Rebel Without a Cake (25 page)

I found several messages waiting for me when I walked into my office on Friday morning. Evangeline Delahunt wanted to see me on Monday to discuss the menu for the Belle Lune Ball, Edie had scheduled two wedding consults for the following week, and Simone O'Neil had left three messages for me to call her as soon as possible. Concerned about what could be so urgent, I decided to follow up on that right away.

“Change of plans,” she said when I returned her call. “Evangeline has decided to take the ball in another direction, and I thought I should let you know before you go too far down the road we talked about at our last meeting.”

I held back a groan. Not that I'd already done a lot of work on my ideas, but I had done a lot of thinking. I couldn't believe that Evangeline expected me to abruptly shift gears with only a few days before my next command appearance.

I glanced at my cluttered desk and the few sketches I'd completed before my most recent visit to Baie Rebelle. “Can she do that?”

“Technically? No. It's for the board of directors to decide, but they tend to give my mother whatever she wants. And she's decided that she wants to do something different.”

Maybe I was getting paranoid, but I wondered if she was going in a new direction purposely to throw me off. Evangeline Delahunt seemed to delight in setting others up for failure. She'd apparently already steamrolled over Dmitri Wolff and Gâteaux. Now it was my turn.

“What does she want to do?” I asked.

Simone didn't answer immediately. “It might be better if I showed you. Are you free for lunch? It would be my treat.”

Uh-oh. Something that couldn't be described didn't sound good. “When and where?” I asked. The sooner I knew what Evangeline was up to, the better my chances of beating her at whatever game she was playing. We arranged to meet at Galatoire's on Bourbon Street. A convenient choice for Simone. A lot less convenient for me, but she was the client so it was her call.

I arrived ten minutes early, which was a good thing since the streets were crowded and it took a while to find a parking place. I hustled inside three minutes late, hot, sweaty, and frazzled. Simone was waiting for me just inside the doors looking remarkably cool and collected. She took my hands and air-kissed my cheeks, which seemed entirely normal for her but made me a bit uncomfortable, considering. Oblivious to my discomfort, she signaled the maître d' that we were ready.

Dozens of tables packed a long, narrow dining room. It could easily have felt crowded, especially with diners leaving their own tables to visit friends, but a bank of full-length mirrors running along the wall made the room look larger than it actually was. Rows of ceiling fans turned slowly overhead, and light from each of them reflected from the mirrors, making the whole room sparkle.

We slipped into seats at a table for two set with crystal and silver, and I tried not to feel gauche and out of place. “It's beautiful in here,” I said, my voice hushed.

Surprise lit Simone's dark eyes. “You haven't been here before?”

I shook my head slowly. “It's been on my list of places to visit but it's hard to get away from work. This is my first time here.” I'd added Galatoire's to my culinary bucket list for several reasons, the first of which was that it was a New Orleans tradition dating back more than a century. In all that time, little about the restaurant's look and seating had changed. I knew that reservations were accepted for the second-floor dining room, but here on the first floor seating was first come, first served.

Simone watched me take in the ambience with a smile and eventually nodded toward the menu in front of me. “Everything here is wonderful,” Simone said, “but if you'd like, I can make a few suggestions.”

When it came to dining out, I'd long ago learned to always let someone in the know offer suggestions before making any decisions. Uncle Nestor had taught me that, and Philippe had echoed the advice when the two of us got together. Experienced servers knew what was especially good, which ingredients were fresh, and maybe more important, what to avoid on any particular night. Other diners could direct you to dishes that were consistently delicious. I'd experienced some amazing food by following my
tío
's advice, and I had no doubt that Simone would steer me in the right direction.

After some discussion, we decided on Galatoire Goute, an appetizer plate consisting of shrimp
remoulade
, oysters
en brochette
, and crabmeat
maison
. Simone suggested we follow that with fresh fish topped with crabmeat and shrimp and tie up the meal with
café
brûlot
, a strong, hot coffee flavored with citrus peel, sugar, cinnamon, and cloves.

Once our choices had been relayed to our server, Simone linked her hands together on the table and got down to business. “I'm sorry about these changes. I know this is going to make things more difficult for you. They've certainly thrown a monkey wrench into my plans.”

“I may be in a better position than you are,” I said with a sympathetic smile. “You've been working on this for months. I've only had a few days.” I didn't admit that most of my time had been spent in Baie Rebelle or that I only had a few sketches on paper, none of which had even come close to knocking my socks off, so I held out little hope that Evangeline would have been impressed. “Which part of the theme does she want to change?”

“All of it,” Simone said. “She had a dream the other night and woke up convinced she's been going in the wrong direction. It's still going to be a twentieth anniversary celebration, but now she wants a more rustic theme. She wants to concentrate on the fashions that people tend to ignore from our time period. Less
The Great Gatsby
and more
The Grapes of Wrath.
”

Our server arrived with our first course, but I was so stunned by Simone's news, I barely even noticed. “She wants to design the whole event around the styles from the Great Depression?” Could those clothes even be considered fashion? Maybe people with too much money would find it entertaining to see how the other half had lived. Having come from the other half, I struggled not to find it insulting. “And the board of directors is going to let her do that?”

“According to Mama, the idea originated with one of the board members. They had a conversation. Mama went home and had a dream, and—
voilà!
—change is afoot.”

Simone was certainly taking it well, which made me nervous. Were she and Evangeline working together? Was I being set up? Or was I just being paranoid? “Have you had time to decide how you're going to decorate?” I asked.

“Not entirely, but I'll figure something out. And I have all the faith in the world that you'll do something amazing with the food. I just wanted you to have a heads-up before your meeting with Mama next week.” She picked up her knife and fork and held them poised over her
maison
, a crab salad dressed with mayonnaise, olive oil, vinegar, capers, and scallions, seasoned with just the right amount of salt and pepper, and served on fresh butter lettuce leaves with a tomato garnish. “Honestly, the change is a bit annoying, but in the history of the society, we've never done anything remotely like this. I think that together we can make this an event that will be remembered for years to come.”

Her expression seemed free of guile, so I laughed and picked up my own silverware. Based on looks and aroma alone, the
maison
rated a ten. After my first taste, I upped my rating by several points. “I hate to break it to you, but this year's event might be remembered even if we fail.”

“The two of us working together? How could that possibly happen?” She sobered slightly and held my gaze. “Really, Rita, I have a good feeling about this. I know it will mean big changes for the menu and for the cake, but I really think we could blow everybody away.”

Her enthusiasm was infectious. The idea was beginning to grow on me, and for the first time since Miss Frankie had volunteered Zydeco to work with the Vintage Clothing Society, ideas began to race through my head. “What would you think about an untraditional menu for the banquet?” I asked. “I'm talking about the kind of food you don't usually see at high-society events.”

Simone's smile bloomed. “Such as?”

“Down-home food. Beef roasted in garlic. Chunks of sweet potato crusted in parmesan. Corn casserole. Turkey-cranberry Monte Cristo sandwiches. Banana pudding that would make you swoon—and I mean that literally.”

Simone's smile grew even broader. “I love it.”

“And Evangeline? Do you think she'll approve?”

“We'll make sure she does,” Simone said firmly. “We'll call in reinforcements if we have to. In fact, if you have time after we're finished here, we can talk to a friend of Mama's. If we can get her on board with our idea, we'll have it made.”

I had a hard time imagining that anyone could influence Evangeline's decisions, but I had to trust that Simone knew what she was talking about. “I have time,” I said. “And I think I can pull together a menu by Monday.”

We chatted as we ate, each of us tossing ideas about food and decorations into the mix so by the time we'd finished our meal and paid the bill (with some minor argument from me about paying my fair share), we were both almost giddy with excitement. I followed Simone out of the restaurant into the bright autumn sunlight and dug Miss Frankie's keys out of my purse. “You paid for lunch, so let me drive. Where are we going?”

She waved away the offer and started walking toward the corner. “It's just on the next block over. We don't need to drive.”

I trotted after her, eager to meet whoever it was who possessed the ability to influence Evangeline Delahunt. I pictured someone wealthy, with impeccable breeding and the right social standing. I didn't expect Simone to lead me into a narrow building on Dauphine Street with peeling white paint and bright blue shutters . . . which I recognized with shock as Mambo Odessa's shop.

The overpowering scent of potpourri almost knocked me over as we stepped inside, and I felt myself bracing for a room full of shrunken heads and human bones. To my surprise, the tiny shop seemed almost normal. A number of gris-gris bags filled with herbs, roots, and oils made up a display along one wall. Another section contained a tasteful variety of dolls dressed in bright colors and feathers, a selection of educational books and DVDs, jujus, and jewelry.

Opposite those I saw a selection of bath oils, soaps, and candles. According to the signs posted here and there, everything inside was designed to enhance love, fortune, health, or good luck.

Mambo Odessa wore a bright orange caftan decorated in shades of yellows, browns, and rusts. She wore her tiny round sunglasses even inside the dimly lit store, but they didn't seem to impact her ability to see and recognize us. She embraced Simone warmly and beamed a friendly smile at me.

“This,” Simone said to me with a flourish of her hand toward Mambo Odessa, “is one of my favorite people in the world. She's the only person I know who can get my mother to do anything.”

What were the odds?

“Come in, come in.” Mambo Odessa ushered us toward a collection of comfortable chairs in the far corner, smiling at me as if she'd known I'd show up here on this exact day, at this precise moment, in the company of Simone O'Neil. And maybe she had. But if so, I'm not going to lie, the whole idea left me feeling skittish.

I took a few shallow breaths and tried to talk myself down. Of course Mambo Odessa knew Simone and Evangeline. She was Ox's aunt, after all. I already knew that Ox and Simone were friends. It just hadn't occurred to me that Mambo Odessa and Evangeline Delahunt ran in the same circles. They seemed so . . . different.

Then again, this was New Orleans, where a high-powered politician and a parish priest could sit down to dinner with a female impersonator and a jazz musician and nobody thought a thing about it. It was disconcerting and reassuring at the same time.

Mambo Odessa sat beside me and touched my wrist. “You're still wearing your Brazilian wish bracelet, I see.”

Only because I kept forgetting to take it off, but I didn't admit this to her. “Yes. I guess I am.”

“And has it helped?”

“Maybe. I'm not really sure.”

Simone watched the exchange with a little scowl of curiosity. It seemed I wasn't the only one who needed a few minutes to connect all the dots. “I should have realized the two of you would know each other,” Simone said when the pieces finally clicked for her. She shook her head and laughed at herself. “Okay, so here we are. Mambo Odessa is the board member who got Mama started down this whole Depression Era path.”

Somehow, in spite of everything, that piece of information still had the power to surprise me. I gaped at Mambo Odessa. “You're on the Vintage Clothing Society board of directors?”