Chapter 6
6
SEVERAL TIMES A WEEK , Jesus and I held a prayer-cardio session. In keeping with that schedule, the next morning I’d dressed for exercise and now stretched in the courtyard. It was six thirty, the rising sun slowly ushering in the day. A chill sharpened the air, making me grateful I’d pulled on an LSU sweatshirt over my long-sleeved tee.
The squeak of the iron gate cut through the quiet. Mayté entered, a tote bag hanging on her petite frame, her chef’s coat peeking from beneath her jacket. “About to do your power walk with Jesus?” Despite living in the United States most of her life, her Cuban accent remained strong.
“I am.”
“Everyone show up for the morning shift?”
“Yes, thank goodness.”
Mayté continued her path to the rear entrance. Though small in stature, she ran the back of the house like a five-star general. Order and respect ruled in her kitchen. Plus, she understood food cost percentages, labor rates, and waste numbers. Ten years older than me, she’d attended culinary school with Claire, stepped in when Claire had gone on maternity leave, and then came back after her death. Mayté was the epitome of a blessing. In the midst of losing my sister and my life crumbling, she’d been there. Steadfast.
I finished loosening my arms and rolled my shoulders. “How are you this morning?”
She traversed the steps to the porch and opened one of the French doors. “Ready to kick another day in the shins.” The door closed behind her.
I smiled. Was that a Cuban expression or just Mayté being Mayté? I widened my stance, stretching the muscles in my legs. Bending at the waist, I came face-to-face with an enormous glob of bird poop. I winced and straightened, surveying the brick pavers around me for any other droppings. I checked the bottoms of my tennis shoes and then carefully walked the area. Several more gifts had been left. Great . At least the fountain and lone wrought-iron table-and-chair set had been spared.
I tilted my head to the branches of the live oak. In the past we’d had a problem with squirrels and some pesky mockingbirds. Both of which had been chased off with the help of our inflatable owl, whom Hayley had dubbed Sir Neville Hooter. It seemed Sir Neville would be called up for duty again.
I retrieved my phone from the zippered pocket on my running pants and accessed the notes app to update my to-do list. The last thing I needed was poop raining down on our next special event.
My email icon showed one new message had been delivered. I opened it to find a pitiful dog staring back at me. “What in the—” I scrolled back up, reading the subject line: Welcome to the Creole Poodle Rescue Newsletter . A scathing mutter tripped past my lips. My gaze shot to the second floor, to Hayley’s bedroom window, and narrowed.
Jesus would hear an earful about her during this morning’s workout.
Three puffs in. Three puffs out. My quick stride across the sidewalk matched my strategic breathing rhythm. Crisp air moved in and out of my lungs. An old pickup truck rattled past, and the corner of Chestnut Street came into view. The street Micah now lived on. My breathing pattern hitched. Not a big deal. Not. A. Big. Deal. Chestnut was super long. Micah may not even live on the portion I speed walked. I hadn’t noticed any for sale or lease signs recently, so most likely he resided in another section. Plus, he had that red flag. I remembered his voice as he’d said, “ My ex-wife and I weren’ t a good fit.” How would he have finished that sentence if he were being totally open?
“My ex-wife and I weren’t a good fit ... because I’ m a serial cheater.”
I certainly didn’t want a man like that in my life. Or Hayley’s.
Thank you , Jesus , for rational thinking.
I regained my breathing tempo. Puff-puff-puff in. Puff-puff-puff out.
Homes with varying architecture lined the way, from simple Acadians to detailed Victorians. Their bold colors added to the character of the neighborhood. Deep yellow, pumpkin orange, turquoise. Parts of this area were like an exploded Crayola box. Some houses sported iron picket fences, sectioning their meager front lawns. The crepe myrtles that provided shade in the hotter months now lay bare, morning dew and spider webs clinging to their scraggly branches.
Half a block ahead a man wheeled his garbage can to the curb.
Puny poodles. It was Micah.
My lungs tightened, wheezing my three puffs in, and I stalled. A renegade band of tingles erupted within. No! If my Mardi Gras theory held true, this attraction was supposed to have disappeared along with all the tourists. When the street sweepers had rolled by the café, I’d imagined them gathering my hormones right up with all the discarded beads and litter. But instead, it was like fertilizer had been sprinkled on them.
Maybe his divorce hadn’t been about cheating at all. “My ex-wife and I weren’t a good fit ... because we couldn’t agree on the thermostat setting.”
Hadn’t I just thanked Jesus for rational thinking? Pull it together! Micah was only a guy. Wearing jeans and old-school Adidas. And another ugly Hawaiian shirt. Plus, he was a rule breaker. It was the wrong day for trash pickup. I purposefully walked on non-garbage days so I wouldn’t have to smell the waste. My breath misted up, as if my body were sending unapproved smoke signals to catch his attention. I clamped my mouth shut.
Options . Options . I could turn around. He hadn’t detected me yet. Though I hated allowing him to disrupt my routine.
He set his can at the end of the driveway and turned, doing a double take. A smile spread across his face as he lifted his hand in greeting.
My belly fluttered. Fluttered!
I continued on my regular exercise path (a partial victory), stopping on the pavement a few feet before him.
“Morning.” His shirt boasted palm trees and coconuts. A slight improvement from the flamingos.
“Good morning.”
“You found where I live.” He motioned to the peach Creole cottage behind him.
My lips twitched. He dwelled in the most feminine home on the block. If all that peach wasn’t enough, the trim, door, and full-length shutters were painted mint green. Estrogen oozed from the place. “I wasn’t looking. You just happen to be on my walking route.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really.” I eyed his trash can.
He nudged the can with his toe. “Is something wrong?” A tease infused his words.
“No.” I unzipped and rezipped the pocket on my upper thigh holding my phone.
The edge of his mouth quirked. “The way you’re evil-eyeing my garbage, I’d say there is.”
“Well...” I tugged the hem of my sweatshirt, sliding it over my hips. “I realize you’ve been gone a long time, and I don’t know what they do in Colorado, but here, it’s an unspoken rule not to put your trash out until garbage day.”
He fought a smile.
“Or leave your can out all week.”
A twinkle lit his deep sage eyes. “Is that so?” He retrieved a set of keys from his pocket and moved to an older model Jeep Wrangler at the curb. Didn’t he know Jeeps were prone to flip? He opened the passenger door of the gray death trap and reached inside for a cardboard box full of VHS tapes.
I lifted my chin. “It is.”
“You’re still a rule follower.” He shut the door with his elbow.
“And you’re still a rule bender.” Shifting my weight, I beseeched my brain for a snappier comeback and perused the contents of the box in his arms. “That’s an interesting selection of entertainment you have there.” The video covers on top revealed tapes like Anne of Green Gables (the best version, with Megan Follows), Gone with the Wind , and the original Sabrina .
“I just came from my dad’s. We’ve been clearing stuff out. They were my mom’s.”
Oof . An invisible punch socked me in the gut. He’d lost his mom to cancer the summer before ninth grade.
He altered his hold on the box. “It’s how we spent our time throughout her treatments. It was easier to watch chick flicks than to talk.”
I swallowed, all intentions of teasing him gone. “It’s nice you had that time together. Though I wouldn’t call Gone with the Wind a chick flick.”
He gave a self-deprecating snort. “Definitely not.”
“I bet I’ve seen all of these.” I reached into the box, lifting a copy of Roman Holiday . “Claire and I had regular movie nights with my grandma.” Though Mawmaw’s preferences included lots of Alfred Hitchcock. Hence my disdain for birds of any kind.
A sharp breeze blustered through, ruffling the short sleeves on Micah’s shirt. He shivered.
I released the movie and stepped back. “You better head inside before your coconuts freeze.”
His brows shot north.
“Your shirt!” Heat burst up my neck, erupting into my cheeks. “There are coconuts on your shirt!” I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head. “I was trying to be funny.”
He chuckled. “Mission accomplished.”
“I’m leaving now.” I pointed down the street. “To where you can’t witness me die of mortification.” With a wave I walked away, Micah’s laughter trailing after me.
Pure embarrassment kept me warm the remainder of my power walk and left me with oodles of nervous energy to scratch off the next item on today’s to-do list. I stood on the sidewalk in front of the café beneath the two live oaks. Donning work gloves and operating a manual pole tree trimmer, I carefully navigated the branches, targeting my enemies one by one.
Good-bye , beads. Like plucking a stubborn eyebrow hair free, instant satisfaction flowed at snipping each one and watching the Mardi Gras souvenirs drop to the ground.
Pieces of beads in varying colors and sizes littered the grass, sidewalk, and edge of St. Charles Avenue. I’d set out bright orange traffic cones to keep people from parking at the curb and having their vehicles pelted.
With the sun out on this cloudless day, I’d shucked my sweatshirt long ago, sweat permeating my skin. My shoulders and arms burned like the dickens. It took several clips to get the really tangled suckers down—the category most fell into. Ignore those aching muscles. Your shoulders will look amazing. You won’ t have to do arm exercises this week. No sirree. No push-ups for me.
Only a handful of beads remained within reach since the pole barely extended to sixteen feet. I’d have to wait for the weather to knock the higher beads down. Or pray God would make me blind to them.
Steady traffic zoomed by, along with streetcars bustling with passengers. I hooked a Krewe of Rex official parade bead into the lopper section of the trimmer and pulled the connected rope, guillotining the nuisance. Not-so -long live the king. The keepsake fell to the ground, the medallion on it clinking against the pavement.
“Need some help?”
I cringed at Ryan’s familiar, masculine voice. You’ve got to be kidding me.
Had I not already experienced the jarring reality of his return to town, this moment may have pummeled me. I hated that I’d need to be on guard now. That he could pop up on me unannounced and unwelcomed, like a pointy chin hair.
It was a Saturday morning, and yet he’d dressed as though going to a casual business meeting. Slacks, loafers, long-sleeved button-down beneath a sweater vest. It seemed at some point he’d started shopping at the same place as my dad.
My wrist had begun aching fifteen minutes ago, my upper body exhausted from hefting the pole, but there was no way I’d let him help. I clipped another bead, imagining it as one of his fingers. “Why would you want to break your lifetime streak by helping me now?”
He stopped several feet away. “I was hoping we could be friends. Keep things civil.”
I scoffed and lowered the pole, giving my screaming muscles a reprieve. “I’m holding a saw. The fact I haven’t decapitated you yet shows how civil I’m being.”
“You never used to be this...”
I lowered my sunglasses, leveling him a warning glare.
A smirk appeared on his face. “Fiery. And you look nice, Kate. Really nice. I didn’t get a chance to tell you the other day.”
Another thing he hadn’t done the other day? Offer a long-overdue apology. And seriously? Was he hitting on me? A streetcar slowed to a stop, its wheels grinding against the rails. The back door folded open and Jonathan, a.k.a. the Beignet Bouncer, exited. He waited for a pause in traffic before crossing the street. Offering us both good-mornings, he gave Ryan a smooth once-over and turned his attention to me. “You need help?” Did he mean with getting rid of the beads or Ryan?
“Thank you, but I’m all right.”
He nodded and made his way into the café.
I pushed my glasses back up and resumed my work, hefting the tree trimmer and hooking another bead. If Ryan truly wanted to help, he’d grab the rake propped against the iron fence and start gathering the debris.
“Are you going to put in an offer on the Vieux Carré Café?”
I yanked the rope, snipping the bead. “Are you harassing everyone who’s interested in that property?”
“Are you going to answer my question?”
Yank, snip.
He kicked a bead from the sidewalk into the grass. “This morning I was having breakfast at Café Du Monde in Jackson Square and remembered how you’d worked there, and how you and Claire had signed and framed that napkin.”
Yank, snip. I hated how he casually mentioned Claire. Like he, the person who’d abandoned me shortly after her death, had any right to utter her name so nonchalantly.
He thumbed his ear. “And then I remembered the plan y’all had concocted and framed. How carefully you’d thought out everything financially. And how your grandma’s will had a stipulation her home could never be used as collateral.”
The pole slipped within my grasp, and I fought to keep hold. Unease wound through my core. I lowered the tree trimmer.
He held his arms behind his back and cocked his head, all smug-as-you-please. “A loan substantial enough to buy that property would require collateral. And to avoid a collateral loan, you’d have to have a partner I don’t know about, which you’d hate. Or your parents are backing you, which you’d hate even more.” He studied the mansion with a shrewd eye. “This all means you can’t afford to expand right now. Which means you were just window-shopping.” He projected his voice, as though reinforcing his upper hand. “Seems kind of rude to waste your agent’s time like that.”
A heated twitchiness spread through my extremities. I hoisted the pole and positioned the saw to the base of a branch hovering above Ryan’s ego-inflated head.
He shifted out of range. “Turns out you have a lot of your grandma in you.”
“That may be the nicest compliment you’ve ever given me. Good-bye, Ryan.”
He grinned and said good-bye, strolling back the way he’d come. Probably to crawl down the closest sewer drain for a shortcut to his home in Hades.
I snipped the last bead within reach and lowered the trimmers, laying them on the ground. Taking up the rake, I began bullying the beads into a pile. Aggravation punctuated my movements. How could I have wasted so many years with that man? The rake’s tines scraped over the dormant sliver of lawn and grated against the sidewalk. “‘Just window-shopping,’” I muttered, impersonating Ryan.
The heap of debris grew, leaves and blades of brown grass getting caught up in my fury. The calluses on my hands screamed for a break, and I finally complied.
Releasing the rake, I stretched my trembling arms and shoulders. My gaze meandered over Mawmaw’s mansion, from the peaked shingled roof to the massive white columns. The curtains along the second-story windows were closed. Goodness knew what Hayley was up to.
I shook my head and continued my perusal. At least with the cooler temperatures I wouldn’t have to mow the lawn for another month or so. Like all Southerners, the grass shriveled up with any bit of cold that hit here. I took note of the ceilings on the wraparound porches. The palest of blues coated them (a New Orleans superstition I only honored because of Mawmaw and her fear of evil spirits). They’d need a refresh soon. With the soaring ceiling heights, the project stretched beyond my capabilities, which meant shoveling out a lot of money to a professional. The ever-present weight on my shoulders increased.
A long breeze swooshed through. And as I’d done so many times as a child, I closed my eyes and concentrated on the rustling leaves above, imagining the ancient oaks were speaking to me. A light and fruity fragrance kissed my senses, and I opened my eyes, taking in the snapdragons flanking the entrance gate. They instantly lifted my mood, their delicate orange-and-yellow blooms swaying in the gust.
I pulled in a deep breath and redirected my thoughts to where they should’ve been all along.
God, you know how much Claire loved the Vieux Carré Café. Plus, it’s a spectacular location. I paused, stretching my back muscles and sighing . It seems too good to pass up.
A notification chimed from my phone. I fished my cell from the pocket of my running pants and unlocked the screen. A reminder from my calendar app about tonight stared back at me. My stomach sank. It was a monthly occurrence I loathed more than my period.
Dinner with my parents.