Little Gale Gumbo (22 page)

Matthew smiled at Josie. “I don't see why not either, JoJo. Thanks.”

“We're so sorry we couldn't get here before now, Ben,” Josie said, leaning closer. “We wanted to but they wouldn't let us.” Josie looked up between Matthew and Dahlia. “I don't want him thinking we just didn't come,” she whispered. “Unconscious patients can still hear what you're saying, you know. I read that too.”

“He knows, JoJo. Don't worry.”

A cell phone chimed. Matthew fumbled in his pocket, his face brightening for a moment when he saw the ID screen. “It's Holly,” he said, glancing to the door. “I should really take this.”

Dahlia and Josie exchanged a wary look. “Of course,” Josie said, forcing an understanding smile. “We'll be here.”

Matthew pushed through the waiting room door and walked to the window. “There isn't much to tell. I haven't talked to the doctor yet.”

Holly's voice was tight, nervous, on the other end. “I couldn't sleep last night. I had the worst dreams of my life,” she said. “I was in this huge house and I was supposed to meet your dad in one of the rooms but I couldn't find my way back to the stairs and . . . God, it's so awful.”

“I know.”

“How are they holding up?”

Matthew knew she meant the sisters. “As well as can be expected.”

“What about you?”

“I'm getting through, I guess. Whatever that means.” He glanced up at a TV on the wall, a news channel with the sound turned off. He turned back to the window and watched a man walking his dog across the street. “How's Hoop?”

“He's fine.”

“Has he crapped in any of Peter's shoes yet? I've been training him with overpriced Italian loafers. His aim is remarkable.”

Holly gave in to a weary laugh. “You don't quit, do you?”

“I never used to.” An old woman shuffled into the waiting room, a young woman carrying a baby behind her. “Lately, I don't seem to have a choice.”

A heavy silence landed on the line.

“This isn't why I called, Matt. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Matthew leaned against the window, the glass cold on his cheek.

“And if I'm not?”

“Matt, I've been thinking about things,” she said. “I want us to talk.”

It was a brief but palpable promise; he seized it helplessly.

“We're talking right now,” he said.

“No, I mean face-to-face. When you get back. When do you think you'll leave?”

“It's hard to say. It'll depend on whether . . .”

“Of course.” Holly rescued him. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that.”

“I can call Maggie if you can't keep Hooper that long.”

“Of course I can. He's our dog, Matt.”

Our
dog. She might have said her dog too, but she'd hadn't, and the simple word filled him with relief, with stupid hope.

“I miss you, Holl,” he said, almost as if she weren't still on the line.

She sighed. “I have to go, Matt. I'm really sorry; it's just that I have this meeting and . . .”

Matthew closed his eyes, confusion swirling through him. The plea sat on his tongue, thick and useless:
Don't hang up, Holly. Please
.

But she did. And after a moment, so did he.

 

“Hey, Chief!” Danny Chandler set down a pair of pint glasses and leaned his meaty hands on the long slab of varnished oak as Jack approached the bar. “Pour you somethin'?”

Jack smiled, sliding onto a stool. “Much as I'd love to, Dan, I can't.”

Shell's Pub was quiet on a Sunday afternoon. Jack glanced around, waved to a few familiar islanders at the end of the bar, watching baseball on a mounted TV.

Danny sighed as he wiped his hand on a bar towel, slung it over one broad shoulder. “What a friggin' mess. Christ, I couldn't believe it when I heard about what happened.”

“Is Kip here?” Jack asked.

“Yeah, he's in the back breakin' down boxes. I'll go get him.”

The pub owner ambled down to the end of the bar, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted toward the back, “Hey, Kip!”

When no answer came, Danny motioned for one of the customers to try. Larry Betts leaned over on his stool and bellowed in the same direction.

Danny returned, shaking his head. “He wears those goddamned things in his ears all the time. It's like livin' with a mime, I swear to Christ.”

A few moments later, Kip Chandler came out of the back, wiping sweat from his red cheeks. “Hey, Chief Thurlow.”

“Son, tell the chief what you told me,” Danny said. “Tell him what Bergeron said to ya.”

The young man came around the bar and pulled a Coke from the cooler. “He didn't say much. Mostly asked me about Ben Haskell, wanted to know if he was still around and stuff. I told him I thought so but I wasn't sure.”

“Tell him the other thing,” Danny said. “The thing about directions.”

Jack looked to Kip. “Charles Bergeron asked you for directions?”

“Yeah.”

Dread crawled up Jack's back. “Directions to where?”

Kip thought on it a moment, his nose wrinkling; then he said, “Walnut. He wanted to know the quickest way to Walnut.”

“You're sure?”

“Yeah. I'm sure.”

Jack released an aching breath.

Walnut. Dahlia's street.

 

The sisters left Matthew at the hospital just before noon with the promise that he would join them for dinner. When they passed the café on their way home, the curtains were still drawn in the tall windows.

“Wayne wants to close the café for a few days,” Josie said. “Just until this all blows over.”

“What do you think?” said Dahlia.

Josie shrugged. “I don't know. A part of me likes having it to ourselves again. Reminds me of how it was when we first opened. How we all used to go in there, getting it ready, getting excited.”

“You were so nervous,” said Dahlia.

“I was a wreck,” Josie concurred cheerfully. “And I was right to be.”

“At first. But it all worked out.”

Josie considered her sister's phrasing as Dahlia steered them out of town along the island's southern coastline, where boats dotted the olive green swells just beyond the jagged rise of rocks still slick with the tide's retreat. Had it all worked out? Josie wondered. She wasn't so sure.

“Wayne must still be out on the water,” Josie said when Dahlia pulled them into the empty driveway. She turned to her sister, her expression suddenly serious. “Dahl, you didn't mention anything to Matty about us working with the adoption agency, did you?”

“No. Why?”

“Good,” Josie said, relieved. “Then let's not bring it up, okay? I just think it would be really insensitive right now, what with Holly leaving him and everything.” Josie looked down at her hands in her lap and shrugged. “I'm not even sure it's such a good time for us, anyway. I mean, there's no way our application would be approved when they realize who we are, who
I
am. And besides, if Ben . . .
when
Ben wakes up, Matty's going to need my help taking care of him, and I need to be there.”

“Joze, I'm sure Matty'll have to hire a nurse or someone—”

“A nurse?” Josie stared at her sister. “Dahl, how could we let some total stranger take care of Ben as long as we're here?” She looked back to the house, her lips set in a determined line. “No, ma'am,” she said firmly. “I wouldn't feel right about that. I'd do it for Momma as much as for Ben.”

Dahlia studied Josie's profile, surprised at her sister's insistence, her burst of reasons for preventing the child she'd wanted her whole life.

“Have you talked to Wayne about any of this?”

“I don't see any point in bringing it up just yet,” Josie said. “It would only upset him, and I'm sure our application is the farthest thing from his mind right now.”

Dahlia wasn't nearly as certain as her sister, but still she said, “Sure, Joze. Whatever you think.”

“Thanks.” Josie sighed, as if something deeply burdensome had been resolved.

The sisters hugged and Josie climbed out.

“Oh, hey,” Josie said, “whatever happened with the Hobart job this weekend?”

Dahlia shrugged. “Nothing. They canceled the party.”

“Maybe that's for the best.” Josie grinned. “See you back here for dinner? I'm making étouffée.”

“Show-off,” Dahlia yelled as she shifted into reverse and pulled back out onto the street. She was all the way down the block before she saw the reflection of the cruiser's lights in her rearview mirror and her breath caught in her throat.

Jack.

Eighteen

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was Ben's idea to open the café.

The inspiration came to him one afternoon in late summer when he watched Camille deliver a tub of pralines to the AMVETS hall for their end-of-season bake sale. He made his suggestion official at dinner that night and the whole table darted forward enthusiastically.

Everyone except for Camille.

“Oh, no,” she said. “I've already tried selling my wares on this island, and you remember what a complete failure that was.”

“Now, that was different,” insisted Ben.

“How was it different?” Camille asked.

“You know how,” Ben said gently. “People here don't understand Voodoo. But food is different. There's no scandal in eating a bowl of gumbo. Besides, you already sell giant tubs of it.”

“At school fairs,” she argued. “That's hardly a business.”

“But it could be.”

“He's right, Momma,” said Josie. “You know he is.”

Camille waved her napkin, flustered. “Oh, come on, now. I don't know the first thing about running a restaurant, Benjamin.”

“So what?” Ben said. “I'll help you.”

Camille laughed loudly. “You don't know the first thing either!”

“No,” he admitted sheepishly. “So we'll learn together.”

“How? You already have a job.”

It was kind of her, but they both knew his work as an island handyman was hardly steady employment.

“Come on, Camille,” he said. “We'd make great partners; you know we would.”

“Oh, yes!” said Josie. “Can we, Momma, please?”

Camille had to admit her heart raced at the idea. And she was so tired of the Laundromat, waking up with sore bones and aching feet. Not that running a restaurant was any easier. But at least she'd be doing something she loved.

But . . .
partners
. Camille studied Ben's face, letting the strange word wash over her. She had no idea what it meant to have a partner. Someone to help, to support, to cheer. She realized, almost blushing when she did, that Ben
had
been her partner, nearly from the day she'd stepped into his house. Surely more of a partner than she had ever known in Charles, and she and Ben didn't even share a bed, though the thought had crossed her mind more times than she dared to admit.

Still, to hear the word
partner
sent a curious shiver curling down her back. It had been almost eight months since Charles's disastrous visit, and in his continued absence she'd grown fond of her independence. Even in business, Camille suspected a man could be as controlling as he might be in the bedroom. Maybe even a kind man like Benjamin Haskell could reveal ugly tendencies in the unpredictable moments of stress....