by Liz Talley
Dreams could come true, but only with lots of work.
He pulled his keys from his pocket and headed toward his soon-to-be jazz club.
ELEANOR BACKED INTO the glass front door, spun around and yanked open the door.
Pansy’s head popped up from behind the counter like a jack-in-the-box. “What happened?”
Steadying her nerves, Eleanor closed the door and flipped the sign to read Open. “Nothing.”
Pansy slid out. “Nothing?”
“He’s cute,” she said, busying herself by straightening the collection of early American brass candlesticks displayed on the shelf of a gorgeous cypress cupboard.
Eleanor didn’t want to look at Pansy until she got her emotions under control. Dez Batiste had stirred up so many things inside her—anger, embarrassment… desire.
He’d been so damn sensual. Like a jungle cat, all powerful, sexy and dangerous. His body had been at once tight and muscular, yet he moved with a loose-limbed grace, a sort of lazy insolence. Up close, he’d been droolworthy, with stormy eyes contrasting against deep-honeyed skin, with his manly jaw contrasting with the poutiness of his mouth. Just utterly delicious like a New Orleans praline.
And he’d allowed her some dignity, playing along when she stupidly admitted her crappy attempt to engage him. It had been admirable, and somehow made him even sexier.
Pansy loomed over her like a winged harpy. “Cute? That’s all I’m getting? Cute?”
“What? You want a play-by-play?”
“Duh.”
“Fine. I said ‘hello’ and he said ‘hello’ and I felt stupid. And he said, ‘I’m Dez Batiste, and then I said—”
“The Dez Batiste?”
Eleanor stopped fiddling with the candlesticks. “The Dez Batiste that’s opening the nightclub. The Dez Batiste you threw your panties at back in ‘’04. The Dez Batiste who—”
“OMG!” Pansy clasped her hands and ran to the window. “Can’t believe I didn’t make the connection. He’s more filled out than he was back then. Seems taller but then again he stayed at the piano the one time I saw him. Oh, but the way he played. Like he made love to that piano. I swear to God, I’d never seen anything like it. I got wet just watching him.”
“Pansy.” Eleanor made a frowny face.
“Oh, don’t be such a Puritan.” Pansy glanced at Eleanor. “But I’m not kidding. I felt guilty looking at Eddie for the rest of the week, but don’t worry, I didn’t throw those panties.”
“Too much information.”
Pansy laughed. “Uh, right. He was too young anyway, but I did have some of those The Graduate fantasies.”
“The man’s trying to bring in a bar when we just got rid of Maggio’s. Don’t you remember wading through puke to open the store? Or how about the night you worked late and someone broke into your car? Or maybe you’ll remember the drunk asleep in the alcove who pooped by the garbage bin?”
Pansy twisted her lips. “But it’s Dez Batiste. He’s back in New Orleans. And I can’t imagine that he’d—”
“A bar is a bar. It’s not going to bring us business. It will only be a headache. Trust me.”
Pansy walked toward the register. “You need to get laid.”
“You need to do your job,” Eleanor said, heading for the rear of the store and her small office, which was crammed into a room the size of a coat closet. Damn Pansy for not being on her side.
“I do my job every day,” Pansy called, her tone slightly hurt but more perturbed. Pansy didn’t take crap off anyone… not even her employers and friend. “And you still need a good f—”
“Don’t say it,” Eleanor growled, slamming her office door, blocking out Pansy and her unwanted advice.
Eleanor sank against the door and gave a heavy sigh.
Sweet Mary Mother of Jesus, she’d been such a fool.
Dez Batiste.
He wasn’t what she’d expected. Oh, Pansy had raved for days after finding out Dez Batiste and his partner had bought the old building across from them. Oddly enough, Eleanor had prayed for someone to snap up the old bank with its pretty mosaic tiles flanking its doors and the interesting fresco reliefs trimming the upper floor. But she’d hoped for a yarn shop or an organic health food store.
Not a nightclub.
Run by a hot young jazz musician.
Well, she wasn’t going to think about how hot he was or the sort of challenge he’d flung back at her.
He’d change her mind.
Huh.
Not likely.
Even if she’d likely have erotic fantasies about him all night long.
Pansy was right. She needed to get laid.
TRE JACKSON LIFTED the heavy bookcase with ease and placed the piece where Mrs. Dupuy indicated it should sit in her husband’s den. The bottom slipped a little on the slick Oriental carpet, but settled snug against the ornate baseboard.
“Perfect, darling,” the older white lady trilled, clapping together hands with fingernails tipped in fancy white polish. She then ran one hand along the aged wormwood that had been painstakingly restored. “Johnny loves pieces with history, and it’s perfect.”
Tre stood back and nodded, though he had no idea why anyone would want some old piece of furniture with marks and grooves all in it. He just didn’t get white, rich people. Why buy something old when you could have something new, something solid steel, something that wouldn’t rot? But rich ladies strolled into the Queen’s Box and dropped crazy money on old stuff all the time.
But he didn’t have to understand antique junkies to do his job. For the past few months he’d been working for Eleanor Theriot, and he wasn’t sure how it had happened. One minute he was standing there looking at the Help Wanted sign, the next he was filling out a W-2. Crazy stupid to be working for someone who could have him arrested in the blink of an eye, but he’d needed a job… and that sign had called out to him.
Mrs. Dupuy turned toward him, handed him two twenty-dollar bills and gave him a weird smile.
This particular crazy white people habit didn’t bother him so much. Rich ladies always tipped good unless they were real old. Real old ladies—black, white or purple polka-dotted—didn’t part with money too easy. He bobbed his head. “Thank you, Mrs. Dupuy.”
“Oh, no. Thank you, Tre. And please tell Eleanor she made a good find with that piece. Exactly what I envisioned,” she said, smiling at walls the color of blood and sweeping a hand toward blossomy drapes. “Now if I could only find an antique secretary’s desk to fit between those two windows. You tell her to be on the lookout, you hear?”
“Yes, ma’am. I will.” He slid toward the wide double doors that opened to the marble foyer. Mrs. Winnie Dupuy was a lonely woman, spending much of her time shopping for things her too-busy husband might like. Which meant she could talk a blue streak if someone took up the other end of the conversation. Tre wasn’t. He had another delivery to make and it was across town. Had to get going if he wanted to make his brother’s game on the West Bank later that afternoon.
“You want a drink or somethin’? I can get you a Coke or… maybe something stronger? Bourbon maybe? Or vodka?” Mrs. Dupuy asked, cocking her head like a little bird. She wore a pink dress that showed off her bosom and little clicky heels that rat-ta-tatted on the hardwood floors. A strange bored housewife gleam in her eye made him hurry his steps. She followed, running a tongue over her top lip then biting her lower. “Or if there’s something else you want? Something not on the menu maybe?”
It’s not like he hadn’t had fantasies about a little something-something with a client or two. Some of the women he made deliveries to were fine, but Mrs. Dupuy was too skinny, too uptight, and her husband was a judge. Besides, he had to get to Devontay’s game in three hours.
Better not even think about it.
“No, thank you, Mrs. Dupuy. I gotta get back to the—”
“Oh, sure. No problem,” she said, looking nervous, like she knew he could read her thoughts, and suddenly her unstated in
vitation was too real. She followed him out the room into the foyer and opened the large door painted black as sin. Sunlight tumbled in like a smack of reality upside the head. Mrs. Dupuy blinked, appeared confused. “Well, thanks again.”
“Sure,” he said stepping onto the brick stoop.
The door shut behind him softly, like an apology, as he walked to the delivery van. He didn’t really blame Winnie Dupuy for not wanting to feel so empty. He knew what it was like to feel as if no one cared, to want some simple comfort, a human touch. He didn’t fault her… but he couldn’t oblige her and still be the man he wanted to be.
The man he’d promised his mama all those years ago.
The van was warm, which was good, considering a cold wind had picked up. New Orleans wasn’t cold in February, but it wasn’t warm, either. The seat felt good against his jeans. He’d just pulled out of the driveway when his cell rang.
It was Big Mama—she always called this time of day.
“Yo, Big Mama, you get your applesauce cake yet?”
“I’ve done got it, sugar. Merlene had some with me, though she ain’t as fond of it. You workin’?” Big Mama’s voice was still frail. His grandmother had been sick a long time and he hated she had to be in the nursing facility. But what could he do? Neither he nor his aunt Cici could take care of her.
“Yes ma’am. I’m getting off in a few hours for Devontay’s game. They playing at Erhet today.”
“You gonna call me and let me know how he does, ain’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am. I know you’d skin me alive if I didn’t.” Tre smiled as he swerved around the oncoming traffic and headed toward the store on Magazine. Luckily, he had only one more delivery, and it was a Queen Anne settee. Since the delivery was on the West Bank, Eleanor said he could take the van over the bridge—as long as he locked it up tight—and make Shorty D’s game.
“How’s Cici getting on with that new job? She going in on time, ain’t she? I worry about her.”
“Yes, ma’am, she’s doin’ fine.” Kind of. His aunt had missed work a few weeks ago and had to plead with the shift manager to put her on probation. Since then, she’d done good, making it on time every day, but he was worried because she’d started hanging with her former girls, going out, leaving Kenzie with him. Tre had threatened to call Child Protective Services if she went out anymore. He didn’t like threatening his aunt, but his cousin Kenzie needed a mother who wasn’t strung out and banging with the 3-N-G, a local street gang that hung on Third and Galvez.
He wasn’t worrying Big Mama about Cici or anything else. Her health wouldn’t tolerate no worrying. He wanted her to get stronger so maybe she could come back and breathe some life into that rambling house of hers where they all lived. Things weren’t the same with Big Mama gone. It had been too long since he’d smelled her gumbo cooking and tasted her fried corn bread. Been too long since he heard her laughter in the kitchen and felt the tenderness in her faded hands.
“The doctor says maybe I can come home ’fore too long. They still working me to death, but I’m walking pretty good now. Maybe won’t be long, sugar.”
Big Mama had fallen and broken her hip almost seven months ago. After extensive surgery, she’d done well, until the pneumonia had set in several weeks later. She’d been in a nursing facility ever since, determined she wouldn’t live out her days at Plantation Manor.
“That’s good. You keep doin’ what they tell you. Dr. Tom said you’ll be home to dye Easter eggs for Kenzie.”
Big Mama cackled. “Lordy, that’s in two months. I need to see that baby hide her eggs. Gotta make her a dress, too.”
Tre drove through the alley between the Queen’s Box and a vintage clothing store and put the van in park. A loading platform on his right led up to rusted double doors. “I’ve got to go now. Got to make another delivery before I can get out of here.”
“Tre, you don’t worry about me. You got enough to worry about. Try to take some time for yourself, sugar. You not even twenty years old yet.”
He felt a hell of a lot older. “I know. I got time.”
His grandmother huffed but didn’t say more, and after promising again to call her about Devontay’s game, he hung up.
Pocketing the keys, he slid from the van, careful to lock it. As he came around the side of the van, Eleanor met him.
“Hey, Tre, we need to talk if you have a minute.”
He looked up, sensing what was coming. Winnie Dupuy had called. “Yeah?”
“Mrs. Dupuy called me a few moments ago.” Eleanor held tight to the door, looking embarrassed. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Oh, well, she said you made her feel uncomfortable. Uh, like in a sexual way.” Eleanor stared him in the eyes, and he could see her discomfort, but she didn’t shy away. He, at least, liked that about her.
“No, ma’am.”
Eleanor looked hard at him and nodded. “She’s lonely.”
Folding his arms over his chest, he met her gaze. “Yeah, I guess she is.”
For a moment they were both silent. Her studying him. Him bearing her scrutiny, defensive on the outside, hoping she believed him on the inside. As the seconds ticked by, Eleanor’s posturing changed. Relief gathered in him because he knew she’d worked out the facts rather than jump to conclusions.
“Winnie propositioned you?”
“What you mean?”
Eleanor rolled a hand, still looking like she’d rather clean toilets than have this conversation with him. “Make a pass? Come on to you?”
“Why you think that?”
“Because the more I think on it, the more I see the flaw in this accusation. Winnie’s husband ignores her, she’s lonely and you’re awfully nice-looking,” she said, holding open the heavy steel door and jerking her head toward the black yawn that led into the back room. “She’s a good customer, but I don’t necessarily believe you’d have to hit on older ladies when you’ve likely got plenty of girls your own age blowing up your phone.”
The knot in his gut unraveled as he started up the steps. Eleanor believed him over Winnie Dupuy. The thought startled him, put a dent in the shield of mistrust he kept between him and his employer. Between him and everyone. “Did you just say ‘blowing up my phone’?”
Eleanor made a face. “Blakely says that all the time. Guess it seeped into my vocabulary without me noticing.”
Tre didn’t smile much, but he had to smile at her admission. He hadn’t yet met her daughter since Blakely was away at college, but from the way Eleanor talked about her, she had attitude to spare. He liked a girl with attitude. Someone who wasn’t all mealy-mouthed. His Big Mama had always said to never trust mealy-mouths. They’re the sneaky ones.
“I’m sorry Mrs. Dupuy accused you of something so awful.”
He shrugged. “Don’t matter.”
Eleanor stopped him, pressing a hand to his shoulder. He flinched but didn’t pull away. “It does matter.”
“She’s just embarrassed is all.”
He met Eleanor’s gaze and an understanding lit in them. He knew she saw he tried to be an honorable man—the kind of man Big Mama would be proud of. The kind of man who didn’t screw lonely old white women just ’cause he could. He had pride, integrity and respect for himself.
Eleanor could see all that in his gaze.
The dent grew wider.
“Maybe so, but I’ll take care of it. She can’t make those kinds of accusations against my employees and think it’s okay. Go ahead and wrap the Queen Anne and get it over to the Wilkies. Sign out for three o’clock and then you should be able to make Shorty D’s game.”
Devontay’s nickname sounded funny on Eleanor’s lips. “Thank you.”
Eleanor closed the door and started for her office. “Oh, and tell Shorty D I’ll buy him a Tastee doughnut for every point he scores.”
Tre shook his head. “He scored ten last time.”
She smiled. “I know. I’ll plan on picking
up a dozen.”
ELEANOR SHRUGGED OUT of her khaki pants and tossed her new T-shirt on top of the laundry hamper in the corner of her bathroom. Fragrant lavender perfumed the air as her bath filled, automatically soothing her, pulling her mind away from Winnie Dupuy’s tirade, Blakely’s request for more money, and her mother-in-law’s message on the answering service. Margaret Theriot didn’t like to be ignored. Or so she said.
So many people giving her grief.
And no one to take it away.
Eleanor eyed the old clawed-foot tub, hoping her best bath salts would do the trick. Her day had been longer than most because she’d had to run errands after work, including the dreaded grocery store. Before she could blink it was a quarter of eleven o’clock and past her bedtime.
She snorted as she grabbed her toothbrush. “God, you’re acting like an old person, Elle. In bed by ten o’clock is sealing your doom, baby.”
She didn’t respond to her own taunts. What could she possibly say? Then the cell phone sitting on her dressing table buzzed. She picked it up and eyed the number. Margaret. Again. Shouldn’t her mother-in-law be in bed?
She tossed the phone down, peeled off her underwear and put her hair in an old scrunchy. No friggin’ way would she let Skeeter’s mother ruin the most precious time of the day: her cocktail bath.
Grabbing the highball glass, she sank into the tub and used her big toe to turn off the hot water.
“Ahhh,” she said to the wall on her right.
The wall said nothing in return… as well it shouldn’t. After all, she’d only started on the drink.
The swirl of the water around her felt like a sweet embrace as she slid down, burying her nose in the soft bubbles as the phone jittered again. And then again. Then the home phone jangled in the hallway.
“I’m not answering you, damn it!” she called out, studying the chipped polish on her left toenail as she took a sip of her vodka tonic.
