Chapter 13
I jogged to keep up with Beau as he left the square, not slowing down even when a group on a guided tour crossed his path. I muttered apologies as I followed in his wake and grabbed hold of his jacket when I got close enough.
“Where are you going?” I asked, distracted by the sweet smell of powdered beignets wafting from Café du Monde.
“To the truck. I still have the newspaper Honey gave me.”
“Right,” I said, pretending I hadn’t forgotten. Too much weird stuff was happening, and it was messing with my brain. Still walking fast, he turned to me. “Take this,” he said, handing me the small cloth pouch from Madame Zoe.
While jogging to keep up, I took it from him and shoved it into my backpack with mine.
When we reached the truck I tried to hide my heavy breathing, embarrassed at how out of shape I was.
I’d stopped my daily runs in Audubon Park, needing more time before seeing Michael again or being reminded of the first time I’d seen him there.
I’d find a new route or the courage to return. Eventually. Maybe tomorrow.
Beau jerked open the rear door, then groaned.
“What’s wrong?”
He reached inside and yanked something out to show me. I knew before I saw the round head and sightless eyes that it was the creepy baby doll.
“I thought you were bringing it to Mimi.”
“I did. But apparently it didn’t want to be there.” He tossed it onto the seat, unperturbed by its potential value. He leaned inside to look on the floor before sliding into the rear seat for a closer inspection. “I could have sworn I put the newspaper back here before we left the house.”
“Has anyone else been in your truck since then? Besides me.”
He thought for a moment before his face relaxed. “Sam,” he said. “After I dropped you off, Sam and I ran to Fresh Market in Metairie for some groceries. She must have picked it up when she grabbed the bags from the backseat.”
“Why would you go all the way to Metairie instead of going to the Fresh Market on St. Charles?”
Beau exited the backseat and closed the door. “Because that one used to be Bultman Funeral Home. I prefer my grocery shopping without lost spirits who want to ask me why there are bananas in the viewing room.”
We both climbed into the front seat, and he started the engine before backing out of the parking space. “Crap,” he said, noticing the clock on the dash. “I’m supposed to meet Thibaut at another job site to get his take on things. He’s doing me a favor working on a Saturday.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “Do you have time to drop me off at Sam’s apartment?
I can get the newspaper and let you know if I find anything.
I’ll take an Uber back home or call Jolene.
She’s always looking for a reason to take Mardi for a car ride—he really loves it.
She even bought him a pair of red Doggles to protect his eyes when he sticks his head out of the window.
” I buckled my seat belt casually, not wanting Beau to jump to conclusions about any ulterior motives I’d have to talk to Sam.
“Are you sure?”
I shrugged nonchalantly. “Cooper’s in London, and I’ve got nothing planned today except for some catch-up on paperwork.
I’m not allowed near the cottage until the roof is intact and the water damage is fixed.
They’ve got huge fans blowing twenty-four seven to dry it out completely so I don’t have any mold issues.
Would I be wrong to think that Jolene is behind all of this so that I have no choice but to go with her to Mississippi for Thanksgiving? ”
He grinned as he pulled out of the parking garage and onto the street. “No. Not at all. But I’m glad you’re going. Someone needs to act as chaperone.”
“Are you afraid Jolene will throw herself at Jaxson?”
“Actually, I’m thinking it’s the other way around.”
“You see it, too?” I asked. “Even though Jaxson and Carly are engaged?”
“You don’t have to be psychic to see the obvious, Nola. There’s a weird dynamic between those three, and I’m not even going to try to understand it.”
“Funny, because…” I stopped, realizing that I’d been about to say that Jolene had said the same thing about Beau, Sam, and me. Not in so many words, and with a much thicker Southern accent, but the meaning was the same.
“What’s funny?” he asked, turning to drive through the gated entrance to an apartment complex parking lot on Annunciation Street in the Lower Garden District.
The guard at the gate waved us through despite the sign clearly saying that IDs were required for entry.
Apparently Beau was enough of a frequent visitor to make him exempt.
“Nothing. Just something that Jolene said, but I can’t repeat it, because it wouldn’t be as funny without her saying it.”
He pulled into a brick courtyard with a fountain that had two spitting fish in the middle.
“Nice touch,” I said. As he drew closer, I noted the mid-1980s style of the three squat buildings in front of me, each with pedimented gables and columns to give at least a nod to actual architectural thought.
Iron balconies lined the three stories of each building, clashing with the Greek Revival style of the rest of the buildings, so I could give them only two points out of ten for trying.
Beau stopped the truck and turned to me. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“Yeah? And what would that be?”
“That you wouldn’t live in this kind of building if your life depended on it. You’d prefer mold on your rafters to a roof without a history.”
“You know me too well.” I’d meant it as a joke, but he didn’t smile.
“And in that I think you’d be right.”
I opened my door and slid out of the seat to the ground. “Make sure to text Sam to let her know I’m coming. I don’t want her answering the door dressed only in Saran wrap.”
His fingers were already flying on his phone screen. “Got it.” When he was finished, he looked up at me where I stood, lingering with my hand on the open door. “Is there anything else?”
“So, last night…the ring box. Did she…?”
“Say yes? No.”
I hoped he couldn’t see the relief on my face. “I’m sorry,” I said, wondering how much of me he really knew.
“I didn’t ask her. Yet. We did a lot of talking, and then…” He stopped, shrugged. “And then we made up.”
“Got it,” I said, smiling to cover the rising nausea in the back of my throat. “I won’t say anything, then. Don’t want to ruin the surprise.”
“Thanks.” He held up his phone. “Good news—she has the newspaper, and she’s expecting you. She’s in apartment 3B.”
I gave him a thumbs-up, then shut the door behind me and headed toward the white-painted double doors next to a brass plaque with elegant script reading AUDUBON PARC—spelled with a C, just in case anybody got confused about whether they were in the actual Audubon Park, with a K.
The doors opened into a lobby decorated à la Holiday Inn 1980, with lots of floral upholstery and with sad reproductions of well-known paintings nailed high on the walls, as if someone who was really tall and had no clue had been in charge of their placement.
A metal elevator sat in the left wall, inside a box of vinyl wallpaper border meant to make the space resemble a green arbor.
I pushed the call button and stepped inside.
My slow progress to the third floor gave me plenty of time to read all the neatly printed flyers affixed to the elevator’s laminate walls, advertising social events: S’mores! Secret Santa! Book Club!
I imagined living in a place like this had its advantages, especially socially.
Not having to worry about lawn care, exterior paint, and a leaking roof would definitely free up a lot of time.
But I doubted the low popcorn ceilings and the particleboard doors ever spoke to any of the residents.
Just as I was sure that beneath the wall-to-wall carpeting there were no hardwood floors that bore the marks of past generations.
And I was doubly positive that no one who lived here, current or past, ever thought that the building had chosen them.
The elevator doors slid open with a bing, and I exited into a short corridor. I followed a sign to apartment B, and I knocked on the door after staring at the doorbell for a full minute and wondering if it would be rude to ring it.
The door swung open, allowing the scent of simmering food to float out of the apartment. Sam smiled, her warmth a far cry from her disposition the last time I’d seen her, at the theater—when she’d stormed away and gotten into her Uber.
“Come on in,” she said, holding open the door and looking like a J.Crew catalog model, with her slim corduroy pants, her striped oxford-cloth shirt, and a sweater knotted loosely around her shoulders.
Her shiny brown hair was pulled back into an effortless messy bun held together with a massive tortoiseshell clip.
“Excuse me just for a minute—I need to check the grillades. They should be just about done simmering.”
“Smells delicious,” I said as I closed the door behind me and followed her inside, happy to be on a neutral footing after the previous night’s awkward parting. I stepped over a pair of Beau’s running shoes, left in the small entranceway, and I wondered if they’d been put there on purpose.
Sam stood in front of an older electric stove, lifting the lid of a Dutch oven.
“I’m making Beau’s favorite, grillades and grits.
It’s Mimi’s recipe, flavored with onions, celery, and green peppers—what she calls the ‘Holy Trinity’—plus plenty of garlic, since that’s what Beau likes. Not to mention a whole lot of love.”
In my chest I felt a thickness that could have been heartburn, even though I hadn’t eaten anything.
Sam scooped a large spoon into the pot, then held it out to me.
“Here, give it a try and let me know what you think.” She waved her hand at the steam coming off of it.
“Make sure you blow on it first so you don’t burn your tongue. ”