Page 13 of Burn for You (Slow Burn 1)
; But if Jackson Boudreaux was serious about his threat to sue, I’d have to revamp everything, fast. Then I supposed I’d have to hire myself a lawyer.
Stuck-up son of a lazy-eyed catfish!
What little sleep I’d had was filled with nightmares about being chased from the restaurant by a pack of wolves, led by one particularly large and nasty specimen that was all sharp teeth and vicious growls, his black fur bristling as he snapped at my heels. I woke with my heart pounding, the sheets drenched in sweat. And now I looked like I’d been chewed up and spit out by an ornery gator.
I pinned my hair into a bun, then smoothed a dollop of pomade over all the rebellious little flyaways staging a protest around my hairline. Then I brushed my teeth and got dressed, not bothering with makeup. There was no concealer on earth that could tackle my undereye bags today, and I’d never quite mastered the art of applying mascara. Or lipstick, for that matter. The last time I wore it was at Christmas, and by the time mass was over at church it had smeared all over my teeth. I looked like I’d eaten a box of red crayons.
So it was barefaced that I appeared at my mother’s door to check on her on my way to the restaurant, as I did every morning. She took one look at me and raised her brows.
“Well,” she said, “I know you don’t look so rough because of a man, chère, so come on in and tell me the story.”
“Actually it is because of a man.”
I gave my mother a hug, then stepped past her into the small but beautiful front parlor of her home. Perfumed with vases of flowers and the scent of her Shalimar, with the low, throaty voice of Ella Fitzgerald crooning from the hidden speakers in the walls, it was a little oasis of elegance and style amid the gentle decay of Tremé.
The oldest African American neighborhood in the United States, Tremé was the musical heart of New Orleans, going all the way back to the seventeen hundreds, when slaves were allowed to gather in Congo Square on Sundays to dance and play music. Jazz was invented here. The civil rights movement started here. We have brass bands, incredible cuisine, cultural history museums, more festivals than days of the week, and famous historical sites galore.
But it’s a bad idea for tourists to take a stroll after dark. Drugs are a problem, and jobs are in short supply. And all those boarded-up houses that were abandoned after the flood still stand, flowering with toxic black mold, a daily reminder of the heartbreak of Hurricane Katrina.
Life can be good in Tremé, but it’s never been easy.
At the mention of a man, my mother got excited. “Well let me put on my glasses so I can hear you better!”
She often said nonsensical things like that. It was part of her charm. That, and her gift of making you feel welcome.
She slid her glasses up her nose and peered at me through them. Worn on a silver chain around her neck, they were her one concession to the fact that she was aging.
“It’s a long story, Mama,” I said with a sigh. “And not worth retelling.”
She squinted. Her big brown eyes were magnified even bigger through the lenses of her glasses. “No saucy bits?”
“Not even one.”
Instantly losing interest, she removed the dreaded glasses and let them dangle from the chain once more. “Did you have breakfast, chère?”
I shrugged. “Coffee and some aspirin.”
“That’s not breakfast, silly child!” she scolded. “Get your skinny behind in this house and eat!”
She turned and floated away to the kitchen in a cloud of perfume and motherly disappointment, her flowing purple robe billowing around her ankles as she moved. Barefoot and nimble, she still had her beauty queen’s graceful, gliding gait, even at sixty-four years old.
Excuse me. Thirty-nine. For a second there I forgot what year it was that she’d stopped aging.
“I made collard greens, shrimp and grits, and Cajun benedict,” she called over her shoulder. “And I’ve got okra gumbo and my famous jambalaya simmerin’ on the stove for later.”
That would’ve been a lot of food for a single woman living alone, but my mother had a steady stream of callers throughout the day, from brunch straight through to cocktail hour and beyond. There was nothing she enjoyed more than visiting. Or “holding court,” as I liked to call it.
And speaking of callers . . .
“Good morning, Colonel!” I called down the hall toward my mother’s closed bedroom door.
There was a pause, and then a muffled reply. “Mornin’, sugar!”
There was only one reason my mother’s bedroom door was closed in the morning, and the Colonel was it. Trying not to picture what might go on behind that door, I smiled.
“Leave him be, Bianca,” said my mother from the kitchen. “C’mon now, I’m making you up a plate.”
