Rising Tides. Emilie Richards
weren’t Pelichere’s. She supposed that was half the reason Izzy had arrived. In South Louisiana, keeping up with neighbors was still the favored evening recreation.
Pelichere introduced Dawn, and Dawn leaned over for Izzy’s enthusiastic kiss. Then she watched Joe, one ton to Izzy’s two, stagger up the path, well behind his wife, his arms loaded with grocery bags.
“What’d you go and do, Izzy?” Pelichere asked. “Drain the Gulf and cook everything left wriggling on the bottom?”
Pelichere scolded her friend while Joe made several trips from the truck. He left when he had finished, announcing that he was going down to the water to see what the dedicated fishermen still lining the beach were pulling in.
“Pelichere, you sit out here with Izzy,” Dawn said. “I’ll bring you both some coffee.”
Pelichere demurred, but Dawn ignored her. She re turned in a moment with cups and a pot of coffee Pelichere had left to drip in the kitchen. The coffee was thick and rich, black as goddamn, just the way Pelichere and Izzy liked it. Strong dark-roast coffee was as much a part of the local culture as seagulls and fishing luggers.
“So tell me, Peli,” Izzy said, stirring three spoonfuls of sugar into her coffee—for energy, “how’s it going?”
Dawn left them to chat.
The kitchen was one of the more modern rooms in the house. The original kitchen had been built behind the house as protection against fire and summer heat. The foundation was still visible fifty feet away, and a portion of one wall remained, blanketed by an orange-flowering trumpet vine that was often alive with the frantic darting of hummingbirds.
The new kitchen was large and airy. Tonight the blue gingham curtains billowed to the opposing rhythms of the wind and two ceiling fans. More wind blew through a screen door, carrying with it the scents of the distant Gulf and a closer tangle of honeysuckle.
Dawn sorted through the bags Joe had carried in. Nothing was labeled, but she recognized much of it. There were two gallons of gumbo, thick with small crabs and okra, Tupperware containers of jambalaya with chunks of dark sausage and green pepper, pounds of cold spiced shrimp and, although it was the end of the season, several pounds of boiled crawfish, as well. There was a freshly caught redfish, inviting Pelichere’s master touches, and close to a half gallon of freshly shucked oysters. “Good news, Grandmère,” she said as she stowed the last of it in the refrigerator. “It’s hot as hell and twice as much fun at your little house party, but at least we’ll eat like royalty.”
A voice sounded behind her. “Has anything been left out?”
She didn’t turn, but she knew the voice was Ben’s. “Still one big appetite looking to be satiated, aren’t you?” She dug back into the refrigerator and took out the boiled shrimp, holding it behind her. “Cocktail sauce?”
“Please.”
She opened a jar and sniffed it after Ben took the shrimp. “Peli’s own remoulade. You’re a lucky man.” She straightened and faced him. “This is supposed to be for tomorrow and after. Peli had food on the stove for over an hour tonight. Didn’t anybody tell you?”
“I ate.”
“I rest my case.”
“Join me?”
She determined to be casual and beat him at his own game.
“I don’t think so. I’m going to clean the kitchen before Peli gets back in here. There’s no reason for her to be waiting on us hand and foot. She’s as much Grandmère’s guest as the rest of us.”
He pulled out a chair beside the round oak table under a trio of windows. “It’s nice of you to be concerned.”
“But then, I’m a nice person, basically.”
“That wouldn’t be the first adjective that came to mind when someone looked at you nowadays.”
She cleared the sink of dirty dishes and ran a dish cloth around it. Then she filled it with hot soapy water, rolling up the sleeves of her shirt while she waited for him to elaborate.
“Once upon a time, a lead-in like that would have had you brimming with curiosity,” Ben said.
“Once upon a time? In a fairy tale, you mean?”
“It probably was a fairy tale.”
“Without the traditional ending.”
He elaborated, since she had refused to pick up on his cue. “The adjective that comes to mind now is determined.”
“Neat choice. Not positive, not negative. Ambiguous enough to please anybody who likes to free-associate.”
“I’ll give it a whirl. Determined to get through this ordeal. Determined to be polite. Determined not to show any feelings. Determined to point out how much you’ve changed.”
“Only parts of me have changed. None of the things you condemned have changed at all.” She slid plates into the sink and began to wash. “Condemned is a strong word.”
“You’re a journalist. You know it’s important to be accurate.”
She had finished the plates and glasses and started on the serving dishes before he spoke again. When he did, she realized he was standing beside her. He held out a perfectly shelled shrimp. “These are superb.”
“You’ve forgotten. We do some things well in Louisiana.”
He dangled it inches from her lips. “And a few of them aren’t illegal or immoral.”
She took the shrimp between her teeth, sucking it slowly until it was gone. “I’m surprised you could bear to bring yourself back here to the wellspring of all evil. You must have been unbearably curious about my grandmother’s invitation to risk your soul this way.”
“I was.” He didn’t move away. He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. “Aren’t you?”
“More than a little.”
“Now that you’ve had a few hours to think, you must have a theory. Tell me about it.”
“Why?”
“Because I’d like to hear it.”
“And that should be reason enough?” She didn’t have to turn her head far to look at him. He was a foot away. Moonlight gleamed through the window and silvered the lock of wheat-colored hair falling over his forehead. “Shall I tell you one of the ways I’ve changed? I don’t turn to butter inside anymore when a man tells me he wants something from me. Now I expect reasons before I do anything. Good ones. Then I still think it over.”
“I didn’t mean to patronize you.”
“Didn’t you? Then you’ve changed, too.”
“I have. You’re absolutely right.”
“I’ll tell you my theory because I don’t mind sharing it.” She shook her hair back over her shoulders. One strand resisted and clung to her damp cheek. “I think my grandmother had a sense of the dramatic that none of us ever appreciated. I think she must have died with a smile on her lips, imagining the scene we’re playing here, all of us, not just you and me. She cast the most unlikely people she could bring together, then she pulled strings to be sure the play hit the big time. And somewhere, she’s watching us now and clapping her hands.”
He tucked the rebellious strand over her ear so deftly that he was finished before she could protest the intimacy. “In other words, you have no more idea than the rest of us why she invited us here.”
“None.”
“And your uncle?”
She finished the last bowl before she spoke. “Well, I doubt Uncle Hugh is clapping along.”
“I don’t know. Father Hugh had a sense of the dramatic