Chapter 2 Coco
TWO
Coco
Above-Ground Cemeteries: Known as the “Cities of the Dead,” New Orleans’ cemeteries feature above-ground tombs because of the high water table. The tombs reflect Spanish and French influences, adding to the city’s mystique.
“Do you even realize the mess you’ve left? How fucking careless you were?”
My father stands behind his desk when he says it, hands braced against the polished wood. It’s a posture I’ve known my entire life. Controlled. Deliberate. The kind he uses when he wants me to understand he’s in charge and I’m expected to toe the line.
His gaze locks onto mine, his black eyes boring into me.
émile Girard sits to his right, arms crossed, watching in silence. He’s my father’s Chief Operations Officer, his constant shadow. He’s the man who handles labor issues at the docks before they become complaints, audits, or investigations.
I fold my arms and lift my chin. The defiance comes easily. The tight knot under my ribs does not.
It’s only been a month since I agreed to try to learn the family business, to see if I can help my father and be a part of Portside Labor Management, my father’s longshore staffing firm.
“I know,” I say. “And I didn’t leave because I was careless.”
“You were told exactly what to do,” my father says, slamming his hand onto the desk. “One job, Corinne. One. Do you want to run this company one day, or not?”
I crack my knuckles under the desk, letting that outlet release some of the rage bubbling up inside of me. I don’t interrupt because interrupting only makes it worse.
Failure. It’s a word that makes my entire body tense because I don’t like to fail, even if I’m not sure I want this business that my father cherishes.
Since I agreed to this, everything has been a test. Small jobs, controlled exposure, proof that I can be trusted with more. Of course it’s a responsibility I never asked for, one that keeps getting handed to me anyway.
“This wasn’t rocket science,” he continues. “You meet Iggy, you give him the expense envelope, and you leave. Why do you make everything so fucking complicated?”
“It didn’t feel right,” I say.
His jaw tightens. “That is not your concern, Corinne. You do what I tell you. You don’t feel.”
Iggy and I grew up around the same people, even if we ended up on different sides of the port. His world stayed dock-level. Mine didn’t.
He works the docks as a foreman now, someone who knows how things actually move through the port. And men like that don’t get shaky over routine payments.
“I left because something was off. I was making a judgment call based on risk,” I say, and mean it.
He throws a pen across the room.
I flinch before I can stop myself, then lower my gaze to the polished surface. The gold-leaf edge catches the light, fleur-de-lis pressed into every corner. I trace it with my eyes like I’ve done since I was a kid, grounding myself.
“That’s not what I want you to do,” he says, voice low and dangerous. “You said you want to learn this, Corinne. Learn. Stop trying to be in control.”
émile shifts slightly beside him. That faint look of disapproval sharpens. Of course it does.
I swallow and say nothing. Let him burn it out. That’s always been the fastest way out of this room.
“Sometimes I wonder if you even have any clue what’s at stake right now. This business runs on precision and control. On people executing instructions cleanly and without improvisation.”
He gestures toward me like I’m a misstep. A flaw.
Heat crawls up my neck. The Boudreaux name carries weight in this city because our company does.
Ports, contracts, shipping lanes. All the things people rely on and don’t like disrupted if the workers don’t show up.
I’ve noticed the way conversations stop when my father enters a room, not out of fear, but calculation.
It’s power. And it’s a cage. It’s the push and pull for me, the constant question of whether I want to be in this or separate myself completely from what he does.
“I’ll fix it,” I say. “I’ll call Iggy and meet him today. I’ll make sure he has the stipend.”
I hesitate, just long enough to register the familiar calculation settling in. Whatever I thought before doesn’t matter.
“Exactly,” my father says. Not loud or angry. Settled.
“In the future, you don’t question my instructions. You carry them out exactly as instructed. That’s it. Do you understand?”
He straightens, adjusting his cufflinks again, each movement precise.
“Got it.”
His jaw tightens, and I recognize it immediately as restraint. He is so predictable to me, flying off the handle, yelling, and then reining it in when he’s finally satisfied I’ll do as I’m told.
I don’t answer him because I already have. We both know the message was received. His gaze flicks to the clock on the wall before returning to me.
“We’re done.”
The words press against my ribs, tight and heavy.
“Alrighty,” I say. My voice is steady, even if everything under it isn’t. “I’ll handle it.”
Silence stretches between us, both of us looking at each other, waiting for the other to flinch. I surrender and stand up, turning before he can say anything else. My hands are clenched, nails biting into my palms, as I head to leave.
I don’t bother closing the office door behind me. I’m several feet down the hall when I hear him talking to émile. I slow down without thinking, stopping just short of the corner to hear what they’re saying.
“If Stone Intermodal starts pulling operations tighter at the terminals because of this,” he says to émile calmly, “labor becomes the pressure point. They own the infrastructure. We manage the workforce that keeps it running. One way or another, we make sure the port still moves.”
There’s a pause, but no hesitation. Consideration.
émile murmurs something I can’t quite make out. He rarely challenges him when he’s already made up his mind.
My stomach tightens.
I stay still for another second, my pulse loud in my ears, the words settling into place whether I want them to or not. Infrastructure. People. Pressure. It all clicks together too easily.
I step forward again before either of them can see me standing there, my heels clicking softly against the floor. I don’t look back.
By the time I reach the front door, one thing is clear in a way it wasn’t before.
This isn’t just about money.
And whatever my father is willing to do to keep control, he expects me to learn how to do it, too.
The sun cuts across Jackson Square, catching on the brick path and the iron fence lining the park. Vendors are already setting up, hands busy hanging canvases as crowds of visitors start to grow.
Coffee and powdered sugar hang in the air as we cross the square. A saxophone drifts from somewhere near the street as someone warms up for the day.
The white spires of St. Louis Cathedral rise sharply, bright against the blue sky, watching over the vendors as they hang their wares along the fence.
Delphine bumps my shoulder as we walk. “You’ve been quiet for at least five minutes. That might be a record.”
I glance at her. “Just taking in the morning. It’s a beautiful fall morning, after all. I can’t believe Halloween is in three weeks.”
She smiles, knowing better. “Nice try. I know you weren’t thinking about the weather. You already met with your father this morning. I’m guessing this has something to do with that.”
I huff under my breath. “Yeah, you’re right. He isn’t my favorite way to start the day. He’s got me all twisted.”
“Were y’all meeting about that thing you were doing for him? Your ‘trial?’” She asks using air quotes.
I nod, nudging a loose pebble along the brick with the toe of my shoe. “Yeah, I was. And it didn’t go swimmingly.”
“You’re going to have to give me more.”
“Iggy was weird, and I’m just not cut out for this, Del. I think at the end of the day, I’m just not cut out for this.”
“Duh,” she says dryly. “I could have told you that. What happened?”
“I didn’t do it,” I say. “Not all the way, anyway.”
Her brows lift. “Meaning?”
“I met Iggy. Sat with him for a minute and we talked.” I shrug, but the tension stays tight in my shoulders. “Something felt off, so I left.”
“Off how?”
“I don’t know.” I shake my head. “He wasn’t nervous exactly. Just distracted. Like he was watching the room instead of listening to me. He kept glancing around, hands never still. I can’t explain it. Just off.”
“So you just left?”
“Yup,” I say. “With the money I was supposed to give him.”
Delphine stops walking.
“You’ve gotta be in or out, girl. You can’t just start making calls. That’s how people disappear into someone else’s mess.”
“Yeah, I guess now I realize that was a bold move,” I say, slower now. “I thought I was being careful.”
She studies my face for a second, then exhales. “Something tells me your father didn’t see it that way.”
“No.” I let out a quiet laugh that holds no humor. “Apparently, thinking is not part of the job description. He made it very clear this morning that I’m not supposed to make calls or decisions if I’m going to do this. I’m supposed to execute.”
“Not surprised. I’m shocked even you didn’t realize that wouldn’t go well,” she says gently.
“It’s so weird. It’s like I hate this stuff and want nothing to do with it. And then on the other hand, I want him to be proud of me, to see that I can bring a different vibe to it.”
We pass a street artist lining up bright canvases along the fence, colors splashed boldly against the iron. A musician tunes his guitar a few steps away, the strings humming softly as he tests the sound.
“Why do you keep trying so hard to please him?” Delphine asks. “You always said you were going to be a sommelier and travel through Italy and France, learning about wine. You don’t want to work with dockworkers, Coco.”
The question punches harder than I would have expected.