Page 14 of The Big Easy & Other Lies
“Eat up, girl,” he said, waving the tray at me. “It’s back to yogurt in a couple of hours.”
I snatched another beignet and a jalapeno for good measure. “Something bad happened.” I told him about the scene in the library and then hit him when he laughed.
“It’s not funny,” I said. “Delphine is stressing me out more than usual. It’s making me crazy. And this whole mess is yours and Livvie’s fault for talking me into coming, so fix it.”
He snorted. “I didn’t tell you to lick the apps. Although I would have if I thought of it.” He grinned and handed me another jalapeno. “Have it. You earned it.”
“Seriously, what do I do?”
He picked up the tray with the tainted quiches. “Bring this to Angelique. She still deserves it. It’s not going to hurt her, and I can worship you as a goddess if you do it. She’s out there sucking up to all her daddy’s friends and telling everyone about their shopping trip to Dallas.” He shook his head. “Out of all the things you could do in Dallas, why are you going to go to the mall? We have malls here. It’s baseball season.Baseball,” he repeated, like I didn’t understand that he lived and breathed sports. “She could have gone to a Rangers game.”
“She probably thinks their uniforms are tacky,” I said. That was the critique she usually gave my projects for Applied Design. She’d pretend to study them and then she’d say, “It’s an interesting idea but it comes off as kind of...tacky,” like she was sorry to have to deliver the verdict. She did iteverytime.
“Get going,” he said. “You know rich folk don’t like it when our food doesn’t magically materialize the second we think about being hungry. I’ll put together another tray to pass and then you can take it to the library and try to do some damage control.”
I found Angelique where I left her. She smiled and looked lovely while she told the golfers about her summer vacation in the Florida Keys. I walked up in the middle of an anecdote about a deep-sea fishing adventure she’d had with her dad, and rather than interrupt her story, she accepted a cocktail napkin and lifted a quiche and a lobster roll on it before smiling politely and waving me away. I made sure Amber and Tara each took one too before returning to the kitchen.
“Did she eat them?” Bran asked, looking up from the tray he was arranging. I nodded.
“Yes! I love you,” he said. “Here’s your tray. Good luck in the library. I did crostinis so he’ll know it’s not the same food.” Then he grabbed a second full tray and headed back out to circulate.
“Thanks!” I called. He gave me an absent-minded wave and disappeared around a corner.
I decided to circulate through the house first, hoping to put off the library stop. I skipped the verandah and continued to a quaint sitting room where I found two highly Botoxed New Orleans socialites gossiping. They ignored me and my tray of fatty food.
I avoided eye contact and moved on to the living room. More velvety curtains and knee-deep carpet. It opened into a hallway, and I crossed it to reach the grand foyer. And then there was nowhere else to go. I had to face the library.
Anxiety blossomed in my stomach again, and it roiled as if the stupid beignets were bouncing around inside. I forced myself to do some yoga breathing and after a minute, I calmed down enough to know that I could either walk in and find out if I was screwed, or I could hide in the kitchen all night and let my anxiety worsen while I waited for everything to fall apart.
I didn’t have a real choice. I couldn’t lose this job because even if I found another one, I’d have no transportation without Livvie. In the name of funds and friends, I slunk toward the library prepared to make excuses and beg.
This time I heard the ripple of notes from the piano before I reached the door. I didn’t recognize the tune, but the melody was clear. Moody, a little dark, but kind of cool. I stepped inside and the music stopped.
“You’re back,” he said.
“I’m back,” I agreed. “May I offer you hors d’oeuvres?” It was the standard line Miss Annie coached us to say, but it sounded extra stupid right then.
“You may,” he said, his tone formal. Was he mocking me?
I walked toward him, self-conscious about everything from the plain low ponytail holding back my hair to the cocktail sauce stain on the cuff of my white shirt. It was full dusk outside now, and only the hall light behind me illuminated the room. Piano Boy (Man?) sat in deeper shadow than ever. It was all ridiculously Twilight-ish and dramatic.
“There’s a lamp by the piano,” I said, and cringed. Hello, Captain Obvious.
A moment later, soft light pooled around him. I blinked. He did, too. “Sorry,” he said. “The dark snuck up on me.”
I didn’t recognize him. Maybe he went to St. Ignatius, the popular choice for staunch Catholic families. Dark bangs swept across his forehead and contrasted with his light eyes, wideset in an angular face. The slight cleft in his chin broke up the sharp line of his jaw. He was lean but not scrawny, with more of a runner’s build. He kind of reminded me of a younger Adam Levine. I wasn’t close enough to make out any more details.
Please let him have hideous acne,I pleaded. Otherwise, I might not recover the power of speech. Lots of people made me nervous. Hot guys topped the list, though. I was alreadythisclose to snapping.
“What do you have?” he asked.
I blinked again, confused.
“Your tray? What do you have?” He leaned forward as if to check the tray out, but I was still too far away.
I took a deep breath and tried to pull myself together, channeling some of Livvie’s sass to see if I could power through this on pure brashness. I waved to my tray with a flourish. “I have a plate full of Miss Annie’s best crostinis, but they just aren’t the same without secret sauce. Take it from a saucy girl.” Oh, gag. Who even said “saucy” outside of a Jane Austen novel?
“May I see, too?” he asked, and a slight smile played around his lips despite his formal tone. It came off flirty, and a flirty boy wouldn’t want to nark on the waitress he was chatting up. Maybe this would be okay. I hurried forward with the tray and stopped abruptly within arm’s reach of the piano bench, the apps nearly sliding from their doily. His face was not hideous. Crap.
