Over the next week, Greier calls me every night, promising he’ll come back when things are safe.
I miss work.
I miss the girls.
I miss Tiny.
I miss Izzie.
I miss the apartment.
I miss him.
When I’m not missing everything, I spend my time with Mame, helping her around the mansion or learning how to cook Greier’s favorite recipes. He’s cooked so many dinners, I wanted to return the favor. Mame keeps talking about the masquerade, the finishing details she has to oversee. I’m concerned whether or not it’s a smart idea, still having the party. When I voiced my thoughts, Mame said, “Why not? Everyone’ll be wearin’ masks, silly.”
She had a point, but it still seems risky to me.
When I’m not with Mame, I’m exploring the property around the main house, reading amongst the flowers in the garden, walking barefoot through billions of blades of soft grass, navigating the miles of boardwalk through the cypress forests sprouting from the algae-covered waters of the bayou. Every afternoon, Beau teaches me how to use the gun Greier left me on bottle targets. Yesterday, I finally hit one. Well, grazed it. I thought he’d laugh, but he was more impressed I managed not to inflict even a scratch. Some evenings, I join him and Mame out on the porch to listen to the chorus of the swamp and drink sweet tea. This life is growing on me.
One hot afternoon, while rocking back and forth with my eyes pointed to the haint blue ceiling, the rustle of tires interrupts the silence. Jarred by the out of place sound, I lift my head and notice an early 2000s Honda with a teal paint job driving up the allée. I’ve never seen it before, but I’m certain it’s not something Shaw would drive. I stand and walk to the edge of the porch, watching the car park. The sun reflects off the windows, making it impossible to see the person or persons inside. The driver door opens, and a huge smile sweeps across my face.
“Izzie!”
I run down the steps and into her arms, thankful to see my friend. She hugs me tight.
“Oh, I have missed ya, suga! It ain’t the same ‘round the restaurant without ya.” She pushes me away and holds me at arm’s length. “How ya holdin’ together?”
“Fine.” I shrug, my lips tight and curled toward my teeth. “I worry about Greier most of the time. But I’m fine otherwise. What are you doing here?”
“Well,” she swings her arm about my shoulders and starts walking toward the terrace, “I’m here to keep ya company. And I may have brought ya a little surprise.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes, ma’am. But first,” she says, sounding like a sexy Groucho Marx, “I need a fuckin’ drink.”
Izzie mixes herself a concoction she likes to call a Louisiana Iced Tea, which is sweet tea laced heavily with bourbon.
“Whoa,” I comment, the sweet after-burn of my first sip stinging my throat. “You sure enjoy your bourbon down here.”
“It’s in our veins.” She takes a large gulp, aahing as if she drank a refreshing sip of ice water.
Deciding it’s not my cup of tea, literally, I pour myself a non-alcoholic, plain, old lemonade. Then I help lug in her crap from the car, and we set the bags in one of the many bedrooms. While unpacking her things, we enjoy our respective drinks.
When I realize how much shit she’s brought, I comment, “How long are you staying? ‘Till the end of time?”
She laughs.
“Maybe I am. Who wouldn’t like to live the rest of their days in a luxurious mansion?”
“Actually, I’d spend mine tucked away in the Quarter, in that little apartment above the Magnolia.”
“With Greier.”
I glance at her, a coy smile playing tug of war with the corners of my mouth.
“He misses ya.” She bumps her arm into mine. “He won’t talk about it, but it’s obvious in the way he’s been actin’. Like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.”
“I can relate.”
“He asked me to give ya somethin’.” She nods to a garment bag hung on the door and then jumps sideways onto the bed. I walk over to the gift and unzip it carefully. When the front flap peels open, black satin and lace peek out.
“Greier thought ya’d like it.”
I take out the gorgeous gown and hold it against me. “He bought this for me?”
“He had it made for ya. Luckily, I memorized ya measurements from our shoppin’ trip. He described what he wanted to the seamstress and voila. Stunnin’, ain’t it?”
“It’s the most beautiful dress.” I run my fingers down the silky bodice. “And I’ve worn my share.”
Including my wedding dress.
Later that night, Izzie and I eat dinner in the kitchen and then sit around the table with a bottle of champagne we discovered in a storage room. It was in a box with eleven other bottles. Since there were ten boxes, we concluded one teensy bottle wouldn’t be missed. We talk and drink and laugh. Well, Izzie does anyway. Drink, that is. I indulge in a hard glass of hand-squeezed lemonade, regaling her with the crazy events of last week. She tells me about everything I’ve missed during my absence, including the new possible love interest she met.
“She’s gotta helluv an ass,” she comments, a wicked smirk on her brazen mouth.
“You’re as bad as a man sometimes,” I tease.
She leans in and whispers, “Worse.”
“Where did you meet?” I ask, glad to have the conversation on someone other than me, or something other than my situation for a change. Seems to be the only subject I talk about these days.
Izzie fishes the strawberry from the bottom of her champagne and bites into the juicy piece of fruit.
“Ya gonna think I’m jokin’,” she mumbles.
“Try me,” I dare her.
“Gynecologist’s office.”
“Of course.” I fall over on the table laughing. “Where else?”
“It’s a one stop shop,” she says, wiggling her brow at me.
Once my laughing jag calms, I ask, “Are you going to invite her to the masquerade?”
“I ain’t a ball gown kinda gal. I’mma head back to the Quarter to watch over the Magnolia for Grey. Maybe invite her over to my place for a movie after.”
“You’re kidding me. You aren’t coming to the party?” I clarify, my disappointment evident.
“Sorry, sug.”
Shit. I’d been hoping to have another familiar face in the crowd, even a masked one.
“Oh,” a surprised voice comes from near the foyer door. We turn our attention to Mame. “Didn’t think anyone else would be awake.”
She clutches her robe shut.
“No need to cover up on our part,” Izzie says with her languid, melodic accent. “Just us hens here.”
Mame shoos her and then ties her robe as she walks toward the counter. “Couldn’t sleep. I’ve had a hankerin’ for pecan pie all day long.”
Removing the glass lid, she uncovers the pie sitting on a cake stand and cuts a slice with a triangular pie cutter. I rise from my chair and walk over to the cabinets where the small plates are stored. I take out three and place them next to the dessert on the counter. She glances at the plates and then me. I gift her a childlike smile. She smiles back, chuckling noiselessly, and then cuts two more pieces. We heat them and then top each slice off with a healthy scoop of vanilla ice cream. I’ll probably go into a diabetic coma with all this sugar, but it looks too good to pass up.
Joining Izzie and me at the table, we sit and eat our hot pie and melting ice cream, dotting the silence with the occasional moan or scrape of metal against ceramic.
As Izzie sucks the residue of ice cream and pecan from the prongs of her fork, she says, “Ya know, this is some damn good pie, Mamie girl.” She points the cleaned utensil at her accusingly. “But I’m still upset ya’ve yet to give me the recipe for ya fried okra.”
“Well,” Mame says, stabbing her fork into her pie, “you can keep on bein’ upset. I’ll take it with me to my grave.”
I shiver at the word grave.
Mame and Izzie notice, silencing their bickering, and stare at me with brows knitted in concern. Mame slides her hand across the table and covers it over mine, gently squashing my fingers together.
“Everything’s goin’ to be alright,” she assures me.
But I know there’s a chance it may not be. Too many balls in the air. Some are bound to fall.
“I’m worried about Greier,” I confess. “In the apartment. By himself. Probably afraid.”
“Ya got that backwards. Shaw should be afraid of Greier,” Izzie states, a sharp laugh marking the end like a period. “Not the other way ‘round.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“He threatened ya, Rae,” she reminds me as if I’m a ditz and forgot that little fact. “Ya think Grey’s goin’ to allow him get away with that?”
No. I highly doubt it.
But what if Greier can’t handle him? What if Shaw gets the upper hand?
I suddenly feel like I might throw up.
Mame’s brow tightens, and she places the back of her hand to my forehead and then to my cheek. “You don’t look so good, kiddo.”
“Then I look how I feel.”
“You should head up to bed,” she suggests.
“Let me help clear the table first.” I reach for my plate, but Izzie’s hand interjects.
“We’ve got it,” she insists.
I’d argue if I wasn’t feeling so lousy. Instead, I comply with a nod and wish them a good night before shuffling off to my bedroom.
Izzie stays with us the next few days, keeping my mind and me company, trying to distract both from the situation. I’d love to say it works, but it doesn’t. I’m beyond my limits worrying about Greier, constantly on the brink of tears. It’s like I’m glass and life keeps throwing stones at me, one following the next until I crack under the stress. Not sure if I can take much more. And then the cruel bitch tosses one last pebble, no bigger than a pea, and I shatter.