Cake on a Hot Tin Roof (4 page)

Five

As soon as we arrived at the house, I hustled Aunt Yolanda and Uncle Nestor into my second-floor guest room, and while they unpacked their suitcases, I stuffed dishes into the dishwasher and carted trash outside to the bin. I used the Swiffer on the kitchen floor, put fresh towels in the guest bath, and hid dirty clothes in my closet.

The rest of the clutter was almost tolerable, but I still couldn’t relax as I showed them through the place. It really is a magnificent house, and I was surprised by how much I wanted them to approve, even as I waited for Uncle Nestor to notice a dust bunny or spot a cobweb. Along with the house, I’d inherited Philippe’s substantial bank account and the Mercedes parked on the street. I was slowly getting used to my new lifestyle, but I worried that Uncle Nestor would think it all too ostentatious.

Aunt Yolanda gushed over everything, but Uncle Nestor grumbled about the stairs he had to climb, the view from the guest bedroom, and the fact that the heater turned on twice while we were there. He’d forgotten batteries for the portable cassette player that lulled him to sleep at night, and apparently New Orleans didn’t have a radio station that would satisfy him. His earphones weren’t working properly, and the hangers in my closet would leave creases in his pants.

Once I’d left them getting settled and was driving back to Zydeco, I found myself wondering whether time and distance had dulled my memory, or if Uncle Nestor really was grumpier than he used to be. Not that it mattered. Whatever had brought on this foul mood of his was beside the point. I reminded myself that I could tolerate anything for a weekend, and tried to feel optimistic about taking him to the party. Everything would be fine.

Back at Zydeco, I put my family concerns on the back burner and spent the rest of the afternoon trying to work hard enough to make up for my absence. Ox got stuck in traffic trying to reach the birthday venue, so at least I didn’t have to take any grief from him. I felt so guilty about abandoning the staff, I changed my mind about closing up early, which went a long way toward gaining me points with them, even if it set us back further on orders. But Dwight was all sharp edges and disapproving looks until the minute we loaded the King Cakes into the van and sent him to the country club, locking the bakery doors behind us.

I was feeling extra prickly myself, trying hard to
laissez les bons temps rouler
but coming up short. It’s hard to let the good times roll when you know for certain you’ll be paying the price tomorrow for the choices you’ve made today. I was also nervous about meeting Ivanka Hedge and planning what I’d say when I did. I mentally ran over the outfit I planned to wear, second-guessing the halter neckline, the pleated bodice, and the beaded design at the waist. Were they as flattering as I’d imagined when I bought the dress?

Not that I could do anything about it. I had nothing else even remotely suitable in my closet, and no time to shop. But that didn’t stop me from fussing over my choices.

By seven o’clock, as I climbed the sweeping front steps of The Shores with my aunt and uncle, my nerves were stretched taut and ready to snap. I’d been here with Miss Frankie a couple of times, but never for such a large-scale event. Definitely not for an event people might later connect with me and, by extension, Zydeco. I could score in a big way for the bakery if everything went well tonight, but what were the chances of that? I was exhausted, and my new strappy black sandals were already making my feet hurt. I’m not used to wearing heels.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly to steady my nerves. For months I’d been looking forward to showing off my new life to Uncle Nestor and Aunt Yolanda, but now that they were here, I wondered what they’d think of it. Would they enjoy themselves at the party or would they be miserable all evening? Should I have come earlier to help set up the serving station? And what if Ivanka Hedge didn’t show up after all? Would I get another chance to land the all-important contract?

Aunt Yolanda, looking elegant in a pair of black silk pants and a beaded top I’d loaned her, stared at the clubhouse as if she’d never seen anything like it. She probably hadn’t. The clubhouse at The Shores is a three-story building that could have been ripped off the set of
Gone with the Wind
. Fronted by a circular drive of crushed oyster shells and backed by acres of lush green lawn, tennis courts, and an Olympic-sized swimming pool with views of the club’s world-class golf course, it was way out of our league. The whole area whispers money, history, and long-standing tradition. Though I’m getting more comfortable here, I still sometimes struggle with a sense of inadequacy. I suspected Uncle Nestor was having the same reaction.

While a uniformed valet disappeared with the car, Uncle Nestor climbed the stairs behind us, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched, scowling at everything we passed. The air was cool and dry, lightly perfumed by the flowers blooming on nearby azalea bushes. It was a nearly perfect evening, but Uncle Nestor couldn’t even let himself enjoy it.

When I was a girl, we never went a month without worrying how all the utilities and the rent would be paid. Even if we met those basic needs, we were never sure there’d be enough left over for groceries. Uncle Nestor and Aunt Yolanda had worked long hours to make ends meet, leaving my cousins and me alone a lot as we grew older. My aunt and uncle had never once hinted that I was a burden, but I’d secretly suspected that the extra person to feed and clothe—a girl, no less, who couldn’t even wear their sons’ hand-me-downs—had been the tipping point in their budget.

Aunt Yolanda had taken our circumstances in stride, praising God for blessings she hadn’t yet received and urging us to do the same. But Uncle Nestor had gone down a different path. He’d taken those early hardships as a sign of failure, believing that his circumstances were a punishment for some sin he never talked about. Even now, with Agave a success, he walked through life as uncomfortable with his current good fortune as he was in the suit I’d pulled for him from the spare closet where I’d put Philippe’s clothes. My poor uncle spent his days just waiting for God to throw the next big roadblock in his path.

I’d fallen somewhere in the middle, unable to rise to Aunt Yolanda’s level of faith but not as negative as Uncle Nestor either. I’d found joy in the kitchen as the boys and I scraped together creative meals from the meager contents of our cupboards. Those early days had sparked my love of cooking. Which was actually a little miracle, I guess. It could so easily have gone the other way.

“I didn’t realize Miss Frankie was so well off,” Aunt Yolanda whispered, pulling me back to the moment.

“She has money,” I said, “but it hasn’t gone to her head. She’s as down-to-earth as they come.”

Uncle Nestor eyed the club’s broad verandah with suspicion. “Family money?”

“Some of it,” I said. “I’m not entirely sure where it all comes from.”

He gave me a raised-brow look. “You haven’t asked? Or she won’t tell?”

“I haven’t asked.”

He huffed and turned away, and my nerve endings tingled. I wasn’t imagining it. He really did seem more caustic than he used to be, but why was that? Was he that angry at me for moving to New Orleans?

There was nothing I could do about it now, so I ignored him and took up the conversation with Aunt Yolanda. “You remember how Miss Frankie was at the wedding, don’t you?”

“Utterly charming,” Aunt Yolanda agreed.

“And completely genuine,” I assured her. “I know you’ll like her when you get to know her better.”

Aunt Yolanda smiled. “Don’t worry so much, Rita. I’m sure we’ll like your new friends.”

“She’s not worried about us liking them,” Uncle Nestor groused from behind us. “She’s worried they won’t like us.”

That was so unfair! I turned toward him with a scowl. “That’s not true. The people coming tonight aren’t exactly friends of mine. Their opinions don’t matter.” I hesitated on the threshold, taking in the long central corridor lined with glass trophy cases and an impressive library. I could hear the muted sounds of activity coming from somewhere in the back, but the hushed silence that greeted us told me we were one of the first to arrive. That ought to make Miss Frankie happy.

I swallowed my feelings of inadequacy and kept talking to Uncle Nestor as if I weren’t battling a giant case of nerves. “Other than the staff at Zydeco, I’ve probably only met a handful of these people for about thirty seconds at Philippe’s funeral. I have no idea what I’ll talk about with any of them. I’m a little nervous about that, but there’s also a chance that I can make a good impression on some important potential clients tonight. If I’m distracted and edgy, that’s why. It has nothing to do with you.”

Aunt Yolanda gave me an encouraging hug. “You’re an intelligent woman and you have a great sense of humor. You can talk to them about absolutely anything. Don’t you dare let anyone make you feel inferior.”

I smiled and hugged her back. “Thanks,
Tía.
You always know just what to say. I don’t expect you and Uncle Nestor to hang around here all night. If you get tired or bored, just say the word. I’ll call a cab so you can go back to my place.”

With a soft snort, Uncle Nestor said, “You stay, I stay.”

Great. I wasn’t worried about Aunt Yolanda. She could hold her own in any social situation, but I wondered if Uncle Nestor would have trouble finding common ground with the other guests in his current mood. He seemed determined to be offended.

I didn’t have time to dwell on my concerns, because at that moment Miss Frankie swept into the foyer, greeting us all with her warm, honey-coated smile. She’s several inches taller than I am and thin as a rail. Even thinner since Philippe’s death. Her chestnut hair had been teased, styled, and sprayed, and the sequins and beads adorning her outfit gleamed in the glow of the crystal chandeliers overhead.

She hugged me briefly, then tugged me inside. “Thank the good Lord you’re here. I was beginning to get worried.” Without missing a beat, she turned her smile on Aunt Yolanda and Uncle Nestor. “And how nice to have the two of you here! Isn’t this wonderful? I was thrilled when Rita called to let me know you’d be joining us.”

That was exactly the reaction I’d been counting on from her.

Miss Frankie snagged Uncle Nestor’s arm and led him down the marble-floored corridor toward the staircase that led to the second-floor ballroom. “Rita tells me you surprised her this afternoon. Isn’t that fun? I just love surprises, don’t you?”

Uncle Nestor has never liked being on the receiving end of a surprise, but he went along without argument and even managed a smile of sorts, which I took as a good sign. Aunt Yolanda and I climbed the stairs behind them and followed them through an archway created by two massive gold-sequined saxophones into the club’s ballroom, where dozens of round tables had been covered in crisp white tablecloths and positioned facing the long rectangular table where the krewe’s highest-ranking officials would sit. Feathered and sequined carnival masks, strings of beads, and Mardi Gras–themed confetti spilled down the center of each table. Huge vases of cut flowers, each decorated with a different musical instrument, stood between support posts swathed in yards of shimmering white satin and twinkling white lights.

Uncle Nestor gave a little gasp of surprise.

Which Miss Frankie mistook for approval. “Don’t you love it? The krewe’s theme this year is ‘Jazz Hot.’ Just wait until the band starts playing. This place will really come to life then.”

I was pretty sure Uncle Nestor didn’t
love
it, but I was distracted by the mouthwatering aromas that filled the air, reminding me that I’d skipped lunch…again. I often get so wrapped up in my work that I forget to eat. My stomach rumbled and I thought about the menu Miss Frankie and I had spent days planning. I could look forward to bacon-wrapped jalapeños stuffed with cheese, crab cakes fried golden brown and served with a creamy lemon-dill sauce, hot and spicy jambalaya, garlic cheese grits, mounds of fresh shrimp accompanied by spicy cocktail and remoulade sauces, loaves of crusty French bread and beignets, and an assortment of desserts, the highlight of which would be the King Cakes that Dwight should have delivered by now.

I made a mental note to check on the cakes after my aunt and uncle were settled. At Ox’s urging, I’d delegated the tasks of cutting and serving the cake tonight, and now I was really glad I’d listened to him. Putting Isabeau and Sparkle in charge of the cake service would give me one less thing to think about, especially with Aunt Yolanda and Uncle Nestor here, but I still wanted to make sure the cakes had arrived safely and that someone was on top of the setup.

I was so caught up in my thoughts that I almost plowed into Uncle Nestor’s back before I realized that he’d stopped walking. He paused just inside the archway to look around, and the smile on his face faded bit by bit.

“Nice digs,” he said when he realized we were all looking at him. “But it’s a little out of our league. Wouldn’t you say, Yolanda?”

Aunt Yolanda laughed, smoothing over his comments with her customary grace. “It’s beautiful. And looks like so much fun. Have you been a member of the club long?”