by Liz Talley
“Okay,” Blakely said, stumbling toward the Volvo with its headlights shining on the police department sign out front.
“Go with her, Porter. I need to speak to Eleanor,” Margaret said.
Porter took his granddaughter’s elbow and helped her down the steps, giving the floor to his wife of over fifty years. Margaret did the heavy lifting in their relationship.
When they were out of earshot, Margaret whirled on her. “This is a disgrace, Eleanor. An utter disgrace. I highly doubt your management of anything anymore. First, you lose control of your husband, and now it’s Blakely. And associating with a street musician? Surely you can find someone decent to scratch your itch, dear.”
Eleanor curled her hand and shoved it into her back pocket. She wanted to deck Margaret right on the steps of the New Orleans Police Department, but she wouldn’t. Because Blakely needed her… and that meant she couldn’t occupy the jail cell her daughter had vacated minutes before. But she wasn’t taking any more shit from Margaret. “I don’t give a flip what you think. What happened with Skeeter had nothing to do with me. He made the decision to screw his bipolar secretary. And Blakely made the decision to drink too much and act a fool. I’m not responsible for everyone I care about so don’t lay that crap on me.”
Margaret’s face tightened.
“And as to my personal life, it’s none of your business who I date. I don’t need the approval of the Theriot family, and I only tolerate the shit you dole out because I love my daughter… and she loves you.”
“Your language tells me all I need to know. Of course, that was evident the day my son brought you home. One would think you’d learned some polish these past years, but still you prove daily exactly what you are—Northshore trash.”
“My language has nothing on your actions, Margaret. I may talk dirty, but you live dirty. Stay out of my life, and tread lightly with Blakely.”
“Don’t threaten me, Eleanor. I’ve tolerated you for the past twenty years and I’ve reached my limit. Go ahead and slum around with your young musician but leave Blakely to me. She is a Theriot, and I won’t let you ruin her like you did my son.” The older woman pursed her lips, her gaze hard as the iron her father milled into a fortune years ago.
Margaret had never wanted for anything and had spent her entire life manipulating the people around her to suit her needs. If Eleanor didn’t handle Margaret’s machinations now, this very moment, she’d lose Blakely. “You’re nothing but a coldhearted bitch. Don’t tell me how to take care of my daughter.”
“If you want to play games, Eleanor, I’ll play them. But be forewarned, I always win. If Blakely is the prize, I have the advantage, and you know it.”
A vise squeezed Eleanor’s heart because she feared her former mother-in-law’s words were true. Blakely enjoyed the shine the Theriot name and the money gave her, especially in the past few years when social status became a selling point for getting into college, sororities, social clubs and all the right mansions lining St. Charles. Blakely liked her unlimited credit card, monogrammed sheets and valet parking for her BMW.
It didn’t help Eleanor had claimed Dez, tossing her daughter’s needs and wants aside so she could honor her own. Blakely’s actions this very night were likely a result of unspoken jealousy, a subconscious way to needle her mother.
Panic rolled in her stomach at the thought of Blakely claiming the Theriot life over the simple, honest lifestyle Eleanor had worked to give her. “Fine. You do what you must do but remember this—I may no longer be part of your family, but I know enough Theriot business to put some of you in prison. So be careful about what you do and say regarding Blakely. If you profess to love her, you won’t do anything to undermine me or destroy my relationship with her.”
Margaret shrank back at Eleanor’s insinuations. “How dare you!”
Eleanor stepped forward. “No, how dare you.”
“You don’t know anything about Porter.”
Feeling power over Margaret was like snorting a line of cocaine, not that Eleanor knew what that was like. But Porter did. “Tell it to the Picayune.”
She said nothing more. Just turned on her heel and walked toward the car where Porter stood watch over Blakely who slumped in the passenger seat.
“Thank you, Porter,” Eleanor said, opening her door and giving him a nod. Poor Porter. The man was tolerable and had been the only voice of reason she had in Skeeter’s family. She had no intention of bringing the skeletons of the Theriot family into the light, but Margaret didn’t have to know that. It had been low and petty to suggest that she would, but somehow Eleanor didn’t care. For once, it felt good to be mean.
“Good night, Eleanor. Take care of our girl.”
“I will.” Eleanor slid into the car, and seconds later was on her way to the house she’d shared with the Theriots’ youngest son for fourteen years, before he’d bopped his secretary, given the woman reason to think he loved her, and then died at her hands. Eleanor both loved and hated the house they’d shared together, just like she both loved and hated the man who’d given her a daughter and his name. Sometimes she wondered if she should sell the house and start over, but Blakely cried each time she mentioned it, so she’d stayed.
“I’m so sorry, Mommy,” Blakely said, smacking her lips, her head hanging to the side, obscured by her tangled blond hair.
“I know, baby. So am I.”
DEZ’S PARTNER IN the club, Reggie Carney, had a certain presence about him—one that made lesser men nervous. Of course, most men were lesser, because at six foot five inches and 326 pounds, Reggie Carney towered over the city, larger than life as a man… and as a New Orleans Saints offensive guard.
“I don’t like this crap the designer brought in. Too old-school twenties. Freakin’ feathers? Looks shitty,” Reggie said, picking up a peacock feather lying on the aged bar now shiny with a new patina. In his hemp hoodie and brown cords, he reminded Dez of a fairy-tale giant… holding a feather.
“You hired her,” Dez muttered, trying to pull an errant nail from the corner of the restored bar with a hammer. The contractor had missed it and the metal head would definitely snag clothing.
Reggie was supposed to be a silent partner… who hadn’t gotten that memo. But since the scourge of NFL defenses was on the money regarding what the designer had brought in, Dez didn’t feel too irritated.
“Guess we can call someone else. Tiffany recommended her, and usually my girl’s spot on,” Reggie said.
“Tiffany’s a stripper, Reggie.”
“Well, I like her style.”
“’Cause there’s so little of it.”
Reggie snickered. “Exactly.”
Dez finally pulled the nail loose, wishing the thorns in his life were as easily removed. That night was the quarterly meeting of the Magazine Street Merchants Association, and he was slated to speak in favor of his business. He wanted to join the group, but first he needed to help them see his establishment would draw a sophisticated crowd and meet their mission of a safe environment… and the peacock feathers and tacky metal wall art weren’t helping.
“Hey, what about that place across the street?”
“What place?” Dez asked, tucking the hammer behind the bar and straightening. He needed to call the suppliers and get them to bring another box of glass tumblers, and he had to call the state about the liquor license. Reggie would help him there. In a state crazy about football, a Saints player could probably borrow the governor’s wife for a night. A liquor license was gravy.
“That Queen’s Box place.”
Eleanor.
Saying her name in his head was like taking a deep breath.
It had been over a week since he’d seen her. Mardi Gras had passed with the usual crowds and cleanup, and he’d turned to his work at Blue Rondo, trying to put last Saturday night at the Priest and Pug behind him, but her laugh, the way the moon shone against her hair and the way she leaned into his touch haunted him.
Each night after a much
-needed shower, he sank down on the piano bench, and like water from a drain spout—hard, fast and abundant—the harmony swelled, and the sacred words tumbled from his conscience. He thought of Eleanor, and the music flowed, the words emerged.
All the doubts about being with her—Blakely, her past, the fact he had a business about to open—waned in that moment. The barricades on the path to wherever the hell they were headed became mere potholes, easily stepped over or avoided. Because his body craved her touch, his soul her smile, and his music her passion.
“Dude?” Reggie jarred him from his thoughts.
“Huh? Oh, the Queen’s Box?”
Reggie jabbed a finger toward the store across the street. “Yeah. That place.”
“It’s an antiques store. Not sure you’re going to find what you envision over there,” Dez said, moving some boxes from the end of the bar, heading back toward the storage room, shoving Eleanor and thoughts of her soft body onto the back shelf of his mind.
“I’m going over to take a look anyway. Never know what I might find,” Reggie called.
Dez heard the door close.
He wasn’t going over to the Queen’s Box because he didn’t want to see Eleanor until after the meeting that night. Somehow settling things with the association cleared a path to her. He felt like if she saw how Blue Rondo fit into the community, she could see how he fit into her world. Tonight, he’d prove he belonged in both.
He hadn’t called her or stopped by her store. His second sense told him she needed some breathing room after the ordeal with Blakely. Or maybe he pulled back because things between him and Eleanor felt too difficult? No sensible dude waded into a tangle like Eleanor, no matter how much his body demanded gratification. But he knew what he and Eleanor had between them was more than desire, even if he didn’t want to admit it yet.
If he had any smarts, he’d let Eleanor slide away. He should forget about the complicated antiques store owner and get an uncomplicated girl like Tiffany who would screw his brains out and not ask for anything more than a cup of coffee in the morning.
Of course, he didn’t want uncomplicated.
He wanted the complexity of the buttoned-up, Volvo-driving Uptown woman with the drama queen daughter and the dead husband who made her overly cautious.
But for the time being, Reggie would have to handle Eleanor and the decorating scheme. At this point, he was ready to staple the damn peacock feathers on the wall and say to hell with it.
Twenty minutes later Reggie was back, carrying several pieces of art and a weird-looking board with holes in it.
“Dude, you’re dating that store owner?” Reggie asked, setting the pictures on the end of the bar and propping his hands on his hips like a disgusted parent.
“What?” Eleanor had said they were dating?
“I asked that lady out and she said she was dating you.”
Something in his chest vibrated. Eleanor had claimed him in a very public way. In front of Dez’s business partner. In front of Pansy and maybe Tre. “We went out last Saturday night.”
“Dude, I feel like a punk. Why didn’t you tell me you were bumping uglies with the neighborhood watch president?”
“She’s the president of the Magazine Merchants Association. Not neighborhood watch. And we’re not bumping uglies. Who even says that anymore?”
Reggie snorted. “Whatever. She’s a sweet piece of ass though, bro.”
Dez tried not to be offended at Reggie’s nonchalant words, but when it came to Eleanor, she wasn’t the kind of woman a guy casually disassembled in front of his boys. He couldn’t brag about how he’d bang her soon or any of that other stuff guys sometimes blew smoke about. “We’re friends. She’s cool.”
“Friends?” Reggie lifted an eyebrow. “’Cause she didn’t make it sound like friends. She looked kinda serious.”
“Yeah? Good to know,” Dez said, picking up one of the pieces of art Reggie brought over. “What’s this?”
“Something the skinny gal suggested. She said it had soul, but it looks like a bunch of weird bottles to me.”
The colors were good, and there was a nice cubist quality to the bold-colored glass bottles that were set against a background the color of mustard. Would probably look good against the cool gray walls. The other painting matched but was a different size.
“I liked that skinny chick, too. She’s tall and I didn’t have to look down on her part or anything.”
Dez jerked his gaze up to his friend and business partner’s. “Huh?”
“You know, I didn’t have to look down at the part in her hair. Most girls are short and I’m always looking—”
“I get it, but Pansy’s married.”
“Ain’t that the way it is. One’s hung up on you and the other is hitched. Guess I’ll give Tiffany a shout tonight.” Reggie smiled, showing that such a fate suited him fine. “Hey, check out this riddling board. We can put empty bottles in it. Thought it was cool.”
Dez opened his mouth to agree at the same moment the front door banged open. A sign came toward them followed by Tre Jackson.
“Mrs. Theriot said to bring this over and see if it fits over the bar,” Tre said, placing the sign down and swiping his brow. “Whew, this’s heavy.”
Dez walked over to the large metal sign with the words Dew Drop Inn across the top. It was bright red with various shapes rising from the bottom to form a skyline of brass horns. He had no clue where it had come from, but he’d never seen anything so perfect in his life. “Reggie, you gotta see this.”
His partner moved to stand beside him. “Hot damn, that’s sweet. Is that from the Dew Drop Inn?”
“I don’t know. What’s the Dew Drop Inn?” Tre asked, eyeing the huge metal sign.
“Oh, my lawd,” Reggie said, slapping his forehead. “A New Orleans legend, a club for us, you know?”
Tre looked at him blankly. “Okay. So where you want it?”
“Where in the hell did she have this?” Dez asked.
Tre shrugged. “Dunno. I got it out the back. She got this funny light in her eyes when Mr. Carney asked about stuff for the club, then she snapped her fingers and called me back. She said something about getting it out of an old advertising place.”
“It’s perfect,” Dez breathed, running a hand over the weathered metal. “Let’s lean it against the bar.”
Reggie wasted no time showing off why he’d made the Pro Bowl a year ago and hefted the sign like it was his granny’s suitcase, placing it gently against the wood of the bar.
“Show-off,” Dez grumped, crossing his arms and eying the space above the bar. He sensed Tre slipping toward the door and turned. “Hey, Tre, I been meaning to catch you.”
Tre stopped, his eyes questioning, his stance tense. The kid was always jumpy, like he expected someone to throw a punch at him at any moment. “Yeah?”
“You said at the art gallery the other night you were looking for some extra work?”
“Yeah?”
Conversationalist the kid wasn’t. “So I gotta staff this place and thought you might want dibs on some shifts.”
“I ain’t old enough, am I?”
“You have to be over eighteen.”
Tre nodded. “Okay. Yeah, I’ll think about it.”
“And think about taking that horn Blakely offered you. I’ve never seen a kid who could blow like you, and you were, what, in junior high?”
Tre inclined his head.
“Freaking amazing.”
Reggie spun at Dez’s words and regarded Tre with new eyes. Nothing Reggie liked more than a young kid with musical talent. Reggie played football for his living, but his passion was playing bass and working with inner city kids in the Second Line Players, a weekly program that preserved New Orleans’ musical traditions. It’s where Dez had met the football player. “He’s that good?”
“He was,” Dez said.
Tre wouldn’t look at them. “I’ll check into it. Mrs. Theriot brought the horn and set it in front of me like
she was my mama or something. Determined to give it to me.”
“Then take it. Damn, man, you gotta have something in life. Can’t take care of your brother and cousin and work all the time without having something to take the edge off. Better music than booze or drugs.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
“Good. We’ll plug you into the work schedule and when we’re done, we’ll blow for a while.”
Tre nodded and slipped out the door.
“Well, damn if there ain’t a whole lotta surprises in that antiques store across the street,” Reggie said shaking his head. “That kid really any good?”
“He blew my mind when I first heard him. He was only eleven years old and played like he’d been sprouted from the womb with a horn in hand. Like a virtuoso.”
“Hmm,” Reggie stroked his chin. “I already liked that kid—he knew who I was, but he didn’t ask about the Saints or football. Know how often that happens?”
“Hm?”
“Never. Kids like him always want an autograph. A pic on their iPhone so they can post to Instagram or whatever that crap Gemma’s on all the time.” Gemma was Reggie’s twelve-year-old daughter who lived with her mom in Dallas. Reggie spent the spring and summer in Texas and would be leaving once the club opened. His friend rolled shoulders the size of boulders and glanced around the club. “You know what else I like? This club. The vibe is good here, and I can see it really taking off in a big way. And now I found a kid with golden lips. Good day, my friend, good day.”
Dez laughed. “Opportunist.”
“I like money in the bank. Besides, I’ve been hankering to find someone new, someone who can really feel the music. It’s like rubbing a lamp and finding a genie to shake things up. I wanna hear this kid play so call me when he comes back.”
If he came back.
