Page 42 of The Shop on Royal Street
“Uh-huh. Did he choose the restaurant before or after Jaxson told him I was paying?” I held up my hand before she could scold me. “I know. You’re right. He’s doing us a huge favor, so I’m not going to complain. I could always sell a kidney if I run out of money.”
She rolled her eyes. “I need to park Bubba, so go on inside and I’ll meet you there. We’re a few minutes late, so Jaxson and his uncle might already be there.”
“Don’t take too long,” I said with meaning. Even though we’d just left the apartment, I knew she’d want to refresh her hair and makeup since she was about to see Jaxson.
“Please close the door, Nola. Lord only knows what this humidity is doing to my hair, and I’ve probably talked off all of my lipstick.” Jolene was already pulling away before my door was completely shut.
I sighed with happiness after walking through the front doors, admiring the meticulously refinished narrow-slat wooden floors, high ceilings, heavy moldings, and spinning fans. What had most likely once been a corner grocery and residence or neighborhood bar had been reborn into an iconic New Orleans restaurant in a city known for its iconic restaurants. The reappropriation of historic buildings for current use made my heart sing. The sight of the white-cloth-draped tables had the opposite effect. I could have sworn I felt the wallet in my backpack attempt an escape.
I smiled at the man at the podium in the front. “Table for four under the name Jaxson Landry?”
“Ah, yes,” he said. “Follow me. The lady and gentleman are already here and have started with a cocktail.”
I wasn’t sure which confused me more—the mention of a lady or of drinking a cocktail at eleven in the morning. And then Iremembered I was in New Orleans. The man led me to a table at the back of a side room filled with happy diners and calmly rotating ceiling fans. A white-haired gentleman with dark bushy brows, a strong Irish chin, and the heavy build of a linebacker stood as I approached; in front of him was a double old-fashioned glass filled with what looked like bourbon on the rocks.
I held out my hand. “I’m Nola Trenholm, and you must be Bernard Landry.”
Instead of shaking my hand he took it, cupped it between his own hands, and squeezed gently. “It’s so very nice to meet you, Nola. And please call me Uncle Bernie—everyone does. In fact, I can no longer remember how many actual nieces and nephews I have.” He grinned, exposing perfectly white dentures.
“And this young lady,” he said, indicating the striking-looking woman with dark blond hair, “is Carly Mouton.”
She stood, too, and shook my hand. “I’m Jolene’s friend. She’s told me so much about you.”
“Likewise,” I said, deliberately not mentioning that our conversations were usually about Carly and Jaxson.
“Jaxson had a big case dumped on him, so he’s working even though it’s Sunday,” Carly explained. “He asked me to drive Uncle Bernie. I hope you don’t mind.”
Bernie shook his head. “Not that I need a chauffeur. I’m perfectly fine driving myself. It’s not my fault the streets are narrow and people park on both sides and that tourists jaywalk.”
Carly raised her eyes to the ceiling as she helped Bernie back into his seat. Talking about bad drivers made me think of Jolene. I needed to warn her that Carly was there instead of Jaxson, so she’d be prepared, but she must have found a parking spot nearby—or parked on top of three smaller cars—because she appeared at the table, her lipstick fresh and her nose powdered.
“Carly!” she shouted with an enthusiasm that even I believed. “It’s so great to see you! Did you come with Jaxson?” I saw the disappointment in her eyes as she glanced down at the table for any sign of him.
“Sadly, no. He had to work. But it’s been so long since I’ve seen you, and I’ve been dying to meet Nola, so I jumped at the chance to bring Uncle Bernie.”
Carly made the introductions and I watched as Jolene smiled at Bernie. “I can see where Jaxson gets his good looks,” she said.
Carly turned to Jolene with a surprised expression. “You never mentioned that you thought Jaxson was good-looking.”
Jolene casually placed her napkin on her lap. “Haven’t I? Well, he has auburn hair, which probably makes me partial.”
Jolene pointed to Carly’s cocktail glass filled with something pink and garnished with a lime. “What are you drinking?”
“It’s awesome. It’s called a What-a-melon and it’s got watermelon vodka and God only knows what else but it’s amazing.” She waved her hand in the air and a waiter appeared. “Can you please get two of these for my friends?”
“Just water for me,” I corrected. I turned to Jolene with a meaningful look that I hoped would remind her of the night Beau had had to drive us home. She’d sworn off alcohol for life the following day and, to my knowledge, hadn’t touched a drop since, but Carly’s presence might be called an emergency.
“I’ll have one, please,” Jolene said. “Just one, though.”
Our waiter handed us menus and I didn’t even pretend to look for vegan items, focusing instead on the right-hand column listing the prices.
“Do you come here often?” I asked Bernie.
“Never been. I’m a bit of a foodie, though, and I’ve been reading about Patois for a while, but never had a chance to come. The wife’s more of a meat-and-potatoes kind of gal, and a heck of a good cook, but she doesn’t like going out to eat. Especially anyplace that’s pricey like this.”
I waited to see if he might laugh, but he was already perusing his menu. When the waiter returned, Bernie ordered the grilled hanger steak and eggs (the most expensive item on the menu) and another bourbon on the rocks. Jolene ordered the heirloom garden salad, andI ordered a cup of the seasonal gumbo, mostly because it was one of the cheapest things on the menu.
“Is that all you’re going to eat?” Bernie asked. “At least get an appetizer or you’ll leave hungry. And that’s a sin in this city and should be an arrestable offense.” He looked back at his menu. To the waiter, he said, “I’ve read great things about your pancake appetizer, so you can bring one of those for her to start.” He indicated me with his chin. “And you, Carly?”
