Chapter 2
2
I WOULD HAVE TO AVOID MICAH GUIDRY for the rest of my life. It was the only rational solution. Because there was no way I could face him after that humiliating voicemail. I sighed, rubbing the Crease. Hayley and I drove our way back through the chaos I’d just fought through.
She sulked, something she’d become proficient at. “I could’ve walked home.”
“Not with all this Mardi Gras melee happening.”
She tucked her long, pin-straight, light-auburn hair behind her ears, bringing her pale, delicate features out from hiding. The past year her choice of clothing had changed dramatically. Gone were soft feminine colors and frilly accessories. Little by little, she’d gravitated toward what could only be considered hobo apparel. “Even when it’s not Mardi Gras, you won’t let me walk back and forth. Or take the streetcar.”
“Because there are serial killers and drug dealers and ... teen-nappers out there.”
“If you let me get a dog, I’d have protection.”
Here we go again. Hayley had begun an aggressive campaign for a dog several months ago. I didn’t have time for a dog, or even a fish. And as much as she’d said she’d take care of it, I— like all the parents that had gone before me—knew her promise would end up broken. “You can’t bring a dog into the library.”
Her slender fingers tapped across her phone screen at warp speed. Steel-gray polish coated her nails. Sigh. No more pink sparkles . I knew what was coming next as she’d become predictable in her quest for a dog. She was connecting via Bluetooth to my vehicle’s speakers.
Within seconds, Sarah McLachlan’s “Angel” filled the sedan. In researching pet adoption, Hayley had discovered the ads from the ’90s, including the song from the old heart-wrenching ASPCA animal cruelty commercials.
When her desire for a pet had first surfaced, we’d had a detailed discussion of why we couldn’t have one. And by discussion, I meant her staring daggers at the wall while I listed a multitude of reasons. As a result, she’d begun pulling away from me. Our conversations had dwindled to one- or two-word responses on her end and then her holing up in her room. At that time, she’d also initiated psychological warfare. Other than the “Angel” song, she’d leave the TV in the living room paused on commercials showcasing emaciated canines of every variety.
I’d read in a parenting book to ignore this type of behavior. And so that’s what I’d done. Ignored the commercials and gritted my teeth through each beautiful note of Sarah McLachlan’s now irritating voice.
I parked in my driveway, leaving a foot of space between my front bumper and the iron gate to the courtyard. Hayley bolted from the car before I’d killed the engine. I switched the music off and tipped my head back against the seat, a weary sigh escaping.
Hayley skirted the brick wall of the courtyard, avoiding the staff working to return the area to normal. Her slender shoulder brushed the year-round landscaping framing the perimeter. She made her way to the outdoor stairs leading to our residence, which occupied the second floor of the house that had been my grandma’s Garden District mansion. The café occupied the bottom of the Greek Revival estate Mawmaw’s family had bought in the 1920s.
Up Hayley trudged, except this time she held the railing. A small victory.
I exited my car and entered the courtyard, where blessedly, Penny directed the last of the lingering wedding guests to leave through the restaurant. The tablecloths had been removed, and the event tables were being deconstructed by the extra staff I’d scheduled to serve food and drinks. They’d stow them and the folding chairs in the storage shed.
I slowed as I passed Penny. “You’re a godsend.”
“I know.” She flashed a smile and collected a pile of linens our supplier would pick up for laundering.
Taking the steps to the wraparound porch, I continued through the back doors of the café, depositing myself into a short hallway. The aromatic scents of freshly brewed coffee and fried dough greeted me. If I kept straight, I’d land in the main section of the restaurant, where I should go and check on things. There was always something to check on. The murmuring of customer voices intensified, along with dishes clattering.
I took an abrupt left, unlocked my office door, and closed it. A few minutes alone wouldn’t hurt. I dropped my keys and purse on the desk, made a pit stop in my private half bath, and then collapsed in my cushioned leather chair and peeled my heels off. My toes exhaled in ecstasy.
My gaze drifted to a framed napkin on the wall. An eighteen-year-old napkin that had been pulled from a dispenser at Café Du Monde, where I had been waitressing at the time. It was actually my last day waiting tables, as I’d landed a job in the café’s corporate office. Mawmaw’s will had been read several days earlier, and my sister and I were in a state of shock. During one of my breaks, Claire and I had sat at a corner table. She was twenty-one, I was twenty-two, and the reading of the will had sealed our future.
It had also shoved a bigger wedge between us and our parents. Mawmaw had bequeathed everything, including her home and hefty bank account, to us. We’d decided that day to open our own restaurant and documented it on the napkin. A café honoring Mawmaw and the things she loved: her beignet recipes and books. We’d signed the napkin as though it were a solemn oath.
I swiveled my seat, the overhead lights reflecting off another frame. This one protected a piece of paper with several goals Claire and I had crafted—after the napkin contract—and again signed for added emphasis.
The first goal, opening the eatery, we’d accomplished together five years later. Having completed culinary school, and with an intense passion for food, Claire had become the chef, managing the back of the house. My business degree and experience from working my way up through Café Du Monde positioned me as general manager, running the front of the house.
But then Claire and Adrian had died two years later. And everything, everything, had changed. A small ache throbbed in my throat. Chin up. Chin up . I stood and approached the enclosed timeline, focusing on Claire’s looping signature and our game plan, which had been a saving grace. It gave me purpose. Something tangible to complete when the world felt out of control.
Outside my office window, I spied the bride-and-groom second-line umbrellas propped against the base of the two-tiered fountain. I tried for a deep, cleansing breath ... and failed. Turning away, I slid my fingers across my desk and nudged the mouse. My computer awoke from its slumber, the monitor revealing the desktop wallpaper of the Grand Canyon. The machine automatically loaded a different picture of vacation destinations every few days. Of places I longed to visit. Places out of reach. For now, anyway.
I reclaimed my chair and logged on to Facebook through the café’s business account. In the search box, I typed in three words, Ryan Comeaux Georgia . Bracing myself, I clicked the search icon.
Checking my ex-fiancé’s personal page was a guilty pleasure I only indulged in annually, which happened to fall during Mardi Gras season, which encompassed the anniversary of our breakup.
Was this tradition unhealthy? Absolutely. But finding his single relationship status unchanged over the years had been a small consolation prize. Several Ryan Comeaux’s loaded, and I perused the profile pictures for the handsome, irksome face of my ex. My gaze halted on the screen. Bingo . There was Ryan, another year older, and his smile just as full. I hovered the cursor over his grin and clicked hard, as though I could somehow knock his front teeth out. He’d always had his personal page set to public viewing, but I never looked beyond the only thing I wanted to know. And there it was again. The S -word holding strong.
Vindication hummed through my veins.
Considering my own single status, it was an ironic victory. But remaining unattached was a choice for me, hewed from harsh reality. Ryan had been a colossal mistake. One I’d never make again. I logged off and rolled my neck, working out the tension trying to seep in. My heart nudged me to slip into the cool evening air and pray. I didn’t always find answers in praying, or instant peace, but I knew God heard me. And there was something about verbally talking to Him, getting my thoughts off my chest, that helped lighten the load.
Beyond my window, a breeze stirred the leaves of the oak tree, beckoning. I always felt closer to God when speaking to Him outside. I stifled a snort. As if He didn’t have X-ray vision and couldn’t see me just fine where I sat now.
Hayley ghosted past on the porch. No doubt the parade had drawn her outdoors.
I slipped my heels back on and exited my office. Instead of walking through the café, I eased out the back door, taking the porch around to the front, the route Hayley preferred.
The setting sun had made way for darker evening skies, the streetlamps following suit and flickering on. A trace of BBQ smoke hovered from one of my neighbors. Soft white light from the side windows of the restaurant poured out, and a melody of drums and horns saturated the air, becoming louder with my advance.
Sure enough, a high school marching band strutted down St. Charles Avenue. A thick crowd lined the street, swaying and clapping to the up-tempo music. A woman on the sidewalk danced, pulling a purple, green, and yellow feather boa from her neck, waving it above her head.
Mardi Gras was a blessing and a curse. Great for extra business with the influx of tourists, but the chaos and additional details involved with running the café during parades was a hassle. Thankfully, with the three-foot iron fence bordering my corner lot, I had a bit of control over the revelry and people trampling my property. Normally, the gate was open, welcoming customers to walk right in and take the path to the front entrance. Not so during parades.
Jonathan, another college student who worked as a waiter the rest of the year, now manned the gate in his seasonal role as the beignet bouncer. I’d learned long ago that with the café smack-dab on the parade route, most people viewed my establishment as nothing more than a public restroom.
Therefore, in the midst of parades we switched to a reservation-only policy and marked those patrons with plastic wristbands. No reservation, no wristband, no admittance. Customers also didn’t mind paying a convenience fee for enjoying the festivities from our restaurant, and the use of its bathroom.
The floodlights from the house revealed Hayley on the front lawn, within the enclosure, snapping pictures with her phone. Only one other couple remained inside the fence. No doubt most of the patrons preferred to be closer to the street, where all the action was. Hayley had removed the sweatshirt from her waist, her flannel shirt hanging on her slim frame like a deflated parachute. I’d gone through the same phase when I was her age. Despising my skinniness and how other girls were developing while I remained as flat as a sheet of plywood.
I hadn’t had the option of trying different clothes to experiment with, or to hide under. No, my mother would have sooner died than allow her daughters a say in anything, even in clothing. Thank goodness for Mawmaw. She’d secretly taken us shopping and let us keep those purchases at her home and wear them when we stayed over. It wasn’t that I’d aspired to don something scandalous like a tube top and Daisy Dukes. I’d just wanted a choice.
I stopped next to Jonathan. “How’s it going?”
“Good.” He wore the laxer of the uniform shirts employees had a choice of, pairing the white logo T-shirt with jeans. “Everyone with a reservation checked in, and most of them are out in the crowd.” He inclined his chin toward the throng.
“Perfect. If you need a break, let me know.”
“I will.” He lowered his voice. “And don’t worry about Hayley. I’m keeping an eye out.” Fortunately, Jonathan was a vigilant brother to three younger sisters and understood my protective streak with Hayley.
“Thanks.”
The roar of a tractor’s motor increased, towing a float decorated as a Viking ship. Shouts of “Hey!” and “Throw me somethin’, mister!” erupted from the crowd. The masked riders aboard the faux ship threw beads, trinkets, and plastic cups. Several small frisbees sailed from the float to paradegoers.
Hayley neared the fence, waving her hands, her attempt at catching anything unsuccessful. The float rolled on, and her attention shifted to the sidewalk. A man perched a few rungs up on a wooden parade ladder. A child’s seat—similar in design to one on a shopping cart—was attached to the top, where a toddler sat above the throng. The father pointed to the float making its way to them.
I stepped off the concrete walkway, my heels sinking into the sod, and stood next to Hayley. “You used to love sitting in a parade ladder.”
“I did?”
I nodded. “Your mom, dad, and I would take turns manning it.”
Her brows knit together. “I don’t remember that. But I do remember the year we dressed up as dalmatians on Mardi Gras Day, and I kept stepping on your tail.”
Ah. That had been two years after Claire and Adrian’s passing, when she’d been in prekindergarten.
“Wouldn’t it be fun if we had a real dalmatian and dressed up like that again?”
I snorted. “Nice try.”
Another float rode by, this one bedecked as a dragon, the scales lined with thousands of lights. Hayley’s gaze remained on the father and daughter. The toddler was gently tossed a small stuffed animal, to her great delight. A bittersweet smile curved Hayley’s lips.
Invisible fingers pinched my heart . “I can dig up the pictures and videos from those parades with your parents. If you want to see them.”
Her gaze slid to her phone. “That’s okay.” She opened her texting app and scrolled through it.
The advice of the childhood therapist I’d sought after the accident came to mind. “Offer the past , but don’t push . ” Pulling in a low breath, I redirected my attention to Jonathan. He shook his head, talking to a man on the other side of the gate who faced away from me. A broad-shouldered man donning a flamingo-themed Hawaiian shirt.
No. How was this possible? I’d gone two decades sans Micah Guidry, and now I’d seen him twice in the span of thirty minutes? I quickly calculated my evasion possibilities, then eyed Hayley. Despite my petite stature, she was still too small to hide behind. Dashing to the front entrance of the café was a no-go. Especially with my hair like Rudolph’s nose. It’d give me away in a blaze of copper. Darn you, floodlights!
I eased around Hayley, using her as a barrier, and crouched, pretending to fiddle with my heel. Maybe her oversized hobo shirt would shield me. After a moment, I leaned, peering past Hayley’s legs, and found Jonathan alone. I exhaled, my muscles relaxing. Thank You, God .
“Lose something?”
The question had not come from Hayley. My molars ground together as I faced forward.
Micah squatted on the other side of the fence, a playful, knowing glint in his dark green eyes.
Sarah McLachlan.