I groaned—this was not why I’d come to Remy’s. To talk about my reasons for being here, my mom. I wanted to play some jazz and forget.
“All right, I see you,” Priscilla said. “But we’re talking at some point, boy.”
A giant Cajun man stepped out onto the porch, wiping his hands off on the apron around his thick waist. “I don’t believe it,” Remy said, his accent as thick as the swamp. “I just don’t believe it.”
“Hi, Remy.” I stuck out my hand but Remy pulled me in for a bone-crushing hug.
“You,” Remy said. “You been gone too long.” I was surprised to see the big guy’s eyes were wet. “That money you sent after the last storm—”
Priscilla crossed herself.
I tried to stop the conversation before it got started. This gratitude business was always so damn uncomfortable. “Remy, seriously, you don’t have to—”
“I do. I do have to thank you, and you have to listen. The boys in the band were able to feed their families and give them clothes and a place to stay until they got back on their feet. We got a few of them trailers for some folks around here.”
“I’m glad,” I said.
“And this last bunch of money.” Priscilla whistled. “Boy, you trying to buy the place?”
“No! No, I just know that times are tough and you guys know better than I do about people in these parts that need help the most.”
“Well.” Remy put his arm around me, leading me in the back door through the steam and spice of the kitchen. Remy had to yell over the sounds of pots and pans and the cooks calling out my name. “People out here are grateful,” Remy said while I shook some hands. People I didn’t know were thanking me for what I’d done for their families. “The band is waiting for you and tonight your money ain’t no good. Now, what you need?” Remy asked, pounding me on the shoulders.
“Let’s start with a beer,” I said. My whole body, my heart and my head, the wounds from Juliette’s disdain—everything was good. Healed. “And see where the night takes us.”
JULIETTE
I parked my sedan out front of The Manor, killed the lights and the engine and sat there, in the dark, feeling every moment of my thirty-one years.
Resentment squeezed my throat tight, squashing the apology I was going to have to give Tyler.
I wasn’t even sure if I could do this. Apologize. Ask him for more help, now adding Miguel’s sister to the mix.
Laughter, surprised and exhausted, bubbled out of my chest. What a mess. What a freaking freak show of a mess. But sitting in my car doubting myself wasn’t going to get anything done.
I threw open my door and stepped across the lawn to the bright red front door of The Manor.
Maybe he’d see the humor in this whole situation. He probably would. Everything was a joke to Tyler.
Maybe we could just have a laugh at how ridiculous all of this was and be done with it. Wouldn’t that be nice?
The front porch was gone, and so I braced myself on the door frame and pulled myself up onto the narrow lip of the stoop.
The bright red door was cracked open.
Good Lord, didn’t Tyler take anything seriously? I’d told him there had been suspicious activity, that his own mother had been caught breaking into the place because of some gems.
I pushed the door open and it squealed in protest.
“Miguel?” An older man who bore a remarkable resemblance to George Clooney stepped into the foyer and I reached for my gun.
“Who the hell are you?” I demanded, and the man put his hands in the air, his eyes wide and blinking in shock.
“Richard,” he said. “I’m Richard Bonavie—”
I lowered the gun.
“Tyler’s father?” I whispered.
Ten years ago, Tyler had told me about Richard Bonavie; absent father and gambler. Ghost. And Tyler’s voice had been bright with hero worship. Warm with all the love a parentless kid could create out of thin air.
Tyler found you, I thought, an errant pain and a wild pleasure zinging through my chest. After all those years of dreaming about you, he finally found you.
“Yes,” Richard said, lowering hands. “I’m Tyler’s dad. We’re—”
“Why did you think I was Miguel?” I asked.
“Two nights ago he left his schoolbag. He came back that night.” Richard lifted a backpack. “And he forgot it again today.”
“Oh,” I said, lowering my gun back to its holster. Suddenly things didn’t seem quite right. As the shock wore away the whole situation smelled slightly off.
“How long have you been here?” I asked.
“A week, maybe more,” he said, with a casual shrug that I saw through in an instant. A week? Tyler had gotten here on Sunday night. Why hadn’t he told me that he was meeting his father here?
In fact…everything slowly, slowly clicked into place.