Let the Good Times Roll Read online

  “The band’s about to start,” she said.

  “It’s just going to take a minute.”

  The lips tightened and she blew out a thin breath. “Fine.”

  He drew her closer, making a slight face over her head at Mac, who pretended not to have overheard her.

  “Ivy, meet Mac and Wendy.”

  She shook hands like she was royalty. Her whole arm lifting for the greeting. He’d first noticed her for the self-possessed and confident way she moved through a crowded gallery. Turned out she’d done some modeling when she was younger.

  “Great to finally meet you, Ivy,” Wendy said. “We’ve heard such nice things.”

  “Sure. Your house is beautiful. Gabriel told me I would adore it.” He wasn’t sure where the “finally” came from, since he’d first mentioned her that morning as he was growing the roux for his gumbo.

  “Thank you.” Mac stepped in to give his show-off tour. He was proud of the way he’d decorated, but tended to downplay his work—until they were faced with someone who assumed that the high-profile hard-working head of neonatology was the one who’d, because she was the female, picked the paint colors.

  It always surprised Gabe when one of their friends displayed gender essentialism. He and Mac were artists; oughtn’t people expect their aesthetic points of view to be on display?

  Ivy brushed off Mac and began to tug him towards the patio again, but Wendy had his other arm and was laughing up at her friend Chloe.

  Like last year, she was a vision in white. This time, it was a denim wrap dress, heavy enough to preserve her modesty no matter how many glasses of wine it absorbed. Wendy tapped at the jingle bell earrings Chloe wore. They chimed and the women grinned. Over Wendy's head, Chloe met his eye, and her cheeks reddened. It was cute. Festive. She lifted a gift bag festooned with crawfish in Papa Noel hats. “Merry Christmas, Gabe.”

  “For me?”

  “It’s fifty weeks overdue, so I thought the least I could do is make it festive.”

  He extracted himself from between Wendy and Ivy, and checked in the bag. His shirt was folded neat as if it was fresh off the department store shelf, atop something else, something soft wrapped in red tissue paper. He disentangled it and felt a wide sweep of a smile brush across his face. It was a white shirt, a nice heavy cotton, and as he shook it out to show Mac, he laughed.

  “I didn’t have any paint, but I figured nail polish was as good a way to start destroying it as any.”

  He glanced at Chloe’s hands—her nails were the same wine-dark red as the three dots of color marring the cuff of the pristine white shirt. “It’s perfect. It’s like blot work—I’m going to use it as a trigger to treat this like a canvas. Thanks.”

  She shrugged. “Least I could do, after you came to my rescue last year.”

  “Aww, that’s sweet,” Mac said. “Put it on, then you can be her knight in white armor.”

  His laugh was cut short by the sharp bite of Ivy’s fingers on his arm.

  “Let’s go listen to the music,” she said. “I don’t want to miss them.”

  He’d warned her that Lassiter’s trio had another gig to get to, so fair enough that she was eager for the sets they’d play at Mac’s party. He nodded down at her and tucked both shirts back into the gift bag. “Thanks for this. I look forward to destroying it,” he told Chloe, who nodded and followed Mac towards the kitchen. As he and Ivy headed towards the patio doors, he caught Chloe’s exclamation. “Oh, that’s fabulous. It’s new?”

  “From our artist in residence program,” Mac said. “Gabe painted it.”

  Ivy led him outside so he didn’t hear anything more about the bayou landscape that launched his newest series.

  After Lassiter’s band left, he carried the shirts to his place. Ivy trailed after him. “So, who was the ice princess?”

  “The what?”

  “Your princess in white, the one you go around rescuing all the time.”

  “Aw, Ivy. You can stop playing jealous dragon in need of slaying. She works for Wendy, I only met her at some parties here. Her date spilled wine on her shirt, so I loaned her mine.” He knew better than to mention that he’d stripped off right there on the patio.

  “And that’s it?”

  “Yep. Took her all year to get my shirt back to me, that’s why she gave me this other.”

  She snugged against him for a kiss. “Okay then. But Princess Ice’s gonna have to let me be the one to make your holidays extra festive.”

  “Sounds promising. And anyway, she’s not a princess. She’s Goldilocks.”

  Ivy looked up through her lashes to look up through them. “That girl’s got blacker hair than mine, and that’s saying something.”

  He should stick with the staying silent plan. “That’s right. I’m the only Goldilocks around here. Want to come up and see if my bed is just right?”

  Ivy’s smile and eyes widened. “You don’t need to get back to the party?”

  He shrugged. “Naw. I showed my face, and got a dance with my gorgeous date.”

  “And ate your shrimp pistolette.”

  “And ate some good pistolette and maque choux. All I need now is a little alone time.”

  Her hands slid around him like she intended never to let go. “As long as your alone time includes me.”

  Strict truth didn’t advance his need for peace to decompress. But a party of two outranked the party of dozens. Besides, being out there might lead to encounters with Chloe, leading to jests from Mac, leading to the reawakening of Ivy’s green-eyed demons. He’d hit his limit on managing Ivy’s insecurity for the night. He locked the door and said, “Now, why would I have it any other way?”

  Chapter Five

  “Who is this nonsense child Philipe says you’re seeing tonight?” Wendy asked.

  “Oswaldo. He’s not a nonsense child. I think he’s in his late thirties.” She tucked her tennis shoes into her locker and elbowed it shut. “How’s my hair? Any of the grays showing?”

  “Ha. You’re not that old.”

  “Older than you, boss. Older than Oswaldo. But no worries, I’m not going to lure him to my candy-coated cottage in the woods and shove him in the oven.”

  “Shove him into your oven,” Wendy snickered.

  “I would never shove. That doesn’t sound in the least pleasant. Do I need to have a talk with Mac about his technique?”

  Wendy got that happily-married-smug look, so Chloe went on before they crossed the line between ribbing and too much information. “Oswaldo’s niece is Baby Laurens. He was visiting and we got to chatting.”

  “Mac’s sister is always complaining about how hard it is to meet men. I don’t know what you’ve got that she doesn’t.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment?” Chloe held the door for Wendy.

  “Hush. You’re both pretty and smart and valuable members of society, is all I mean. But Delaney does nothing but complain about trying to meet men who aren’t narcissistic or brutish or players. Is it a race thing?”

  Chloe considered the question. “I read something about online dating as a black woman and it was depressing as hell, the automatic bias crap. But it was from a writer up north. New England or some such. Wouldn’t expect it applies the same way in New Orleans, though I’ve got no interest in telling Delaney what her experience is. At a guess, it’s not just that.”

  Wendy reached up and fixed Chloe’s earring.

  “Thanks.” She checked the other was in place.

  “Sure. So, what is it, then? The big difference between you and Delaney?”

  “She wants to find a partner. I’m not shopping for true love. She’s right about having to weed thorough some of that crap if we want to date men our age—or close to our age, don’t start with me—but she’s going out on every first date with an either/or scorecard. Not just looking to see if they can have a sweet time for an evening or a couple of weeks. They have to pass a test for the rest of their lives, all over a dish or coffee or a po-boy. It
’s a brutish system.”

  Wendy was nodding, but shaking her head at the same time. Amusing, but unclear.

  “What? Am I wrong about what Delaney wants?”

  “No. She may deny it if asked outright, but she’s looking for a life partner. I never thought of it as so either-or before. Mac and I met in college. We were such babies.”

  “Especially you.”

  “I was twenty when we met.”

  “How old was he?”

  “Twenty-three. But he was in undergrad still, so I was the one robbing the cradle, not him.”

  Chloe shook her head. “Solid logic there, boss.”

  “Don’t call me boss.”

  “Fine. But either way, Delaney is in her mid-thirties now, correct?”

  “Thirty-seven.”

  “Right, and she puts all this effort into meeting men, does the online thing, asks people to introduce her to single guys, walks her dog at the dog park at peak hours, whatever.”

  “Is that why she has two dogs? I thought they were security, or company.”

  “That, too. But they can serve a dual purpose.”

  “Okay. But if she’s doing all that to meet more men, shouldn’t she be giving the ones she does date more of a chance? She’s always making us check in with her to give her an excuse to get away. They can’t all be so immediately awful.”

  “And I’m sure they’re not. But listen, imagine she finds some guy, he’s good on paper or has a cute well-trained dog or whatever. And they’re both looking for a serious relationship. They scope each other out, they agree it’s worth a try. At last, they’re at dinner, and she orders the corn bisque and a veggie burger, or he smacks his lips after he tastes the wine. Something happens. Now for me, I’m not auditioning my date for a role in the rest of my life. He smacks his lips and I think, well, next time we’ll drink beers, and my problem is solved. I can drink wine with other men, or on my own. I don’t have to pretend your checking-in text is a 9-1-1 from the dog sitter. Meanwhile, he’s not contemplating a life sharing meals with a pescetarian, wondering if he has to brush the meat taste out of his mouth after every meal, or put up with lectures about factory farms. If I’m Delaney, both of us are on edge, looking for the deal-breaker, and knowing that as soon as it appears we want to never see each other again. But we’re also trying to stay positive, because of how cute his dog is or how great my list of favorite books was, or whatever other element was the bright spark that convinced us we could be fated.”

  “This is so grim.”

  She shrugged. “That’s one of the reasons I don’t go husband-hunting. Take Oswaldo. He was visiting Baby Laurens, he brought his brother and sister-in-law smoothies, he rolled up his sleeves to scrub his hands before meeting the baby. Nice forearms, nice eyes, kind demeanor. He caught me checking his hand for a ring, gave me a smile. Stopped to chat some nonsense on his way out, so I asked him out.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Sure, why not? I’m single, he’s single, we might have fun. If he’s lucky, we might have a lot of fun.”

  “But how do you know he’s not looking for something long-term?”

  She paused by Wendy's car. It was a nice day. And she had time, so she’d declined the offer of a ride. It was her habit to leave her car at home when she had after-work dates. “What if he is? I’m not stopping him.”

  “But you don’t want to get married.”

  “I’m not opposed to long-term relationships.”

  “Just to marriage?”

  “Look, there’s nothing wrong with marriage. I admire yours, if you want to know the truth. You and Mac are good to each other. My twin’s got a great marriage. Our brother and sister, too, far as I can see. Secure marriages everywhere, and more power to them. But that’s not my goal. I don’t need it.”

  Wendy reared her head back. “Need it? I don’t need my marriage. I love it.”

  She resisted rolling her eyes. The lifers always got defensive about their choice. “It’s not an insult. Loads of people are looking for what you and Mac have. Look at Delaney—she’d be over the moon for your kind of security and comfort. Don’t go getting offended because I feel fine about my life without having a ring on my finger.”

  Wendy’s mock-surrender hands matched her wry tone. “No need to take out a three-page complaint ad in the hospital newsletter. I get it. You like your life. I like my life. We both like our lives. And if Oswaldo has designs on your maiden name, you’ll set him out on his ear.”

  “A three-page ad? Does the newsletter even take advertising?”

  “I don’t know. I think so?”

  “Well, I won’t ask. I don’t intend to lead the poor man up the garden path. If he’s sitting there judging the rest of our lives because I pay for his dinner, we just won’t go out again. And if he turns out to be great in bed and charming upon further acquaintance and, I don’t know, makes me a nice meal when I’ve had a hard day at work. Then, fine, he can throw his happily-ever-after agenda at me, and I’ll think about it.”

  Wendy's head cocked to the side. “You just told me you’re not interested in marriage.”

  “I’m not seeking out marriage. I’m not dating with an eye on eternity. That doesn’t mean I won’t find some man I can’t live without, someday. It means I like living alone, directing my own actions, and also, I like dating. Meeting new people, getting to hear about their lives and tell them about mine. It’s fun. If they’re hot and adventurous and make my life easier, all the better.”

  Her boss climbed into her car. “Sure you don’t want a lift?”

  “Nope. Thanks.”

  “Okay. Well, I hope Oswaldo is everything you’re hoping for tonight. Need me to text you in two hours to check in?”

  “Not my style. If we don’t work, I’ll just say so and walk away.”

  Wendy shook her head again and drove off. The woman did not understand her lifestyle, and that was okay. Most people didn’t. She’d had to explain it to her parents and three of her four siblings over and over; if it weren’t for her unattached baby brother, she’d feel like a total outcast from them all sometimes. Every other Lee gave her tips about being approachable, or told how they’d had initial reservations about their now-true-loves, but gave them a chance and found communion. Even her oldest niece had texted her a link to an article about soul mates. Why a preteen kid was reading women’s interest magazines was beyond her, but it was clear Chloe’s sister deemed it appropriate enough to result in advice for the maiden aunt.

  Shaking off this onset of the ‘nobody understands me’ blues, she plugged her headphones in and set off to stroll through the neighborhood between work and the restaurant where she was meeting Oswaldo. Azaleas bloomed in almost every garden, along with islands of hydrangea or cattails or gladioli. The heavy sweet scent of magnolias heralded their appearance long before she spotted their profuse flowers and navigated the petals dropped across lawns and sidewalks. Kids young and old bumped their bike tires over shaded streets warped by tree roots. She passed bright-painted shotgun houses and iron fences and tantalizing wafts of cedar smoke and grilled meat from someone’s grill.

  Picturing the same walk with a not-quite-likeminded partner, pointing out her small joys while worrying he’d scorn her pleasure—no. She shivered with distaste.

  Every way she looked at it, Chloe’d set her life up exactly right.

  Chapter Six

  She and Peter stood on Wendy and Mac’s porch, waiting for the door to open.

  “I look okay?” he asked for the three thousandth time.

  “It’s casual. Relax.”

  His fidgeting with his hair and festive tie and hands in and out of pockets and on her back and back to tie then pockets was racking up her own nerves.

  “I mean, it’s your boss. I want to make a good impression.”

  Chloe tried to keep the wince off her face. They’d dated maybe four months? And even if it mattered to her that Wendy approved of her relationship—it didn’t; why would it
?—Peter looked fine. Fresh haircut. Neat clothes. No visible gaping wounds.

  She knew he was prey to imposter syndrome, maybe because of her profession. Or that was her best guess. When they’d met, he seemed solid enough.

  It had been the first cool, crisp day, heralding a fall that was too long in coming after the August heat. She had the morning off, so she laced up and jogged along the St. Charles neutral ground towards the Milk Bar. She wasn’t the only one relishing the weather. Crowds at each streetcar stop sent her on little detours that more than once meant being bopped in the head by some of the Mardi Gras beads hanging year-round from the oaks along the boulevard. So when she got her milkshake she was a little sweaty and her hair was wonky and a stranger named Peter offered her a seat at his table since the place was, predictably, crowded.

  He was cute. She was disconcerted by how cute, because mid-thirties men didn’t tend to bring the word to mind. His eyes sparkled, and his beard was short and sharp, and they’d enjoyed amiable chat for an hour before the social pressure to abandon the table for others got to them. He was headed as far as Hillary Street so instead of hopping a streetcar herself, they wandered along the avenue. Waving at tourists. Cheering for a wedding parade. Then dancing alongside them when it snaked around and they ended up shoulder-to-shoulder with the groomsmen for a block. He overshot his street, and sat in Audubon Park with her for a half-hour, watching dog walkers and zany squirrels and families with kids who chased each other with handfuls of Spanish moss.

  The social anxiety didn’t show up until their third official date, when she’d asked him to Upperline. “I know you’re a doctor, but damn,” he’d said, after she’d recommended the restaurant’s tasting menu. “You must be loaded.”

  It felt like a joke, until retrospect and a few other incidents reframed it. So she’d been considering it all. The barb-toned “Doctor Lee” greetings instead of “Chloe.” The fuss whenever she carried a bag or wore a pair of shoes he hadn’t seen before. Comments about Christmas gifts she bought for her nieces and nephews. As if having four brothers and sisters, three of them with children, was a thing only well-off people could handle in their lives. She bought the kids things she thought the kids would like, and she’d long ago set up a separate account to accrue their gift money throughout the year. It was part of her direct deposit. Sure, she also had a portion of her paychecks going to savings and charity and investing and retirement. She knew she was privileged to do so. But Peter managed the office of an oil and gas company, he wasn’t hurting. And even if he was, she didn’t need him making judgments about her choices.