“Sweet tea would be wonderful.”
“My girl has gone to the market. I'll fetch it for you. Make yourself comfortable. You can put your dog downâshe won't be able to get out.”
Josie stared with open mouth at the magnificent oak tree in the center of the courtyard.
Barbe espagnol,
also known as Spanish moss, dripped from the branches. The tree had to be three hundred years old. She tried to guess the measurements of the humongous trunk but had to give up. It would take at least four grown men with long arms to reach around it. A wrought-iron bench circled the tree. She knew it was custom-made, for there were no breaks anywhere in the iron.
Amazing,
she thought. Everywhere she looked there were colorful flowers in clay pots on the beautiful, low brick walls. Just the right height for watering. The brick on the ground was just as beautiful, with emerald green moss growing between the bricks, some of which were being pushed askew by the heavy, thick roots of the ancient tree. It didn't alter the beauty of the courtyard one tiny bit. She slipped off her shoes and wiggled her toes over the luscious moss while Rosie sniffed out every nook and cranny. She was careful not to disturb the moss. Moss was precious to New Orleanians.
Josie chose a small wrought-iron bench with a cushion as colorful as the flowers on the walls to sit down on. Rosie immediately scampered to her side.
I could go to sleep right here,
she thought.
Did Mrs. Lobelia's children play out here when they were children?
Somehow she knew they climbed the old tree and swung from its gnarled old branches. That's what she would have done.
“Here you are, my dear. So, how do you like my courtyard ?”
“It's so beautiful I don't know what to say. This tree is so gorgeous, it takes my breath away. Did your children climb it when they were little?”
“Yes they did. I did, too, as a matter of fact. Sometimes I think it cries for children. I talk to it, you know. And to my flowers. I play music for them. I'm not off my rocker, as you young people say. There's a little fountain in the back part by the little grotto, but it isn't working today. We need to replace some hoses. It's so hard to find help these days. It's a little job, and no one wants to spend the time or the effort on little jobs. All they think about is money and how much they can gouge you for. Now, tell me: What brings you here and what can I do for you? Don't tell me you came up with a recipe already.”
“I'm good but not that good, Mrs. Lobelia. Actually I came here to make a proposition.”
“I'd like it if you would call me Marie and, if it's all right with you, I'll call you Josie. What kind of proposition ?”
“The ladies you're inviting to your King Cake party, and the ones you plan to surprise on Mother's Day, are they all of an age with you, retired so to speak?”
“Yes, they are. Why?”
“Are any of them good cooks?”
“Every single one of them is an excellent cook. They fight and squabble over recipes all the time. We spend a lot of time talking about the old days.” The tiny, sculpted face registered total horror when she said, “Today we ate Uncle Ben's Rice Bowls. We got them in the freezer at the grocery store. It's so disgusting, I'm ashamed to admit we not only bought themâwe ate them, too. You just throw the bowl away. No cleanup. No cleanup allows for more time to watch the soaps. Today it was all suds,” she quipped. “I welcome your visit.”
“I need some good cooks. I'm afraid I've overextended myself. My sister is wearing herself out. Like you said, it's hard to find good help. I was thinking if some of your relatives and friends could give a few hours a day it would be wonderful. I have a van, so I could drive over here to pick everyone up and then bring them home. Cooking would be mostly late afternoon. I'll pay whatever they want.”
“Pay! I can tell you right now none of them will take a penny. What they will do is trample both of us when I tell them. Take Réné for example. She's an expert on Andouille. She has recipes you never dreamed of. Some of them are over a hundred years old, handed down through her family. She is the absolute best. Yvette is a master of jambalaya. She has recipes that have never gone beyond her family. Charlet is our gumbo specialist. They were all wonderful cooks in their day. As long as it doesn't matter if their hands shake or they forget things, they'll certainly agree to help you out.”
“That makes me feel a little better. I'll snap them up right now. What's your speciality, Marie?”
“Why do you think I bought the rice bowls? I was never a cook. Everything I ever cooked tasted the same. Bland, no matter how much spice or seasoning I put in things. I was very good at running my father's business, though. When the children were little we had all kinds of help: a cook, a laundress, someone to clean, someone to care for the children. I never had to learn. The truth is, I hate the kitchen.”
“You sound like me. I even took cooking lessons. They gave me back my money. We have two parties this Saturday. A late-afternoon one with the food served at four o'clock and a dinner party served at eight o'clock. Is that too soon? I can leave a copy of the menu with you. Aren't you working today, Marie?”
“I just go into the office a few hours early in the morning. I need to be here with my friends. Some of them aren't as . . . spry as the others. The business runs itself more or less. It's so hard to accept that you've been forgotten by those you love with all your heart. I have not seen my son in five years. He calls every few months to say hello. He called yesterday. The last time he called was a week before Christmas. I can't stand the thought that he fits me into his schedule. Maybe I am a foolish old woman, but I don't care. Every time I hear his voice my heart breaks a little more. It's much too painful. Enough of my meandering here. Is there a young man in your life, chère?”
“No, not really. My sister tells me I'm too picky. Maybe I want bells and whistles. When I give my heart to someone it's going to be forever. My mom gave my dad her heart. She told me once that she said those very words on their wedding day. She said, âI give you my heart forever and ever.' I was little when she told me that, but it stayed with me. I do have a date tonight. We're going to dinner at Commander's Palace. I can't believe I agreed to go out with someone with a ponytail. I met him when he came to hire us and his dog is the one who created that mess at the cottage. Then I met him again last night when I was walking my dog. He ended up walking me home. Our dogs are smitten with each other.”
“It sounds like the beginning of one of those romance novels. A bad one,” Marie said. “What else does he have going for him?”
“I think he might be rich. He travels a lot. He seems to love his dog. Good dresser, and he has a real nice body. He's probably one of those love 'em and leave 'em types. I have no time for that. I don't even know why I said yes. Probably because of the dogs. Oh, I forgot to tell you: He left the dog with me last night. I'm starting to get nervous thinking about all this. I know where he lives. I could stop by and cancel.”
“Good Lord, chère, why would you want to do that? You go out and have a good time. From the looks of you I don't think there are too many women who can hold a candle to you. You are a beautiful young woman. Strut your stuff. Make him dance to your tune. And don't baby-sit his dog again either!”
“Yes, ma'am,” Josie said, saluting smartly.
“Would you like to meet the ladies before you leave?”
“Absolutely.”
Marie put her fingers to her mouth and let loose with an earsplitting whistle. “That'll bring them on the run. Bet you can't do that!”
“Wanna bet! Kitty and I used to try to outwhistle each other. I always won. Listen to this!”
Marie clapped her hands over her ears. “That was good. Really good. Ah, here they are.”
They were all shapes and sizes, and all of them wore wide smiles. Like Marie, they wore colorful outfits and pounds of jewelry. In rapid-fire French, with the aid of her hands, Marie Lobelia outlined Josie's request. She ended by saying,
“Laissez les bons temps rouler.”
Josie burst out laughing. “Yes, let the good times roll. I'll be back tomorrow to pick you up around one o'clock. Will that interfere with your soap operas?”
“Not at all.”
“Then I'll see you tomorrow. Be sure to lock the gate after me.”
Josie picked up Rosie and smiled all the way back to the car. She was still smiling when she parked the Explorer in the driveway. Maybe the good times really would roll. Now she had to tell Kitty what she had done. She crossed her fingers that her sister would approve.
“That's great!” Kitty crowed when Josie told her the news. “No, it's better than great! I can learn from them. God, Josie, think of all those priceless recipes handed down within each family and never given out. I think that's probably the best idea you've ever had. Congratulations!”
“On that thought, I'll leave you. I need to find something to wear tonight. How'd that praline pie come out?”
“Perfect. I made one of those crabmeat pies with the cornmeal. It's good, but something's missing. Take a bite and see if you can tell what it needs.”
“Ooohhh, this is good, Kitty. Maybe more salt. No spices. It's more than flavorful. Crusty French bread, a crisp garden salad, and a good bottle of wine. Perfect light supper or a great lunch. A good addition to a brunch, too. I don't think it needs anything. But then what do I know? You can try it on the ladies tomorrow. They'll be your real test. Cut me a sliver for Rosie to sniff.”
“What are you going to wear?” Kitty asked, cutting a thick slice of pie that she wrapped in a napkin before she slid the pie into the refrigerator.
“I don't have a clue. That ponytail bothers me.”
“You can always cancel. We have the phone number as well as the address.”
“I know. It is the last minute. I hate it when someone cancels on me at the last minute. It's just one dinner date. I don't have to see him again if I don't want to.”
“What exactly does he do? Do you know? The article just said he had many businesses.”
“I don't know but if you really want to know, I'll ask him tonight. Maybe the long black sheath with pearls.”
“Boring,” Kitty said, rolling her eyes.
“How about the brown linen with the chunky gold belt?”
“You look drab in brown. If you had a tan, it would be different. What about that gauzy green number you wore a few weeks ago? It came back from the cleaners on Monday. If you wear those sexy, strappy heels, you're good to go.”
“Okay, sounds good.”
“Brush your hair back and wear that gold headband. The one with the matching earrings. If you brush it back, you won't look so young and girlish. You want to look sophisticated.”
“Why all the advice, Kitty? You didn't do this when I went out with Mark or any of those other guys whose names I can't remember.”
“That's because I knew they were strictly one-nighters. This guy is different, trust me.”
“Oh yeah.”
“Yeah.” Kitty grinned. “Go on, I have some recipes I have to write up. I'm staying at Harry's tonight, so lock up when you get home, okay?”
“No problem. Tell Harry I said hi.”
“Will do.”
Â
Josie was more nervous than a cat in a rainstorm. How could one date reduce her to this state? “Oh, Mom, I wish you were here. You'd know the answer. You'd say just the right thing, and I'd calm down. I did a bubble bath, washed my hair, shaved my legs. Don't ask me why. I'm wearing a great outfit, sexy shoes, lacy underwearânot that it mattersâand I look good. My perfume is supposed to reduce men to blithering idiots. All of that should put me in control. I should feel confident and . . . vital. I'm a jumble of nerves. What will I talk about? First dates are so . . . stressful. What if I can't keep up my end of the conversation ? He's got long hair, Mom. You know me, I blurt. I know I'm going to put my foot in it. God, I wish you were here,” Josie muttered as she sat down on the edge of the bed. From somewhere faraway, she heard the words to a song she recognized, “You are so beautiful.” Kitty must have come in and put the stereo on. She stood up, her legs shaking as she walked to the window. The lights were still on in the test kitchen. That mean Kitty wasn't in the house. She whirled around and swore she smelled her mother's lily of the valley cologne. A wave of dizziness washed over her. No music wafted up the long staircase. “Mom? It's you, isn't it?” She swiveled around and almost turned her ankle in the spike-heeled shoes. Her room looked the same, and it was just as quiet as before. Why would her mother's spirit contact her now? Why now after all this time? Suddenly she wanted to cry, but if she cried, her mascara would run in black streaks down her cheeks. She glanced at her watch. Her imagination was working overtime. Time to go downstairs.