Rebel Without a Cake Read online

  Eighteen

  By the time I left the French Quarter, it was nearly six. Knowing that Zydeco would be closing soon and Ox would be leaving the bakery any minute, I decided to head him off at the Dizzy Duke. The good angel on my shoulder warned me to wait until I’d cooled down. I told her to shut up and mind her own damn business.

  Traffic was so thick it took nearly an hour to get back to the Garden District, which did nothing to improve my mood. To make matters worse, I had to park around the corner and two blocks down from the bar in a seedy part of the neighborhood that always made me nervous after dark. After I locked my doors, I threaded the keys through my fingers and vowed that if anything happened to me, I’d make sure Ox knew it was his fault.

  Muted music and laughter drifted out of the bar as I got closer. I wished I could just go inside and relax. Why couldn’t Ox just man up and be honest? Part of me knew I should let my irritation with him go, but I’d had an hour in traffic to get worked up over that poorly disguised visit from Mambo Odessa. The whole way across town I’d tried to pull off that cheap bracelet but jute—or whatever it was—is surprisingly strong.

  Inside the Duke, I immediately looked behind the bar. Seeing Gabriel Broussard working cheered me up a little. Gabriel and I have gone out from time to time. He’s one reason Sullivan and I aren’t more serious. That and the fact that I’m still gun-shy after my almost-divorce. Plus, I honestly care for both men. Besides, Sullivan is solid and dependable and hot, while Gabriel is charming and mysterious and . . . well, hot. How’s a girl to choose?

  Gabriel gave me one of his sexy Cajun smiles—the ones that always turn my blood to warm honey.

  I made a beeline for him and thrust out my wrist. “Scissors, please.”

  A lazy lock of dark brown hair fell across his forehead, and his eyes roamed over me with stark appreciation. “Why do you need scissors?”

  I shook my wrist in front of him. “Just cut this off, okay? Scissors, a butcher knife, a chainsaw, whatever. I don’t care what you use.”

  He didn’t move. “You know what that is?”

  “Yeah. A cheap bracelet.”

  He cocked an eyebrow.

  “Okay. It’s a Brazilian something or other. Wish beads, I think.”

  “Exactly. You’ve been shopping?”

  “If I’d paid for it, I wouldn’t be asking you to cut it off,” I pointed out reasonably. “It was a gift, but I don’t want it. So just cut it off already, okay?”

  Gabriel found a knife by the sink and came back. “You’re sure that’s what you want?”

  His reluctant reaction stunned me. “What is wrong with you? Are you afraid of it or something?”

  “Afraid? No. Do you know what it’s for?”

  “Something about obstacles, blah, blah, blah.”

  “Overcoming obstacles,” Gabriel said. He looked completely serious.

  So serious, that all I could do was laugh. “Don’t tell me you believe in this voodoo stuff.”

  Gabriel gave me half a smile. “I respect it. I’ve seen what it can do. Who gave it to you?”

  “A woman named Mambo Odessa. She’s some kind of voodoo priestess.”

  “And she felt that you needed this?”

  I jerked my hand away. “Oh, for Pete’s sake. I’ll ask somebody else.”

  Gabriel laughed. “Virgin margarita?”

  “A regular one,” I said. “With salt.”

  Gabriel tossed a coaster onto the counter in front of me and gave me another long, slow look. “You look great, chérie. What’s the occasion?”

  I’d almost forgotten that I’d dressed up for my meeting with Simone O’Neil. I glanced down at my outfit and back up into Gabriel’s dark brown eyes. “I just came from a business meeting. A very important business meeting.” Which, of course, made me remember why I’d stopped by in the first place. “Has Ox been in yet?”

  “I haven’t seen him. You seem upset. What’s going on?”

  “Secrets,” I snarled. “More secrets. I’m getting really, really tired of them.” I followed this up with a pointed look, which Gabriel understood immediately. We’d pretty much worked through our issues over his own failures to be honest with me, but I was pissed at Ox and he wasn’t here, so unfortunately for him, that left Gabriel as target practice.

  “Who got on your bad side today?” Gabriel said, grinning as if he found my righteous anger amusing. “I know it wasn’t me this time.”

  I took a sip of my margarita and moaned a little when heaven hit my tongue. Among his many other talents, Gabriel is a master of his craft behind the bar. His margaritas are a perfect blend of tart and sweet. “Pick one of the following,” I said when I’d recovered. “Uncle Nestor. Bernice. Ox. Isabeau. Cousin Eskil. I’m sure there are more but those are the top five.”

  Gabriel leaned on the bar and gave me a sympathetic look, which might have made me feel better if his eyes hadn’t been dancing with mirth. “What has your uncle done this time?”

  I explained briefly about Miss Frankie and her family party, the bid for the Belle Lune Ball contract, about Uncle Nestor and the airline ticket and the bribe he’d used to make sure I kept my word. “If I’m like a daughter to him, why doesn’t he trust me? I said I’d be there for Christmas.”

  Gabriel shrugged. “He probably knows you well enough to pick up on your secrets.”

  I almost choked on my drink. “What secrets?”

  “You just said that you haven’t told Miss Frankie about your plans. That counts, right? And you haven’t told your uncle that you may not be able to get back to Albuquerque for Christmas. That makes two.”

  “Those aren’t the same thing at all. They’re not secrets, I’ve just been waiting for the right time to tell them.” I rested my chin in my hand and sighed. “And if I’m working the Belle Lune Ball for the Vintage Clothing Society, I still won’t have time to handle a week with Miss Frankie’s family. So they’ll both be upset with me anyway. On the other hand, Miss Frankie may not be a problem if Cousin Eskil doesn’t start talking to the police.”

  Gabriel’s brows furrowed. “I almost hate to ask, but who is Cousin Eskil, and what does he need to talk to the police about?”

  “He’s Miss Frankie’s neighbor Bernice’s cousin, and it’s a long story.” I told him about finding Silas Laroche in the ditch and my two trips in as many days to Baie Rebelle. Out of respect for the promises I’d made, I left out the part about Eskil’s visit to New Orleans on Friday night and Isabeau’s unannounced visit with Mambo Odessa. Out of respect for Gabriel, I didn’t mention my ruined date with Sullivan. The omissions robbed Gabriel of the full impact of my week, but what else could I do?

  His smile faded quickly as I talked. No big surprise there. It was quite a story, but it wasn’t sympathy that put the frown on his face. “I suppose you’ve convinced yourself that you just have to get involved,” he said when I finished.

  “Ha! I thought you’d say that, but you suppose wrong.” I’d finished my margarita while I talked, so I nudged my glass toward him, a signal that I needed another. “I have no intention of getting involved in that murder. It’s Miss Frankie and Bernice you should be worried about.”

  “Those sweet old ladies? Why? What are they doing?”

  “Miss Frankie thinks she’s some kind of amateur sleuth now. We managed to rein them in a bit, but I have no idea what they’ve been doing since I came back. They could be in jail by now. Or worse.”

  “And Ox? Whatever it is, you should just fire the man. He’s more trouble than he’s worth.”

  I knew he didn’t mean it. He and Ox got along well. But I liked being able to blow off steam so I went with it. “You have no idea. I have a chance for this great contract—an amazing opportunity for Zydeco. Actually Miss Frankie’s the one who made the contact, but that’s not the point. The point is, it’s going to be great for us. I
told everybody about it the other night when we were in here for Dwight’s birthday. Did they get excited? No! In fact, Ox got all bent out of shape and said I was making a big mistake but he wouldn’t tell me why. Like I’m supposed to do whatever he tells me just because he says to. And then he sent me off to a meeting today with Simone O’Neil without bothering to tell me that she’s a friend of his. Oh! And she’s Evangeline Delahunt’s daughter. I don’t think I said anything to Simone I shouldn’t have, but Ox should have told me.”

  Gabriel listened to the whole spiel without interrupting. “Ah. I see. He didn’t give you the whole history, eh? Well. He probably should have. Fire him. Be done with it.”

  I gave him a look. “You know I don’t want to fire him. I just want him to stop doing stuff like this.”

  “Stuff like what?”

  “Like I just told you. Were you even listening?”

  Gabriel brushed my cheek with the backs of his fingers, and a slow burn started deep inside me. “Yes. I was listening.”

  Sexy Cajun and tequila are a lethal combination. I might have forgotten all about being angry if Ox and Isabeau hadn’t walked through the door right then. Such rotten timing!

  Ox acted as if he didn’t see me—which only inflamed me more. Especially since Isabeau gave me a little wave as they headed toward our usual table. Anger and Sexy Cajun had a little tug-of-war but anger won out.

  I hopped off my stool and grabbed my drink. “Don’t you dare serve him until I get a few answers,” I warned Gabriel and set off across the bar.

  Ox looked annoyed when I dropped into the seat beside his. I didn’t care. Right then I could have taught him a few things about annoyed. The music on the PA system blared, making it almost impossible to carry on a conversation. I didn’t care about that either. “Why didn’t you tell me that Simone O’Neil is Evangeline Delahunt’s daughter?”

  Ox stared at me for a long moment. “You didn’t ask.”

  “Are you kidding me? I had to ask? That’s nuts! You also didn’t tell me that you know Simone well. She said to tell you hello and she’s looking forward to working with you again. So what’s the deal? How do you know her, and why did Philippe refuse to work for her mother?”

  “This isn’t the place,” Ox said.

  “That’s a lame excuse. Just where is the place, Ox? This place was good enough when you decided to tell me how I was signing Zydeco’s death warrant. What’s so special about your story that you can’t tell it here?”

  Slowly, he turned his head until our eyes met. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

  I was so tired of the power struggle between us. “That’s kind of the point, isn’t it? Why don’t you put yourself in my place for five minutes? Think about how you’d feel if I knew something important about a job but didn’t tell you. Or how you’d feel if every time you made a decision, I challenged you.”

  Isabeau said something conciliatory. I tuned her out. This was between Ox and me.

  Ox’s nostrils flared and his eyes flashed. “What do you want me to say, Rita? That you’re right? Okay. You’re right. You feel better now?”

  “No! I don’t feel better at all. I thought we were friends. I thought we were working together. I thought we’d put all of this”—I waved my hands around as if I could pluck the right word out of the air—“this stupid . . . this behind us. What do you want from me? What will it take to get you on my side for once?”

  “You think I’m not your friend, Rita? Really? Has it ever occurred to you that maybe I don’t tell you things because I am your friend? There are some things it’s best not to know.”

  I was vaguely aware of Isabeau wandering away. Maybe that should have warned me that something big was coming, but it didn’t.

  “How could not knowing that Evangeline Delahunt is Simone O’Neil’s mother be best for me? You let me walk into that meeting without all the facts. I could have said something completely inappropriate. I could have ruined everything for all of us because you withheld information from me. So who’s signing Zydeco’s death warrant now?”

  Ox’s breathing had become labored, and his eyes had narrowed to tiny slits. “You want the truth? Fine. I didn’t tell you about Simone and Evangeline because I thought if you knew, you might find out the rest of the story.”

  “The rest of what story? Why would I care?”

  “You really want to know?” he said. “Okay, here it is. Before Philippe left here for pastry school, Evangeline set her sights on him. She thought he’d make a perfect husband for Simone and the perfect son-in-law for her. He had the right credentials, the right breeding, and the right social standing. She did everything she could to push them together.”

  I blinked a couple of times. It explained why Philippe had resisted working with them, but I wasn’t sure why Ox thought it would upset me. Learning about an old girlfriend from before he even met me wasn’t going to send me into a tailspin. “So?”

  “It wasn’t just Evangeline who was trying to push them together, Rita.” Ox turned in his seat to face me, and gave me a look full of meaning, like he expected me to put two and two together so he wouldn’t have to keep talking.

  I tried, but came up blank.

  Ox closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. “Miss Frankie wanted the match, too. She wanted Simone Delahunt—O’Neil now—to be her daughter-in-law. She was already planning the wedding, the reception, the whole shebang, when Philippe left for Chicago.”

  My stomach lurched and my head began to swim. I’d worked through most of my issues with Philippe, but knowing that Miss Frankie had handpicked someone else to be his wife brought up all the issues I’d struggled with since I was a kid.

  “You want the rest?” Ox asked.

  “There’s more?”

  “You know Miss Frankie. She didn’t give up hope for a while.”

  The margaritas churned again. “How long is ‘a while’?”

  “A while,” Ox said. Then his expression softened. Oh God, was that pity I saw? “She did give up eventually and got completely on board with you and Philippe.”

  I couldn’t make myself ask when that transformation had taken place. Was it before we got married or after? I realized that Ox had been right in the first place. There are some things I didn’t want to know.

  Miss Frankie told me often that she loved me. That I was like a daughter to her. But I wondered now if she was telling the truth when she said those things. Or was that just her way of manipulating me to stay in New Orleans so she wouldn’t be alone?

  My stomach flopped hard. I lurched to my feet and clapped both hands over my mouth as I tried to get out of my chair and away from the table. I raced to the ladies’ room. Or maybe raced is the wrong word. I stumbled over feet and purses and chairs and table legs, but I finally made it through the crowds of happy, laughing people and threw myself through the door. I bounced off a woman who staggered out as I burst in and lunged into a stall just in time.

  If I could give one piece of advice, it would be this: Never, ever, ever get sick in the ladies’ room at a bar.

  Nineteen

  I spent most of Wednesday swallowing ibuprofen and trying to calm my upset stomach. I also spent it trying to avoid Ox. I wasn’t ready to talk to him yet. Actually, I wasn’t really ready to talk to anyone, so I buried myself in paperwork, some of which was actually necessary.

  Edie left me alone for the most part, except asking me to cover for her when she had to go to the ladies’ room. Since she was just a few weeks from delivering a baby, though, her visits ended up being roughly five minutes apart. While she was gone, I fielded a few calls and played some solitaire on her computer, and I thought a lot about the cake for the Belle Lune Ball.

  The ball would take place in January, so I wanted to avoid flavors too closely associated with the holidays, such as spice or chocolate-peppermint. Red velvet, though a
traditional favorite in the South, would be both too ordinary and much too heavy for what I wanted. I wanted the flavor, filling, and icing to match well with the decorations, which meant they should be light and bright—but summery, citrusy flavors (like Aunt Margaret’s pea-pickin’ cake) would be out of place in the winter.

  It may have looked like I was killing time, but I was actually very busy. This is why creative people often get a bum rap. We spend a lot of time in our heads thinking, planning, considering ideas, and tossing out the obviously bad ones before we ever take a step that someone else can see. Simone O’Neil had seemed enthusiastic about the cake design I’d sketched for her the day before, but until I had flavors in mind, I couldn’t even begin to start planning in earnest.

  During what was surely Edie’s two-hundredth visit to the bathroom, while I was focused on a winning hand of solitaire, the front door opened and a large pot of Shasta daisies walked through it. We don’t take walk-in clients at Zydeco, so seeing something walk through the door unannounced would have been unusual even if it hadn’t been a pot of flowers.

  The flowers settled on Edie’s desk, and River appeared from behind them. He’s a good-looking guy with short dark hair and a friendly smile. Sometimes he wears glasses. Sometimes he doesn’t. He was wearing them today, and I thought they gave him a sincere look.

  Upon first meeting, you’d never guess that he was Sparkle’s brother. She’s dark and goth and chronically annoyed by the world. He’s the complete opposite. But then, to hear them talk about their childhood in the commune and their mother’s utter lack of concern over details like the names of the men she’d slept with, there was a chance they weren’t actually related by blood. Neither of them had any proof that the woman who’d raised them was actually their biological mother, and apparently, she’d been a bit vague on that point as well. Absent a rash of DNA tests, I didn’t think anyone would ever know for sure.