Good Woman Blues (5 page)

Darlene’s left eyebrow lifted as she glanced
from Erikka to him and back again. Her aunt’s smile changed to one
of concerned curiosity. Mr. Solicitous and Darlene waited for
Erikka’s answer. Erikka felt as though it was a trick question,
just like she had when anyone at the psych unit asked. Whenever she
told them she felt okay no one believed her. Points off, patient
has no insight that she’s a sick puppy. Tell the truth and say you
felt like crap, and you could kiss that discharge good-bye.
Figuring out the right way to answer simple questions like “How’s
it going today?” or “Did you enjoy lunch?” became critical. Terri
tried to help. Bless her bipolar heart. Needless to say, they both
ended up staying for months.

“Feeling better?” Darlene prompted when
Erikka didn’t answer.

“Just wonderful!” Erikka said. Her voice
struck the wrong note. Too cheery, she groaned inwardly.

“Glad to hear it. I’m Gabriel Cormier, from
the flea market two days ago, remember?” He misinterpreted Erikka’s
hesitation as memory loss.

“Yes, yes,” Erikka mumbled, still working on
the puzzle of how to master the art of those damn sneaky questions.
Maybe she could still clean it up.

“The flea market?” Darlene blinked rapidly
for a moment, and then a light flickered in her nut brown eyes.
“Last Sunday.”

“Had a great time. Just got turned around,
and it was hot in there. Really stifling with all those narrow
aisles,” Erikka said in a rush.

“Yeah, warmed up real fast that afternoon,”
he said smoothly. “Joe Turner needs to upgrade that old air-
conditioning unit. Mr. Joe owns the flea market, and we pay him to
rent space,” Gabriel explained.

Darlene looked at him, then at Erikka, then
back at Gabriel. “Oh.”

Gabriel wore a caring expression. The comers
of his mouth lifted, not into a smile but something more appealing.
His face had a comfortable quiet offer of friendship. He eased into
Southern social chatter about the weather, the flea market, and the
parish fair. If this was his special brand of the game, then he was
working it right. The tension in Erikka’s neck smoothed out. She
tried to guess his age. No obvious gray in his mass of thick dark
hair. Still, something in his manner suggested he had what her
Grandmaman Lillian called an old soul. Not old-school exactly, but
seasoned by life.

“How is your aunt Therese? She almost had us
sold on half the stuff in there. That lady has got crazy sales
skills.” Damn, if she didn’t shut her mouth, Darlene would suspect
something was up. Erikka forced her lips together to keep more
mindless babble from tumbling out. Too late.

“Yeah, well we gotta be going.” Darlene moved
closer to Erikka in a protective manner.

Gabriel’s kind eyes shaded over. “Yes, ma’am.
Y’all have a nice day.”

He turned and strode off, head up as though
he didn’t see other people watching him. Darlene sucked her teeth
and shook her head. Two men did a double take when he went by.
Erikka gazed at the long-legged stride that took Gabriel away from
them and the rest of the world that seemed to gawk at him. He got
into a blue truck covered with a thin layer of country-road dust.
She remembered watching the truck drive by her aunt’s house.

Gabriel started the Dodge Ram pickup. Exhaust
fumes and the rattle of something loose announced he was leaving.
Moments later Gabriel drove by, his face blank behind sunglasses.
Though he was only a few feet from where they stood, he didn’t look
at them or wave good-bye. Erikka recognized that face. She’d used
the same method of keeping people out and herself walled in when
she felt exposed.

“Well, you lost all your home training in
etiquette. What was that about?” Erikka said, her own distress
forgotten.

“I’ll tell you later. Of all the people you
could have bumped into,” Darlene said, her voice softly trailing
off without completing the thought aloud.

“I smell juicy small-town gossip. C’mon,
Darlene.” Erikka tugged on Darlene’s purse to get her
attention.

Darlene looked down the street as though
Gabriel hadn’t driven around the comer and out of sight. “Long
story, and I’m not feeling up to it. Maybe later.”

“No maybe. I want to know why folks are
looking at him so funny.” Erikka did not like the way Darlene’s
neck muscles seemed to strain.

“Course he looks older, so it didn’t register
at first. He rarely shows his face in town,” Darlene said.

At least three questions leaped to mind at
once. Erikka would have normally pressed her aunt to talk, but her
curiosity faded, and anxiety returned. She’d had enough uproar in
her life. What she did not need was to take in some stranger’s
borrowed brand of the blues. Still, she wondered what grief could
be so well hidden behind his quiet honey-brown eyes. The dust
settled from Gabriel’s truck tires. Erikka kept thinking about the
enigma wrapped not in a mystery, but a pair of nicely fitting blue
jeans.

Chapter 3

The next week Erikka was back in New Orleans,
hoping to tidy up ragged loose ends of her life, her apartment, the
job, that nasty court business, and maybe even Vaughn. After two
days she broke down and accepted her mother’s invitations to visit
her. Roz was already trying to boss her around on clothes, fixing
her career, and more. But sitting at home one more night watching
television and waiting for the phone to ring was worse. Who was she
kidding? Vaughn wasn’t going to call.

Erikka wandered around the kitchen of her
parents’ home, feeling lost. They lived in a comfortable suburban
neighborhood outside the city. She’d moved out a good ten years ago
and didn’t make a habit of searching the cabinets when she dropped
by.

“Had to open my mouth about making
dinner.”

She hissed in frustration when she couldn’t
find cayenne pepper. Ten minutes later she found another spice
shelf in a pantry off the laundry room. So much for the serenity
she’d anticipated from chopping up fresh seasonings and stirring
ingredients. Being in the kitchen cooking up something special was
one of Erikka’s favorite ways to unwind. As usual, nothing went as
she’d planned.

The gleaming copper pots hanging over the oak
butcher’s block from a rack would not do. Perfect for a magazine
spread in Martha Stewart Living, but no use for cooking jambalaya.
At least not the way Grandmaman Lillie had taught her. Erikka
turned detective and tried to figure out where her mother had put
the cast-iron cookware. It had been passed down through three
generations of Creole cooks, and Erikka hoped her mother had kept
it seasoned. Erikka had become the cook, while Roz specialized in
quick and easy dishes. Grandmaman Lillie fussed because none of her
five daughters paid much attention to tradition. She insisted that
family history on both sides of the family, the Rochons and the
Duparts, was tied to the process of making a meal. Three
generations of women had kept the most complete records with their
recipes and notes about domestic matters.

As a kid Erikka had enjoyed reading
handwritten cookbooks over one hundred years old by women who had
rarely spoken English. Names like Clotilde Aimee, Carmelite,
Aurelia, and Serafine fascinated her. Grandmaman Lillie could tell
stories as though she’d known them all. While she talked Grandmaman
Lillie would both translate and teach Erikka French. Cooking and
reading those old family papers made her feel less like the odd
child out. Her short stay in Loreauville had brought back that
sense of belonging.

Erikka searched through drawers that slid out
with a touch. Another snazzy feature that Rosalinde did not use
often. She hissed for the tenth time since beginning her quest and
stood straight. Still no deep cast iron skillet.

“I give up.”

Erikka marched across the open space past an
L-shaped cabinet and through the breakfast room. She said a few
curse words as she made her way through the house looking for her
mother. She headed for the den. Her pace slowed when her mother’s
angry voice came through the open door and bounced off the walls of
the hallway.

“I’m tired of tiptoeing around my own house.
Just spit out whatever has you in a bad mood.”

“I’m trying not to be in a bad mood for a
change, Roz. Another one of our talks won’t help.”

“We don’t talk. I do all the talking.”

“Exactly. I’m not up for the merry-go-round
ride tonight.” Craig sounded weary. Seconds later the television
came on.

“As usual you get to assign blame. And turn
that damn thing off.” Roz’s voice cracked.

Erikka went back to the kitchen. She turned
up the volume of the FM radio. Without thinking, she pulled on the
nearest fancy cabinet handle. A shelf slid out on rollers with the
cast-iron skillets and pots arranged on it. For the next thirty
minutes Erikka cooked like she was Julia Child, B. Smith, and
Emeril all rolled into one. She was spooning steamed rice into the
deep skillet by the time her mother strolled in. Rosalinde had
changed from her business suit to denim Capri pants and a red
T-shirt.

“Smells marvelous. One of the few pleasures
of getting older is having your kids wait on you.” Roz came in and
sat on a high barstool at the breakfast counter. She grabbed a
handful of mixed nuts from a crystal bowl.

“Stop stuffing those in your mouth. I’m not
in here sweating for nothing, you know. I hope Daddy is hungry,
too.” Erikka glanced at her mother for a sign.

Roz grinned and munched for a few more
seconds. Then she patted her lips with a napkin without smudging
her lipstick. “Don’t worry. Craig can eat like a hungry bear
anytime. Besides, he wouldn’t dare disappoint you.” Roz looked like
a woman who had the perfect marriage to match her perfect kitchen.
Erikka wasn’t surprised at her mother’s lightning change. Roz had a
gift for smoothing over life’s rough spots, especially for the sake
of appearances. What worried Erikka was her stepfather’s tone of
voice. He hadn’t sounded angry, just indifferent. “Yeah, well.”

Erikka tried to think of a way to talk about
things more serious than cooking, but she had little practice
facing ugly personal truths. So, she made the salad.

“You really shouldn’t agonize about it, baby.
Here, let me do that.” Roz took the salad tongs from her. She added
croutons and Erikka’s homemade salad dressing to the wooden
bowl.

Erikka got busy spreading butter on warm
French bread mini-loaves. She felt the jitters take hold. “I—I’m
not. How are you doing?”

“I’m good.” Roz nibbled on a piece of romaine
lettuce. “A little more pepper.”

“I guess it’s just one of those things folks
go through every now and then. Right?” Erikka sprinkled finely
chopped fresh parsley on the buttered bread. Not a bad start. She
looked at her mother.

Roz sighed. “You’re not the first and won’t
be the last, sweetheart.”

Erikka dropped a loaf. “Huh?”

“Listen, you’ll get your job back and the
traffic court hearing will be fine. You partied a little too much.
I’m sure you’ve learned your lesson. Agreed?” Roz raised an eyebrow
at her.

“Oh, right.” Erikka picked up the bread and
put it back on a plate.

“Girl, please.” Roz grimaced. She reached
over and tossed the bread into the trash can.

“You always say your floors are so clean we
could eat off them.” Erikka set the table.

“That doesn’t mean we will.” Roz wiped up
invisible crumbs with a damp paper towel.

“According to Grandmaman Lillie ‘What don’
kill ya will make ya fat’.” Erikka did a perfect imitation of her
grandmother’s Creole accent.

“Her putting on that act is what kills me,”
Roz retorted. “Acting as though she walks barefoot in a wooden
shack down the bayou.”

Erikka laughed. “I suppose she does
dramatize.”

“Humph,” was her mother’s only response. She
put the salad bowl on the table. “Back to you'.'

“Back to me.” Erikka waited for her stomach
to tighten with anxiety. Nothing.

“Yes. You’ll more than likely have to attend
one of those driving schools. But the fact that you went into the
hospital is a big plus.” Roz tossed out the condensed description
of the worst night of Erikka’s life while she set the table.

“Okay.”

Erikka refrained from mentioning she’d been
drunk, mumbled to the paramedics something about death, and was
committed to a psycho ward by the emergency room doctor. However,
if her mother wanted to spin the story that she’d voluntarily
sought help, Erikka wouldn’t argue. Besides, Erikka’s lawyer had
jumped on Roz’s version. They were both so convincing that Erikka
could almost believe it. Almost.

“You’ve got a good job and no previous
record. I’m sure the judge will totally understand.” Rosalinde
smoothed a wrinkle from one of the place mats.

“Sure thing. Just don’t forget the bribe,”
Erikka quipped in a dry tone.

“Not funny at all, Erikka. I suggest you curb
that smart mouth. Neither the judge nor your boss will be
impressed.”

Erikka tried for an expression with the right
mixture of remorse and rehabilitation. “Yes, ma’am. I’ve learned my
lesson, and I’m a changed woman. How’s that?”

“Work on it.” Roz squinted at her, and then
sat down. She unfolded a sage green cotton napkin and put it in her
lap.

Craig strolled in, wearing a loose cotton
shirt over baggy drawstring pants. “Smells some kind of good in
here. That’s how I know Erikka’s in the house. Thank God we’ll get
a decent home-cooked meal for once.” He kissed Erikka on the
forehead.

“Good timing, Daddy.” Erikka tossed the oven
mitt aside and hugged him tight.

“Whoa now, those are my ribs you’re
cracking,” he teased.

Erikka still held on but loosened her grip.
She breathed in the familiar scent of soap, aftershave, and freshly
laundered cotton. “Like I could hurt a big strong guy like
you.”