Page 99 of Grim
Feisty.
Rue grins like she’s won something.“That’s what I’ll have then.”
The old gentleman shoots back to the kitchen before returning with a glass of water and an amber liquid, adorned by a twist of lemon.
“Your meal will be right up. In the meantime, enjoy a Sazerac, on the house.”
Rue blinks. “Oh, I don’t drink very often.”
“Live a little,” I say, leaning in, while at the same time, the older man says, “Good thing now isn’t often.”
That riddle leaves us both speechless.
“Care for a story?” he offers.
Rue glances toward me, looking slightly unsettled. I can almost feel the chill running down her spine. She forces a small smile and looks up at the man.
“I love a good story.”
This seems to please the man, his dark eyes dancing under the lights as he sets one steady hand on the table—scarred, heavy-knuckled.
“Jean Simone and his wife founded this place in 1834,” he begins, voice dropping like an incantation. “Four years later, a Creole apothecary and friend of the family, Antoine Peychaud, created this drink in the back with his favorite French cognac and a splash of absinthe. He would make small batches of it that the owners would share with their favored guests after operating hours.” He pauses, and Rue leans in, completely engrossed with his story. “Legend has it that some of the first imbibers saw ghosts. When Jean went back to Antoine with the news, Antoine looked decidedly unsurprised. ‘Why, of course,MonsieurJean. The spirits speak the ultimatetruth. That’s why I’ve devoted my craft to learning how to summon them.’”
The silence lingers after this story.
He slides the drink forward gently. “I’ll leave this here for you. In case you feel like summoning any spirits,” he continues with a gentle smile.
Rue and I stare at the glass, then to each other, countless unspoken questions hanging between us.
I wonder the name of this man, and so must Rue because she voices the question with a small shake in her voice. “What’s your name, sir?”
“My mama calls me Charles. So, everyone else does too.”
“Nice to meet you, Charles. I appreciate the story. And the drink,” Rue says, eyeing the glass.
“Go ahead,” I encourage. “It ain’t gonna kill ya.”
“And the company,” Rue says by way of a toast as she raises the glass to the affable Charles before he walks off. She sets the glass down and looks at me.
“Well,” I say, voice low, “you can’t say he didn’t set the mood.”
She lifts the drink again, staring at it cautiously. “He’s either the best host or the most charming soul stuck here on Earth.”
“I’m undecided,” I mutter jokingly.
She raises the glass in a soft toast. “To amazing stories.”
Rue takes a small sip of the drink, winces immediately, and starts coughing.
Charles’s full-bellied laugh floats from the kitchen as he calls out, “Well, spirits aren’t for everyone, darlin’.”
Rue takes another pensive sip of her cocktail with similar results before she switches to water. Then she makes a show of putting her earbuds back in while pulling out her phone.
“Should probably call my mom,” she murmurs while pretending to push a contact on her screen.
“Probably wise,” I muse. “I’m sure she’ll have plenty to say about your alcohol-induced hauntings.”
Rue rolls her eyes. “Shut up, Grim.”
