Two

TWO

A fter closing that night, Simone had come into my office as I was contemplating my next step. I was sitting in my fancy chair behind my enormous U-shaped desk, which I loved because it was the first thing I’d bought when my business was on solid ground. Before that I had an unsteady card table and plastic drawers.

She crossed the room and sank into one of the two overstuffed brown leather Chesterfield chairs on the other side of the desk, facing me.

“So,” she began, “I think we need to talk.”

I squinted at her.

“We need to be honest about our girl.”

That was what she called La Belle Vie. Our girl. I’d always liked it. And no, we weren’t partners, though I’d offered her part of the business on more than one occasion. She told me that when she was ready, when she saved the money to buy me out of half my investment, then she would accept half. Not until then. She was not looking for a handout, and yes, she knew I loved her. What was most important, she told me, was that she wanted us to be equals in all parts of the business, especially money. And though I didn’t think it was necessary—it was as much her blood, sweat, and tears as mine—she had laid down the law. This was not about friendship; this was business. I was looking forward to the day when she said that yes, she was ready and here was her partner buy-in. Having her take on half of everything would relieve a lot of the pressure of taking care of both the business and the people.

“In what way?” I asked.

She was silent for a moment and then finally said, “We could change who we are.”

“How do you mean?”

Her smile was soft, and I could see it written all over her face, how much she loved and cared for me. “You know how. Unlike a lot of other clubs, we have good traffic during the day.”

I groaned. She meant food traffic. People coming in simply to eat.

“We do,” she insisted. “Opening every day at two, that was a great change you made. This way we capture the late lunch crowd and then the people getting off work for happy hour, and for the last six months, we’ve been swamped for dinner every night.”

“We’re not a restaurant,” I reminded her.

“And yet, the last four Friday and Saturday nights, we’ve had a two-hour waiting list.”

That surprised me. “We did?” I saw the crowds, but I was always moving, doing something, checking, helping, and I missed things.

She nodded. “You’re very lucky Georgine loves working here.”

I knew that.

“But she’s also very fortunate that you saw her potential,” Simone reasoned. “I certainly didn’t see it, and you know kids freak me out.”

My chuckle was soft.

She lifted her hands in the air. “You were smart to hire a young single mother and let her bring her kid to work with her. No one else would have done that.”

When I’d first talked to Georgine Joseph about the job three years ago, she said her husband had recently left her, and that she’d moved in with her mother, who could pick up her three-year-old daughter, Camille, at five when she got off work, but not before. That meant, if I wanted Georgine, she had to bring her kid to work from noon, when she started prepping for our two p.m. opening, until around five thirty, depending on traffic from the LSU College of Science, where her mother taught developmental genetics.

Dr. Alberta Wallis had wanted Georgine to be a scientist. Georgine wanted to cook. I was happy about that and so said yes, please, make every day bring-your-child-to-work day. There was a small office right off the kitchen that became Georgine’s, and we turned half of it into a wonderland of educational toys and books. And yes, there was a TV in there, but there was nothing wrong with the occasional Disney movie. I had watched Finding Nemo with Cami far too many times.

Now, three years later, Cami was in first grade, and her school was close to La Belle Vie. Georgine had added four of us on the pickup list: me, Darcy, Xola, and Conner. Whoever was free when Georgine was busy would go get her. The little girl preferred anyone but her mother because the rest of us stopped for snacks, drinks, and ice cream in the spring and summer months, and hot chocolate and beignets in fall and winter. Only her mother walked her straight back to the club for freshly cut fruits and vegetables. With me, we normally split a muffaletta with homemade sweet-potato fries and had strawberry sodas. There was also the occasional cookie. Georgine would give me the look of death when her daughter was dancing around the office when we got back.

I told Georgine often, because I never wanted to hold her back, that if she wanted to take any of the many people up on their offers to open her own restaurant, she had my blessing. Always, she would smile at me kindly and say, “Yes, I know that, Christopher.”

Her name was on all our advertising, on a plaque on the wall above the bar so you couldn’t miss it and so you were sure who was making your meal, as well as in all our press packages and announcements on social media. She set the menu, hired her own people for the kitchen, and her budget was separate from the club’s.

“You trusted me and had faith in me,” she’d always say. “Plus, you love my kid. If you were straight, I’d have married you years ago.”

I smiled when I remembered that.

“Are you listening to me?” Simone snapped.

Back from my trip down memory lane, I smiled big at Simone.

“Okay, could you listen now?”

“Absolutely.”

“What I’m trying to tell you is that we could change over to a restaurant completely, still keep everyone on, showcase Georgine even more, plus Darcy and Xola, and with some small cosmetic alterations to the interior, have a brand-new place.”

I nodded.

“I prefer us as we are now, sitting on the same street with Bamboula’s and the Spotted Cat and Blue Nile, and no, we’re not a jazz club, but I like that too.”

“I agree.”

“I love that I can just walk out our front door and over to the Frenchmen Art Bazaar at ten at night and that every year those wacky old women with the book bus?—”

“The Hook’s Traveling Book Nook,” I said, chuckling. “How old are Cybil and Jane?”

“They’re in their seventies, aren’t they?”

I grinned at her. “They’ve been together a long time, and yet, when I saw them on the street getting daiquiris, I saw Cybil pinch Jane’s ass.”

“Aww, that’s cute.”

“Is it? I was a bit horrified.”

She laughed. “Don’t be such a prude.”

“That whole bus is filled with romance novels and fairy tales.”

“It’s adorable. Jane said she and Cybil always know when someone is about to fall in love.”

I squinted at her.

“They do. Both of them told me at different times that Michael was quite smitten and was going to ask me to move in. That’s pretty good.”

“You probably told them you had a boyfriend.”

“I don’t think I did.”

“Please. All someone has to do is look at you to know you’re not single.”

“What are you talking about?”

I gestured at her.

“You lost me.”

Even as she glared at me, I was struck, as always, by her pale-gray eyes, deep bronze skin, and auburn curls that fell in wild, tumbling waves to her shoulders. It could never be said that Simone Howard was not a stunning woman. Last week, I’d seen a man step right into traffic, and only her yelling at him to stop had saved his life.

“Chris?”

“You’re beautiful and funny and a little mean?—”

“What did you—I’m a little what?”

“In a good way,” I rushed out. “And you’re super smart. Any man would be crazy not to be into you, and Michael is a doctor for crissakes, so he’s more on the ball than most guys. He got it the first time he came in here with… What was her name?”

She rolled her eyes. “Brynn.”

“All I remember is very big hair.”

“His parents liked her. She was a socialite. Really good old-money family.”

“Sure. But who do they like now?”

I watched her try very hard not to smile. “Me.”

“Yep. The judge and his wife, the cardiac surgeon, are very enamored by their son’s girlfriend of two years.”

“Are you done?”

“I’m just saying you’re a catch, so it’s no big jump that the nice ladies in the traveling book bus were certain you were going to be moving in with your man.”

“Whatever you say, but I think those two ladies are psychic.”

The last time I was on the bus was a week ago, and when I was looking around, I noticed the short shelves toward the back where the seating was. When the rainbow painted bus was moved, they were lifted in front of the windows, and lowered whenever it was stopped. The rest of the high shelves that were there when you climbed the stairs to enter, were unmovable.

“You’re impressed with the sitting area shelves,” Jane said to me, waggling her eyebrows. “I made those you know.”

It was always jolting whenever I looked at her because the colors the woman wore were assaulting. So vibrant, so very many. “I am,” I agreed. “I like how you can crank the shelves up and then down when you move the bus.”

“The books on those still have to be packed and unpacked whenever we move this baby,” she said slowly. “And you know, my back isn’t what it used to be.”

I shook my head at her. Subtle she was not. “Do you want me to help you put the books on those shelves?”

“Oh well now, Christopher, that would be so kind of you.”

As I worked, something occurred to me. “Why did you move the bus, anyway? You have a permit to park here. Why were you driving it?”

Jane’s eyes narrowed as she regarded me. “I know what you’re really thinking.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” I replied innocently.

“You’re wondering, at my age, why I’m driving anything at all, let alone a bus.”

Yes, I was.

“I’ll have you know, I’ve never gotten a ticket in my life. Can you say the same?”

I could not. “Fine. But really, why move it?”

“Cybil wanted Mexican, and we certainly weren’t going to walk.”

“There’s streetcars and cabs and––”

“We don’t trust other people’s driving, and besides, every time we move it, we sell more books.”

“I have no idea why,” I grumbled. “These books are ridiculous.”

“Romance makes the world go round.”

Science made the world go round, but arguing with her, I knew from firsthand experience, would get me nowhere.

“You’re groaning,” Cybil remarked as she walked by me, toward the front of the bus, carrying a stack of paperbacks.

“These books will put people into sugar shock.”

“A few. Perhaps,” Jane conceded, smiling at me.

“A few? Have you looked at these titles?” I asked her.

“Of course,” she affirmed with an evil chuckle.

“The Sheik’s Son’s Secret,” I said, reading one to her before shooting her a look.

“That one is very sexy, and it’s about two men, in case you were wondering.”

I was not wondering at all.

“I’ll bet you can guess what the secret is.” She winked at me.

“This one is The Bourbon Baron’s Barren Bride.”

“Would you like to know why the bride is barren?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Because he’s a man!” Cybil called out from the front.

“Loved that one.” Jane said with a sigh.

“The Drowned Duke’s Lover’s Lady.”

“Now that one’s a ménage,” she clarified for me. “ women, one man.”

“Dear God.”

“Oh, don’t be such a prude.”

“The Silver-Spooned Spinster’s Son,” I went on.

“That one has two men, and it’s pretty good, though it has a bit too much fade-to-black for my taste. You would probably like it.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

She gave me a dismissive wave.

“The Secret the Sun Surfer Made.” I continued.

“Now just to clarify, the heroine in that one is a snowboarder, not a surfer like in the ocean.”

Like it mattered to me.

“That one’s a slow burn.”

“The Well-Bred Baker and His Cake?”

“Now that one might actually be a bit too sweet. I prefer some raunchy sack time in my romance and in real––”

“No. No.” I stopped her. “I don’t wanna hear that.”

She shrugged.

“Okay, the books are up, I helped you unpack, I’m outta here before the ick gets on me.”

“It’s love and romance, and you could do with getting some of that on you.”

I rolled my eyes and made it to the stairs.

“Christopher.”

Turning, I looked at Cybil who was sitting in the driver’s seat sorting books.

“Love is returning for you, my dear.”

“Do me a favor and get some books on science and history in here.”

“Never,” she vowed with a flourish.

“Chris?” Simone said my name, returning me to the present.

“Those two ladies are old busybodies is what they are,” I told her. “They just want free food, and everybody in here takes them plates throughout the day.”

“That part is true.”

“See? If they forecasted doom and gloom, do you think we’d be giving them Georgine’s food? I think not.”

“You used to be a romantic,” she said flatly. “I blame Dawson’s leaving for this.”

We were not talking about him today. “Can you get back to your point?”

“That we’re part of the community. Those ladies sit that bus over by the park when they come to town, and it’s nice to walk over there at eleven at night and look at books. I get to do that because we’re open, because we are a live-music venue that stays loud and fun until two in the morning on Friday and Saturday.”

“So you’re saying what?”

“That yes, we can become a full-time restaurant, but that’s not what either of us wants.”

“Agreed.”

“Then you have to bite the bullet and call the booker,” she concluded.

“Or,” I said because I had another idea, “we could invite street musicians.”

Instantly her face scrunched up.

“Why is that not a good idea?”

She shook her head.

“Wait, listen, I?—”

“They are used to working their own hours, with people they want to work with, and you know as well as I do that so many of them are unreliable and?—”

“That’s not true,” I argued. “Take Justice and Molly. They?—”

“Have a website, and you can Venmo them the money for their CDs right there on the street,” she said, then narrowed her eyes and did her really terrible impression of me that made me sound like a stoner. “They’re awesome and totally professional.”

I glared at her.

“Again, you have to remember they all work for themselves. They do what they want when they want. Why on earth would they choose to split profits with us when they can keep everything for themselves when they’re on the street?”

“I think they’d prefer a permanent place, not the fly-by-night of maybe having their spot and maybe not.”

“Everybody knows where each person sets up. Have you ever seen anyone take anyone else’s spot ever?”

I had not, but that wasn’t the point. “I just?—”

“Again, because you’re making me beat this poor dead horse, you have to keep in mind that they make their own hours and come and go as they please. Why would any of those people want to conform to ours?”

“To make themselves more legitimate.”

“Did I mention the websites and the Venmo? Some of them, their albums are on iTunes, for goodness’ sake.”

“We could ask,” I suggested.

“And listen to people hem and haw and need to think about it? Screw that. Anyone would be lucky for the opportunity to play at La Belle Vie, but more importantly, we don’t have time to wait or for indecision. We need a band now, Chris, not tomorrow, not next week. Now.”

I huffed out a breath. “Fine.”

“Okay, then. We’re agreed. You’ll call the booker.”

“Fine. But you have to meet her with me.”

“Oh, darling, that’s a given after your choices here lately.”

“I—”

“We cannot have her thinking that a metal group or a gospel group is something that’s going to work for us simply because you don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.”

“That’s not what?—”

“Oh, of course you can play here,” she said, again doing the horrible impersonation that everyone agreed sounded nothing like me. “No, it’s fine, we like Nordic Folk all-percussion and lute music. It’s our favorite.”

“You’re a bad person.”

She cackled. “I thought the high notes were going to break the glassware. So did Xo.”

“You better stop picking on me or I’ll call your mother.”

“And say what?” she goaded me.

“That your apartment in the Warehouse District is empty because you live with Michael Tucker in the Garden District in a lovely house where you give the man the milk for free.”

Her gasp was loud.

“What?” I asked innocently.

“You did not just say that!”

I scoffed. “I’m just repeating what your mother said when you told her you were thinking—just thinking , I might add—about moving in with the nice doctor.”

“You were supposed to be my backup.”

“I was,” I said defensively.

“No,” she insisted. “Let’s think back, shall we?”

“Let’s not,” I muttered. It had not, in fact, been one of my finer moments.

“You folded like a house of cards in a barely there breeze.”

“Yes, but your mother is so nice, and she really likes me.”

“It should be more important that I like you.”

I wasn’t so sure about that. “Should it? I mean, she feeds me all the time, and makes sure I’m invited over for all the holidays.”

“Everyone wants you for the holidays,” Simone said sulkily.

“Yes, but your mother always makes me my special apple-crumble pie.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, I know.”

“And her love language is service, making things, but we both know what she really wants more than anything.”

“I refuse to have this conversation with you again.”

“This is the year, my friend.”

“What?”

“Don’t what me. You and I both know that Michael keeps trying to take you away on romantic vacations to pop the question, and you keep blaming me for not being able to go.”

“That’s not completely true.”

“You can’t keep telling him that shit. I refuse to be the cockblock on his happy life,” I apprised her. “He’s gonna start to hate me.”

“No,” she said with a heavy sigh. “I already told him you’d let me go anywhere, anytime with him.”

“You did? When was this?”

“On Monday.”

“No wonder he was so nice to me on the phone yesterday.”

“Uh. Whatever.”

“You should just tell him that a grand gesture is not necessary,” I suggested. “You love him, just tell him yeah, I’ll marry you.”

She crossed her arms, saying nothing.

“What’s the issue?”

“What if I mess it up?”

“Why would you do that?”

“I have no idea, but I’ve messed up things in the past.”

“With guys who weren’t right for you.”

“How do you know that? Maybe they were, but I?—”

“They weren’t right. They didn’t get you or the fact that you’re funny.”

She was quiet a moment. “You think I’m funny?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh.”

“And Michael always laughs at your jokes.”

“That’s true.”

“For a neurosurgeon, he’s very pretty,” I reminded her.

“He is. A bit.”

“And one of these days, he’s going to say to your mother at dinner, ‘Sheryl, why won’t your daughter marry me?’”

She flipped me off.

“You’re gonna be in big trouble,” I assured her. “Huge.”

Her gaze met mine. “Enjoying your Pretty Woman impression over there?”

“I am. Yes.”

She groaned.

“And she’s right, you know. You really aren’t getting any younger.”

I got the double bird that time.

“Now, I don’t agree with Sheryl that you should stop working and should instead get married and then pregnant, but of course, we have one kid at work, so we can easily have another.”

“I hate you right now.”

“You’re the one lying to your mother,” I reminded her.

Her eyes fluttered.

“More importantly, you’re paying rent for something you don’t even use.”

She grunted. “That part is valid. I could use that money to go toward my partner buy-in, which would be smart.”

We were silent for a moment.

“You should take over my place. I know you love it,” she suggested. “And that apartment you’re in is much too small for you.”

I scoffed. “It’s perfect for me, and you know it. I’m hardly ever there except to sleep, it’s mostly quiet, I don’t have roaches because the spiders eat them, and it’s not haunted.”

She looked pained. “None of those things should be selling points, especially the spiders.”

“Your place is too much room for one person and?—”

“Never mind, let’s not go round and round again. Just, tomorrow you’ll call the booker and we’ll figure out our lives.”

There was nothing to do but agree.

Now, as I sat across from the talent booking agent, Evelyn Ewing, wondering if her parents had specifically searched for an E name to go with Ewing, I had the strangest feeling this was the wrong move. And that made no sense. It was clearly the right thing to do. Just because I’d never done it this way before didn’t mean it was wrong. Sometimes you had to jump even if you weren’t sure. But then I noticed Simone.

Her head was tipped slightly, her eyes narrowed. All the contracts were in front of her, spread out because she was supposed to be looking them over and then passing them to me to sign. Our lawyer, Charlie Meredith, had checked them earlier in the day, reported back that they were quite standard, and given us the go-ahead. So basically, we were good to go, except that Simone had neither slid the paperwork over to me nor passed me the pen.

“Explain to me again who decides what groups will play our venue,” Simone asked after a lull.

“Certainly,” agreed Evie—she’d told us to call her that.

The payments, how the money was handled, Simone was clear on all that, but I already knew she was having flashbacks of the gospel group as she spoke to Evie.

“My understanding was that we would decide who plays here,” Simone said gently, though her tone held a trace of warning. Those of us who knew her would have taken several steps back already. The whole angled head and slitty eyes said she was trying to figure out the best way to filet you.

I scooted my chair a bit away from the table to be on the safe side.

“As I explained before,” Evie began, she too sounding somewhat strained, “there are different acts that come through New Orleans and?—”

There was some noise behind us like someone had come into the club, and for whatever reason, more than one server seemed to be greeting them. And we were a bit slow at the moment, so that might have happened, but Simone was a stickler for guests not ever feeling overwhelmed by overly solicitous service. There had to be a balance in all things.

Because of the noise—my people were excited by someone or something—Evie glanced over to see what was happening. Simone and I were both facing her, and neither of us wanted to be rude by turning around.

Evie’s breath caught.

“And?” Simone pressed her, trying to get her back on track.

“And we… Oh my God,” she nearly moaned.

There was no other choice—we had to see what the big deal was. Both Simone and I turned at the same time.

“Oh. My. God.” Simone barely got the words out, her tone quite different from Evie’s. Hers was more like finding out that the new house you just bought had termites that had eaten the frame down to dust.

It was the craziest thing. I was both elated and terrified. Because of course, the moment I was sure I was never going to see the man again was when he walked back through the door of my club.

“Oh,” I said hoarsely, “look at you.”

Even though my words were low and rough, our new guest must have heard me since I was the one he was staring at, and his rakish grin, coupled with the sparkle in his deep-blue eyes, was enough to make me want to both run away and run to him. The see-saw I was on, up one moment, down the next, was hard to find balance on.

“What is Dawson West doing in your club?” Evie asked breathlessly, excitedly.

A damn good question. Because after two years of no calls, texts, emails, letters, or any kind of correspondence at all, you could have knocked me over with a feather.