Chapter 7
Tonya stood at the prep table chopping, dicing, and mincing onion, celery, red and green bell peppers, garlic, thyme, and parsley for the various dishes on the day’s menu board. The distinctive voice of Billie Holiday singing the poignant protest song “Strange Fruit” flowed from the radio speakers, and in a moment of shared emotion she met the eyes of Eustace and Gage. She may not have grown up in the South during segregation and Jim Crow, but she knew the strange fruit Billie sang about were victims of lynching.
Eustace must have registered the somber mood, because he picked up the remote device and changed the radio station to music that was more contemporary and upbeat. “That’s better,” he said under his breath as he returned to the stove.
Gage had removed several large bowls filled with chicken from the refrigerator and sprinkled them with the house Cajun seasoning. He did the same with slices of catfish, while Eustace poured a couple of tablespoons of oil in a large Dutch oven and heated it before browning the chicken pieces for chicken-andouille gumbo.
“How often do you change your menu?” Tonya asked Eustace as she set the bowls of chopped ingredients on the countertop.
“Not too often. We try to have customer favorites every day, and that includes gumbos, red beans and rice, fried catfish, and Cajun jambalaya.”
“What’s the difference between Creole and Cajun jambalaya?”
“Gage can answer that for you.”
“Cajun jambalaya is brown, never made with tomatoes, and always has smoked sausage or tasso,” Gage explained. “Creole jambalaya is reddish, a color it gets from tomatoes, and always contains shrimp.”
“Which do you like best?” she asked him.
“I like both.”
“I’m going to have to sample both before I make a decision which I like best,” Tonya said. She glanced at the menu board again. “I’ve heard of shrimp, oyster, and sausage po’boys, but I see you’re serving roast beef po’boys.”
Eustace patted his belly over his apron. “I love roast beef po’boys. There’s something about thinly sliced beef and gravy on fresh French bread with lettuce, tomatoes, mayo, and pickles that’s out of this world.” He patted his belly again. “It’s one of the reasons I got this corporation up front.”
“Speaking of bread,” Gage said, “where the hell is the bread man? He should’ve been here hours ago.”
“I don’t mind making the bread,” she volunteered. “I’m not bragging, but I can make incredible authentic French baguettes.”
Gage shared a look with his brother. “Are you sure that’s what you want to do?”
Tonya gave him a long, penetrating stare when he met her eyes. “I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want to make them.”
“Well, we do have baguette trays in the storeroom, so if you want to bake baguettes, I don’t have a problem with it. What do you say, Eustace?”
A beat passed, and then Eustace said, “Yes. But I have to pay you for baking the bread, and close your mouth and don’t say anything because I’ll fire you if you—”
“You can’t fire me,” Tonya said, cutting him off. “I’m a volunteer, not an employee,” she added, smiling. “And I won’t accept money from you, because whatever I learn in this kitchen can’t be measured in dollars and cents. Don’t you realize you’re offering me a free education when it comes to perfecting regional dishes?”
Eustace paused, as he appeared to be deep in thought. “You’re probably right about that.”
She flashed a smug grin. “I know I’m right. Starting tomorrow I’ll make baguettes for your po’boys.”
The words were barely off her tongue when the bell chimed. “I hope that’s the bread man,” Gage said under his breath. “I’ll get it.”
Tonya waited until he left the kitchen before she moved closer to Eustace. “I didn’t mean to sound overbearing, but I told you before that I’m willing to help out anyway I can, and if that means baking bread then I’ll do it. It may be six months or even nine months before I will be able to open my supper club, and when I do, I want to hit the ground running. People come to New Orleans for the food and music, and that’s something I need to perfect if I want to stay open. I can’t compete with other restaurants, because they’re just too many, but when folks leave my place I want them to think about coming back again, and that’s not going to happen if I don’t offer dishes that represent this city.”
Eustace chuckled softly. “I wouldn’t fire you even if you were an employee. I know what you can do, and I’m certain there are a lot of things I can learn from you, because your wings were a big hit with the book club women. I tried making them again, but they didn’t turn out like yours. My stepmother taught Gage to make the bread we use for the pudding, while I’m completely useless when it comes to working with dough. So, if you want to bake bread, then just do it. I’m going to give you a key and the code to the alarm, so you can come in whenever you want.”
Tonya felt a warm glow through her. It was apparent Eustace trusted her not only with his family’s secret recipes but also respected her suggestions. “Thank you.”
“No thank you, Tonya. It’s too bad we can’t go into business together because then I’d let your run Chez Toussaints with my daughters, while I devote all of my energies to expanding my catering business.”
“That can’t happen, because I’ve committed to running the café and supper club for the inn.”
Eustace winked at her. “You can’t blame a dude for trying. Hannah knows I’ll do any and everything I can to help her business succeed because she’s family.”
Tonya nodded. Hannah told her that once she married St. John McNair, she was also considered a Baptiste and a Toussaint. And because of her partnership with Hannah, Tonya was now privy to secret recipes handed down through generations of Toussaints.
Gage returned to the kitchen with two large paper bags filled with loaves of French bread. “The driver said he had a flat tire and didn’t have a spare.”
That’s another reason for baking your own bread, Tonya mused. Chez Toussaints could not compare to the restaurants where she had worked that were staffed with personnel ranging from executive, sous, and pastry chefs, along with a broiler cook, baker, fry/sauté cook, servers, and bus person, but it could be run just as efficiently. Once she opened her restaurants, she would bake enough bread to supply her place and Chez Toussaints.
Tonya sliced tomatoes, washed and dried lettuce leaves for the po’boys, placing them in plastic containers before they were stored on shelves in the walk-in refrigerator. She shelled and deveined countless pounds of shrimp that would be battered and fried for the sandwich.
“Are you certain you’ll sell out all of these today?” she asked Gage when he moved over to stand next to her.
He nodded. “We usually sell out of shrimp po’boys before noon. It’s one of the most requested items on the menu. We call them firecracker shrimp because we add cayenne to the dry seasonings. That and a spicy garlic mayonnaise made it an instant hit the first time we put it on the menu.”
“Do you make your own mayonnaise?” She had noticed a large glass jar in the fridge labeled mayo.
“Yes. But that’s another family secret.”
“Garlic mayonnaise by another name is aioli.”
“That is it,” he confirmed with a wide grin, “but we add chilies in addition to Tabasco sauce to give it an extra kick. There’s nothing better than our shrimp po’boy with an ice cold bottle of beer.”
“That sounds good.”
He dipped his head and pressed his mouth to her ear. “It is.”
Suddenly Tonya felt as if he was too close, that his body’s heat had seeped into hers and made her feel warm. He smelled of soap and clean linen. She wanted to tell him that he had invaded her personal space, which made her more than aware that something about Gage, other than his looks, excited her. He was a reminder that she was a woman who was still capable of passion.
Unfortunately, her ex had made it difficult for her to form a relationship with a man; she did not want to become so involved that she would lose her independence, and for Tonya independence was the single most important factor in her life. Gage had suggested they hang out together, and she would, because she knew their relationship would never progress beyond friendship and a mutual respect for their shared profession.
“What is your favorite sauce?” she asked. She felt the need to say something to make herself ignore the fact that she found his nearness slightly overwhelming.
Gage blinked as if coming out of a trance. Standing inches from Tonya and inhaling her perfume conjured up the moments when she had sat next to him in his vehicle. Every time he opened the door and sat behind the wheel, her scent lingered until after a while it faded completely. He had tried recalling the timbre of her voice, the stunning flawlessness of her bare face, and the mature, lush curves of her body that threatened to send his libido into overdrive. He did not know what there was about the woman that intrigued him so much, but he intended to discover what it was, and that was why he had asked her to go out with him.
“I’m partial to béarnaise. It goes well with chicken pontalba.”
“Is that a Creole dish?” she asked.
“Yes. It was name for the Baroness Micaela Pontalba, who earned fame for supervising the construction of the Pontalba buildings on the uptown and downtown sides of Jackson Square. One of these days I’ll make it for you, and you have to let me know if you want to put it on the menu when you open your restaurant.”
She flashed a dimpled smile. “I’d like that.”
Gage glanced above her at the clock and took off his apron. “I have to head out now, so we’ll talk later.”
Tonya nodded. “Later.” She pretended interest in chopping the red bell pepper, green onions, and sprigs of fresh tarragon for crab cakes rather than watch Gage walk out. She reminded herself she had relocated to New Orleans to go into business—not fall under the spell of a man whose very presence seemed to suck the air of out of the room.
* * *
Gage walked into the general office to sign in for the day. He nodded to the two women who were the eyes and ears for the principal who ran his school like a four-star general. The high school had undergone several changes over the years, and the result was higher test scores and lower dropout rates. The school board called an emergency meeting and conducted a search for an administrator with strong leadership qualities. They eventually hired the former headmaster of a military school who within two years had turned Lafitte High School into a model for success.
The principal’s secretary handed Gage a large craft envelope. “Mr. Toussaint, Dr. Carter wanted me to give this to you. He’s assigning you to Mr. Murdock’s class as a permanent teacher for the remainder of the school year. You’ll now be paid out of the regular school budget and the grant. Any after-school activities will have to be reported on the hourly professional personnel time report. Those forms are also in the envelope. If you have any questions, then please see me. I also made up a timecard for you, so beginning tomorrow you’ll be required to punch in at eight and out at three. We’ve temporarily deactivated Mr. Murdock’s email and added your name to the school’s email list, so you’ll be able to log on to his computer using your own password.”
She had spoken so quickly that Gage had to listen intently to catch every word. “Thank you.” He was taken aback that the district had hired him as a permanent teacher. Louis Murdock was a department head, which meant he would not only cover the man’s classes, but suspected he would have the responsibility for running the music department. And having to come in at eight would conflict with his covering for Eustace at the restaurant on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.
He left the office, nearly colliding with Dr. Carter. Although he had recently celebrated his sixty-third birthday, the West Point graduate and former career officer appeared years younger with his slender, ramrod-straight posture, lightly graying hair, and smooth nut-brown face.
“I see Miss Gibbons gave you the envelope. The school board and the superintendent have agreed to appoint you as a permanent teacher rather than a sub. With you in Murdock’s position, you’ll be responsible for organizing the spring concert. A group email was sent to the faculty and staff that your office has been changed from the band room to Murdock’s office.”
Gage’s impassive expression did not reveal what he was thinking at that time, and he doubted the principal would want to know. He didn’t mind stepping in and picking up the slack because of a colleague’s medical emergency, but becoming a permanent faculty member was something he hadn’t planned. If he had wanted to teach full-time, then he would have applied for a position as a full-time teacher. Eustace had asked him whether he wanted to be a chef or a musician and he had been unable to give him an answer, because at this time in his life he was willing to devote only a portion of his free time to teaching students who were seriously considering a career in music.
He had earned a graduate degree in education as a backup in case he ever tired of being a session player for various bands; however, in less than twenty-four hours, his well-ordered life had changed. Now he would spend the next five months teaching, running a department, playing at Jazzes on the weekend, and assisting his brother whenever he had to cater for any party for more than twenty-five.
Gage smiled, but the gesture did not reach his eyes. “Murdock is a hard act to follow.”
Dr. Carter nodded. “That he is, but I have no doubt you’ll be able to build on what he has accomplished with our students, because what you’ve done with the jazz band is phenomenal.”
“That’s because I’m working with a group of very talented young musicians.”
“Don’t be self-deprecating, Toussaint; the kids are close to worshipping you.” He glanced at his watch. “Classes are about to change, so I’m going to let you go.”
Gage nodded, turned on his heel, and headed down the hall. He opened the door to the band room at the same time the bell rang. Within seconds the hall was filled with students pouring out of classrooms. He entered the room and draped his jacket over the back of the desk chair. Murdock had pasted on the desk a printout of the orchestra with the various sections and the names of the students and where they were seated. He studied the printout, then picked up the sheet music resting on the stand in front of a stool. A yellow Post-it was attached to a page of Dvorak’s Symphony No. 9 in E minor op. 95 “From the New World.”
Gage wrote his name on the white board, and then nodded to each student as they filed into the room. He saw surprise cross the faces of his jazz band students. It was apparent they were not prepared to see him directing the orchestra. Once all were seated and had taken out their instruments, he sat on the stool.
“For those who are not familiar with me, I’m Mr. Toussaint and I’m going to be your teacher for the rest of the school year. Unfortunately, Mr. Murdock has experienced a medical emergency. Those who are in the jazz band know me well and what I expect from them. I will have the same expectations from the orchestra.” He paused briefly. “I know the fall concert was a rousing success, but it’s usually the spring concert that is the musical highlight of the school year.
“This spring I would like to try something different, but that all depends on how hard you all are willing to work. I expect you to practice whatever we go over in class, and if called upon, you will play in front of your classmates.” Glances were exchanged amid whispers. “It’s not to put you on the spot, but for me and your peers to acknowledge your musical genius.” Laughter, high-fives, and fist bumps followed his compliment. “I’m going to give you three minutes to warm up, and then I want Mr. Santos to come up and play for us.”
A rush of color flooded the boy’s face. “I didn’t get a chance to practice it.”
“Mr. Murdock doesn’t make us play if we don’t practice,” said one of the viola players.
Gage resisted the urge to shake his head in exasperation. “Well, I’m not Mr. Murdock, and if you don’t practice at home, then you’ll practice in front of the class.” Minutes later, he beckoned to the clarinetist. “Mr. Santos, please bring your music.” The band room was so quiet he could hear breathing coming from those sitting closest to him. Gage did not want to embarrass the boy, but if he was a serious music student, then it was incumbent upon him to practice. He slipped off the stool and waited for the student to sit and arrange his music. “We’re listening, Mr. Santos.”
The first few notes came out in high-pitched squeaking until he settled down and played the piece flawlessly. There was deafening silence for several seconds before the room erupted in applause, Gage clapping along with the others. “Excellent.” The boy returned to his seat, exchanging high-fives and handshakes with his classmates.
A French horn player raised his hand. “Mr. Toussaint, may I play my solo?”
“Me, too,” came a chorus from the assembly.
The students asking to play solos meant they were confident enough to play in front of their peers. His eyes swept over their eager faces. “Okay. We’re going to begin with the violins, then the violas, and follow with the cellos and bassist. Each section will play their part, and then it will be the woodwinds’ turn, followed by brass and percussion. Once everyone has their turn, then time permitting we’ll play the entire movement.”
It had only taken one class for Gage to assess the students as quite accomplished when it came to reading and playing music. Two months before, they had performed in the winter concert, and now it was time they practice for the spring frolic, and the compositions Mr. Murdock had chosen did not match their ability to play different genres. Gage had spent years playing classical music, but it wasn’t until he was introduced to ragtime, jazz, and the blues that he felt alive, as if the music was personally talking to him.
He glanced up at the wall clock as the students packed away their instruments. There was still another three minutes before the bell rang. “Can anyone tell me what the first instrument was?”
Several hands went up. “It was the drum,” called out the percussionist.
Gage smiled. “Even before that.” He was met with silence and blank stares. “What about the voice? Did not man have the ability to sing even before the first drum was constructed?”
“Word!” yelled Mr. Santos. “I saw an a capella group competition, and they made music with their voices that sounded like instruments.”
Gage nodded. “You’re right. We’ll talk about this at the end of the next class.”
He watched the students file out of the band room as ideas in his head tumbled over one another. This was his last year teaching under the two-year grant, and he wanted to leave more of an impact on the school than just starting a jazz band. Reaching for the leather portfolio case with his initials stamped on the front cover, he opened it and took out a pen and legal pad. Fifty minutes later he had jotted down several ideas he wanted to present to the instructors chairing the drama and choral clubs.
He found Murdock’s office, opened the door, and slowly walked in. Framed posters of musicians from bygone eras to the present lined three of the four walls. Gage didn’t know why, but he felt like an intruder. The music teacher had not spent more than twenty-four hours in the hospital and already he had been replaced. It was a sobering reminder that everyone was replaceable. He stared at the photographs of Louis with his wife and children during happier times when they visited Disney World and the Grand Canyon. Gage made a mental note to call the hospital to ascertain when Murdock would be able to receive visitors.
As he had booted up the desktop and programmed a password, he reminded himself that he had to call his brother and apprise him of the change in his work schedule. Eustace had confided to him that when he had checked with his physician before embarking on an exercise regimen, the doctor ordered a battery of tests, and some of the results were not good. Not only was he overweight, but his blood pressure was elevated and his cholesterol levels were much too high. It had become a wakeup call for Eustace to change his current lifestyle. He stopped eating fried foods and decreased his sodium intake. He had sworn Gage to secrecy because he did not want his wife to know what she had suspected for years—that if he didn’t change his diet, then he was going to have either a heart attack or stroke.
Gage transcribed his notes into a memo, revising it several times before emailing to those assigned to the music and art department. Slumping back in the chair, he stared at the computer monitor, and recalled Tonya’s words: All work and no play makes for a dull boy. He did not know when she had said it how prophetic the statement would be. Gage was aware that he could have rejected the offer to become a member of the school’s faculty, but he now realized it would have a negative impact on the students if they had to wait for the district to search for, interview, and hire a replacement.
Well, Tonya, he thought, you’re right, because for the next five months it will be all about work. Not only would he work with both the orchestra and jazz band, but also plan and rehearse for the upcoming spring concert, which was coming to resemble opening day for a big Broadway play. It would involve musicians, singers, actors, and stage designers. Ruminating about the concert was not going to solve the dilemma of his going into the restaurant to prep before Eustace arrived at eight.
Reaching for his cell phone, he tapped the number to the restaurant. It rang three times before his niece answered. “Nicky, can you please put your dad on the phone?”
“Hold on, Gage, he’s right here.”
“What’s up, bro?”
It took Gage less than a minute to explain to Eustace the change in his status at the school. “I have to clock in at eight, so I’m not going to be able to cover for you the days you work out.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem now that Tonya’s here. I gave her a key and the code to the security system. I’m almost certain she wouldn’t mind coming in early, but just in case I’m being presumptuous, you should let her know why you won’t be here. Hold on, and I’ll give you her number.”
“Don’t bother. I have her number.”
There came a noticeable pause. “You have her number?” Eustace asked.
“Yes. She gave it to me this morning. I know you guys are busy now, so tell her I’ll call her later on this afternoon.”
“No problem. Congratulations, professor. Or should I say maestro.”
Gage laughed. “Neither.”
“I gotta hang up now and get back to the kitchen because my girls are giving me the stink eye.”
Gage ended the call, smiling. Tonya had appeared on the scene like a fairy godmother. When she left New Orleans following his cousin’s wedding, Hannah had mentioned Tonya planned to return at the end of January. But by some miracle she had come earlier than predicted. Circumstances could not have been better if he had planned it. Eustace could continue to work out as recommended by his doctor; Tonya had volunteered as a baker and sous chef for the restaurant; while he was stepping in for a fellow musician who had selected Gage to become an artist-in-residence. Although he and Louis Murdock had grown up in the same Tremé neighborhood, they rarely saw each other. By the time Gage entered grade school Louis had left New Orleans for Potsdam, New York, to enroll in the Crane School of Music. They were reunited years later when Louis returned to his hometown after three decades of teaching music education in various New York City and Washington, D.C., public schools.
A reply to his email appeared on the monitor. It was from the director of the marching band. Like Gage, he was paid from a discretionary budget to rebuild the band after the former director had been fired the year before. He indicated the days and times he was available to meet with Gage to discuss the plans for the concert. By the time he left the office to pick up lunch from the faculty lunchroom, he had received two more replies.
He had a jazz band class at two, followed by an hour of practice, and then he planned to call Tonya to update her on his teaching schedule and ask whether she would be willing to cover for him.