Chapter Nine
Callie
When Remy bought it for her, we all thought he was crazy,” Miss Genevieve was saying as she allowed Tricia to top off her glass of sangria. Then pointing at Callie for emphasis, she continued, “But you know, I think she loved that place more than even her house in the Garden District.”
Though she’d been a little apprehensive at the idea of meeting so many island regulars in one fell swoop, Callie had realized not long after Tricia started introducing her around that it was much better this way.
Like ripping off a bandage. And far from viewing her as some kind of master manipulator who had tricked Khaki into leaving her a large inheritance, everyone she’d met so far was tickled at the idea their friend had left the library to a librarian.
“Who better to take care of the place?” Bridget O’Brien—part owner, with her sister, Delia, of the Island View Inn. “Though I guess Trey doesn’t see it that way.”
And Frank Barbier, who’d introduced Callie to his girlfriend, Louise—one of the many people who worked remotely while enjoying all the benefits of island life the rest of the time—also mentioned how appropriate it was that a bona fide librarian was the new owner of the place.
“Khaki really loved that old place. I’m kinda surprised she was willing to leave it to somebody out of the family.
We offered to buy it from her a few times but she wouldn’t budge.
Though I guess the only other person she’d see as worthy was a librarian. ”
Louise gave Callie an apologetic smile at Frank’s words. Callie felt a pang of sympathy for the other woman. Like many other men she’d known, Frank appeared to have the ability to cram both feet into his mouth with little enough effort. And she knew better than to blame Louise for his blunder.
“I suppose so,” was all she said in reply. Then she was saved from further conversation by the arrival of Tricia with an older woman with a beautiful white Afro in tow, who looked familiar, though Callie was sure they’d never met.
Then, just as she was engulfed in a warm hug, she realized who it was. “Miss Genevieve,” Callie managed to wheeze out as Khaki’s dearest friend—and Tricia’s grandmother—squeezed the breath out of her.
“You’re just as pretty as Khaki said you were,” Genevieve said, stepping back to give Callie a head-to-toe scan, then patting her on the cheek. “And just as kind too, I’ll bet. I knew you must be somebody special for her to leave the library to you.”
Feeling a little like she’d just been swept off her feet by a hurricane—in that way at least, Genevieve was very much like her granddaughter, Tricia—Callie had to take a minute to catch her breath.
She’d known this woman through Khaki’s stories about her, but it was shocking to meet her in person finally.
Especially since it was without Khaki here to introduce them.
Soon enough, however, they were chatting like old friends, and like Khaki, Genevieve was kind, and had a wicked sense of humor. She was also married to husband number four, who was deep in conversation with Frank Barbier on the other side of the deck.
“Remy was always a romantic though,” Genevieve said, sipping her sangria. “Don’t tell Armand,” she said, nodding in her husband’s direction. “But I always told Khaki she snagged the last good man to graduate from St. Ignatius College.”
At Callie’s confused look, the older woman clarified. “Armand was in our class too—and really, he’s a dear, but when they made Remy, they broke the mold. I mean, what other man would buy the library where he met his wife to give her as an anniversary gift?”
“I’m pretty sure a college library is out of most guys’ price range, Ginny,” said Tricia to her grandmother wryly, prompting a bark of laughter from Callie. She wasn’t going to say so, but the same thought had occurred to her.
The kind of money that seemed to flow freely here on Petite C?te Island was entirely foreign to Callie, who had grown up with a military father and a schoolteacher mother.
Her inheritance from Khaki would have been life-changing even at half the value.
Heck, she hadn’t owned a front-loading washing machine until a few years ago.
So, the idea of being able to quit her job and move to the beach for a year had taken a lot of getting used to.
But she was doing her level best to do it.
“Oh hush, Tricia,” Genevieve said with a wave of her hand. “I’m an old lady. I don’t know what I’m saying half the time.”
“Now, that’s just nonsense and you know it,” Tricia said with a roll of her eyes.
To Callie she added, “Don’t you let her fool you, Callie. She’s as sharp as a porcupine quill and twice as lethal.”
The factoid made Callie pause. “I hate to sound like a librarian, but I had to help a third grader working on a report on porcupines and, well, their quills aren’t poisonous.”
“No, but Grandma Ginny’s are,” Tricia said with a wink.
“Grandma Ginny’s are what?” Bobby asked as he and Trey joined them.
“None of your business, young ruffian,” Genevieve said with a sniff. “Just like a couple of men to think they can wander over and hijack a perfectly fine conversation.”
Trey stepped over to the older woman and slipped an arm around her shoulders.
“Now, Ginny, you know you love it when we poke our noses in your business. And besides, you better be sweet to Bobby ’cause he’s the one you’re gonna call when you need to move your deck furniture inside next time there’s a hurricane. ”
Callie was appalled at the rudeness until she saw Trey wink, and sure enough, Genevieve poked him in the chest. “I guess you’re right. Bobby does have his uses. And Tricia loves him so I suppose we’ll keep him.”
“That’s a relief,” Bobby said, slipping an arm around his wife’s waist. “How’s it going, babe? Is it time to bring the mudbugs out?”
“Yes,” Tricia said with a glance toward a table Callie had noticed was conspicuously empty. “Wanna help me bring it all out?”
Callie tried to volunteer her help but her offer was waved away, and as she chatted with Trey and Genevieve, a man on the far side of the deck started playing an acoustic guitar at a pleasantly unobtrusive level, and Tricia and Bobby began bringing out enough food to feed an army.
Soon enough, the party guests began lining up to fill plates with corn on the cob, boiled red potatoes, coleslaw, andouille sausage, cornbread, and of course crawfish.
As she went through the line, Callie was relieved to have Trey beside her, giving little explanations for anything that might be unfamiliar to her, like boudin, a Cajun sausage made with pork, rice, and seasonings.
By the time they took seats at one of the long tables on the deck, Callie’s plate was filled with more food than she could eat in a week, all of it smelling and looking delicious.
“Here,” Trey said, handing her a pile of napkins. “You’re gonna need these.”
“That’s not enough.” Tricia passed Callie a stack of napkins from where she was sitting across the table.
“Better take these too,” Frank said from his place on the other side of Trey.
“How messy can it be?” Callie asked, hearing the hint of alarm in her voice. “Do they make crawfish bibs like they do for lobster?”
“Nooo,” Bobby said, elongating the word. “But you know, that’s not a bad idea. Maybe we can do some branded ones for the boat business. Great idea, Callie!”
Picking up her fork, Callie began to try some of the less messy options. But as she did so, she noticed that Trey had started in on the crawfish.
It took two hands, she noted, watching as he took the head in one hand and the tail in the other, then pulled. And ouch—poor crawfish—its head came off.
She must have said it aloud because Trey laughed. “I promise it didn’t feel a thing.”
“I guess not,” Callie said a little ruefully. Then feeling as if some explanation was needed, she continued, “I was taking note of your technique since I’ve never eaten crawfish before.” Which she supposed was evident given the number of napkins that had just been pressed on her.
“Ah, OK,” he said, looking at the crawfish tail in his hand. “Well, you see how it starts. Why don’t you try the first part and then we can do the rest together?”
Soon, she was twisting and separating the head and tail like a pro, then eating the spicy meat from the tail as if she’d been doing it her whole life. What she absolutely, positively refused to do was suck the head.
“But it’s the most delicious part, Callie,” Trey told her with a disappointed shake of his head.
“Don’t you let him bully you into eating those crawfish brains,” Tricia called to her from down the table. “That’s just nasty.”
“You hush, woman,” Bobby said from beside her right before he sucked on a crawfish head with exaggerated relish. “Let Trey teach her the right way to eat the food of the gods.”
“Peer pressure never convinced me to do drugs,” Callie said primly, “and it certainly isn’t going to make me eat crawfish brains.”
“You’re missing out,” Trey told her, but then he shrugged and went back to his own pile of mudbugs.
The rest of the meal went by in bouts of laughter and noises expressing delight as the assembled partygoers consumed nearly all the spread Tricia and Bobby had put out.
And soon after that, the gathering began to break up and Callie and Trey were saying their goodbyes.
The walk back to the library was mostly silent as Callie reflected on the conversations she’d had, and all the new people she’d met.
All in all, it had been a fun night, and though he could have chosen not to, Trey’s shepherding her through the evening was a big part of why it had been so successful.
It had been kind of him, and he hadn’t needed to be.
She’d have to do something nice for him to thank him. Maybe she’d make him some buckeyes.
She was mentally making a grocery list of things to order from the mainland when they reached the garage under the library. And they hadn’t made it even halfway up the stairs leading up to the main floor when she heard Stella’s plaintive meowing.
“What on earth?”
At the same time, Trey asked, “What’s wrong with her?”
It wasn’t, she noted, an annoyed demand, but instead a question of worry.
When they reached the top and Trey unlocked the door, he let Callie go ahead of him.
But when Stella, who must have heard them come in, started crying louder, Callie realized that the meows weren’t coming from down the hall where the suites were but closer to the reading room. “What the—?”
“I thought you locked her in your suite,” Trey said, his brows drawn together.
“I did,” Callie said, hurrying to where the cat cries were coming from, with Trey hot on her heels.
When they got to the stacks, the cries seemed to be coming from the cage. But there was no sign of Stella, or any other cat there.
Instead, in the very center of the cell sat yet another Bluetooth speaker.