The Bitter Heir and the Beauty (On the Hunt for Love #2)

1. Hashtag Mombie Life

Chapter 1

Hashtag Mombie Life

S leep is an underrated staple in life until you’re running on a deficit. Forget zombie. I’m officially a mombie.

I’m only hoping to get back to Hogwash Holler before—a deep rumble comes from the backseat. Ironic that we’re driving past Pouppeville.

Hoping a distraction will thwart the impending situation, I start singing, “Rain, rain go away, come again another ...”

As the windshield wipers swipe the glass at a furious pace, reminding me to slow down, Leonie laughs...then toots again.

Please don’t let it turn into a crampy cry.

I named the baby Leonie because she roars like a lion cub. Also, it was my great-grandmother’s name. While my mother was otherwise occupied, my grandmother bore the brunt of making sure I didn’t get into too much trouble before she passed away.

Aside from previous involvement with Les Trois Tasses , my old partner in teenage delinquency and I are now on the right side of the law.

Eager to get home to take care of Leonie’s “business,” I resist the temptation to put the pedal to the metal.

On account of me not turning in Jesse on more than one occasion, he typically won’t pull me over for having a lapsed registration or going a few miles over the speed limit, but I’m not in my car today. To be fair, I usually try to stick to the rules of the road during operating hours out of respect for our Deputy Sheriff.

I try another nursery rhyme drawn from the depths of my memory. “Row, row, row your boat gently down the ...”

Leonie coos and burbles in the backseat, making baby noises.

Crisis averted, I hope.

I yawn while trying to draw a deep breath. This morning was intense and not because I had to change out of my one nice outfit because Leonie spit up on me before we left on our errand. Nor was it because Minou streaked through the house with a mouse—again. I’m afraid she’s found herself a tomcat and is trying to impress him, or she doesn’t like how the new resident in the Hamilton household interferes with her cat naps.

Never mind it being a long morning, it’s been a long couple of months.

I’m officially a mom. I just signed the documents and everything—though I know well enough that ink on a piece of paper doesn’t make a mother. I’m still learning what does since mine held a loose definition of motherhood and the law.

Leonie gets the kind of quiet that comes before a storm.

Uh oh. Crisis back on?

I try another song from the depths of my memory. “Hickory, dickory, dock ...”

She lets out a shriek.

I’ve been told I have pageant-worthy beauty, but my tone-deaf singing is probably more alarming than soothing or entertaining to a baby.

But it’s past her naptime. I’m out of clean diapers, and hers is going to be dirty at any moment. I’m new at this but can read the signs ... and smells.

“We’re almost there, sweet girl,” I say in my normal voice.

She lets out a happy sound, and I hear her little feet kicking the back of the seat. I had the option to borrow Bruce Landry’s ancient Buick Century or Missy Groveland’s Corolla and went with the latter because it seemed the more practical choice, given my situation. Better on fuel, too.

For your information, the word borrow doesn’t have air quotes around it. I am not Lisette “Luckie” Hamilton, thank you very much. I’ll refill the gas tank and Missy will get all-she-can-eat pancakes on me at the Laughing Gator Grille this week.

As I pull onto Metairie Road, I’ve never been so relieved to be back in Hogwash Holler. The gas will have to wait. Er, for the car. From the odor filtering from the back seat, the damage is done. But Baby Girl will only be in a dirty diaper a moment longer because we’re almost to the mobile home park.

Like a pit crew at a speedway, I have the baby in the house, on the changing table, and out of the soiled situation in less than fifteen seconds. It wouldn’t fly for NASCAR, but it works for Leonie because her squished-up face and the fierce cry coming from her lips dissolve into a smile.

And she gets tickles and raspberries and nose nuzzles from me.

“Who’s my sweet girl who was an angel at the lawyer’s office? Who impressed everyone with her absolute cuteness? Who has a clean diaper and is about to get lunch and a nap?”

I didn’t ask for this role. Didn’t sign up. No invitation came in the mail. I certainly didn’t RSVP, but here I am, on the receiving end of a full-fledged Leonie smile, and it’s the greatest gift in the world.

I never knew a love so full could exist—certainly not between a baby that was left on my doorstep and me. But I wouldn’t trade any of it for all the treasure in the world. Not even the sleepless nights, the diaper change sprint, or the bewildering look she sometimes gives me.

It’s like we’re both still trying to figure each other out and how we got here. But if I can do one thing right in my life, it’s being the best mother possible for this little girl.

I could stay here all day gazing into her eyes, but I don’t trust Molly at the Grille for another moment and this little peach needs a nap.

Back in the car, I drop Leonie off with Lexi and JQ and then return the Corolla to Missy. Crossing the street to avoid Mrs. Halfpenny’s daily diatribe about how this town has gone to the dogs—never mind that hers is battery-operated—I all but run to the restaurant.

After this morning, I could really go for a lollipop. It became a habit after I quit smoking. This was B.B. as in Before Baby over ten years ago. I’d picked up the habit for three months after Cory died. But then quit and lollipops became my vice. I like all kinds—the gourmet, round ones, the cheap flat ones, and even the giant colorful ones.

Entering through the Grille’s back door, I duck into the office and check my private stash in the bottom drawer of the desk. Fresh out of ’pops ... and looking like a madwoman in the speckled mirror by the door. Smoothing my hair and applying a fresh coat of red lipstick, the race to the end of the day begins in three, two, one.

Tying on my apron and stepping through the double-swinging wooden doors to the dining room, I find Molly leaning on the counter.

Mr. Soto sits at the other end, drinking his daily milkshake. It’s Friday, which means he splurges on chocolate.

I stare at Molly and snap my fingers. “At attention.”

She quickly straightens and all but salutes me. What can I say? I run a tight ship.

“Betsy might let you get away with leaning over at the Hogwash Hairwash & Style, but there’s always something to do here while you’re on the clock.”

“Does that mean you’re paying me?” Molly’s Cajun accent used to be nearly as thick as mine, but lately, she’s been using a more neutral tone like a news anchor.

I clear my throat. “I’m paying you with pancakes. That was the agreement.”

I’m lucky I have enough money to keep the lights on.

“Pancakes with extra whipped cream?” Molly asks.

“Fine.”

Roxanne Lagniappe, Molly’s cohort, sits on the spinning stool on the other side of the counter.

“Are you going to order anything?” I ask.

It’s not that she’s keeping a spot from a paying customer, but if she’s going to take up space, she may as well contribute.

“Can I see a menu?” she asks.

It hasn’t changed in twenty years, so I imagine she has it memorized along with everyone else in town, but I slide one in front of her all the same. The laminate pulled away and water seeped inside, making the alligator on the logo look drunk.

“Can I get an apron next time?” Molly asks, eyeing mine, embroidered with my name in yellow thread.

“Who said there’ll be a next time?” I ask while wiping down the counter.

“I know where you went today.”

Of course she does.

Hogwash Holler Fact Number One: There are no secrets. What you think you’re keeping to yourself is always public knowledge. Perhaps there’s something in the water. Or we all talk in our sleep. Could be a truth serum in the coffee. Then again, until recently, I was the only game in town who served the stuff. A Coffee Loft opened down the street and they likely have a proprietary formulation sans truth serum.

The source and purveyor of our town’s gossip is none other than Molly Hazelwood. We went to high school together, and she knows everything, usually even before the people involved do. She moonlights as a receptionist at the hair salon a couple of days a week—a prime location for gathering juicy gossip, second to this very counter.

It’s hard not to keep my ears open, but my mouth remains shut. I’ve been on the wrong side of gossip enough in my life to know better than to blab.

She says, “As a result of your meeting earlier, you’ll probably need help around here from time to time.”

This is likely true. I’m new to the single mom gig and, as it is, I stitch together trustworthy childcare with a very thin piece of thread. I don’t trust Leonie in Molly’s care, but can I depend on her to keep my business from burning down? That almost happened once, well, before I took ownership.

“I’ll let you know,” I reply.

Roxanne passes me the menu, apparently having satisfied her curiosity that nothing has changed. “I’ll just take a coffee with cream and sugar.”

Molly whispers, “Coffee Loft has better coffee.”

I elbow her. “You’re not supposed to say that.”

“But it’s true.”

“Since when do you care about the truth?”

“It’s the guiding principle for the Pest Digest.”

I grunt. “Emphasis on pest .”

Ignoring my comment, yet embodying it, she asks, “What do you think about adding cream brool to the menu?”

“What is cream brool?” I ask while fetching Mr. Soto his post-milkshake ice water. He says the dairy makes him congested, yet he continues to come back for more.

“Cream brool. The dessert,” Molly says.

Frowning, I shake my head. “Never heard of it.”

Roxanne shrugs. A fan of sweets, Mr. Soto leans in, listening intently.

Face scrunched up like we’re a bunch of fools, Molly says, “Don’t be silly. Of course you’ve heard of it. It’s a pudding or custard or something like that. The top gets burned with a torch, like in those fancy French restaurants in New Orleans.”

“This isn’t a fancy French restaurant.”

“But you’re French.”

“Hardly.” I yawn. I pour myself a sweet tea and drizzle in some honey.

“I had that once,” Roxanne says, snapping her gum.

“Cream brool, new menu item,” Molly says with a flourish.

Brow crinkling as if I’m translating the Lost Southern Sea Scroll, I ask, “Do you mean crème br?lée?”

She shakes her head. “No, it’s brool.”

“That doesn’t sound too appetizing.” Roxanne wrinkles her nose.

The real reason I haven’t changed the menu this decade is because I cannot afford it. In fact, I’m the one who started the rumor that the Pappadeaux Seafood Fondeux gave an out-of-towner food poisoning. Both are big fibs, but fancy cheese prices went up and they don’t fit in my wholesale order budget, so I had to cleverly eighty-six it.

I shoo Molly toward the customer side of the counter. “Do you want your pancakes now?”

Please say later.

“I’ll take a cream brool.”

I shake my head.

Roxanne gets to her feet, coffee in hand. She and an accomplice stole the giant rotating root beer mug from the Tickle property not long ago. In much the same way that I don’t trust Molly with information, I keep a careful eye on Roxanne’s sticky fingers.

“The coffee mugs stay here.”

Molly, halfway to the door, doubles back. “Speaking of, did you hear about JQ and Lexi?”

I’ve certainly heard things. Will I repeat them? No.

Molly waggles her eyebrows. “The key wasn’t there.”

Roxanne says, “What makes you think there’s a key?”

“A key to what?” I ask mostly to annoy Molly, even though supposedly they found something at the Penny Gamble during their recent renovations.

Molly says, “To the treasure chest.”

I roll my eyes.

She crosses her arms in front of her chest, picking up a long-standing debate among residents of Hogwash Holler. Some insist Hogan Tickle left behind clues that lead to X-marks the spot booty buried in a box in the ground. Others, like myself, are adamantly certain it does not exist.

Molly says, “There is a treasure chest.”

“No, there’s not,” I reply.

“How can you be so sure?”

My mother would’ve found it. Luckie gambled, swindled, and did whatever she could to dishonestly earn money. If there was a bounty to be had, I wouldn’t have been taught to shoplift at the age of five.

“Do you think the new guy will find it?” Roxanne asks with a tremor in her voice, as if nervous about the competition.

“What new guy?” I ask because this is news to me.

Molly starts, “Speaking of fires ...”

Eyes widening, I dash toward the kitchen.

She calls after me, “Not in there.”

Extinguisher in hand, I check to be sure. Hand on my hip, I turn back to Molly. “Do not scare me like that.”

If this place goes up in flames, I won’t collect the insurance money on principle—because everyone will think I did it by association. Yes, my mother is in jail because of arson, among other things.

“I hear he’s a firefighter.” Molly waggles her eyebrows.

“Who is he and if that’s the case, what is he doing here?” We have a volunteer fire department.

“Here?” Molly whirls around as if excited that he just walked in.

Nope. It’s still just the three of us and Mr. Soto.

Eyes big, I blink, concerned that I’m surrounded by fools. “I mean in Hogwash.”

“To save people and houses, obviously.” Molly smiles like there’s more to the story.

Does this town look like it needs saving? Yes.

Do I? Some days are more challenging than others.

Roxanne looks around, then at a whisper, she says, “By houses, Molly means rumor has it he inherited the Tickle Chateau.”

Molly adds, “And that’s not all.”

Still not sure who this mysterious he is, despite my no-gossip policy, my eyebrows lift in question.

“I hear he’s hot.” Molly fans herself.

“Handsome in flannel,” Roxanne adds.

Molly trills, “The perfect fall pair.”

“It may be October, but it’s almost seventy-five degrees out.”

“Sixty-eight,” Mr. Soto calls.

I let out an annoyed sigh. I’ve had enough upheaval in my life lately. I don’t need anyone coming to Hogwash, trying to shake things up. Least of all me. I lost my one shot at love all too soon and now I have other, more important, things to focus on.

Leveling my gaze at the two women, I say, “It’s too hot in this town for guys with flannel shirts.”

“Firemen wear T-shirts too,” Molly says as if she knows this firsthand.

Our volunteer crew consists of men old enough to be her grandfather, including Hank, Dick, and Buck, along with a few of the farm boys who’re just barely eighteen.

“Firefighters sometimes have beards,” Roxanne says as if that suits her best friend’s fancy.

I snip, “But not of the attractive variety. Usually, those guys are also missing teeth.”

“Sawyer has all his, mostly,” Roxanne says.

“Grumpy Smurf,” Molly mumbles in response to my comment.

I’m the only female member of the grouchy old coger club. The prospect of a newcomer waltzing into town, thinking he’s the cock of the walk, rubs me the wrong way. Likely, he’ll have tongues wagging and women distracted, which can only cause problems. I have enough of those.

Worry pinches my mind. It’s probably too late to save the restaurant. I’m hanging on by a shoestring French fry, fending off foreclosure and floods during storm season. My house risks being blown away in a strong wind off the Gulf, which I can’t risk now that I have a baby to take care of.

Rocking back on my heels, my mother was elbow and ankle deep in schemes while pushing me around in a baby buggy, but her sordid past started long before I came along. If that weren’t the case, I’d understand why, in desperation, someone might resort to a life of crime.

Roxanne snaps her gum, jolting me. She asks, “Do you think he’s a Tickle descendent?”

“If so, you’d think he would’ve made his claim by now, but sources say he’s signing the paperwork on Monday,” Molly says.

Roxanne edges toward the door.

“Mug,” I call, gesturing she return it.

She hastily sets it on the counter by the cash register. It’s still full, which is no surprise. Sweet tea is the safer, less rugged option here at the Grille.

The two women exit, heads bent together, as they speak in hushed tones, likely about the supposed handsome firefighter who possibly inherited the Tickle Chateau.

I’ll believe it when I see it.

Heaps of paperwork remind me of adopting Leonie, who is hopefully napping peacefully. My hopscotch childcare situation is a temporary solution and I’ll have to figure out something better, especially because I’d rather be with her than refilling sugar shakers.

It’s the only thing that makes coffee at the Laughing Gator Grille palatable. Not that I sell much of it or much of anything. With a sigh, that needs to change too, otherwise, I might have to start writing my mother in prison and asking for tips—and I don’t mean the kind I’d like customers to leave on the table.