Old Boyfriends. Rexanne Becnel
at Commander’s and she was there with her sisters.”
Margaret shrugged. “Do you want to find out more about that Eddie guy?”
“No.” Yes. “Not really.”
She gave me a sidelong grin. “Come on, Mom. You know you’re curious.”
“Not really,” I repeated. But when she switched to Google and entered his name, I leaned forward. “That’s all you have to do to find out about somebody?”
“Probably. Oh, yeah,” she said when the screen filled with lists of Eddie Dussons, Edward Dussons and Edward every-middle-initial-possible Dussons. Within a few minutes we weeded through them to discover that the rebel Eddie I once adored had not really changed at all. He was a lawyer, yes, but he was still a rebel as Director of the New Orleans Office of the American Civil Liberties Union. The computer was full of newspaper articles about cases and issues he’d been involved with.
“Geez,” Margaret said. “He’s famous.”
“He always was a man of strong opinions.”
“Look, he represented this lady who police said had too many cats.”
He might have defended people on death row, saved communities from dangerous pollution and protected government whistle-blowers, but with his stance on pet ownership, Eddie’s reputation was safe. My Magpie was nothing if not an ardent animal lover. She looked at me. “So how come you two broke up? I mean, I’m glad you did, but still, I’m curious.”
“You of all people are asking me that? Given the number of boys you dated and dumped, I’d be amazed if you even remember which one took you to your prom. Eddie and I were young, that’s all. Neither of us was ready to settle down.”
“That makes sense. But for your information, I went to the prom with Rusty Calhoun,” Meg said. “Last I heard he was in med school somewhere up in Oregon.” She leaned back, drumming her fingers on the table lip, and studied me. “So, what about Cat and M.J? Who are they going to see?”
We spent two hours on that computer. Cat found us in the café, then called the motel and told M.J. to join us, and the time just flew. It turned out that Matt Blanchard was not merely the sheriff of St. Charles Parish, Louisiana, he was also a highly decorated former member and hero of the New Orleans police force. He’d been shot twice, burned while saving a disabled grandmother from a house fire, and credited with busting one of the most vicious drug gangs in eastern New Orleans. He’d moved back to his hometown twelve years ago when the sheriff’s position became available, and he showed no indication of wanting to leave.
“No mention of a wife,” M.J. said to Cat, who was uncharacteristically silent. “He’s probably divorced.”
“So who isn’t?”
“We aren’t,” M.J. retorted for the both of us.
“Well, you should have been. A long time ago.”
Margaret tilted her head to frown at Cat. “You don’t like my dad, do you?”
Cat scrunched up her face. “Sorry, Margaret. When it comes to men I’m in a grouchy mood. But M.J.’s old boyfriend has potential. There was nothing about any wives or children, was there?”
M.J. smiled at a photograph of the coaching staff of the New Orleans Saints and pointed him out to us. Dark brown hair, light eyes and really broad shoulders. Oh, yes, he was quite a fine specimen of a man. “He hasn’t changed a bit,” she said.
“That’s not necessarily a good thing,” Cat said. “You want a grown-up, not a teenager. Or do you?”
“I just don’t want an old man,” M.J. replied. But she was smiling. Maybe Jeff Cole was exactly what she needed.
“So why did y’all break up?” Margaret asked.
“He got a football scholarship and went away to school while I…I became a professional beauty pageant competitor. We lost touch when I moved to California.”
“So this trip could actually fire up all the old feelings,” Margaret said.
“Did he ever hit you?” Cat asked M.J.
Margaret rolled her eyes, but I smiled. There was nothing subtle about our Cat.
“Of course not,” M.J. said. “Even Frank, awful as he turned out to be, he never hit me, either.”
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