of those,” I told the family at a table. “What kind is good?”
“Chocolate!” the young boy said.
“Chocolate!” the smaller girl repeated.
Both had layers of chocolate syrup with their vanilla ice cream. Chocolate surrounded the girl’s mouth.
“I like crushed pineapple best,” the woman with them said, using her long spoon to dig pineapple out of her glass. “Blueberry is great, too.”
