by Liz Talley
Uh-oh.
He stared at Eleanor who glanced at her daughter and then at him with the same “Oh, no” expression in her eyes. “Mr. Batiste likely has other plans, honey. He’s busy with the remodel. I’m sure—”
Blakely shot her mother an annoyed look. “But I bet he’s not too busy to walk over to the gallery with me. It’s not too far and I’m dying to stretch my legs after that long car ride.” She gazed at him with big blue eyes that scared the crap out of him.
Eleanor opened her mouth, but snapped it closed as Dez opened the door. “Sure. Let’s take a walk. Eleanor can meet us there.” He gave the woman he’d been about to get naked with an “I got this” look, hoping she understood he’d put Blakely where she needed to be with regard to him.
“Perfect,” Blakely said, scooping up her purse, pulling out lip gloss and sashaying past him. “See you in ten, Mom.”
He followed Eleanor’s daughter. “We’ll get back to that desk later, Eleanor. And that’s a promise.”
“I thought you said y’all were moving a table?” Blakely said, giving him a flirty smile.
He glanced at Eleanor, but her eyes had shuttered, and now he wasn’t so sure there would be the kind of later he wanted. And that sucked.
ELEANOR WATCHED THE door swish closed and swiped a shaking hand over her face.
What the hell had she been thinking?
Having sex with Dez Batiste in her office like some reckless, horny single woman?
Oh, God. Was she a reckless, horny single woman?
No. It was a toe dip into insanity that had thankfully been interrupted.
Relief and disappointment met and swirled in her gut. Half of her wished she were still in her office using Dez to get over the barren stretch of desert that was her love life for the past five years, and half of her wanted to high-five her daughter for good timing. Having sex with Dez would have been a mistake—a hot and no doubt rewarding mistake—but a mistake nevertheless. She couldn’t handle being the cougar antiques store owner who diddled the younger, gorgeous musician. The very thought sounded tawdry, like a half-baked prime-time television show. And beneath that obviousness was the feeling things could get out of hand with him quickly.
The man looked like a heartbreaker.
And that brought to mind her daughter’s blatant interest in the same man.
Eleanor locked the door, wondering what Dez was going to do to dissuade Blakely’s attentions. Her daughter was much like her former husband—single-minded in her determination to get what she wanted. It was both a wonderful quality and a concern.
Eleanor turned and a movement to her left made her scream.
“It’s me, Mrs. Theriot.”
Pulling her fingernails out of the invisible ceiling she’d tried to clutch, Eleanor exhaled. “Oh, Tre. Good Lord, you scared the devil out of me.”
Balanced on her young delivery man’s hip was a little girl with fuzzy braids wearing a too-small dress. Shorty D stood beside him, his backpack hanging low on one shoulder, a cocky grin on his face.
“What’s up, Mrs. T?” Shorty D said.
“I saw you had company, so I waited. Used my back door key and hoped I could find you here before you left. Sorry about scaring you,” Tre said, rubbing the back of the little girl, who sucked on her fingers.
“That’s okay,” Eleanor breathed, trying to stop her galloping heart. Double Thank God Blakely had interrupted her and Dez. She could have scarred some children with the naughty things she wanted to do to Dez. “I’m good, Shorty D. How are you?”
“Cool. Thanks for the doughnuts. Hit the spot.” He patted his stomach.
She tried not to laugh at how grown-up Shorty D talked. He wore pants that sagged a bit too low and tennis shoes that had seen better days months ago. “Anytime. I like rewarding those awesome baskets you shoot. You keep playing like that and every high school in the city will be trying to get you to play for them.”
Shorty grinned. “I’ll go wherever they have the most doughnuts.”
“Hey, Mrs. T. Can I talk to you?” Tre interrupted, jerking his head toward her office.
Obviously, something serious was afoot. Tre never came in after hours and the worry on his face seemed too much for a kid who was the same age as her daughter. She didn’t know who the little girl was. Could be Tre’s daughter, she supposed, but he’d never mentioned having any children on his employment application… only his brother for which he was unofficial guardian.
“Sure. I don’t have much time because Eddie has his show tonight, but I can talk.” She moved toward her office, hoping there was no evidence of her near insanity with Dez moments before.
Office looked the same as always.
Huh.
Somehow she expected it to show some small indication she’d tossed out all sense.
Tre set the toddler down next to Shorty D at the threshold and handed his brother his iPhone with earbuds. “You can play Ninja Jump, but you have to make sure Kenzie don’t mess with nothing. Got it?”
Shorty took the phone with a nod before tugging on the little girl’s arm. “Come on, Kenz. You can help me.”
Tre watched as the two settled on the desk chair behind the counter, giving another grave nod to his younger brother.
“So, what’s wrong, Tre?” Eleanor asked, moving a few papers around, trying not to be overly concerned with the atypical actions of her employee.
“Yeah, uh, I hate to ask, but you think I can get an advance for this week?”
“An advance?”
Tre straightened and she wished she hadn’t repeated the request. Tre was proud, and she figured he’d rather have a tooth yanked out with no pain medication than to ask for help. Things had to be bad for him.
“Yeah. Won’t happen again, but I need to find someone to watch Kenzie and I got to pay them.”
Eleanor nodded. “Of course, Tre. You can have an advance.”
He nodded and shot his gaze anywhere but near her. “Thanks.”
“Tre?”
He still wouldn’t look at her. “Who is Kenzie?”
“She’s my little cousin. My mama’s sister’s girl.”
“Oh, okay. I just never heard you speak of her. Let me grab my checkbook.” Eleanor didn’t know how to breach Tre’s defenses. The boy didn’t trust her, and she’d never given him reason to feel the way he did. If she could get him to open up, she might be able to help him solve his problems. She felt like he needed someone on his side, but thus far, he’d been unwilling to be anything but polite. But maybe that wasn’t her role – to be a savior. Still, she liked Tre and wanted to see his burden lighter.
Several minutes later she thrust a check toward him. “That should cover what I’d pay you for the next two weeks. Will that be enough?”
His dark eyes flickered to the paper and he nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“Tre, is there anything more I can do? You’re not in trouble, are you?” She hated to ask it, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. Maternal instinct whispered in her ear she could help, that she could at the least fix something for someone.
But Tre withdrew even further.
Yeah. Good job, white woman. Think you can fix years upon years of poverty. Of hunger. Of need. Of out-and-out racism?
“I’m good. Appreciate it.” Tre turned toward the half-opened office door, making her feel uncomfortable for being so presumptuous. She should have kept her stupid mouth shut.
“Okay, sorry. I’m not trying to meddle. Just thought maybe you might need someone to talk to.” She offered up a smile, hoping he’d see she wasn’t trying to manage him, and he nodded, his handsome face softening a little at her words.
“You’re a good lady.” He folded the check and tucked it into his back pocket.
“Thank you,” she murmured, rising and coming out from around the desk.
Tre moved into the store, jerking his head toward Shorty and Kenzie. The kids looked up from the flashing screen as he approached. “Let’s roll.”<
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“Hey, Tre. You want to ride with me to Eddie’s show? Pansy’s got cookies from Butterfield’s, and it’s casual. I know they’d love it if you came, and then I can drop you by your house.”
Tre shook his head. “I ain’t got time tonight. Gotta get Kenzie home and fed.”
“Please,” Shorty D whined, jumping off the chair. “Eddie’s my boy and Kenzie wants some cookies, don’t you, Kenzie?”
The little girl just sucked on her fingers and looked up at Shorty.
“She doesn’t want cookies,” Tre said, taking the little girl’s free hand.
“I wanna see Eddie’s shit. He said he’d show me sometime.”
“Watch your language, Shorty D,” Tre said, kneeing his brother into motion.
“It’s no trouble,” Eleanor said, grabbing her purse and turning out the lights in her office. “I’m heading over. My daughter came home unexpectedly, and I want you to meet her.”
“Yeah,” Shorty D said, nodding as he followed Eleanor toward the back. “I hate ridin’ the bus at night. Freaky deaky people on there always drunk and stinkin’ and stuff.”
Tre sighed. “Okay. Whatever. Only this once.”
Eleanor smiled at Shorty D as he jerked his elbow in and hissed “Yesss!”
She winked at him. “You just want cookies.”
His wide smile was answer enough.
TRE SURVEYED THE people gathered inside the cramped art gallery. Some were well-dressed, others looked like they smoked pot and created crap for a living.
Like Eddie.
Eddie McAdams was a bear of a man with a full beard streaked with gray and a belly that spoke of extra helpings of Pansy’s cooking. Tre had already sampled her crawfish corn bread and some lemon pie things in the few months he’d worked at the Queen’s Box. Pansy wasn’t as good of a cook as Big Mama, but she was good enough to make Eddie fat and happy.
“Don’t touch,” Tre told Shorty D for the seventh time since they’d followed Eleanor through the creaking double doors of the former church that now served as an art gallery. Kenzie looked around wide-eyed as Shorty D scoped out the refreshments table and eased toward the plates of sandwiches and cookies sitting beside a bowl of pink punch.
“What?” Eddie said, flinging his heavy arms out wide. “You brought my man, Tre? Oh, yeah, baby. Now we talkin’.”
Tre shrank back because Eddie was going to hug him. The man liked to touch people—slaps on backs, arms around the shoulders or just out and out bear hugs.
Tre lifted his hand for a five. “What up, Ed?”
Eddie’s high five smacked his hand so hard it startled a few people nearby. The artist grinned and reached out, grabbed Shorty D’s nearly bald head and turned him from the refreshment table. “And you brought my man Shorty D. What’s happenin’ lil’ bro?”
Shorty D spun and performed some kind of complicated handshake with Eddie. Kenzie squirmed and held out her hands to Shorty D so he could pick her up. Baby Girl didn’t share her older cousin so much.
“And who’s this beauty?” Eddie asked bending down to peer with copper eyes at Kenzie.
“This my cousin Kenzie.”
“Oh, but you’re a looker, little one,” Eddie said, reaching out and plucking Kenzie from his arms. Kenzie’s dark eyes widened, and Tre knew she’d start wailing at being surrendered to a white-bearded giant who was more Jerry Garcia than Santa Claus. But she didn’t. Just stuck her fingers in her mouth, slurped, studying Eddie.
“Let’s get you a cookie, yeah? Pansy, get over here and look at this little sprite I found.”
Pansy stood on the other side of the gallery but turned when Eddie called her. She wore a cotton dress that fell to the floor. It had a weird tribal pattern, which didn’t look right on her, but somehow suited the occasion. Pansy crossed the room to stand beside her husband. “You brought Tre and Shorty D.” She tossed a glance at Eleanor who’d stood beside him, oddly silent.
“Yeah. Tre came by and I pretty much forced him to come, using cookies as bribery,” Eleanor said with a smile, though her eyes searched past Pansy and Eddie. Probably looking for her daughter.
Pansy smiled down at the ten-year-old who Tre suspected was already on his second cookie. His brother was a pro at sneaking things and working people—his smoothness scared Tre at times. “Have as many as you want, Shorty D. In fact, I have a bunch more in the back and I’ll send a bag home with you.”
Shorty D wiggled his eyebrows. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
Pansy laughed and turned to Eleanor. “So I saw Blakely arrive with Dez.”
Pansy said it like a question.
“Yeah. I had no idea she was coming in for the whole Mardi Gras weekend. The last time I talked to her, she’d proclaimed being ‘so over’ the parade thing. But here she is, bringing sorority sisters with her.”
Pansy’s eyes narrowed and some unsaid communication obviously occurred between the two women. Tre suspected it was over Dez Batiste.
Tre knew Dez from the Second Line Players. When Tre was in middle school, he’d participated in the program and Dez had been the one to place Tre on the list that helped him get a scholarship to St. Augustine, enabling him to attend the historical African-American Catholic school, and participate in the Marching 100, the famed New Orleans marching band. With its precision, discipline and support, the band stamped its mark on Tre. The principles he learned at the school stuck with him, keeping him strong when the wind blew him near to the ground. But things had been so bad lately, he wasn’t sure he could hold out against the life he could lead, a life that would buy bread, new shoes and respect in his ’hood. He’d wanted more for Shorty D. More for himself, but things weren’t working.
Dez had been a shining star for him years ago. As the son of a racially mixed father and Cuban mother, raised several streets away from the projects where Tre had scratched out an existence, Dez had modeled a way out of the neighborhood. Dez hadn’t gone to St. Augustine, instead he’d attended Ben Franklin and the NOCA program for the arts. But once the jazz pianist had experienced success, he hadn’t turned away from his roots. He hadn’t turned his back on boys he could help—Dez had been cool like that.
But for some reason Tre didn’t want to run into Dez now.
He wasn’t sure why. Maybe he was embarrassed he no longer played the sax. Maybe he didn’t want to come across as some punk who barely made a living moving furniture and went grocery shopping with food stamps. Shame engulfed him, and his pride was hard to swallow when confronted with a man who’d beaten down obstacles and hammered out a future on the very instrument he loved. Something Tre couldn’t do ‘cause he had sold his horn and had to support two kids who weren’t even his.
A few people shuffled around the exhibits mounted on tall white rectangles, and suddenly Dez was in his line of sight, standing near a fine blonde girl that could only be Eleanor’s daughter, Blakely.
Dez and Blakely looked good together. His golden skin offsetting her lightness. His hardness emphasizing her softness.
“Eleanor,” Dez said, coming over. Tre hadn’t seen Dez since his freshman year at St. Aug, and the man looked different. He hadn’t lost his swagger, but he looked like life had given him a few licks. That bitch Katrina had given them all a few blows, leaving them dizzy, broken and feeling around on the worn earth for some traction.
Blakely was fine, that was for sure. But she looked like every rich chick he’d ever seen. Shoulders straight, hair down her back with a sort of “eat shit and die” attitude that a brother couldn’t touch. But she was a dime—perfect ten.
“Hey, Mom. Took you so long I was starting to worry you’d already taken up old lady driving,” Blakely said with a sassy smile. On the surface, the words sounded teasing, but there was an edge to her tone, a sort of “I’ll show you.”
Made him wonder about Blakely.
About why she felt threatened by her mother.
Then Eleanor glanced at Dez and something fired between them. Then
Tre knew. Dez didn’t want Blakely. He wanted Eleanor.
“Your mother is far from granny driving,” Pansy said, wrapping Blakely in a hug after introducing Eddie to Dez. “She scared me silly the other day when she drove me to the pharmacy. Mario Andretti ain’t got nothing on her.”
“Who’s that?” Blakely laughed, true warmth flooding her blue eyes as she returned Pansy’s hug. “Besides, you’re already silly, Petunia.”
“Ha, ha, monkey girl,” Pansy said, wrapping an arm around Eddie who’d turned to talk to a couple who wore business suits and looked moneyed up. “Have some punch and sandwiches. I gotta go mingle and drum up some sales for Eddie.”
Eddie set Kenzie down with a smile, leaving Tre and Shorty D standing with Dez, Eleanor and Blakely.
“Give me Kenzie,” Shorty D said, his voice reflecting boredom… or hunger. Probably both. “I’m gonna go get us a plate and sit her over on that couch.”
Shorty D grabbed the little girl’s hand and wove through a few old white hippies to the nearby table. Tre could see the couch from where he stood. When Tre returned his gaze to the others, he saw recognition in Dez’s eyes.
“Dez, Blakely,” Eleanor said. “This is Tre Jackson. He works with me at the Queen’s Box doing our deliveries and helping keep Pansy in line.”
Blakely stuck out a hand. Her smile looked genuine, and he wondered if he’d imagined earlier the animosity between her and Eleanor. “Hey, I’m Blakely. Sorry I didn’t get to meet you at Christmas.”
He took her hand, catching a whiff of perfume, which smelled like a sample he had once been handed in the mall. “Good to meet you.”
Dez held out a hand. “And we’ve met before.”
Tre shook Dez’s hand, which was hard, strong and calloused. “What’s up?”
“Trevon Jackson. You played the hell out of the sax.”
Tre withdrew his gaze and begged the sucking wound inside him to remain hidden. The thoughts of his short-lived music career always burned more when he was around someone who created music, around someone who had the pleasure of putting his emotions into notes.
