by C. L. Bevill
“Looked green,” the man said and chuckled. “Maman spent two hours in the bathroom with her. Finally, they dyed it back to a deep black. But it doesn’t look quite the way it used to look. Very flat color, that.” He laughed again. “Patrice is not happy, her.”
“She’s what, sixteen?” the woman said, not really asking a question, but the man nodded anyway. “I had pink streaks at that age.”
The man chuckled. “I can’t see it.” He looked around and watched a group of inebriated tourists taking photographs of every store front. The group stopped to ask directions for Pat O’Brien’s. The woman pointed them in the correct direction and watched them walk away.
“I might still have a photograph,” the woman said. “The nuns didn’t let us keep a lot and well, some of the foster homes were worse. Things got lost.” Her voice didn’t sound bitter but matter-of-fact.
The man frowned. He didn’t care for the thought of the woman being in a situation where she had no control and less power. He glanced at her delicate features and knew she’d been as beautiful as a child as she was as an adult. What if…?
“No, it was not like that,” the woman said and patted his shoulder. It was as if she had read his mind and it disconcerted him for a moment. “The worst was that the foster families were oblivious to our presence. There were a few where Anna and I were together, but it didn’t work out. Some of the foster families were only interested in a paycheck and not in helping the children.” Her face twisted in a wry grimace. “It doesn’t sound like it, but I’ve often thought I was one of the lucky ones. Anna, too. We were never abused. Not really.”
“Really,” he said.
“Anna had her arm broken once,” the woman admitted. “I think that was the worst for her.”
“But not you,” the man said.
“No, a few people screaming at me. One of the nuns had a ruler she used like a six-gun. Sister Mary Joseph was crazy mad with that ruler when she was crossed.”
“Reminds me of Sunday school, non,” the man commented satirically. He touched the gold medallion at his neck. “My grandmaman gave me this, St. Jude, because she thought I was a lost cause and needed a little help. You know St. Jude is the patron saint of lost causes.”
“You’ll need to go to confession, won’t you?” she teased. “Sister Mary Joseph was there when I cut my arm on a broken window. She and Anna rode with me to the hospital. She would have given her blood, but she wasn’t my type. Funny that Anna is.”
“C’est drôle, oui.” His tone was sarcastically accepting.
“Sometimes you sound Cajun. Sometimes you sound like one of the Creoles,” the woman said. “But that sounded like pure French to me. And I took years of French in school.”
“We’re none of the above,” the man said with a gentle smile. “La Famille has lots of roots. I guess you could call the bastardized French we speak, Cajun French, but it isn’t really that either. Last time I spoke to a fella from Paris, he was so appalled by my French, he about had a heart attack on the spot. Called me an uneducated peasant. He said it was worse than when he’d been in Quebec.”
The woman’s mouth opened in surprise.
“I don’t think the fella believed I would understand the insult,” the man added. He knew the tone of his voice revealed his amusement with the outraged Frenchman. “We’re proud of what we are and what we’re not.” The famille was proud of other things, as well. They had abilities that were beyond special.
The woman knew about Anna. Anna had shared that with the man when it became apparent the pair was dating. But Anna had never shared with the woman the more important secret of the famille. Most of them had special gifts, too. The words used by the man’s people were usually “veiled eyes.” Once upon a time when a child was born with a caul, it was considered a sign that the child would have veiled eyes, some sort of special ability. Sometimes it was clairvoyance. Sometimes it was telepathy. Anna and her husband, Gabriel, could speak to each other without speaking, and together, Gabriel had a strong sense of precognition. Relatives and loved ones were blessed with the strongest gifts.
The man could speak with his relatives telepathically. It was particularly clear with his brothers and sisters. But the ability faded over distance, and the man was especially glad his family couldn’t feel the strong feelings that burned within him for the woman who stood beside him.
One day the woman would understand. She was accepting of Anna; he didn’t doubt she would be accepting of the remainder of the famille. It was the way she was wired. She was decent and generous and her heart was pure. She was everything he’d ever wanted in a woman.
“What?” she said.
The man’s eyebrow arched inquisitively.
“You were staring at me,” she added.
“It’s hard not to,” he said.
“Like I’m a goddess you’re putting on a pedestal,” she said tartly.
“You have many fine qualities that I admire,” the man said, hoping for politically correct. Fine qualities isn’t like judging a farm animal, non? Maybe I should have said it another way?
“I’m not perfect.”
“Aie,” the man protested. “What a thing to say. An honest soul. Lingering beauty. Admirable wisdom. I can only wish to be half as wondrous as you.”
The woman tilted her head. “You’re a poet.”
The man put his free hand over his chest. “The heart gives me inspiration, non?”
She shook her head.
“Oh? Maybe I need to hear about all my finer qualities from a woman such as yourself. Make me fly home with wings on my feet, oui?”
“You play with your brother’s babies when no one is paying attention.”
“Dirty diapers. Their screams make my ears hurt.”
“Your mama said you paid for your brother’s college this semester.”
“Maman’s got a big mouth.” The man pursed his lips remorsefully. “And that boy’s going to be a medical doctor. It’s an investment. I get free medical care for the rest of my life. Smart man, me.”
“Who gave my waitress a ride home all the way to Slidell? In rush hour?”
“She was crying, and it turned her nose all red. Poor girl was going to melt into goo.”
“And I’ve seen at least three women checking you out front and back,” the woman said as she gently prodded his chest with an index finger.
“Only three?”
“You know you’re handsome.”
The man shrugged. “Goujon made all of his children good-looking, so he didn’t have to look at anything ugly.”
The woman sputtered. “That’s bad. Anna’s told me that tall catfish tale, no pun intended.”
“Come on, woman,” he said, tugging at her hand. “It ain’t so warm yet that a cup of hot chocolate won’t taste funny, and there’s that place down by the square that makes it fine.”
“Not the one with half espresso,” the woman said, grinning. “I’ll be up half the night.”
“Doesn’t sound bad to me,” the man returned promptly.
An hour later, the man delivered the woman to the rear of her building. They stood in the deep shadow of a burgeoning bougainvillea plant. The bright fuchsia blooms were emerging early due to a mild winter, and a flowery perfume wove about them in a fragrant cloud.
“I don’t want to go,” the man said as he stared down at the woman.
The woman reached up and stroked his cheek. “I’m not sure if I want you to go, either.”
“Ah, chère,” the man said longingly. “Those are lovely words, but ‘I’m not sure’ isn’t quite what I want to hear. No, I want to hear you screaming, ‘Get your tushie up the stairs right now, mister!’”
The woman smiled up at him.
“And you won’t believe where I need to be at 6 a.m. tomorrow morning,” the man added. “A hundred miles into the Gulf, and the helicopter is leaving at five.”
“Will you come next weekend?” she asked softly.
“Absolument
. Wild horses couldn’t keep me away. Well, wild oil rig fires could.”
“But that doesn’t happen very often,” the woman said with a hint of worry.
“Non, chère. The Deepwater Horizon rig was an anomaly,” he said, referring to the recent oil rig disaster in the Gulf. “Typically the companies have to be on top of safety issues. And since that accident, it’s ten times safer. Everyone is all over it. Not to worry about me. I can swim to shore, me. Feel my biceps.”
The woman obediently squeezed one and murmured her admiration. “Well, what was I worried about?”
There was a heavy silence while they stared at each other.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” the man announced. He half expected a choir of angels to blow their trumpets in accompaniment.
“Not if I kiss you first,” the woman said swiftly and pressed herself into his arms, lifting her arms to loop around his neck. She had to stretch a little, but she was tall, and he was only six inches taller than she was.
The poetic mush came gurgling back to the man’s brain as their lips met. He pretty much forgot everything else, including his own name. He wasn’t sure if he could remember the woman’s name either.
The kiss was endless magic.
Wonderful.
Yes, wonderful.
What?
It’s like dark chocolate sprinkled with spices.
What?
The woman abruptly jerked back and stared up at the man. Her chest was heaving. He noticed his chest was heaving as well, but it didn’t look as good on him.
“Oh my,” she muttered.
“Did you…?” he said.
“Did I…?”
“…Hear something?” he finished awkwardly. No, it couldn’t possibly be. She isn’t one of us.
A police siren echoed in the distance. Car engines puttered nearby. Blues music pounded into the night from a bar one street over. A cat hissed at something at the end of the alley.
The man took a deep breath. “Go on, then. Get inside, and lock the door so I can be on my way.”
The woman said his name, and it was a whispered promise.
“I know,” said the man. “I’ll see you next weekend. I’ll text you when I know I’ll be off the rig.”
The woman kissed his cheek and turned to go inside. Keys rattled as she unlocked the doors. She muttered for a moment, and he realized the security system was already disabled. Evidently, she’d forgotten to set it when she’d left the building.
The man watched the door shut and listened to her fix the locks again. He was all the way to his truck when it occurred to him that she hadn’t set the security system again. Oh, she’ll remember.
Chapter 27
The dead open the eyes of the living.
– Portuguese proverb
The next part wasn’t from Christien’s point of view but from Jane’s. But the memories were intertwined, and it was hard to tell who had been experiencing what. It was a storybook with a willful wind opening each page one after another.
* * *
With a pensive smile the woman closed the door and locked it, thinking about the events of the evening with misty enthrallment.
She’d lost count of the dates they’d gone on. The man was determined to let her lead the way, and she thought more of him for it. Furthermore, Anna said the man was well-thought-of in the family. Anna even liked him, and she’d never liked any of the woman’s boyfriends. It sounded cliché. He was kind to babies, little old ladies, and gave to charity. He didn’t mind if they went for a walk on the levee or spent the evening at Le Petit Théâtre du Vieux Carré.
The man was a cliché. A good one. Tall. Dark. And handsome. Good to puppies and Girl Scouts.
Idiot, the woman told herself, shaking her head. She turned back into the dark passage. If she stayed on the ground floor, she would go into the back of the restaurant she owned and managed. Typically the place would still be open, but it was Lent and business was slow. She’d closed it for her date, and the employees were slyly giddy about it, knowing her reasoning even though she had shared.
Derica, she thought of the waitress who the man had given a ride to Slidell. She’s got a big mouth. Or it was possible that the man had subtly interrogated Derica about her boss but not so subtly that Derica hadn’t understood. After all, Derica went through men like she had a cold and they were Kleenexes. She would know when a man was interested.
The woman paused in the darkness. She didn’t turn on the light because there was no way to turn it off at the top of the stairs that led to her apartment above the restaurant.
Call the electrician, she told herself. You’ve got other things for him to do. The wiring in the kitchen is wonky. The switch near the walk-in fridge is acting up. He can add a three-way switch to the stairway.
The woman made her way up the stairwell, pausing halfway to take off her heels. Sure my legs look good in three-inch heels, but he did want to walk to the square for hot chocolate. Was I really going to complain my feet hurt? No, I don’t think so. Didn’t his kiss taste like chocolate and make it all worth it? Oh hell yes.
Taking a moment to shift her shoes in her hand, she dug in her pocket for her keys. Locating them a moment later, she thought about spilling the salt in the morning. One of the chefs had cursed, imploring her to toss some over her shoulder. “Bad luck!” he’d yelped.
The woman had her share of bad luck. Her parents had died in a house fire when she was a child. She’d spent the remainder of her childhood in an orphanage and in foster homes, with some of the foster parents trying to figure out how to break open her trust like an errant piggy bank. Most of the time they’d sent her back to the nuns when they finally understood the trust was indissoluble. The money had come to the woman on her twenty-first birthday, no matter who was paying the mortgage for the roof she lived under.
Spilling some paltry amount of salt didn’t seem to compare. Although she’d often teased Anna about silly superstitions, she didn’t really believe in the concept of bad luck.
I make my own luck. I’ve always made my own luck.
But the woman grimaced wryly. Still need to go to church tomorrow.
The keys didn’t make any noise as she opened her door. She let herself in and shut the apartment door behind her. The room was awash with the aroma of jasmine and honeysuckle. She didn’t know how the flowers’ exotic scents made it into the room when the windows and doors were shut, but the perfumes were nearly as intoxicating as the man.
The woman put her keys down on an accent table next to the front door. She tugged her silk blouse off her shoulders revealing the lilac tank top underneath. The tank matched the flowered skirt.
Carrying her shoes into her bedroom, the woman tried to mentally shift gears. It would be a long week until the man returned, and she had many things to keep her occupied. A new menu needed to be completed. The quarterly taxes were coming up, and she thought one of her suppliers was short-changing her. One of the busboys was threatening a lawsuit if one of the female chefs didn’t stop pinching his ass when he walked past her.
Business, she thought. Nothing but business.
She put her shoes away and began to remove her jewelry. She’d taken everything off and was cleaning make-up from her face when a thought speared through her.
And…crap. I forget about the receipts for today.
The woman slid her feet into a pair of bunny slippers. They’d been a joke gift from Anna the previous Christmas, but Anna didn’t know that the woman found them comfortable. She went back to her door, let herself out, and silently went down the stairs, not bothering with the light. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and there wasn’t any point in using the electricity.
It’ll take twenty minutes on the computer, she thought, smothering a yawn with her hand. Twenty minutes and another five to double-check those other figures. Then I can crawl into bed.
The woman turned down the little hall to the back of the restaurant. The interior door led to the kitch
en and her office to one side. She wordlessly cursed herself when she remembered the keys were upstairs.
One hand paused on the doorknob.
But the door’s already cracked open.
The woman frowned. The security system had been left off. She hadn’t been the last one out. Her assistant manager, Wesley, had been on top of that. He’d shooed her out earlier and said he’d take care of it. The neglect wasn’t out of the range of normal. It happened occasionally, although she would have preferred less, especially when the receipts were still in the building.
Maybe I should just run them down to the bank, too, when I’m done.
“Wesley,” she said, pushing the door open. There were no lights on in the restaurant. Everything was still and dark.
“Wesley,” she said again. “Are you here?”
No one answered her.
The woman hesitated in the doorway. It wasn’t like Wesley to forget to lock the door and not to set the security system. Sure, he’d done it once or twice that she knew of, but not both at the same time. Perhaps he’d been alone and something had happened. Wesley was in his forties, and his health wasn’t the best. He liked the rich food from the restaurant a little too much. What if…?
The woman stepped into the kitchen and deftly avoided the normal kitchen accoutrements. Although everything had been washed and put away, the kitchen was on the smaller side and every square inch of space utilized. Regardless, the kitchen staff was meticulous. They had to be to maintain the scrupulous ratings of the Department of Health and Hospital’s food and hygiene inspections.
If Wesley was still here, there would be lights, right? The woman thought about it and a surge of fear shot through her. She wasn’t certain of what she was afraid, but the empty kitchen was filled with shadows and only the reflections of light coming from the front. The windows on the kitchen doors revealed the glow of business signs on Dumaine Street.
The absence of sound was odder. Even in the middle of the restaurant she should have been able to hear the normal hustle and bustle of the busy French Quarter. Particularly on a Saturday night and not yet midnight. Everything else seemed blocked out; the silence focused on her in a fog of noiselessness.
