by Emery, Lynn
“Feeling better?” Darlene prompted when Erikka didn’t answer.
“Just wonderful!” Erikka said. Her voice struck the wrong note. Too cheery, she groaned inwardly.
“Glad to hear it. I’m Gabriel Cormier, from the flea market two days ago, remember?” He misinterpreted Erikka’s hesitation as memory loss.
“Yes, yes,” Erikka mumbled, still working on the puzzle of how to master the art of those damn sneaky questions. Maybe she could still clean it up.
“The flea market?” Darlene blinked rapidly for a moment, and then a light flickered in her nut brown eyes. “Last Sunday.”
“Had a great time. Just got turned around, and it was hot in there. Really stifling with all those narrow aisles,” Erikka said in a rush.
“Yeah, warmed up real fast that afternoon,” he said smoothly. “Joe Turner needs to upgrade that old air-conditioning unit. Mr. Joe owns the flea market, and we pay him to rent space,” Gabriel explained.
Darlene looked at him, then at Erikka, then back at Gabriel. “Oh.”
Gabriel wore a caring expression. The comers of his mouth lifted, not into a smile but something more appealing. His face had a comfortable quiet offer of friendship. He eased into Southern social chatter about the weather, the flea market, and the parish fair. If this was his special brand of the game, then he was working it right. The tension in Erikka’s neck smoothed out. She tried to guess his age. No obvious gray in his mass of thick dark hair. Still, something in his manner suggested he had what her Grandmaman Lillian called an old soul. Not old-school exactly, but seasoned by life.
“How is your aunt Therese? She almost had us sold on half the stuff in there. That lady has got crazy sales skills.” Damn, if she didn’t shut her mouth, Darlene would suspect something was up. Erikka forced her lips together to keep more mindless babble from tumbling out. Too late.
“Yeah, well we gotta be going.” Darlene moved closer to Erikka in a protective manner.
Gabriel’s kind eyes shaded over. “Yes, ma’am. Y’all have a nice day.”
He turned and strode off, head up as though he didn’t see other people watching him. Darlene sucked her teeth and shook her head. Two men did a double take when he went by. Erikka gazed at the long-legged stride that took Gabriel away from them and the rest of the world that seemed to gawk at him. He got into a blue truck covered with a thin layer of country-road dust. She remembered watching the truck drive by her aunt’s house.
Gabriel started the Dodge Ram pickup. Exhaust fumes and the rattle of something loose announced he was leaving. Moments later Gabriel drove by, his face blank behind sunglasses. Though he was only a few feet from where they stood, he didn’t look at them or wave goodbye. Erikka recognized that face. She’d used the same method of keeping people out and herself walled in when she felt exposed.
“Well, you lost all your home training in etiquette. What was that about?” Erikka said, her own distress forgotten.
“I’ll tell you later. Of all the people you could have bumped into,” Darlene said, her voice softly trailing off without completing the thought aloud.
“I smell juicy small-town gossip. C’mon, Darlene.” Erikka tugged on Darlene’s purse to get her attention.
Darlene looked down the street as though Gabriel hadn’t driven around the comer and out of sight. “Long story, and I’m not feeling up to it. Maybe later.”
“No maybe. I want to know why folks are looking at him so funny.” Erikka did not like the way Darlene’s neck muscles seemed to strain.
“Course he looks older, so it didn’t register at first. He rarely shows his face in town,” Darlene said.
At least three questions leaped to mind at once. Erikka would have normally pressed her aunt to talk, but her curiosity faded, and anxiety returned. She’d had enough uproar in her life. What she did not need was to take in some stranger’s borrowed brand of the blues. Still, she wondered what grief could be so well hidden behind his quiet honey-brown eyes. The dust settled from Gabriel’s truck tires. Erikka kept thinking about the enigma wrapped not in a mystery, but a pair of nicely fitting blue jeans.
Chapter 3
The next week Erikka was back in New Orleans, hoping to tidy up ragged loose ends of her life, her apartment, the job, that nasty court business, and maybe even Vaughn. After two days she broke down and accepted her mother’s invitations to visit her. Roz was already trying to boss her around on clothes, fixing her career, and more. But sitting at home one more night watching television and waiting for the phone to ring was worse. Who was she kidding? Vaughn wasn’t going to call.
Erikka wandered around the kitchen of her parents’ home, feeling lost. They lived in a comfortable suburban neighborhood outside the city. She’d moved out a good ten years ago and didn’t make a habit of searching the cabinets when she dropped by.
“Had to open my mouth about making dinner.”
She hissed in frustration when she couldn’t find cayenne pepper. Ten minutes later she found another spice shelf in a pantry off the laundry room. So much for the serenity she’d anticipated from chopping up fresh seasonings and stirring ingredients. Being in the kitchen cooking up something special was one of Erikka’s favorite ways to unwind. As usual, nothing went as she’d planned.
The gleaming copper pots hanging over the oak butcher’s block from a rack would not do. Perfect for a magazine spread in Martha Stewart Living, but no use for cooking jambalaya. At least not the way Grandmaman Lillie had taught her. Erikka turned detective and tried to figure out where her mother had put the cast-iron cookware. It had been passed down through three generations of Creole cooks, and Erikka hoped her mother had kept it seasoned. Erikka had become the cook, while Roz specialized in quick and easy dishes. Grandmaman Lillie fussed because none of her five daughters paid much attention to tradition. She insisted that family history on both sides of the family, the Rochons and the Duparts, was tied to the process of making a meal. Three generations of women had kept the most complete records with their recipes and notes about domestic matters.
As a kid Erikka had enjoyed reading handwritten cookbooks over one hundred years old by women who had rarely spoken English. Names like Clotilde Aimee, Carmelite, Aurelia, and Serafine fascinated her. Grandmaman Lillie could tell stories as though she’d known them all. While she talked Grandmaman Lillie would both translate and teach Erikka French. Cooking and reading those old family papers made her feel less like the odd child out. Her short stay in Loreauville had brought back that sense of belonging.
Erikka searched through drawers that slid out with a touch. Another snazzy feature that Rosalinde did not use often. She hissed for the tenth time since beginning her quest and stood straight. Still no deep cast iron skillet.
“I give up.”
Erikka marched across the open space past an L-shaped cabinet and through the breakfast room. She said a few curse words as she made her way through the house looking for her mother. She headed for the den. Her pace slowed when her mother’s angry voice came through the open door and bounced off the walls of the hallway.
“I’m tired of tiptoeing around my own house. Just spit out whatever has you in a bad mood.”
“I’m trying not to be in a bad mood for a change, Roz. Another one of our talks won’t help.”
“We don’t talk. I do all the talking.”
“Exactly. I’m not up for the merry-go-round ride tonight.” Craig sounded weary. Seconds later the television came on.
“As usual you get to assign blame. And turn that damn thing off.” Roz’s voice cracked.
Erikka went back to the kitchen. She turned up the volume of the FM radio. Without thinking, she pulled on the nearest fancy cabinet handle. A shelf slid out on rollers with the cast-iron skillets and pots arranged on it. For the next thirty minutes Erikka cooked like she was Julia Child, B. Smith, and Emeril all rolled into one. She was spooning steamed rice into the deep skillet by the time her mother strolled in. Rosalinde had changed from her business
suit to denim Capri pants and a red T-shirt.
“Smells marvelous. One of the few pleasures of getting older is having your kids wait on you.” Roz came in and sat on a high barstool at the breakfast counter. She grabbed a handful of mixed nuts from a crystal bowl.
“Stop stuffing those in your mouth. I’m not in here sweating for nothing, you know. I hope Daddy is hungry, too.” Erikka glanced at her mother for a sign.
Roz grinned and munched for a few more seconds. Then she patted her lips with a napkin without smudging her lipstick. “Don’t worry. Craig can eat like a hungry bear anytime. Besides, he wouldn’t dare disappoint you.” Roz looked like a woman who had the perfect marriage to match her perfect kitchen. Erikka wasn’t surprised at her mother’s lightning change. Roz had a gift for smoothing over life’s rough spots, especially for the sake of appearances. What worried Erikka was her stepfather’s tone of voice. He hadn’t sounded angry, just indifferent. “Yeah, well.”
Erikka tried to think of a way to talk about things more serious than cooking, but she had little practice facing ugly personal truths. So, she made the salad.
“You really shouldn’t agonize about it, baby. Here, let me do that.” Roz took the salad tongs from her. She added croutons and Erikka’s homemade salad dressing to the wooden bowl.
Erikka got busy spreading butter on warm French bread mini-loaves. She felt the jitters take hold. “I—I’m not. How are you doing?”
“I’m good.” Roz nibbled on a piece of romaine lettuce. “A little more pepper.”
“I guess it’s just one of those things folks go through every now and then. Right?” Erikka sprinkled finely chopped fresh parsley on the buttered bread. Not a bad start. She looked at her mother.
Roz sighed. “You’re not the first and won’t be the last, sweetheart.”
Erikka dropped a loaf. “Huh?”
“Listen, you’ll get your job back and the traffic court hearing will be fine. You partied a little too much. I’m sure you’ve learned your lesson. Agreed?” Roz raised an eyebrow at her.
“Oh, right.” Erikka picked up the bread and put it back on a plate.
“Girl, please.” Roz grimaced. She reached over and tossed the bread into the trash can.
“You always say your floors are so clean we could eat off them.” Erikka set the table.
“That doesn’t mean we will.” Roz wiped up invisible crumbs with a damp paper towel.
“According to Grandmaman Lillie ‘What don’ kill ya will make ya fat’.” Erikka did a perfect imitation of her grandmother’s Creole accent.
“Her putting on that act is what kills me,” Roz retorted. “Acting as though she walks barefoot in a wooden shack down the bayou.”
Erikka laughed. “I suppose she does dramatize.”
“Humph,” was her mother’s only response. She put the salad bowl on the table. “Back to you’.’
“Back to me.” Erikka waited for her stomach to tighten with anxiety. Nothing.
“Yes. You’ll more than likely have to attend one of those driving schools. But the fact that you went into the hospital is a big plus.” Roz tossed out the condensed description of the worst night of Erikka’s life while she set the table.
“Okay.”
Erikka refrained from mentioning she’d been drunk, mumbled to the paramedics something about death, and was committed to a psycho ward by the emergency room doctor. However, if her mother wanted to spin the story that she’d voluntarily sought help, Erikka wouldn’t argue. Besides, Erikka’s lawyer had jumped on Roz’s version. They were both so convincing that Erikka could almost believe it. Almost.
“You’ve got a good job and no previous record. I’m sure the judge will totally understand.” Rosalinde smoothed a wrinkle from one of the place mats.
“Sure thing. Just don’t forget the bribe,” Erikka quipped in a dry tone.
“Not funny at all, Erikka. I suggest you curb that smart mouth. Neither the judge nor your boss will be impressed.”
Erikka tried for an expression with the right mixture of remorse and rehabilitation. “Yes, ma’am. I’ve learned my lesson, and I’m a changed woman. How’s that?”
“Work on it.” Roz squinted at her, and then sat down. She unfolded a sage green cotton napkin and put it in her lap.
Craig strolled in, wearing a loose cotton shirt over baggy drawstring pants. “Smells some kind of good in here. That’s how I know Erikka’s in the house. Thank God we’ll get a decent home-cooked meal for once.” He kissed Erikka on the forehead.
“Good timing, Daddy.” Erikka tossed the oven mitt aside and hugged him tight.
“Whoa now, those are my ribs you’re cracking,” he teased.
Erikka still held on but loosened her grip. She breathed in the familiar scent of soap, aftershave, and freshly laundered cotton. “Like I could hurt a big strong guy like you.”
“Squeeze all you want, sugar. It’s going to be all right,” Craig replied quietly, his baritone voice made deeper by paternal protectiveness.
“Yes, it will be.” Roz nodded in agreement. “Now where’s my supper.
As they exchanged casual conversation, Erikka watched her mother and stepfather. Soon they were laughing at one of Craig’s funny stories. Roz’s smile at his jokes seemed easy and genuine. Craig showed no telltale signs of disgust with his marriage. Erikka wondered if she’d imagined that their marriage was rocky or that her life had taken a temporary turn for the worse. She went along for the ride and laughed with them, at least for the moment. That was all she could promise. There would be hell to pay in the next two days. Facing a judge, her creditors, and her boss, Nadine. The price for past sins.
***
Roz uttered a curse word. They were in standstill traffic for the fifth time. Getting downtown from the clogged interstate had taken twenty-five minutes. Once her mother exited on Poydras Boulevard, their progress had only been slightly better. Her mother wheeled the gray Mercedes-Benz like it was a sports car, changing lanes when the cars ahead of her got too slow. Roz was driving Erikka to her meeting with Nadine. With her license suspended until the hearing Erikka felt helpless. Even so, she savored being back in New Orleans. She took in a deep breath and noticed every detail as they entered the French Quarter. She could feel the city’s pulse through the cushioned luxury car ride, could smell the soul of it through the cool, filtered air.
“Flowers, cayenne pepper, and just a hint of unwashed sidewalk urinals. Ah, to be home again.” Erikka spread her arms out as though to embrace the Crescent City.
“How did you put up with this for five years?” Roz cut someone off, ignoring the obscene gestures and honking that resulted.
‘Try concerts, the House of Blues, and Hurricanes,” she answered.
Erikka pressed a button. The car window slid down without a noise or hitch. Humidity sucked at the air-conditioned interior of the car. Roz protested after a few minutes and used her master control to raise the window again.
“Leave the Hurricanes alone for now. And as for clubbing at all hours—”
“Yes, Mother dear. I know. My lifestyle is what landed me in serious trouble,” Erikka said.
On a roll, Roz didn’t hear her. Or didn’t want to. ‘Take the good and leave out the bad. You’ve got a career most women, and a lot of men, come to think of it, would kill for. I’m not saying don’t have fun. You work hard, and you should cut loose every once in a while.”
“Yes, Mother. In moderation, like all the strong Ro-chon women.”
“Exactly.” Roz gave a curt nod. She drove into a small parking lot next to Erikka’s office.
“I’ll give it my best shot. Come back for me in about two hours. If I’m not out here, wait in the lobby.” Erikka said a silent prayer of thanks that her Acura would be ready in three days.
“I’m sure Nadine wouldn’t think anything of me coming in with you. After all—”
“No.”
“Fine,” Roz rejoined.
“You’ve been my rock. You
got me through the first week in that hospital. Did I thank you for calling me every day and giving those nurses hell for being rude?”
“I don’t remember if you did,” Roz replied, a note of grievance in her voice.
“I deserve a whipping then. Thank you, Mama,” Erikka said softly.
Roz lifted a shoulder. “Being a royal bitch to protect my baby is my job. I just want you and Jaci to have the best. Not like what I went through.”
“I know, and we appreciate everything you’ve done. But some things I have to handle alone.” Erikka embraced her mother and let go. The tender moment passed quickly, as usual.
Roz cleared her throat. “Go in there and reclaim your rightful place from that little skeezer. Heather, Amber, or whatever the hell her name is.”
“Laurie,” Erikka said with a laugh.
“Whatever. I sized her up that day I came in to pick up your paycheck. In my face pretending she was so concerned. She just wanted dirt to use against you.”
“We’re all jockeying for a promotion. Laurie isn’t the only one with ambition enough to climb over dead bodies on her way to the top. Including me.” Erikka stared at the elegant building that housed Lewis, Calder and Brinkhaus. The nineteenth-century fa9ade had been restored with the help of the New Orleans Historic Trust.
“Are you sure I should leave?” Roz’s arched eyebrows pulled together.
“Very. Nadine will think I can’t go out without a chaperone if she sees you.” Erikka put her shoulders back and lifted her chin.
“Good point. Go get ’em, girl.” Roz brushed the lapels of Erikka’s pearl gray jacket and flashed an encouraging smile. “You look like a million bucks.”
“Really?” Erikka glanced at herself in the mirror. Roz had helped her apply a layer of makeup especially designed to hide scars.
