Micah
THE LAST FEW DAYS HAVE been crazy. Shit, make that the last few months. But it’s all been worth it, because it’s brought me to this day—the soft opening of Lagniappe, and the first day of the rest of my life.
The craziness still isn’t over, but it will be soon.
Normally, I’m a morning person, but leaving Dani asleep in bed before the sun’s up is on my list of least favorite things. But she’ll be here soon enough. She’s coming early to take some official pictures of the restaurant for the new website. Cami’s also meeting her here with a brand spanking new painting for the back wall. All of the final pieces are falling into place.
Until then, I have business to attend to.
Alex is supposed to meet me here at eight. I’m betting she’ll be at least half an hour late, but I wanted to have enough time to brew a pot of coffee and get my head on straight before she gets here. Mr. Wells and I have been over the contract a dozen times. Our offer is solid, with his additional investment and a loan we secured from the bank, it’s nearly ironclad. She’s not going to like what we offer her, so I’m prepared for a tantrum. However, in the end, I’m hoping she’ll see the light and cut her loses.
Opening the back door, I’m met with a fresh, clean smell, exactly what I like. The staff has done a stellar job getting this place ready. I’m pretty sure we could pass any white-glove inspection. The health inspector was thoroughly impressed, so it was good getting off on a right foot with him. Deacon and I have learned over the years whose ass we need to kiss, and the health inspector is one of them.
Coffee is first on my to-do list. So, I go in and get the pot set for a full-brew. It’s just me, but I can put away some coffee. I might even need a splash of whisky to combat the nervous energy inside me. This is New Orleans, after all, and it’s always drinking time.
As a matter of fact, I had to wait three minutes for some drunk bastards to cross the street on my way here. At seven o’clock in the morning.
I love this city, even the dirty parts. It’s always drawn me in, and as I stand here in the new kitchen of my new restaurant in the French Quarter, I have to pinch myself.
This is real. I’m doing this.
I also have to take a moment of gratitude, because shit could’ve gone down so differently. My long-time love and obsession with having a restaurant here almost got me in trouble. I was so close to losing everything that really means something to me, and if that would’ve happened, this place would’ve meant nothing. It’s been a fight, but nothing in life worth having comes easy.
You have to fight for your dreams.
You have to fight for what you believe in.
And you have to fight for happiness.
Walking down the back hall to my office, I take out the contract that Alex, Mr. Wells, and I signed back in October, I give it one last glance, now knowing it almost verbatim. Then, I open the file cabinet and retrieve the paperwork Mr. Wells and I have been working on the last couple of days—the purchase contract with our offer on the building and all of the necessary paperwork to transfer ownership to me. Mr. Wells will remain a silent partner.
With my coffee cup in one hand and paperwork in the other, I feel armed and ready for Alex’s arrival. Sitting at the bar, I wait.
To my surprise, at five after eight, Alex walks in the back door, calling my name upon arrival.
“At the bar,” I tell her, feeling a bit of nerves making my heart beat a little faster, not because I’m afraid of Alex—that’s a joke—but because I want this so bad and I know how she can be—conniving, manipulative, and self-serving. I can see her declining the offer, even if it means jail time over her tax debt, just to spite me. But I’m hoping her self-preservation kicks in.
She’d never make it in prison.
“Good morning, Micah. Happy Opening Day!” She beams as she rounds the corner, coming into view. In her right hand are two cups of something hot from the coffee shop down the street and in the other is a large bouquet of over-the-top flowers. The large sunglasses on her face hide her eyes, but I can see her disappointment when she notices the cup of coffee in my hand.
Setting the drink holder down, she snatches my coffee cup and sets one of her own down in front of me. “I brought you coffee. Much better than that old stuff, trust me.”
For a second, I just watch her, as she takes over the space and fills it with her annoying high-pitched voice and offending perfume.
“God, Micah . . .” she gushes. “This place is just, ah . . . you know? I mean, isn’t it wonderful. I had no idea it’d turn out this good. When you started talking industrial meets modern, I was just like, what? I couldn’t see it. But now that it’s all done, I see it. It’s really great.” She’s standing in the middle of the dining room, looking around at the place, and I realize she hasn’t seen it since all of the finishing touches have been made.
No thanks to you. That’s what I want to say, but I don’t. I want this meeting to stay as amicable as possible. Somehow, I need to make this sound like it’s her idea, because that’s all Alex hears—her own voice. At the very least, it needs to serve her needs, because she can’t see past the tip of her nose. It’s all her, all the time.
Without a word, I pick up her fancy coffee and sit it back in the drink holder, retrieving my trusty mug and taking a long sip. The splash of whisky is sounding better by the second, so I get off my barstool and walk around to peruse the shelves. Settling on some Maker’s Mark, I add a generous pour to my cup.
“Drinking already?” she asks with a smile, like she’s privy to an inside joke.
“Yep,” I say shortly, trying to think exactly how I should start this conversation.
“So, why did you need to see me so early? Are we having a private celebration?” Her tone says she’s teasing, but again, knowing Alex, she’s not. While busying herself with re-arranging the already arranged flowers, she suddenly notices the papers on the counter. “What are these?”
“Contracts.” I take a drink of my whiskied-down coffee and a deep breath. “I asked you to come here this morning, because I have an offer for you.”
“What kind of offer?” The confusion is thick on her face, her eyebrows drawing tightly together, as she sits on one of the barstools and levels me with a stare.
“An offer I’m hoping you can’t refuse.” Clearing my throat, I pick up the initial contract, deciding to start there. “This building can only be sold to a partner,” I begin and watch the shift in her demeanor. Her eyebrows that were knitted together relax until one is raised in question. Slowly, she crosses her arms, picking up on where I’m going. “I’d like to buy you out. I want to buy the building.”
I just go for it—split-second decision, last-minute play call. But sometimes, those earn the best results.
“You can’t afford it,” she says with a laugh—haughty and full of herself.
“Mr. Wells—” I begin, but she cuts me off.
“Mr. Wells?” she seethes, pushing away from the bar to stand. “Mr. Wells is in on this?”
“He’ll be my partner, my only partner,” I confirm, crossing my arms to match hers.
“You both can’t afford it. Do you know how much this building is worth?” Her voice is even higher-pitched than normal and it’s rising in volume. “I’m not selling.”
“We’re offering you seventy-five percent of the appraised value,” I tell her, holding out the purchase contract with our offer. “It’s more than generous, considering all of the money I’ve put into the remodel.”
“I could get way more than that! I mean, look at this place,” she exclaims, throwing her hands in the air. “Maybe I’ll sell.” It’s a threat. Everything about her words is a threat—the way she squares her shoulders, her tone, the resolve in her expression.
“You can’t. Not for five years. It’s right here in the contract,” I remind her, sliding the papers across the bar since she refuses to take them.
Her chest heaves as realization sets in. She’s stuck. And now, for the winning blow.
“I know about the tax debt. I don’t know how much, but Mr. Wells seems to think you’ve been evading the IRS for a while.”
“How do you know that?” Her question is incriminating. I can tell by the tone in her voice that she feels caught.
“Someone from the IRS stopped by last week looking for you,” I tell her, handing her the business card. “He said they’ve been trying to reach you for quite some time.”
“They . . . they must be looking for someone else.” She stutters and bats her eyelashes, looking at me and then away. “I don’t know what he’s talking about.”
“Mr. Wells seemed to have an idea, something about an old investment you sold and never paid taxes on and that you haven’t filed in two years.”
“What would that old man know?” she sneers, like a caged animal who knows they’re trapped.
“Everything, seeing that he’s been your financial advisor for the past five years.”
In a very un-Alex move, she screams—arms down at her side, hands balled into fists, and eyes screwed shut. It’s like one of Carter’s fits he used to throw when he didn’t get his way. I said used, because he’s outgrown those, and he’s six. “We were doing great! We’re great together, Micah, you just can’t admit it. It’s always been some kind of game with you—cat and mouse. Admit that you love the chase as much as I do!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I do know what she’s talking about. Deacon called it from the get-go, but I’m not giving her that satisfaction, because it’s never been that for me.
She laughs, inhaling deeply and shaking her head in disbelief. “I can’t believe you’d let something like a restaurant come between us. You don’t see us like I see us.” Her tone that was obstinate and incredulous is now desperate and grasping. “We have history together. I know you better than you know yourself, definitely better than your girlfriend does.”
“Don’t bring her into this,” I seethe, now turning defensive.
“Does she know about your past? Or do you have her convinced that you’re some prince charming.”
“Alex,” I warn.
“You don’t know what you’re passing up. I’m a good catch and I’m perfect for you. I’ve always seen it and I thought you did too. I thought you’d admit it when you were ready.”
This is getting ridiculous and going nowhere. “Take the offer, Alex.”
“No.” Her arms are back crossed over her chest, like a shield.
“Do you know what the penalty is for tax evasion?” Apparently, she needs some real talk, because I doubt she gets it from anyone else in her life. Definitely not her daddy, but I don’t think even he can bail her out this time. From what Mr. Wells said, she’s been cut off. “Prison orange really isn’t your color, Alex,” I continue, driving home the knockout. “Take the money and bail yourself out. Cut your losses and walk away. The restaurant business isn’t your thing, anyway. And as for Dani, she’s it for me. I’m gonna marry her. So, you’re fightin’ a losin’ battle.”
I watch as she darts her eyes from one end of the room to the other, probably trying to think of a rebuttal, but coming up empty handed. She knows I’m right. I can see it in the way her shoulders slump in defeat. “Fine.”
“What was that?” I ask, unsure if I heard her clearly, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Fine, I’ll sell.”
If I didn’t dislike her so much, I might hug her, but that’s not gonna happen. Instead, I slide the other set of papers across the bar and slap a pen down on them. “Sign everywhere there’s a yellow tab. If you’d like, I’ll have a copy sent to your lawyer. The money will be transferred to your account by next week.”
With a little more force than necessary, she grabs the papers and begins to scribble her signature on the dotted lines. My heart contracts and then releases as relief floods my body. I feel like I can breathe again, but I’m also scared as shit, but in a good way.
I own this place. Well, me and Mr. Wells, but it’s mine, and Alex can’t mess shit up anymore.
When she’s signed the last line, she slams the pen back down and glares at me. “You’ll regret this. We could’ve been great partners.”
“You don’t even know the definition of a partner. But I do want to thank you,” I tell her, earning a look of surprise. “I might’ve gone about this all wrong, but the end result is the same. I got my restaurant in New Orleans. So, thanks for showin’ up and makin’ the offer. It’s been nice doin’ business with you.”
Reaching my hand across the counter, I offer her a business-like hand shake. She doesn’t accept, of course. Instead, she glares at me, grabs her sunglasses and purse and stomps out of my restaurant.
My restaurant.
“Oh, Alex,” I call out before the back door closes. “You’re not invited tonight. Friends and family, only,” I add, unable to keep the smile off my face as she growls out her response.
When I know for sure she’s gone and not coming back, I make a note to change the locks and security codes before I pull out my phone and dial Dani’s number.
“Hello.” She answers on the first ring and her voice sounds like I felt just fifteen minutes ago—anxious, nervous, hopeful.
“Ding dong, the witch is dead,” I sing-song into the phone.
“Oh, my God,” she gasps. “You killed her? Do you need me to bring a shovel?”
That’s my girl—my ride or die, my partner-in-crime.
“Yeah, and do you think you can edit out a little blood?” I ask, continuing our ruse.
“Definitely, I’m really good at Photoshop.”
We both laugh and then Dani sighs. “So, she’s gone?”
“For good,” I reply.
“That easy, huh? Seems a little too good to be true.” That’s also Dani, always the realist, always seeing the bigger picture and never taking anything at face value.
“Well, it wasn’t a cakewalk and I can’t promise she won’t try to pull some shit, but she signed on all the dotted lines, so she won’t have much to stand on.” I hold the papers up and double-check what I’m telling Dani. Sure enough, every lined is signed. Every “t” crossed. Every “i” dotted. “Mr. Wells has already sent a copy to her lawyer and he had an iron-clad purchase contract signed up. My dad even looked over it and gave his stamp of approval, so I think we’re in the clear.”
“That’s music to my ears.”
“The only thing that would make this moment any better is if your sweet ass was here so I could kiss the ever-lovin’ shit out of you. I’m ready to celebrate,” I tell her, wishing I could pull her through the phone.
“I’m leaving in five minutes and picking Cami and the painting up at the art studio on my way,” she says. I can hear her shuffling around as she speaks.
“Drive safe,” I instruct. “And text me when you’re leavin’ French Settlement.”
“Okay,” she agrees, knowing that it’s just gonna be like this. I’m going to worry and I’m going to be over-protective. There’s no getting around it. It’s my job.
I piddle around the restaurant, occupying my time while I wait for Dani and Cami. This will be Cami’s first time to see the restaurant and Dani hasn’t been here since we installed the ceiling fans and the bar light fixtures. I feel like a kid on Christmas, waiting for them.
Deacon is the one person who I’m nervous about. It’s his opinion that’ll mean the most. Of course, I want Dani to love it, but she already does, and I know my parents will be supportive, regardless. I could be opening a corn dog stand and they’d gush about it. But Deacon is different—he knows good restaurants. He knows what it takes to build one and operate one. He’s taught me everything I know and I want him to love it.
And if he doesn’t, I want to hear that too. I think I’m finally at a spot where I could accept his constructive criticism. I know he means well and I know, no matter what he says, it comes from a good place. Those are some things I’ve come to realize over the past few months.
So, I’m ready. I’m ready to introduce Lagniappe to the rest of my family and eventually to New Orleans. Being on the verge of a new adventure is one of the best feelings—so much anticipation, so much possibility—and there’s that fear of failure, too. But I think that’s what keeps you going. It makes you work harder, hustle harder.
As I’m straightening a table for the umpteenth time, I spot a dash of red hair through a window in front of the restaurant. Walking over to it, I watch her—the way she positions the camera just so, the way she takes a step back to get a different view. She’s amazing, and she’s mine.
When she sees me watching, she smiles and waves and then quickly brings her camera up to take a picture of me through the window. I let her for a few seconds, before ruining them with lewd gestures.
Unlocking the front door, I swing it open and greet my first two customers. “Ladies,” I say with a dip of my head, sweeping my arm out to show them inside. “Interested in a little somethin’ extra?”
“You sure you shouldn’t open this place on Bourbon?” Cami asks with a wicked grin. “Sounds like you’re peddlin’ the goods.”
“Well,” I drawl. “I had thought about some dancin’ girls.”
Dani rolls her eyes and slaps me on my chest playfully. “No dancin’ girls.”
“Wow, Micah,” Cami states. “This place is . . . wow.”
Cami has been around for all of mine and Deacon’s grand openings, so hearing her say that makes me incredibly happy.
“You think?” I ask, looking out over the restaurant.
“Oh, definitely. Deke is gonna flip his shit,” she laughs. “This is incredible. You’ve done an amazing job. And I hear congratulations are in order?”
“Yep, as of this morning Alex is out of the picture,” I confirm with a nod of my head.
Dani abandons us at the door and goes about her business, snapping pictures of everything—wide shots, close-ups. She gets the tables, the bar, the light fixtures, and she really goes in for some shots of the fans. “These are fantastic,” she says with the camera pointed up at the ceiling. “Can we get these for the cottage?”
“We can get anything you want for the cottage,” I tell her, loving that she’s even mentioning the cottage. It’s where I want to live. It’s where I want us to make our home—across the field from my parents and down a beaten path from where Cami and Deacon and the kids will live soon.
I want all of that, not just the cottage and being close to my family, but the kids, too.
“The painting is in the back of Deke’s truck,” she says motioning toward the door. “Tucker loaded it up for us.”
“Thank you so much for doin’ it for me. I can’t wait to see it.” I already had Randy, being the handyman that he is—all-around jack of all trades—hang some screws on wall in the back. It’s going to be perfect.
“It was fun. I haven’t done a painting on that scale in a long time,” she sighs, rubbing her small stomach.
“So, are we gonna get to find out what’s cookin’ in there?” I ask. “You’re at least far enough along for that, right?”
Cami smiles over at me, shaking her head. “I’m far enough along, almost in my third trimester, but we’re keepin’ it a secret. Doesn’t really matter anyway,” she says with a shrug.
“You’re right,” I agree. “It doesn’t, as long as it’s healthy and knows who its favorite uncle is.”
“God,” she groans. “Not you too. Tucker was even talkin’ to my belly the other day.”
“What?” I exclaim. “That cheatin’ ba—”
“Language,” Cami says with a grin, covering both sides of her stomach with her hands.
“Right, sorry.” I love seeing her so happy and I love how happy she makes my brother. Cami has always been a big part of my life and our family. The only thing different is that she now has the last name to prove it.
Leaving Cami and Dani to look over the place, I head out to the truck and haul in the painting. It’s kinda heavy, but since the screws are already in place, I should be able to get it set without a problem.
It’s wrapped in thick brown paper, so I lean it against the wall and unwrap it, smiling when I catch a glimpse of just the top half. It’s perfect, exactly what I wanted and exactly what this place needs to bring everything together.
“Need some help with that?” Randy waltzes in at the perfect time and I check my watch.
“You weren’t supposed to be here until three, it’s not even noon.”
“Couldn’t stay away, I’ve got the openin’ day jitters,” he admits.
I laugh, giving him a nod of understanding. “Well, I’m glad you’re here. I’ve got some good news.”
Nobody around here was a fan of Alex, but what I’m about to tell Randy is going to make his whole damn day. “As of a few hours ago, Alex Collins will no longer be signin’ your paycheck.”
It takes a second for it to sink in, but when it does, a smile wider than the Mississippi spreads across Randy’s face. “You bought her out?”
“I did. Me and Mr. Wells.”
“Alright,” Randy says, nodding his head. “Now, that’s what I’m talking about. I feel like I owe you a drink or something.”
“How about you just make yourself useful and help me get this beast on the wall.”
“I hope I got the screws in the right place,” he says, picking up one side of the canvas while I get the other.
“Looks like it’s just about perfect.”
When we have it firmly anchored on the wall, we both step back and admire the work of art. And it is a work of art. Cami put her own unique touch on it, giving it a little something extra. A little lagniappe, if you will.
“That’s gorgeous, man,” Randy says. “Exactly like I remember it.”
“Yep, I mean, it doesn’t get much better. A photograph by Sheridan Reed of the Landry Plantation, turned into a painting by Cami Benoit. I feel like we’ll be name droppin’ when we tell people who ask.”
The girls both laugh, shaking their heads, but it’s true.
“Back up,” Dani says. “I wanna get a picture.”
After Dani is finished with the photo session, forcing me into more pictures than I’d like, I treat her and Cami to a light lunch down the street. Randy offered to cook, but I know he’s busy getting the kitchen prepped, so we got out of his hair for a while. Besides, I needed to get out and pass some time, before I paced a hole in the floor.
When we’ve occupied the small table at the corner cafe long enough, Cami talks us into walking across Jackson Square. She leads us into a small shop, one of those grocery-cafe-coffee shop kind of places, offering a little bit of everything.
“Cami,” the lady behind the counter says in dismay. “What the hell are you doin’ here? Get over here and give me a hug.”
The two hug like old friends and I think the lady is gonna piss herself when she notices the bump. “Oh, my God! You’re pregnant?”
“Yep,” Cami says proudly. “Due in just a few months.”
“Congratulations! I’m so happy for you. And Deacon, how’s he?”
“Good,” Cami says with a nod. “You’ll probably be seein’ more of us. This is my brother-in-law, Micah, and his girlfriend, Dani,” she says, pointing to us. “Micah just opened a restaurant around the corner.”
“Lagniappe?” she asks wide-eyed.
“Yeah,” I tell her, smiling at the fact that someone’s heard of my restaurant. Someone other than family.
“I’ll have to come try it out,” she says.
“Definitely.”
“Oh, sorry,” Cami says with a slap on her forehead. “Pregnancy zaps my manners. Micah . . . Dani, this is Ce-Ce. We met while I was in school. Been friends ever since.”
“I have a Cami Benoit original,” Ce-Ce touts, pointing to a painting behind the counter. “Signed and everything.”
We laugh and Cami shakes her head. She’s another one who doesn’t realize just how talented she really is, never wanting the spotlight on her.
“Well, we better get some coffees and head back. Micah’s soft opening is tonight,” Cami mentions, scanning the menu. “I’ll take whatever you have that’s decaf, as long as it’s sweet.”
“You got it, Mama,” Ce-Ce says, turning to the antique looking espresso machine and getting to work. “Congrats on the opening, Micah. I really will come check it out soon.”
“Please do. I’ll give you the friends and family discount,” I tell her with a smile.
“Maybe we can barter with coffee?” she asks, holding up a cup.
“We can definitely work a deal.” She’s speaking my language.
After we get our drinks and walk back, the opening is less than an hour away and my nerves are back in full swing. Dani and I set half the tables with water glasses and silverware, while Cami organizes a side table with the cake we had made for tonight. We’re all keeping ourselves busy until the first person shows up.
A few seconds later, the old-fashioned bell I had installed chimes.
“Where’s my somethin’ extra?” Deacon booms.