Sweetheart Reunion (17 page)

The next thing Alma knew she was being pushed aside in a rush of air and breath. A figure whirled by so fast, she had to grab hold of Mollie to keep from falling.

Julien had his little brother by the collar, dragging him toward the back door of the church. “You will not disrespect these two women, do you hear me?”

He shot Alma and Mollie an apologetic look, then opened the door to the educational wing and pushed his brother inside.

Alma looked at Mollie. The girl burst into tears.

And right at that moment, the sky went dark as a big rain cloud covered the sun.

Chapter Seventeen

J
ulien couldn’t believe his brother was drinking on a Saturday morning. And inside the church parking lot at that.

“What were you thinking?” he asked Pierre, his tone as crusty and dry as the shells scattered across the church driveway. “It’s bad enough you drink at night and on weekends, but here, now! I asked you to help me. I thought you’d learned something from getting arrested, Pierre.”

“You didn’t ask me to work,” Pierre snarled. “You demanded that I get up and help you. That’s what you always do—boss me around like I’m a kid. I didn’t come here because of you, though. I only came because Mollie wanted me to.”

Wondering what had happened to their new understanding, Julien grunted. “Well, good luck with explaining to Mollie why you’re acting like an oaf, too.”

Pierre hung his head and glared at Julien. “I don’t care. I don’t want to be here. This crowd is a drag.”

Julien didn’t know how to convince him. “This crowd includes your neighbors and friends and the people who make this town what it is. This crowd is full of tourists who fish these waters and eat at our restaurants and help our economy. Can’t you see that?”

“I don’t care about that,” Pierre shot back. “Our daddy worked hard to please the tourists and this town and now he’s dead. Dead, Julien, at fifty-seven. Or have you forgotten his birthday?”

Julien’s anger evaporated like a mist of humidity on a strong wind. “I haven’t forgotten, bro. And I miss him as much as you do. But we need to honor his memory by doing the best we can. I need you to remember what Papa taught us. He showed us how to work hard and enjoy life. He wanted us to do right by people and live our lives with dignity and integrity and a strong faith. That’s what we have to do, Pierre. We have to honor him.”

Pierre slumped against a wall, his eyes red-rimmed and bleary. “It doesn’t matter. I tried not to drink but things are just boring around here. I guess Mollie’s done with me now.”

Julien’s heart ached for his brother. He’d been in this same spot the night Alma told him she never wanted to see him again. Told him to clean up his act and grow up.

He’d surely done that. He’d aged a lifetime after his father’s death. And he was adding the years by the minute, standing here watching his little brother mess up his life.

“You can change,” he told Pierre now. “You can start over again. We can get you some help. You don’t have to drink to get rid of the pain, Pierre.”

“Yes, I do.” Pierre lifted himself off the wall then dropped his big hands to his side. “I start out feeling good, but—”

“But when you wake up, you don’t feel so hot, right?”

“Right. I want to wipe it all away. That’s why I drink. And then, I feel lousy so I drink some more.”

“You can stop that. I know you can.”

“No, I can’t,” Pierre said. “I can’t. It’s too late. I don’t know anything else, bro. I don’t know how to stop. I can’t feel anything when I drink. I don’t want to feel like I felt when they buried our daddy. And I’m tired of you telling me what to do. You’re not my daddy.”

He gave Julien one last look then took off, slamming the door back against the building so hard it rattled. Julien ran out after him. “Pierre, don’t get on that bike.”

His brother waved his hand in the air and kept on going back into the sea of people walking around.

Julien watched Pierre disappear into the crowd. Letting out a hard sigh, he searched for Alma and Mollie. He saw them sitting on a bench away from the crowd.

Alma got up as he approached. “How is he?”

“Not good. He took off. At least he didn’t get on his bike.”

Mollie looked up at him, her expression full of worry and fear. “I can’t date your brother if he keeps getting drunk, Julien. He told me he had stopped. I like him a lot, but I’m not ready for this. It’s like dating two different people. Sometimes he’s so sweet and considerate, but when he’s drinking, he gets all belligerent and mean.”

“You don’t have to handle this,” Julien said. “It’s not your problem, Mollie. I’ll take care of my brother.” He looked at Alma, his heart pumping angst and misery. “And maybe one day he’ll wake up and realize he’s making a big mistake. He’ll see that his actions have cost him a lot more than a night in jail.”

Alma held his gaze, her eyes wide with worry and wonder. “Julien, what can I do to help?”

“Pray,” he said. “And get someone else to handle my booths. I’ve got to find Pierre and take him home.”

Alma found some adults to fill in for Julien the rest of the afternoon. She was working a two-hour shift herself when a distinguished-looking, big-boned man with thick gray hair approached her.

“How can I help you?” she asked in a cheerful tone, taking in the man’s white button-up shirt and khaki trousers. She didn’t want her worries about Julien and Pierre to show, but she hadn’t seen either of them since Pierre had taken off.

“Are you Alma Blanchard?” the man asked with a smile, his dark brown eyes bright.

“Yes. That’s me.” She glanced around the booth then asked one of the teens to man the window for a while. “I’ll be right out.” Maybe he knew something about Pierre.

She came around the counter and smiled at the man. “What can I do for you?”

The man extended his hand. “I’m Jacob Sonnier. I’m from Georgia and I write a syndicated food column called ‘Ain’t That Good?’ Goes out to several papers across the South. I’ve also written several Southern cookbooks.”

Alma bobbed her head. She’d heard of him all right. He’d been a chef in an upscale restaurant in Atlanta before opening his own restaurant in Baton Rouge, and now he was famous for being on talk shows and cooking shows. “I read your column all the time and I’ve tried a lot of your recipes. My sister Brenna gave me one of your cookbooks for Christmas. It’s so nice to meet you.”

“Same here, little lady. And Brenna’s the one who sent me. She comes into my restaurant in Baton Rouge all the time. But she kept on bragging about you, so I had to find you. Had me the best bowl of gumbo earlier and they told me you cooked it.”

Beaming, Alma grinned. “I did, but I had a lot of help. It’s my mother’s recipe, passed down from her mother. We’ve been making that gumbo in the Fleur Café for three generations now.”

“It’s mighty good, mighty good,” Jacob said, his jowls jiggling with each
mighty.
“Have you ever considered selling it in a mass-market capacity?”

Alma didn’t know what to say. “No, not really. I don’t have the proper equipment for something that big. It takes all I can do to cook this batch for the festival every year.”

“Well, that’s why I wanted to talk to you. I know all kinds of food distributors who can help you process it and sell it. I’m thinking you could go regional and then national.”

Alma had to process his suggestion. “I’m not sure I want to change the recipe. Preservatives might do that.”

“No, you wouldn’t have to change anything. We’d freeze it and ship it right out.”

Her heart beat a happy tune. This was part of her dream. If she mass produced her gumbo recipe, she might be able to pick and choose a place to work. But why would she want to do that now? she thought, an image of Julien in her mind.

“I’m not sure,” she told Jacob Sonnier. “I’d have to find out the details regarding everything about this. It’s a big step.”

“Of course.” Mr. Sonnier handed her his card. “Just let me do some figuring and make some calls. That’s my number. I’ll get back to you. I’m sure gonna write about this festival in my next column. And I’d like to interview you at length, too. You and me might be able to write a cookbook together.” He took out another card. “Write down your number if you don’t mind.”

Alma jotted her cell number on the card then put his extra card in her apron pocket. “Thanks. I appreciate it.” She smiled up at him. “I’ve often thought I’d like to open my own restaurant in New Orleans or maybe even another big city, but I stay so busy here I haven’t had a chance to go back to school and learn the business end of things. I’m not a fancy chef, but I do love to cook.”

Mr. Sonnier’s belly laugh caused several nearby people to stare. “Suga’, you got the best thing going right here. Why would you want to give up that quaint little café for some big-city chain restaurant? Trust me, it looks glamorous, but it’s a lot of hard work.”

“Good point,” she said, shaking his hand. Hadn’t she just thought the same thing herself? She stared down at his card, all sorts of possibilities sprouting like water lilies in her head. “But mass producing my gumbo sure would bring in some much-needed revenue. I could at least update the café and add another dining room.” Then another idea struck her. “I could open the distribution center right here in Fleur. That would give people jobs.”

“Good thinking, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Lots to think about and plan, but hometown jobs are always a plus. I’ll be in touch.” He shook her hand again. “So nice to meet you, Alma. I’m gonna take me a big cup of that gumbo for the road. I’ll tell your sister I talked to you, too.”

“Thanks again,” Alma said. She’d have to call Brenna and ask her about this. Her sister liked to play “boss” sometimes. Was this Brenna’s way of giving Alma a chance at that life she’d always dreamed about, or was Brenna trying to sabotage Alma’s getting back with Julien? “I appreciate this so much.”

“I’ll call you soon,” Mr. Sonnier replied. Then he strolled off through the crowd, waving and chatting with people.

“Friendly fellow,” Alma mumbled as she headed back into the booth, her feet not quite meeting the earth. The lunch rush was over now. The afternoon crowd flowed at a steady pace, giving the booth workers a little breathing time. But where was Julien? She couldn’t wait to tell him about this.

* * *

He couldn’t find Pierre.

Julien searched the docks and the marina, then backtracked down the row of booths, checking the ones where Pierre was supposed to be working. Mollie was in the cotton candy booth, her expression solemn. When he didn’t see Pierre there, he kept moving. But he did notice Alma talking to a tall, stocky man. He looked in the park and near the bayou. Pierre’s bike was still in the same spot, parked and locked. He asked around but no one had seen his brother. Their mama would be here soon. She’d planned to come to the
fais do-do
to listen to the music. But she’d be expecting both of her sons to be in attendance, too.

“Where are you, Pierre?”

Julien felt a tap on his back and whirled, hoping to see his brother. Alma smiled at him.

“Any luck?”

“No,” he said. “I’ve looked everywhere, even called the Backwater. He’s not there. If he left, he left on foot. His bike is still here.”

She brushed her hand over his arm, the touch as gentle as a wisp of silk against his skin. “Maybe he just needed to find a quiet spot to cool off.”

“Maybe.” Julien had hoped this would be a good day. He’d actually enjoyed working with the kids in the food booths. Reverend Guidry had been great to work with and get to know more. And the hand-built boats he had on display at the marina were getting a heavy buzz. “I’m sorry I haven’t done my job, Alma.”

Her face twisted in surprise. “What are you talking about? The youth group kids are working hard and they’ve all been prompt and willing to switch out shifts. So far, so good.”

“But I’m not there to supervise, the way you told me.”

“It’s okay. I found some help. You have to take care of Pierre.”

He let out a weary sigh, frustration hitting at him like lapping waves. “I’m so tired of this. He told me I’m not his daddy.”

“Well, you’re not, but you are his older brother.” She reached up to brush away his bangs, her touch like a balm of soothing relief. “You can’t nag him or preach to him, Julien. We both remember how that feels.”

He caught her hand in his. “
Oui,
but what else can I do? I’ve tried listening. I’ve tried understanding. I’ve tried talking. And I’ve prayed.”

“Give him some time. It’s hard when we lose a loved one. He’s hurting the same as you. Maybe more. He’s acting out.”

“You can say that again.” Julien took her hands in his, the need to wrap his arms around her and hold her forever pushing through him. “How are you?”

“I’m okay,” she said. Then she pulled a card out of her apron. “I got a possible offer to mass produce my gumbo. You know, to sell in grocery stores.” She handed Julien the card. “And—”

He looked down at the card. “A chef?” He read the card, his tired, bruised heart cracking another inch or two. “Jacob Sonnier, Southern chef, cookbook author, columnist and owner of Sonnier’s Southern Food in New Orleans and Baton Rouge.” The name and bio were followed by the column heading: “Ain’t That Good?”

Julien stopped, the one thought that had held him back for ten years shouting in his head. She’d said something about her gumbo, but all he could hear or see was that she still wanted to leave Fleur. And him. “You talked to a chef?” he asked again, his voice low.

Smiling, she backed away. “Yes, but—”

Julien schooled his reaction, while his heart seemed to crack like broken shells. “And what did this chef have to offer you, sweetheart? Something good, I hope.”

She pushed at her hair, her eyes a misty blue. “He…uh…is interested in possibly mass-producing my gumbo to sell in local stores.”