by Sandra Hill
“And much more. Okra poppers, bourbon beans, Creole mustard greens.”
“Um, that’s nice of her.”
“Yeah, it is. But, holy smokes, she tends to take over.”
“What are you making then?”
“Traditional stuff, like hotdogs, hamburgers, and salads, sliced tomatoes and cucumbers from my garden, skewers of andouille sausage with green peppers and mushrooms. Oh, and that blankety-blank flag cake, thank you very much.” He could imagine the word his dad, a former cop, would like to use, but they both tried not to swear in Maisie’s hearing.
“That was Maisie’s idea.”
“I’ve made it three times already, and the waves in the flag keep breaking.”
“Aren’t waves supposed to break?” he joked.
His father made a grunting noise of disparagement.
“Hey, I bet you don’t know what a twirly whirly is,” Adam said.
“Sure do. That’s when a guy sticks his penis in a vagina and spins it around.”
“DAD!”
“What? You asked what a whirly twirly was and I told you. Jeesh!”
“I said twirly whirly, and it refers to long strands of foil twists that are used for decorations. Like they sell at Party Circus.”
“Oh. I like mine better.” His dad grinned at him. “Ever tried it?”
He shook his head at his dad and stood, about to take a dip in the pool where Maisie was trying out one of the floats they’d bought earlier. The pool was fairly large for a residential pool—about thirty-six feet—but not that conducive to laps for a six-foot-one male. On a ninety-degree scorcher, like it was today, it would do fine.
Just then, he noticed someone coming around the side of the house and stopping by the gate into the backyard. Red hair. A blouse knotted at the waist. Short denim shorts. And sandals.
It was Sonia.
Talk about timing. He had been thinking about how things were probably over with Simone, seeing as how it had been fifteen hours since he’d dropped her off last night and still no call, and here stood a likely replacement.
Why then did he say with unintended rudeness, “Hey, Sonia. What are you doing here?” Immediately, he walked over and unlocked the gate. “Sorry. I was just surprised to see you.”
“Didn’t your dad and daughter tell you that I stopped by last week?”
“They did, but I was tied up with a trial.”
“I read about it in the newspaper. Congrats,” she said, waving at his dad and Maisie, both of whom were in the pool now.
“Thanks.” He led her to a patio chair and asked, “Can I get you a drink? Iced tea? Lemonade? Beer?”
“Iced tea would be nice. No sugar.”
“Sweet tea is all we have.”
“Just ice water then.”
When he came back with a frosty glass of ice water for her and a frosty longneck beer for himself, he sat down across from her. In his peripheral vision, he noticed his dad and daughter playing Capture the Goldfish with a lot of laughter and splashing. He wished he could join them.
Taking a long draw on his beer, he remarked, “So, you’re not going to California, after all?”
“I am . . . but not for a while yet. The financing fell through, and my sister’s working on a new proposal. It might be another six months before I leave. My boss at the yoga studio hadn’t hired a replacement for me yet.” She shrugged and gave him a flirtatious little smile that indicated they could resume where they’d left off.
He studied her for a long moment. She was a good-looking woman. Pretty. Flaming red hair that would catch anyone’s eye, and a killer, toned body that would catch any man’s eye. Why then was he feeling so . . . uncaught?
Truth to tell, this was the second time Sonia had come to his house, uninvited, and he didn’t like it. Under his old policy, which might still be his current policy, he did not invite women into his home where they could meet his daughter. Simone had changed that, but that didn’t mean he wanted women showing up here.
Would I feel the same if Simone popped in? he asked himself.
Before he could answer himself, she concluded, “You’re upset that I’ve come here.”
“Not exactly, but I do try to keep my personal and family life separate.”
“I should have known when you didn’t return my calls.” She knocked the side of her head with the heel of one hand, as if to knock in some sense. “I’ll leave,” she said, face flushing, as she started to rise.
“No, don’t.” He reached across the table and put a hand on her arm, indicating she should sit. “I’ve been anal on that issue, and it doesn’t work anymore, anyhow.”
“It doesn’t? Why is that?” She cocked her head to the side. “You’ve met someone?” she guessed.
“Well, sort of,” he admitted, though not wanting to tell her that his new love was already an old love, or no love at all.
Sonia wasn’t upset. Theirs had never been a serious relationship, just sex. Certainly no dating. So, they talked then about other things.
Finally, he said, “Why don’t you come in the pool and stay for dinner?”
“I didn’t bring a suit.”
“You can wear what you have on, and I’ll give you a sweatshirt for afterward. Besides, your clothes will dry off almost instantly in this heat.”
She hesitated, then smiled. “You’re on.” Kicking off her sandals and taking off her watch, she ran to the pool and shouted to Maisie and his dad before diving in, “Marco Polo anyone?”
Thus it was seven o’clock before Sonia left, and he and his dad were sitting on the patio together once again. Maisie, after a day outdoors, had fallen asleep on a nearby chaise longue.
“That is one fine woman,” his dad remarked after Adam told him about Sonia’s plans to go to California. “Bet she’d stay if you asked her.”
“Maybe.”
“What’s the problem, son?”
The problem was that it was now twenty hours, and Simone had not called him to apologize, or at least try to make up.
He told his dad about Simone and their “disagreement.” He ended by saying, “You were a cop, Dad. Am I wrong to be concerned about the danger?”
“Danger goes with the territory. If you can’t take the fire, don’t be toasting any marshmallows.”
“Thanks a bunch.”
“Seriously, we live in dangerous times.” When Adam was about to speak, his dad raised a halting hand and continued, “But some jobs are definitely more dangerous than others. It takes a certain kind of person to live with a risk taker.”
“It’s one thing to live with a risk taker, and another to expose your family—a little girl—to danger.”
“Bull-pucky!”
He arched his brows at his father.
“You’re just making excuses for being scared to death of committing yourself to a woman again, and being stabbed in the back.”
“This isn’t about Hannah.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Not totally. Honestly, Dad, was it so wrong for me to be concerned about the danger Simone had placed herself in?”
“Your concern was commendable—your method of showing your concern was insulting.”
Whoa. That was blunt. “How so?”
“Simone is a trained professional, probably better suited to protect herself than you are. You rushing in like that was like saying that you didn’t respect her abilities.” He shrugged. “Maybe you’re just not suited to that kind of woman. No reflection on you.”
Adam bristled at that assessment of himself.
“Don’t you think that these are the kinds of things you should be discussing with her?”
“I suppose so.”
“What? She’s not taking your calls?”
Adam could feel his face heat. “I haven’t called her.”
His father blinked at him with disbelief. “And why is that?”
“I’m waiting for her to call me.”
His father glanced at the cell phone sitt
ing on the table in front of him, ominously silent. “How’s that workin’ for you?”
“Wiseass!”
They changed the subject then, and talked about the upcoming season for the Rangers, his dad’s longtime favorite baseball team, and what would be expected of the Saints in football recruits come next fall. They also talked about the pool maintenance service, which was less than efficient, and a bonefishing trip to the Bahamas his dad was planning with some buddies for October. Plus, Maisie wanted to take karate lessons at a gym where his dad was thinking about offering classes in self-defense.
When his dad and Maisie were down for the night and Adam did a walk-through of the house to lock up, he had a chance to think about Simone once again. He was still angry, and he still thought he was right . . . or partly right. And, besides that, he had his pride.
Later, after an hour of being unable to fall asleep, he was reminded of the old proverb that said, “Pride goeth before. . . . something?” He couldn’t remember exactly what. He would think about it tomorrow. By then, hopefully, Simone would have called and he wouldn’t still be so angry/offended/hurt/confused.
Why did being right feel so wrong?
Using her noodle . . . or not . . .
Simone hadn’t slept a wink. So, by seven a.m., she was down in the office, catching up on paperwork.
She took the chips out of Gabe’s medallion and her earrings and inserted them, one at a time, into the special device that fit into a computer like a flash drive. The photos they’d gotten, and the audio, were great, but they would have to be edited and reduced down to something manageable. She and Gabe would look them over when he came in. A half dozen or so photos and an audio recording should be sufficient to satisfy Saffron Pitot’s job. The bill was going to be hefty.
Helene came in at eight, carrying two extra-large Styrofoam cups imprinted with Creole Grinds, that new Starbucks copycat shop at the edge of town. “Double shot skinny white mocha lattes with extra whipped cream,” she announced, handing one to Simone and sipping from hers as she sat down in the chair in front of Simone’s desk.
“Yum! But that’s an oxymoron if I ever heard one. Skinny and whipped cream?”
“Works for me. Anyhow, maybe I should have made it a triple shot. You look as if you haven’t slept at all.”
“I haven’t.” When Helene was about to ask why, Simone said, “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay, tell me everything about Pitot.”
Simone proceeded to do just that, in detail, starting with the skinny dipping in the lake. Many questions and much laughter later, they were both sitting before her computer staring at the photographs.
“Holy crap!” Helene said on seeing Heidi in the horse outfit. “Reminds me of those female erotica novels we read in college.”
“The Anne Rice one!” Simone hooted with laughter. “The ones she wrote under a pen name. Oh, Lord, I forgot about those. Remember how we gathered in Patti LeBraun’s dorm room and read the passages aloud?”
“I never thought real people actually did that stuff.”
When she flicked through the gallery of photos, James came up as a Mexican bandito.
“He looks almost normal,” Helene remarked.
“Not when he turned around. His denims were assless.”
Helene just shook her head.
But then Marcus the Bull showed up, which at first made Helene’s jaw drop. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”
“That’s the money shot,” Simone told her.
Before Helene left, Simone asked, “Any chance Norah is going with you today?”
Helene just shook her head.
Helene and Norah had been partners for years, ever since law school. Simone had known they’d broken up before she returned to Louisiana, but Helene had never wanted to talk about it.
“I know how she used to enjoy a day out on the pontoon with you and your family,” Simone remarked, hoping her friend would open up to her.
“We haven’t talked for more than six months.”
“Irreconcilable differences?” Simone asked.
“Oh, yeah.”
When Helene didn’t offer any more information, Simone dropped the subject. They discussed how and when they would give Saffron her photos and audio reports as well as a few upcoming cases before Helene left.
Gabe showed up then, dressed for his bayou excursion in Hawaiian floral board shorts, a sky-blue T-shirt, and flip-flops. He looked like a college surfer boy.
“Where’s Livia?” she asked.
“She dropped me off while she went over to Starr Foods for some goodies. She’ll be back in a half hour or so.”
They discussed the material from the chips then what to delete and what to include in the final report.
“Do you have the technical ability to put this all together?” she wondered aloud.
“It’s really not that complicated.”
“Do you want to take the chips with you and work on them at home?”
“Not today. I’ll be down the bayou, and I wouldn’t feel comfortable with them sitting in my car. How about you put them in a secure place here, and I’ll stop in for them on Monday? We’ll have to make sure we have duplicates of everything, for your files as well as Mrs. Pitot’s.”
“Maybe I could have you deliver the reports to her and give you a chance to grill her about possible soap opera work.”
“You would do that for me?” He tilted his head in surprise.
“Sure. Why not?”
“Thanks a lot. Are you sure you won’t come with us today?”
“I have so much to do, and—”
“C’mon,” he coaxed. “After last night, you need a little fresh air and sunshine to cleanse the pores.”
She laughed. He had a point.
Thus it was that she found herself with a bunch of twentysomething guys and girls wading in muddy water, catching catfish with her bare hands, and hauling them onto the banks. There was much laughter, splashing, scratching of arms and legs, teasing, and total dunking. Although this crowd was only a few years younger than Simone, she felt somewhat like they were kids and she was the adult.
Fun was had by all, though, helped along by the vast amounts of beer and wine consumed. She was glad she’d come.
Even gladder—if there was such a word—was her mother when Simone pulled into the Pearly Gates, parked her car, and carried in a forty-pound dead catfish.
Scarlett greeted her with a long meow.
Which didn’t fool Simone one bit. Her pet cat was more interested in the fish treat that would be in her bowl that night, rather than her missing owner, if it could be said that any person “owned” a cat.
“Ooooh, blackened catfish fer supper,” her mother said.
Catfish were mean creatures when wrestling with humans, Simone had discovered today, and she didn’t think she could eat any of the mud cats again in this lifetime, blackened or otherwise.
“Ooooh, Canh Chua Dau Ca,” Thanh said, “Sour fish head soup.”
That’s all I need! Fish eyes staring at me while I eat.
After ascertaining that her mother and her guest were safe, and cautioning them to be extra careful, Simone went home. Only then did she allow herself to check her cell phone.
No messages!
On that happy, or unhappy note, she went to bed at seven p.m. On a Saturday night! And slept right through until Sunday afternoon.
And still no calls!
Chapter Seventeen
It’s hard work being clueless . . .
Adam went to church with his father and Maisie on Sunday morning, figuring he might just “run into” Simone and have a chance to talk with her. No loss of pride in that. No need for apologies.
Can anyone say clueless?
Problem was Simone wasn’t there, of course. Nor was her mother. He should have realized that her mother, who was harboring Mike Pham’s wife, would want to stay out of the public eye. And he should have realized that Simone wouldn’t be
at church if her mother wasn’t.
The person who was there was Tante Lulu, and she birddogged him out the aisle and into the vestibule after the services. “Well?” she wanted to know.
“Well what?”
“I ain’t heard no wedding banns read yet? Whatcha been doin’?”
He inhaled and exhaled to show his impatience. “I have no plans to remarry, Ms. Rivard.”
“Doan you give me none of that Ms. Rivard nonsense, boy. God laughs when he hears people talk about their plans. The only plans that matter are God’s plans.”
“And you think God has plans for me?”
“I know he does.”
“You good friends with God then?”
She narrowed her eyes at him, wondering if he was being sacrilegious. “Some folks say I was waitressin’ at the Last Supper.”
He decided a change of subject was in order. “I understand you offered to bring a number of dishes to our Fourth of July party. Thank you for all your help.”
“Huh? I’m jist bein’ neighborly.”
He was about to point out that she lived miles away from him, hardly a neighbor, but bit his tongue just in time. Besides, she was already off on another tangent. “What’d ya do with that St. Jude statue I gave ya?”
“Um. It’s sitting on my desk.” Or in my drawer. I’m not sure.
“Mebbe ya need a car weeble wobble one, and a big, life-size one fer the front yard, and—”
“You really think I’m that hopeless?”
“What do you think?” On those words, she wobbled off on blue orthopedic shoes that matched a blue dress that matched her blue hair, to harass one of her grandchildren—rather “grandnephews” since the old lady had never been married—who was walking out of church with Remy LeDeux and his wife, Rachel, both of whom waved at him.
He escaped.
Only to find his father and Maisie standing outside his car talking to a group of young people from the Our Lady of the Bayou choir. He knew, he just knew, they were inviting even more people to the blasted party. Would they be having hymns in addition to the Swamp Rats wild Cajun music?
“See-mone was noodlin’ yesterday,” Maisie commented from the backseat as he drove home.
