Lies Agreed Upon (16 page)

“So you and Roman were childhood friends?” Tess asked in surprise.

Sam took a sip of his bittersweet brew and mulled the question. He shook his head, “No, not frien’s. We played like boys do, but we got divided, black and white, when we got to be men. My momma’d been workin’ 12 years for the Cabreras when Ben passed in 1930. Ben lef’ my poppa a little money for ‘his loyal service,’ so my momma could retire. About that time, Mr. Armand had the idea of startin’ up the restaurant on Canal Street. He even axed my momma to cook, but she said, no, she’s done with cookin’ in other peoples’ kitchens.”

“So the Beauvoir Restaurant was started by the Cabreras,” said Tess in surprise.

“The Cabreras started it and owned it a long time,” nodded Sam.

Sam explained that Paul Beauvoir, at loose ends after Ben’s death, begged Armand to let him try his hand at managing the restaurant. Armand was so pleased with the result that he turned over the day-to-day operations to Paul. Armand called it Gigi’s Restaurant in memory of his wife Giselle. Everyone assumed Paul Beauvoir was “chief cook and bottle-washer,” but he ran the kitchen and many financial aspects of the business. The enterprise su
cceeded as a white man’s restaurant in the days of segregation, but Sam began to slowly and quietly buy out the Cabrera interest, finally purchasing the last shares from Emily. He changed the name to Beauvoir’s Restaurant, reflecting a newly desegregated city with its first black mayor. Ten years later, he handed off the restaurant to his son Lyle, Jon’s father, and retired.

“So you were close with Roman in his youth, but how did you get to know his son, my grandfather Guy?” asked Tess.

“The Beauvoirs and Cabreras kep’ close ties ’cause of the restaurant,” explained Sam. “Armand useta come every Saturday with his boys, and later Roman and his son Guy useta stop by on Saturdays, keepin’ the tradition. I recall when Roman got married in ’33, the restaurant did the food, and I served champagne in crystal glasses from a silver tray. The weddin’ was in the fancy rose garden by their big mansion house that burnt. But the good times was over for the Cabreras by then.”

“You mean their financial status declined in the Depression?” suggested Tess.

“No, I didn’ mean that,” said Sam, shaking his head. “The Cabreras was still rich. But after Antonio’s big house burnt down, bad luck started to dog ’em. Ben died sudden. Then Alan got kilt in World War II, and Armand passed right after, heart-broke. Poor Michael went in a car crash in ’52. I heard he was drinkin’ heavy that day. His one son was abnormal and died young. And lung cancer took Roman in ’53.”

“That
leaves Guy as the last Cabrera male heir,” Tess summed up.

“
And Guy got murdered.” Sam sighed. “There’s more to tell, only I’m wore out. Young lady, why don’t you come back on Friday and we can go see your property? I know it real well. I can tell you more about your family then. Jon, can you drive us come Friday?”

Jon frowned and then grudgingly nodded.

Sam grunted in satisfaction and rose slowly from his chair. Jon and Tess took their cues and also rose. The sun had descended below the greenery draped fence, and Sam removed his sunglasses and turned on Tess a smiling, unmasked gaze. Tess blinked in shock. His eyes were the same green as her own. She realized that Jon Beauvoir must have noticed the matching eye color the moment he met her.

As Sam shuffled toward the kitchen, Tess couldn’t resist a last query. “You said you’re familiar with my property. What do you know about SB Land Management?”

Sam chuckled. “That’s jus’ me. Emily set up the company, and Joanne kep’ it goin’. When we visit your acres, I can show you how I use the money.” Sam paused. “Jon, go get Gloria Donovan’s phone and address for Miss Parnell. It’s by the kitchen phone.” He flapped his hand in shooing motions until Jon left in irritated haste. Sam stood and contemplated his barren little yard. “Yeah, you gonna get some surprise Friday, but I don’t wanna spoil it. Jus’ remember, inheritance is how the dead touch us, sometimes tryin’ for a way to atone.”

Sam’s last dark inference surprised Tess into speech
. “What do you mean by—?”

But she was immediately interrupted by Jon, who had emerged with Gloria Donovan’s contact information on a slip of paper, which he thrust into Tess’s hand.

“We’ll be going now. You’re obviously tired, Grampaw,” Jon announced,  taking his grandfather’s elbow solicitously and sending Tess a quelling glance as he helped the old man slowly mount the back steps.

Tess remained obediently mute as Jon helped his grandfather to a worn armchair in the crowded parlor
. Jon turned on a small television and handed Sam the remote control, which the old man accepted with polite disinterest.

“Is Aunt Luanne coming by with your dinner?” Jon asked in a concerned voice.

“Stop worryin’. She lef’ me somethin’ to heat up, and I’m not so old I forget to eat, not yet,” grinned Sam with a whistle and click of his dentures.

Sam smiled
up at Tess from the depths of his chair. “I hope you got what you been lookin’ for. Now go out and crank up the air in that fancy car, Jon, so Miss Parnell don’t get heat stroke on the way home,” he ordered. “I’ll keep the young lady company and welcome her to the Beauvoir side of the family,” he added with a mischievous look at his tight-lipped grandson.

W
hen Jon obediently departed, Sam turned to Tess with a suddenly sober expression. “Yeah, I’m real glad you come. I been waitin’ a long while for Thérèse’s blood to come back to New Orleans. My time’s almos’ done, and I gotta settle up. I reckon we gonna balance out what’s owed.”

His green eyes were hard and cool as jade, and a baffled Tess was struggling to find a response when Jon reappeared
to march her firmly out of Sam’s little house.

8
BEAUX

Tess flopped into Jon’s Mercedes with a feeling of exhaustion. Sam’s parting comments played in her head ominously. What was the “surprise” hidden in her unseen acres? What obligation to the Beauvoirs did the old man see in her inheritance? He had seemed so gently helpful
at first, so unaffected by old racial injustices, or was there a hidden agenda?

She slid a sideways glance at Jon as he settled himself grimly behind the wheel of his car, but she hesitated to ask him for e
nlightenment. He not only had not heard Sam’s last remarks, but it was clear that Sam kept his family in the dark about the secrets of the Cabreras. It made her look forward to meeting Sam again on Friday with a mix of eagerness and trepidation.

There were more cars at the curb of Sam’s old street as Jon backed and turned, and b
efore she closed her car door against the stultifying exterior heat, Tess thought she could hear a faint static seeping from the little homes—a blend of kitchen clatter, TV music and the hum of voices. It was the sound of living families, not vanished ones like the Cabreras. The closed car windows sealed them in the cool white noise of air conditioning and engine as they rolled away, side-by-side yet distant in their silver chariot.

“Oh, I just realized we didn’t have an afternoon thunderstorm today,” commented Tess to break the uncomfortable quiet in the car,

“Good and bad in that,” offered Jon. “It was convenient for our meeting, but it sure would have been good to break this heat. Don’t worry, stay a few more days and you can get your fill.” Silence fell upon them again, and Tess struggled to think of some conversational thread that Jon could not quickly snap short. But it was Jon who spoke next.

“Does it bother you?” he asked suddenly.

“What?” responded Tess in confusion.

“Does it bother you to learn that we are distantly related?” Jon did not turn his head to look at her, but his posture seemed stiff, anticipatory. Tess was at first baffled by his question, and then realized that he thought she might be upset to find a trace of African-American ance
stry.

“I don’t think a few drops of black blood from over 150 years ago
make much difference to anyone today. I’ll more than pass any paper-bag test. Heck, I’ll pass a linen napkin test,” laughed Tess.

“You come from out West. It can be different in the South,” said Jon soberly. “We’re in the 21
st
century and we have a black president, but social and racial divisions haven’t just disappeared. Because of racism, we define race by any taint of the ‘inferior’ race. Barack Obama is half white and half black, but he is called a black president. Maybe things are even more complicated here because of our history of miscegenation, of white relations with free coloreds and slaves. When
The
Times-Picayune
published a series of articles on race in the early 1990s, it still stirred up a hornet’s nest. I understand that admitting our legacy of racial mixing actually drove some ‘white’ families to vandalize City Hall to wipe out records that might show an African-American bloodline. When Katrina came, it was the poor black areas that were hit hardest, and I guess I suspect that state and federal response would have been faster and stronger if it involved rescuing middle-class white people. Kudos to Hollywood stars and Christian charities, but individuals can’t make up for a vacuum of public concern.”

He sounded matter-of-fact, but there was a trace of bitterness that made Tess ask, “Has racial prejudice been a problem for you? You seem very successful.”

Jon smiled crookedly. “I know who I am and what I have achieved. I know that there are white people, and black people, who make assumptions about me just by looking at my face or my clothes or my street address. I try not to let other people define me. Is ‘black’ the key attribute you would use to describe me?”

Tess thought a
few seconds and then grinned at him, “No, I thought you were a stiff-assed lawyer snob.”

Jon’s hands tightened on the wheel, but then he shook his head ru
efully. “Touché, Tess,” he smiled. But the momentary relaxation was fleeting, and Jon’s features slipped back into a serious, pensive mood.

“
May I ask, Tess, if you learned what you hoped from my grandfather?” he continued.

“Not exactly,” admitted Tess. “I keep finding out all kinds of scandalous things about my dead ancestors, but it doesn’t explain the people I want to understand, meaning my mother and grandmother.”

“I’m sorry, but I did overhear you telling my grandfather about your mother’s suicide. My sympathies. I had a close friend who committed suicide in college, and it disturbed me deeply. I can imagine how much harder it is to lose a parent that way.” Jon surprised Tess by reaching over and placing a large warm palm briefly over her hand where it rested on the central armrest. “But I don’t think anything you find out is going to solve that mystery. Some acts are just incomprehensible, the irrational choice of a depressed mind.”

“You’re right. But I can’t stop,” murmured Tess, leaning her head back against the hea
drest and closing her eyes. “My mother not only ended her life, she took away what it meant to be her daughter. Her secrets nag at me. She’s transformed into this enigma, gone from a brave and brutally honest woman to someone who was depressed and hiding her past. What I respected or hated or loved, my feelings about her that made me who I am, they all seem like distortions now. But, so far, everything I find out leads me to new mysteries.”

“Well, I’m afraid I can’t help much,” said Jon, shaking his head with a perplexed frown. “Maybe you’ll learn more from my grandfather on Friday. I have no idea what he wants to show you. I’ll admit the family never paid attention to SB Land Management and the old Cabrera property, and Grampaw never said much about it
. We assumed he was just keeping busy and making a tiny profit on the last of his Cabrera connections, a holdover from the old days before he bought out the restaurant. Of course, maybe Phil Dreux will have some revelations, or even old Gloria Donovan, although she must be really ancient. About Mr. Dreux, though, I would advise you to be very careful not to sign off on any deal yet. I’d really like you to consult with my friend who’s an expert in real estate law and property evaluation. Are you open to that?”

“That’s really kind of you,” answered Tess promptly. “My inheritance seems tangled in lots of old secrets and vendettas. It makes me wonder what hidden pitfalls come with
the property. I’d feel a lot more secure if I had the advice of an independent local expert.”

“Then why don’t I take you out to dinner tomorrow night and introduce you to him?” said Jon
, with more warmth than Tess had previously seen. “His name’s Anthony Mizzi. Make sure you bring any paperwork that Mr. Dreux supplied. In any case, I feel I should do more to show my new relative some of the finer points of New Orleans. The dinner will be my treat. What do you say? Shall I pick you up around 7 o’clock tomorrow evening at your hotel?”

“Oh, you’re really going out of your way. That would be wonderful. Thank you.” Tess felt herself blushing for her previous negative
opinion of Jon Beauvoir.

“It’s a date, then,” said Jon, doffing his sunglasses as the sun dropped below the skyline and the twilight deepened. He gave her a smile that actually reached his eyes.

At the end of a day in which two attractive men had made trysts with her, Tess felt upbeat enough to call her friends and share her adventures. She called Katie first and sketched what she had learned about the family history to date from Mimi, Lillian and Sam Beauvoir. She did not express her unease over the possible motives of these witnesses, or her continuing conviction that there was some hidden tie to her mother’s suicide. Yet Katie must have sensed her anxiety because she was so quiet for a moment that Tess thought the call had dropped.

“He
llo?” said Tess.

Katie responded quickly, “Oh, I’m still here. I was thinking. Isn’t it strange that fate would drop a romantic fool like Antonio Cabrera between two fathers with beautiful strong-willed daughters? It’s just a recipe for farce, or tragedy. Plus, the whole Jo
sephine thing is too
Rashomon
. I mean, I don’t think you could decipher the truth even if the people involved were alive to ask. But that’s sort of the issue with suicide, and I know you’re going to want to worry away at that knot because—” Katie stopped and suddenly switched direction.

“Anyway, never mind your crazy ancestors. Have you had any exciting adventures of your own? I liked the pictures on Facebook, but
something was missing—namely people, especially male people. Any romantic possibilities?” Katie teased.

Tess laughed, “
You sound like Christina. Did you hope I’d make a ‘love connection’ after a few days in the Big Easy? By the way, I don’t think the local people call it the Big Easy. Sorry, there’s no romance to report.” Tess did not want to mention friendly Remy Thivet, or even coldly handsome Jonathan Beauvoir, for fear she might launch Katie on an energetic effort to secure imagined bliss.

When Tess called Christina, she initially took the same tack in regard to her romantic prospects.

“I was glad to see a pic or two of Bourbon Street in all that tourist stuff,” said Christina. “But I bet you didn’t take my advice about finding a Southern beau out there.”

“No,” admitted Tess. As she heard the defensive tone in her own voice, she could clearly imagine Christina’s bored, dismissive expression.

Tess suddenly added, “Well, I did meet this really nice guy named Remy Thivet at a café near my hotel. I guess from his name that he might be of Acadian descent, but he doesn’t talk like some ragin’ Cajun caricature. Anyway, he is a really talented nature photographer who also plays weekend gigs with a rock band. I ran into him this morning, and he asked me to meet him at the same café tomorrow so he can give me free tickets to a swamp tour that his uncle runs.”

“You go, girl! New Orleans must be working magic.” Christina sounded amazed. “What’s he like? Long-haired rocker, lean and dangerous, or Cajun artist, tanned and sensitive?”

“A little of both,” laughed Tess. “He is lean and tanned but also friendly and easy-going, and not dangerous in the least.”

Tess was immediately
sorry for her mendacity as Christina began to demand descriptive details and give advice, forcing Tess to dodge a discussion of her planned “date” for the rest of the call.

Tess tried and failed to reach Jen, and then spent the rest of the evening watching telev
ision. Despite the positive feelings aroused by her upcoming meetings with Remy and Jon, her family research had released some of the black feelings from her mother’s death, and they oozed to the surface like a toxic film to coat her thoughts.

To distract, or numb, her brain, Tess switched on the local news and sat through a story predicting the oil spill’s impact on seafood harvests. It reminded her of Jon Beauvoir wrestling
with accounts in the oyster bar, which somehow morphed into imagining how the restaurant looked when her grandparents stopped by in their 1950s’ finery. They would have been young and in love, unaware that murder was around the corner. It was not a happy thought to take with her into sleep.

Tess looked forward to an injection of optimism as she strode toward the C
afé Bon Temps on Tuesday to meet Remy and receive her free ticket. The air already was beginning to thicken under the sun’s radiance. By noon, everything would bleach in the humid glare. But just the sight of Remy with a plate of greasy eggs was enough to render Tess immune to the energy-sapping heat.

It was later in the morning, so only a few tables were filled. Tess waited in the street as Remy carefully set plates and utensils before an antique couple at an outside table and chatted amiably with
them, apparently loyal breakfast fixtures. His habitually pleasant manner was one of the things that unnerved Tess; it made her uncertain she was receiving smiles of genuine interest or polite pleasantry.

Of course, she reassured herself, she was
not looking for more than friendship, and maybe an ego-boosting flirtation to keep up her spirits and her confidence until Mac arrived. And there was nothing false about Remy’s warmth.

“The jury’s still out on that.”

At this point in her musings, Remy glanced up and Tess caught his eye. He smiled a quick acknowledgement before returning his attention to the old couple. The elderly woman was speaking with sharp nods of her head and punctuating her remarks by pointing vaguely and accusingly at various points on her husband’s anatomy, while the old man spooned grits and eggs from plate to mouth in a slow but steady rhythm. Tess felt a surge of frustration at Remy’s inattention and debated interrupting. But she quashed the impulse almost immediately, disconcerted by her impatient eagerness for his company. She wondered if she was signaling her interest so clearly that Remy knew she would await his convenience, and felt her cheeks warm in embarrassment.

Eventually, Remy detached himself from the one-sided exchange and ambled toward Tess. “Mornin’,” said Remy with a wide grin that partially soothed Tess’s feeling of neglect. He then dropped his voice so the two elderly café patrons could
not overhear his next comments. “Sorry to keep you waiting, but Effie and Roy are two of our Quarter regulars. Roy’s going to the doctor today, and Effie has already planned what she’s going to order the doctor to do. Poor Roy and poor doctor,” he laughed. He then reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out a ticket decorated with a dancing cartoon alligator. “Here you go. As promised, a ticket for one of the best swamp tours and gator encounters in Southern Louisiana. It takes about two hours, so this ticket is for the afternoon tour to allow you to enjoy a late rising and a good lunch. Which day do you think you’ll be going?”