“Does dis mean you’ve decided to let him off da hook for leavin’ ya da way he did?”
“No.” My stirring becomes faster. “Absolutely not. He’s still got some explaining to do, but…” I trail off and glance over my shoulder. When I spy Jean-Pierre’s expression, I frown. “Itoldyou not to give me that look. I can take care of myself.”
“Can ya?” he asks. “Me, I worry for ya,cher.He hurt you once, and since ya don’t know why, der’s nothin’ stoppin’ him from hurtin’ ya again.”
“Don’t you think Iknowthat?”
“So why haven’t ya asked him what happened to make him go,maisyeah?”
Why, indeed.
“I haven’t really had an opening,” I say, but that’s only part of the truth.
Thewholetruth is that I’m scared. What if Cash left because of me? Because of something I said or did? Because he was simply tired of me or sick of my hero worship?
Knowing that would ruin everything, all those beautiful memories I hold so dear.
A jarring ring fills the room since my cell is connected to the Bose speaker through Bluetooth. Yard barks his displeasure. Leonard, who’s been crouched under the kitchen table nibbling on Jean-Pierre’s shoelaces, hisses and runs to join Sheldon inside an empty Amazon box in the living room.
I disconnect from Bluetooth and thumb on my cell. “Hey, Eva! You here already?” After listening for a second, I cut off the call and ask Jean-Pierre, “Mind opening the gate? Sounds like everyone’s arrived at the same time.”
“Da super needs to fix dat damn buzzer,” he grumbles.
“It’ll get fixed. Eventually. You know how these things work.”
He purses his lips in annoyance. “Ya mean at a snail’s pace?”
Everything in New Orleans seems to move more slowly than in other places. Slow boats chug up the Mississippi. Slow folks have slow Sunday suppers filled with family and friends and slow conversations. Even the names of the trees sound slow and sweet on the tongue: mimosa, wax myrtle, sycamore.
Jean-Pierre takes his wine with him when he leaves, and I turn my Bluetooth back on.
By the time I’ve dished up the main course and sides, my tiny apartment is packed. I try introducing Lauren to everyone, but they’ve already introduced themselves to her. Yard yips happily because…company!More hands to scratch his ears, pat his belly, and feed him scraps under the table. And Leonard and Sheldon have taken refuge under my bed.
Within minutes, we’re at the table, full glasses of wine in hand, the lovely bouquet of flowers Luc brought grinning at us from a vase on the hutch. And the conversation? In typical Big Easy fashion, it starts on the subject of music, quickly moves to food, and by the time dessert rolls around, we’re sharing childhood memories and laughing and hollering like we’ve all been friends forever.
“Anyone interested in taking this show out on the balcony?” I say after Luc and Eva help me clear the table and stack the dirty dishes in the sink. “The weather’s beautiful, and if we ask sweetly, we might convince Jean-Pierre to run upstairs and grab his fiddle.”
“Only if Luc agrees to accompany me on da guitar.” Jean-Pierre is feeling the effects of his third glass of wine. His eyes are overly bright, and his smile is crooked.
“You don’t gotta ask me twice.” Luc turns to eye my guitar. “Maggie? Mind if I borrow yours? I left mine back at Cash’s.” His dimples pop, and I swear both Eva and Lauren sigh like Disney princesses.
Five minutes later, I’ve added two dining room chairs to my outdoor furniture, and my guests follow me onto the balcony. Everyone except for Jean-Pierre. He’s still upstairs trying to find his fiddle case in that pigsty he calls an apartment.
Twice a year, I help him clean up and organize the place. It’s not like he’sdirty—his kitchen sink and bathroom toilet get a weekly scrubbing. It’s just that he’s incredibly messy. There are records stacked everywhere, piles of sheet music, heaps of clothes—mostly clean, but aggravatingly unfolded—and tons of tchotchkes and doodads on every horizontal surface. He’s never met a piece of folk art or a kitschy coffee mug that he didn’t like.
He calls itartistic squalor. I call ita neat freak’s nightmare.
After we all settle in on the balcony, Eva says, “While we wait on the inimitable Jean-Pierre, let’s play a game. It’s called My Worst. We pick a topic, any topic, and everyone has to name their worst experience with it. Like, for instance… My Worst Date.”
Lauren laughs, her blond hair shining in the light cast by the lanterns on the table beside her. I took a look tonight. She definitely doesnothave a bad butt. Hard to tell about the boobs, though.
“I come from Pascagoula, Mississippi,” she says. “In my neck of the woods, romance consists of takeout barbecue and long, slow walks through the fishing-lure aisle at Walmart. Every date I’ve been on qualifies as my worst.”
That gets a laugh from the group.
I glance at Luc to see if he realizes I wasn’t lying when I told him Lauren was funny. But he’s concentrating on the guitar and not her.
“Myworst date,” Eva says, “was with a guy who had the unfortunate name of Harold Bahls.”
