Listen To Your Heart (3 page)

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Authors: Fern Michaels

BOOK: Listen To Your Heart
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While the house was old, her parents had kept up with it, and so had she and Kitty. Just last year they'd painted inside and out, and it still looked fresh and clean. They'd discarded a lot of their parents' old comfortable furniture and replaced it with more modern but just as comfortable love seats and easy chairs. The long windows still had their swagged draperies. They'd kept the old rugs because to do away with them would have been sacrilegious. The shiny, worn pine floors and the breathtaking staircase made of solid teak were wonders that caused visitors to gasp in delight. Or perhaps it was the high ceilings or the ornate woodwork.
“Anybody home? I brought lunch. You'll never guess what I bought. And you'll never guess who I ran into,” Josie called from the foot of the stairway. “What do you want to drink? Cola, sweet tea, or a cold beer?”
“Sweet tea,” Kitty called from the top of the staircase. “You went uptown and got po'boys from Franky and Johnny's. I bet you ran into the hunk. Howzat for guessing with a stuffed-up head? Did he ask you out?”
“No, he did not ask me out. It wasn't that kind of meeting. Rosie knew they were there. You should see what his dog did to that expensive car he drives, and no, I still don't know his name.”
“I know him from somewhere,” Kitty grumbled. “When are you going to get the screen door back? I love that screen door. I like the way it bangs shut, and I like the way it squeaks no matter what you do to it. Mom said it was supposed to do that because it was an old-fashioned wooden screen door, not like those aluminum things. I can't believe that dog put his big rear end through our screen door.”
“You up to these po'boys, Kitty. How's your throat?”
“Never mind my throat. Tell me about the hunk.”
Josie told her. “See for yourself. Rosie wants nothing to do with me. She wouldn't even touch the Beanie Baby. All she wants is that damn big dog and, what's worse, he wants her. How is that possible, Kitty, since they've both been fixed?”
“Ummnn. Beats me. Before I forget, a package came while you were out. It's in the hall under the table.”
Josie unwrapped the po'boys and set them on what her mother called her day dishes—plain, heavy white china with a large, succulent strawberry in the middle. There were only four left in the entire set, aside from two cups and two soup bowls. The matching napkins were old and faded, but neither girl was willing to part with them.
It was a cheerful kitchen, with wraparound windows and a cozy breakfast nook. Perfect for morning coffee, newspaper reading, and bird-watching. The Hansel and Gretel cottage and the ladybug walkway were clearly visible from each window, something that brought a smile to each young woman's face no matter what time of day.
Kitty poured the sweet tea from her great-grandmother's crystal pitcher.
“Who's the package from?” Josie asked as she bit into her po'boy.
“Gourmet Party.
Probably more copies of their magazine. Maybe it's a hint that we should subscribe. We should, you know. The publicity that centerfold gave us is invaluable. Maybe they want us to hand them out to our customers. It felt kind of light, though.”
“Okay, I'll take out a subscription. Any phone calls?”
“Not a one. Seems like everyone goes underground on Monday. Too much partying on Bourbon Street over the weekend. So, get the box and open it already. Let's see what they sent us. If it is magazines, you can give one to Mrs. Lobelia when she comes over.”
Josie walked into the hallway, looking over her shoulder to see if Rosie would follow her. Her heart thumped in her chest when the little dog stayed under the kitchen table. She picked up the box. Kitty was right: It was light. She was curious now. Her sandwich could wait.
Kitty watched as Josie slit the top of the packing box with a sharp knife. She dug down into the bubble wrap and pulled out a stuffed animal. “It's a boxer! What in the world?”
“Now I know where I saw the hunk!” Kitty cried. “He's in the same magazine we were in but he's in the back end of it. When we first got it, I was like you. I just read our own article and chortled a bit. Then one day, I was leafing through it, and there he was. It isn't nearly as grand as the one they did on us. That dog you're holding is his. The same one who ran amuck on the cottage. What does the note say? Hurry up, read it.”
The Maltese came out from under the table and yipped her pleasure at the sight of the huge stuffed animal. “Would you look at that,” Josie whispered to her sister. The little dog used her snout to topple the animal until it fell over. She bit down on one of the pointed ears and dragged it to her bed at the far side of the kitchen. She tilted her head to the side to see what her mistress thought of the situation. Josie clapped her hands and said, “Good girl, Rosie.”
“I was starting to worry about her. Do you think they sent the boxer to us by mistake and ours went to . . .
him
?”
“I'd say that's a logical assumption. What does the card say?”
“Just that they enjoyed working with us and they wanted to send this small gift as a token of their appreciation. One of their employees makes stuffed animals. That's all it says.”
“Wow! What do you think he'll say when he gets ours? Do you think he'll bring it back? You could call the magazine and get his address. They'll give it to you when you tell them about the mistake.”
“I will do no such thing. I'm not taking that away from Rosie. Look at her—she loves it. Where's the magazine? I want to see what it says about him.”
“I thought you weren't interested.”
“I'm not. I just want to read it.”
“You're going to have to wait. I hear a car, so that must mean Mrs. Lobelia is here. Mrs. Lobelia with lots of money.”
“Save that article for me, Kitty. I'll read it later. You know what? Just for the heck of it, go ahead and call the magazine and get his address.”
“Just for the heck of it, huh?”
“Yeah, just for the heck of it. You never know. That screen door might turn out to be an expensive proposition. I had to order new hardware. And I had to get new screws for the window boxes. New plants. That adds up. I might want to change my mind and send him a bill.”
“Sounds like a plan to me. Consider it done.”
Two
J
osie took one last bite from her po'boy before she ran to the hallway mirror to check her appearance. She tweaked the curls falling over her forehead, pinched her cheeks for a little extra color, and smoothed down the long linen skirt. New clients deserved a good presentation. Then she remembered the condition of the cottage floor, with all the dirt and the fluffy vermiculite that dotted the green outdoor carpeting. “It is what it is,” she muttered as she skipped her way down the ladybug walkway.
She was tiny, so tiny at first glance that Josie thought she was a child. She wasn't just pretty—she was gorgeous, with her high coronet of snow-white braids and flawless complexion.
Seventy if she's a day, a youthtful seventy,
Josie thought. There was a springiness to her step, and she was dressed in a swirling, colorful skirt with matching top. A straw hat with oversize sunglasses dangled from one hand, a Chanel bag from the other. She wore the diamonds in her ears and on her fingers like royalty. Josie estimated the total carat weight at around twelve or so. Possibly more. Brilliant straw sandals with two-inch heels and a diamond ankle bracelet completed her attire.
Marie Lobelia smiled warmly, her eyes twinkling. Josie fell in love with her at that moment. She fought the urge to take her in her arms for a bone-crushing hug.
“I love this,” the little woman said, waving her arms about. “It's so peaceful, so colorful. I had no idea this was even back here.” She waved her arms again to indicate the cottage and the long, square building that made up the kitchens and catering center.
“My sister and I have only been here three years. Our parents operated the catering service until their death. There was a gas-line explosion that killed them. This has all been redone and landscaped. We added more flowers, some shrubbery, and we repainted the ladybugs and the cottage. I apologize for the condition of the carpet, but we had a bit of an accident this morning. I had to take the screen door to the hardware store for repairs and didn't get to the floor. Step carefully.”
The little woman waved her arms again to show that the condition of the floor was of no importance. She stepped through the door. “Was this building always here?” she twinkled.
“Yes. It was originally a potting shed, and when my sister and I were born, my mother had a room added to it and it became our playhouse. There are some wonderful memories attached to this little house. However, my parents never used it the way Kitty and I do. They had offices in the building in the back.”
“It's cozy and comfortable,” Marie Lobelia said, sitting down in a white wicker rocking chair. “I've heard good things about your catering service,” she said, getting right to the point. “I called several times last year, but you were always booked up. I'd like to engage your services for two events. I want to host a small party on the Epiphany and of course I want the traditional King Cake. Tradition these days is to bake a tiny baby doll representing the baby Jesus into the cake, and whoever gets that particular piece hosts the next King Cake party. I prefer the old way. A pecan will do nicely in place of the baby doll. I want the traditional colors of Mardi Gras, green, yellow, and purple sugars used. I'm sure you've done this hundreds of times. I just like to make sure things are clear from the beginning.”
“I grew up here, Mrs. Lobelia. My mother always made a King Cake for us on the Epiphany. There were parties every night until Mardi Gras ended. Now, tell me what else you would like for your party. How many guests?” Josie asked, her pencil posed.
“A dozen or so. The usual: jambalaya, gumbo, etouffée, praline pie. Go easy on the Andouille since our stomachs aren't what they used to be. I hope you have a good roux recipe. I prefer a dark roux. I want it all to be authentic. I'll leave the appetizers up to you.”
Josie scribbled furiously. “I have some excellent recipes. Before I make a decision, I'll consult with you. You mentioned another engagement.”
The diamonds on the tiny hands winked under the soft lighting. Josie leaned back in her swivel chair to better observe the little woman's agitation at the simple statement.
“Yes. I'm not sure . . . What I mean is . . . I might possibly be making a mistake . . . It seems like the right thing to do and yet . . . Yes, I want to engage your services for a Mother's Day party. A gala of sorts if seventy- and eighty-year-old people can experience such a thing without falling asleep. You see, I want to do this for . . . for my family. By that I mean relatives who no longer have children or whose children have . . . forgotten about them. Several cousins won't make it past the new year, so I thought . . . It's such a special day. Perhaps I'm wrong to do this. What is your opinion, chère?”
“I think it's a wonderful thing to be remembered on Mother's Day. My sister and I always tried to do something special for Mom. We'd pick flowers, serve her toast in bed. We weren't allowed to make anything else when we were younger. We'd sing her a song we learned in school. She'd clap her hands and hug us. They were the best hugs,” Josie said, with a catch in her voice. “Do you have children of your own, Mrs. Lobelia?”
“I did,” Marie said flatly. “My oldest daughter died in childbirth. Her husband moved away and took the child with him. She'd be about your age now. I've never seen or heard from them since that day. My second daughter died at the age of sixteen from cystic fibrosis. My son . . . my son operates our family business out of our corporate headquarters in New York. I never see him. He calls on occasion. I can't change things. I'm not sure I would even if I could. Everything in life is preordained. Do you believe that, chère?”
How sad she is. What could be worse than having no family?
“Yes, I do agree. Now, tell me what it is you would like for your Mother's Day party.”
“Since it's going to be the same group of ladies, I think we'll need a different menu. I'll take care of the gifts and the flowers. Every mother should get flowers on Mother's Day. How hard is it to send a card?”
Josie pretended not to see the tears gathering in the faded caramel-colored eyes. She looked down at the paper in front of her. “I think my sister and I can make this a very special day for you and your friends. Let me talk to Kitty, and I'll run the details by you before we make any definite decisions. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“I don't know if you know this or not, but I still own and operate a small company that my first husband and I started. We package cornmeal and print a new recipe each quarter on our bags. I've run out of recipes. I'd like something new and unique. I'm afraid the company is faltering a bit. I need something to perk it up. I don't want my son to come back and snatch it away from me because he thinks I'm seventy-four years old and not capable of operating the company. Right now we're holding our own. I've found over the years that a new recipe drives up sales. Do you think you could come up with something? Name your price.”
What kind of son did this sweet woman have? A shark. “This is just off the top of my head, Mrs. Lobelia, but have you given any thought to, say, a bake-off or cook-off, something like that. More important, do you have a Web page? If not, I know someone who can design one for you. Perhaps a dish that could be written up and prepared at someplace like the Commander's Palace or possibly Emeril Lagasse's restaurant if you go with the cook-off idea?”
“Now you're cookin', chère. What a fabulous idea! I don't want to be a failure at my age. Now, why didn't I think of that? I'll need the recipe by April first. I can't wait to tell the girls. The Web page sounds wonderful. I'll do it. Will that be a problem?”
Josie smiled. “I don't think so. Are you Cajun, Mrs. Lobelia? Lobelia isn't a Cajun-sounding name.”
“Lobelia is Choctaw. However, I am Cajun. I've been married four times. Somehow I managed to outlive all four husbands. I come from sturdy stock as they say. Oh my goodness, we didn't discuss payment. Let me just write you a check as a deposit and then you can send me a bill for the rest. Will that be satisfactory?”
“This is our price list. You might want to look at it when you have time. Twenty percent is customary. We can work out the payment for the recipe later on. It's been nice doing business with you,” Josie said, accepting the scribbled check. Her eyes widened. “This is too much, Mrs. Lobelia.”
“It's fine. Don't worry about it. Just post it to my account. Do you mind if I ask you a question?”
“Not at all.”
“Was your mother perfect? Was she a perfect mother? You know, one of those June Cleaver types.”
Josie laughed. “I don't think there's any such thing as a perfect mother. But, to answer your question, no, she wasn't perfect. She had flaws. She made mistakes. She knew how to apologize, and she gave the best hugs. That made up for everything because my sister and I knew she loved us.”
“I guess that's where it all went wrong,” Marie Lobelia murmured. “My son wanted a perfect mother. Call me, chère. My phone number is on the check. I can see my way out. You need a screen door, chère.”
Josie laughed again. “It's being repaired. It's one of those old-fashioned wooden ones that squeak.”
“The best kind. I used to love hearing it slam when the children were little. Someone was always poking a hole in it. One day it would be new and the next day it would have a strip of adhesive tape over the hole and the little wires would poke through. I'm surprised I remember that. I do ramble. I'm sorry. It's what happens when you get old. Senior moments.” She giggled and then took her leave.
“Whoever your son is, Mrs. Lobelia, he's a
shit
!” Josie muttered when she was alone. “Perfect mother my foot!”
Josie leaned back in her swivel chair and closed her eyes. They snapped open so she could stare down at the check in the amount of $20,000. A good day's work by any standard. She should go to the bank. Or she could go up to the house and look at the article in
Gourmet Party
magazine. On the other hand, she could do both. She could go to the bank
and
read the article.
Josie tidied her desk, turned off her computer and the lights, her head filled with memories of when she and Kitty held tea parties and dance classes in these very rooms. How often she'd run here with Kitty when a punishment was something she didn't think she could bear. Once she and Kitty had made curtains for the diamond-shaped windows. Just squares of brightly colored cloth held together with safety pins. They'd been so proud of those curtains. Now, crisp, crisscross organdy curtains hung on the shiny windows. There were no teddy bears and dolls with stretched-out, matted hair on the window seats. The soft, cuddly pillows perfect for holding against one's chest were gone, too, replaced with custom-made flowered cushions.
A red wagon, its wheels rusted, had sat next to a blue tri-cycle in the corner of the room. Stacks of building blocks, every color of the rainbow, nestled in discarded orange-mesh bags. She wondered what happened to the tin tea set with the violets painted in the center. Maybe her mother threw it out when the pieces started to rust around the edges.
Memories. Mrs. Lobelia must have memories like hers. Sad memories. Sad memories she had to live with.
Josie closed and locked the Dutch door, which matched the diamond-shaped panes in the front windows. She missed the screen door. She really had to sweep the porch. Just the thought of cleaning all the tiny white specks made her shudder. Maybe the leaf blower would be the answer. It would be something to do later after she went to the bank and after she read the article in the magazine.
 
“What's for dinner, Josie?” Kitty asked.
“The rest of the po'boys and some canned soup. We're twenty thousand dollars richer today, sister dear. That makes me feel good. Real good. It surprised me that Mrs. Lobelia knew about the column I write for the
Gazette
during Lent. You know, the one where you come up with a recipe every week and I pass it off as mine. The column gave her the idea for the recipe on her cornmeal bag. I'm impressed.” Then she told her sister her ideas for Mrs. Lobelia's company.
“The Commander's Palace and Emeril Lagasse! For a cook-off! How do you expect to pull that off?” Kitty queried as she sipped at her hot rum tea.
“I just threw that out as a suggestion. It sounded good at the time, and she was expecting me to say something. It isn't carved in stone. We've always been good at improvising. If it's not that, then it will be something else. Hey, maybe a picnic at Evangeline Oak, the legendary meeting place of Emmeline and Louis. You remember Longfellow's poem
Evangeline
, don't you? It's the true story of Emmeline Labiche and Louis Arceneaux, two lovers who were separated for years before finally reuniting. Everyone loves that story and going to that old oak. Like I said, it's a thought. By the way, how are you feeling?”
“A little tired, but I think that's from blowing my nose every ten minutes. I'm over the worst of it. I'll be back in the kitchen tomorrow. You read the article, and I'll heat the soup and warm the sandwiches. Hey, look at Rosie,” Kitty hissed.

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