by Liz Talley
An hour and a half later in the middle of Trombone Sonny’s tribute to the Mardi Gras Indians Wild Magnolias, Dez had forgotten about Tom, old resentments and the uncertainty of all things in his life. There was nothing but the music.
Until Eleanor walked in.
ELEANOR PUSHED THROUGH the throng of people standing on the huge weathered deck, happy for Dez that the Priest and Pug was packed. Standing room only… not that there were many seats anyway other than the stools clustered around tall bar tables, and even those were filled. People tapped feet, clapped hands and shouted into each other’s ears as they swigged beer and enjoyed the gift of a beautiful day and soul-stirring music.
After sitting through the shower brunch for her niece Justine, Eleanor was more than ready for a drink and a reprieve from the world of monogrammed napkins and Limoges china. She still wished she hadn’t been talked into helping host the shower at her mother-in-law’s Garden District mansion. Justine’s mother, Courtney, despised her, blaming the whole Skeeter scandal on Eleanor’s depression after the storm. Somehow, everything was Eleanor’s fault in the Theriots’ eyes.
Margaret had been in rare form, simpering over Justine, playing the generous matriarch, tittering, glittering and whittling Eleanor down with her smiling barbs.
“Oh, I remember when you got married, Eleanor. Of course, we weren’t able to have a shower, were we? And you picked out that dated china pattern they didn’t even carry in Dillard’s, for heaven’s sake.”
Along with “Skeeter would have loved to be an usher with his cousins. Oh, if things had been different. I miss him so much.”
And finishing with, “Oh, and my final surprise for all my girls. Ta da!” Then she’d passed out pink shopping bags to Justine, Courtney, Blakely and Eleanor’s other niece Harley. Bags containing pink Tory Burch purses.
Of course, Eleanor didn’t get one—not that she would want it anyway—because she had never been one of Margaret’s girls. Even Blakely had noticed and given her a hug over the slight. Yes, Margaret always got her digs in—this time twofold. Blakely got the bag she’d begged for last week and Eleanor was made to feel like the redheaded stepchild of the Theriot family… just as she’d always been.
So after sitting at the shower, listening to the lacquered New Orleans society “ooh” and “ahh” over overpriced gifts, Eleanor wondered exactly what held her back from Dez.
This?
Thin, judgmental women she didn’t really like anyway?
Or was it merely because Dez was younger? Or that his skin wasn’t the color of a frog’s belly like Skeeter’s? Did it matter he made his living playing a piano? Was she throwing up roadblocks because as the president of the Merchants Association she was supposed to protect the integrity of her block? There were lots of reasons Dez was the wrong person to introduce her to a new life as a nearly forty-something single lady, but none were bigger than the fact she wanted him.
Over her, under her, in her and around her.
Her sojourn to Margaret’s hadn’t been the straw that broke the camel’s back in regard to Dez, but it helped her realize she was tired of worrying about how her actions affected others. She was tired of thinking about Blakely’s feelings over her own happiness. She was really sickened of Margaret, and had decided after helping throw Justine’s shower, she was done with any leftover obligations to Skeeter’s family. They sucked the joy out of her life, and she was done with toeing whatever line they set.
So she was ready to line her toes up on the end of the diving board and secure the ties of her bikini before diving into the deep waters of modern-day dating. Screw wading into the waters in her sensible one-piece suit. If she were going to take the plunge, might as well do it with the finest man she’d seen in a decade.
Eleanor only hoped she didn’t belly flop.
So she’d gone home, washed her hair, painted her toenails a bright lime-green and put on her skinny jeans. Then she’d sprayed her favorite perfume right between her breasts, tugged on a sexy lace bra and tight sweater, and headed out to the Priest and Pug.
She didn’t even care that she was going to support the man who she was supposed to oppose. The Magazine Street Merchants Association would have to freaking impeach her.
Eleanor wanted Dez to know she wasn’t afraid to take what she wanted… and she wanted him. Just as he was. For a little while. For as long as it worked for both of them.
So when she shoved through the crowd of people wearing her favorite pair of cowboy boots with the turquoise trim that matched her sweater, she gave him a smile that would leave no doubt.
“Hey, how’s it going?”
Eleanor turned to find an overweight man with beer trickling down his chin grinning at her. “Oh, hey. Going good.”
“You here alone?”
How did she answer that? Was she here alone? Technically, yes. But futuristically, she hoped not. “I’m waiting on someone.”
“Yeah? Why doncha come wait with me a little while. Let me buy you a drink.”
“I don’t think so,” she said, keeping her eyes on Dez who seemed to notice the interaction. His dark eyebrows lowered and his gaze narrowed, but he didn’t stop hammering the keys of the piano.
“Aw, come on. A pretty lady like you don’t need to stand here without a drink.” The man’s hand brushed her waist, giving her creepy crawlies in her stomach.
She grabbed the man’s wrist and pushed it back. With a smile, she said. “Hands to yourself.”
The drunk leered at her. “You know you like it.”
Eleanor blinked at the obtuseness of the man. Is this what it was like “out there” in dating land? Getting mauled by drunks who thought women liked clammy, meaty hands of strangers touching them? She brought the heel of her boot down on the top of the man’s tennis shoe.
“Yeow!” he yelped, stepping back as fast as a scalded cat.
“Oops. Sorry,” she said, not bothering to smile this time.
“Bitch.”
“Thank you,” Eleanor said, refusing to scamper away even though she wanted to move elsewhere on the patio. She wouldn’t give the man with the wandering hands the satisfaction of watching her flee. And she’d never been called a bitch before, well, except when Blakely might have muttered the insult under her breath. Eleanor decided she didn’t mind being called a bitch.
The thought made her smile.
And big, drunk and misogynist took off to find other women to molest.
She cut her gaze back to Dez and he smiled, maybe even chuckled a little, before diverting his attention back to the instrument, which he mastered so well. And at that moment, she knew she’d made the right decision by coming to his gig.
Ten minutes later when Blakely and her friends arrived, she wasn’t so sure. For one thing, she didn’t know how they’d gotten inside the bar when they were under the age of twenty-one. Maybe the bouncer looked the other way on a day when the streets were packed and breathing like a live organism. Or Blakely could have scored a fake ID. Wouldn’t put it past that savvy group of girls to be prepared with someone else’s driver’s license.
Of course, Blakely looked much older than nineteen. Her lanky body, which had seemed so awkward a few years ago, had rounded out with curves in all the right places. A sophisticated application of makeup highlighted her strong bone structure. Her aura of self-assurance gave her added maturity so she looked in her mid-twenties, rather than clinging to nineteen.
As she and her friends moved through the crowd, men turned and looked. Hell, women did, too. Her beauty drew the eye, and her freshness made Eleanor shrink toward the perimeter.
But the bright turquoise of her sweater caught her daughter’s eye. Blakely frowned and wove toward her, leaving her friends at a table full of college-aged guys.
“Mom, what are you doing here?” she shouted over the thrum of music.
“Me? What are you doing here? You’re not even old enough to get in,” Eleanor said, tugging Blakely into a less crowded area. “You said
you were going to Emily Serio’s grandmother’s place to watch the parade.”
“We are… later,” she said, her eyes flickering toward the stage where Dez and his band seemed to be ending their set. “But I told Dez I’d come hear him play. Wow, he’s, like, really good.”
Eleanor didn’t bother looking at the stage. Instead she studied her daughter. Studied the way she licked her lips and the spark of desire in her blue eyes.
What the hell did a woman do when she and her daughter wanted the same man?
Arm wrestle for him?
“Yes, he’s good, but as previously stated, he’s much too old for you,” she said, taking a less physical, more rational approach. She didn’t care if she and Dez didn’t work out, Blakely wasn’t going to make the mistakes her mother had made. She wasn’t going to date a thirty-year-old man.
“But too young for you,” Blakely said, returning her gaze to her mother. “Is that why you’re here? Because you’re into him?”
Well, hell.
Eleanor really didn’t know how to answer that one.
Thankfully, she didn’t have to because the object of their desire headed toward them, looking hotter than a two-dollar pistol in a pair of tight jeans and a short-sleeved gray T-shirt with some kind of British-looking screen print on it. Motorcycle boots completed the look, and the mirrored sunglasses propped on his head and simple silver crucifix at the base of his throat only made him look almost untouchable. Like he belonged in an ad in Glamour or something. He had an essence that made a girl sigh.
He stopped next to Blakely and the girl sighed.
Exactly.
“Hey, ladies,” he said, holding up two fingers to the bartender who must have been directly behind Eleanor. He turned to Blakely. “How’d you manage to get in?”
Her daughter smiled. “I have my ways.”
He arched an eyebrow at Eleanor. “You came.”
Not yet.
Eleanor shook herself, dumping her dirty thoughts and focusing on the predicament in front of her. “Yeah, thought about that old saying about friends and enemies.”
“Oh, keeping your friends close, but your enemies closer?”
Blakely shook her head. “It’s family. You’re supposed to keep your family closer… or something like that.”
The irony wasn’t lost on Eleanor. She gave a fake laugh. “Guess I’m covered both ways. Family and friends. Right here. Right now. Besides, Dez, I don’t consider you an enemy.”
“I hope not,” he said, his voice lowering a few octaves.
Narrowing her eyes, Blakely turned from Eleanor and smiled brightly at Dez. “So if you’re not watching the parade anywhere, I’d love for you to join me. A friend’s family has a prime spot and there will be a keg and stuff.”
“Well, that sounds cool, but I already have plans.”
Of course he had plans. What had Eleanor expected? Dez to wait around on her while she decided if she would or wouldn’t… if she could or couldn’t? Suddenly she felt stupid.
“Oh, well, that’s cool. I’ll give you my number if you want to meet up later and go out.” Blakely flipped her hair over her shoulder, trying for nonchalance.
“That’s decent of you, Blakely. I appreciate the invitation. Relay that to your friend.”
“So what about you, Mom? You going somewhere to watch the parade? Are you, like, here with anyone?” Blakely looked around as if she expected someone to pop out and give Eleanor a better reason for standing in a bar watching Dez play.
“No,” Eleanor said, as loud music blasted through the speakers. “I’m not with anyone. Just felt like getting out. Haven’t been to a bar in forever and I thought I might be supportive.”
“Of someone you’ve been grumping about for months?” Blakely cracked, smiling at Dez as if they’d established it as an inside joke.
“Dez is my friend.”
“She’s trying to keep me closer,” Dez said, sliding an arm around Eleanor, pulling her to him and delivering a charming smile.
Oh, he so didn’t know how close she wanted to keep him. His eyes dipped to her neckline and grew smokier than they had previously.
Okay, maybe he did.
Finally, Blakely picked up on the currents and twisted her lips. A little furrow appeared between her beautiful eyebrows, and Eleanor saw the lightbulb go off. The frown, however, stayed.
“Why don’t you come with us, Mom? Mrs. Serio will be there, and y’all can drink wine and gossip or something. I know she’d like you to come,” Blakely said, slipping her hand inside the new purse she’d received earlier to extract a container of pink lip gloss and apply it without the aid of a mirror. She smacked her lips and smiled. “I’d hate to leave you here by yourself, and I think Emily’s Uncle Bobby will be there. He’s had a hip replacement, but he’s back to playing tennis again. You love tennis.”
“Not really into tennis, but you go on ahead, honey. I’m not even sure I’m staying for the parade. I might drop by Pansy’s house later. She’s thinking about putting up some vintage wallpaper and wants me to look at the backing. I’m fine. You go and have fun.”
“Okay,” Blakely said with a shrug, before turning to Dez and leaning forward to kiss his cheek. “Good seeing you, Dez. You were superb.”
Dez gave her an awkward hug, shooting a puzzled glance to Eleanor as if to say, “What the hell?”
She didn’t know what to say to that either. In fact, the whole exchange had felt like something in a movie, rife with tension, underlying electricity, and ringed with disappointment. A more awkward moment hadn’t existed.
Okay, it had.
Hell, Eleanor knew awkward. Only she had never felt it with her daughter competing over a man.
That thought had the doubt creeping back in.
Did she want to head down that one-way street? Dez wasn’t interested in Blakely, but Blakely was interested in him, and if her daughter knew how close the two of them had come to having illicit sex in the back of the Queen’s Box, the gulf that existed between mother and daughter could well become an ocean. Even though Dez struck something inside of Eleanor that smoldered out of control, she didn’t think scratching that particular itch was worth ruining the relationship she had with her daughter… even if nothing would or could happen between Blakely and Dez.
She wasn’t going to choose sex over her daughter.
Hadn’t Blakely said what had been hanging out there for the last few days?
You’re too old for him.
How many more flashing warning lights did she need to get the message? The capricious free spirit in her, that small piece of herself she’d smothered with reason and judiciousness, had been locked in a closet for many years for good reason. Living selfishly, with little thought of repercussions, wasn’t what was required of Eleanor.
She was stupid. She was crazy. She was—
“I have one more set, Eleanor, and then we can go,” Dez said, taking the two beers a waitress handed him, giving one to Eleanor and clinking his bottle against hers. “Wait for me.”
He’d totally taken the decision out of her hands while simultaneously letting Blakely know why he wasn’t going to be “hooking up with her later.”
Because he was going to be hooking up with her mother.
Dez winked and jogged to the stage, leaving the two women in uncomfortable silence.
“Mom?” Blakely turned a hurt expression on her. “You’re not seriously going out with Dez, are you? You’re old enough to be his mother. My God. That’s, like, icky.”
It was at that moment, with Blakely clutching the expensive handbag Eleanor’s mean-ass former mother-in-law had bought her, looking like someone had kicked the puppy she’d never even wanted in the first place, that Eleanor decided listening to her capricious free spirit was long overdue.
Dez wanted Eleanor.
And she wanted him.
As a friend, as a lover and maybe not anything else, but at that moment, it was enough for Eleanor to reach out with both hands
and grab hold of him.
Screw convention.
Because she’d be damned if she gave up a chance to feel whole again because her daughter thought it was improper.
For once, Eleanor was going to take what she wanted, even if it meant Blakely had to swallow it down like bitter medicine.
“First of all, unless I ovulated at seven years old, it’s highly improbable I could have given birth to Dez. Second, I’ve spent my life taking care of you and your father, worrying about what everyone else wanted. I’m tired of being just a mother. I’m tired of being just Skeeter Theriot’s poor cuckolded widow. And I’m really tired of trying to please everyone else and never myself. So honestly, honey, I love you, but I couldn’t give a rat’s ass if you approve of who I date.”
And with that said, Eleanor turned away from her daughter, stomped across the deck and parked her thirty-nine-year-old ass on an empty stool until Dez finished his last set.
USUALLY DEZ LINGERED on a set, playing drawn-out solos, proving his command of the instrument, giving Champ leeway to do the same, but today he hungered for something more than his ass on a piano bench—he hungered for the woman sitting on a stool, legs crossed and eyes resolute.
He’d seen the angry words between her and Blakely, and the resulting flash of resentment in Eleanor’s eyes made him silently applaud her.
His fingers found the keys, falling into the grooves perfectly, the music gliding, dripping, filling the bottom of his soul. The movement of his fingers was as natural as breathing, and the anticipation of having Eleanor all to himself at the end of the gig built inside him, fueling the desire simmering beneath the surface.
Eleanor had chosen him.
Simple as that.
He’d never come between a woman and her daughter, but he could see Blakely through a stranger’s eyes. Blakely was like so many women who’d flitted in and out of his life—charming, beautiful and bold. But she came with baggage. Underneath the beauty lay a strong will to manipulate, and immaturity requiring time to temper. It was a time thing. Blakely may look like a woman, but inside she was very much a girl.
