Little Gale Gumbo (44 page)

“What do I want?” He turned to her, his expression strained with longing. “I want to love someone with everything I've got, and I want them to love me back. I want to have a beer after a long day, make love as much as humanly possible, and grill every night from Memorial Day until the first frost. I want simple.”

“Simple.” Dahlia moved her hand to where his rested on his thigh. She grinned. “You mean, like me.”

“Yeah,” he said, grinning too as he reached out and slid his hand through her knotted hair, cupping her cheek. “Like you.”

They came together in a deep kiss, twisting around to get as close as they could, banging elbows and heads as they tugged seat belts and shirts out of the way. Dahlia settled herself on top of him, her hair coming undone, falling over his face like a curtain.

When Jack felt her reach down to his erection, he pulled back, breathless.

“What's wrong?” she whispered.

He glanced around at the fogged windows, shrugged sheepishly. “Maybe it's just me, but it seems wrong to have waited over twenty years to make love again and have it be in a police car in your driveway.”

Dahlia grinned, smoothing back the graying hair at his temples. “What could be more right? We both knew it was only a matter of time before you got me into this thing.”

“Yeah, but I guess I always worried it would be in the backseat, and you'd be in handcuffs.”

She smiled. “I still could be.”

 

In the end, they made love in several places, outside and in, under twilight, then moonlight, while across the bay Matthew found sleep in a folding chair at his father's side, and Josie and Wayne took the last ferry home, huddled under a cold, clear roof of stars.

At nine, Jack and Dahlia raided her fridge and returned upstairs with leftover cold sesame noodles, feeding each other with chopsticks in her claw-foot tub, then sending soapy water sloshing over the sides. By ten thirty, they had straightened the twisted sheets and surrendered to exhaustion on a mattress plumped and flattened, warmed and smoothed, legs linked, fingers laced.

And it was in those soft, languid moments before sleep that Jack heard the faraway hum of his cell on Dahlia's dresser. Easing Dahlia onto her back, he rose and walked to the other side of the room to pick up his phone, knowing he'd put off his duties long enough.

“So you
are
alive,” Frank Collins said on the other end. “I was beginning to worry I was going to have another autopsy on my schedule, Chief.”

Jack moved to the window, drawing the curtain back to look out onto the quiet street. “Nice to hear from you too, Frank.”

The medical examiner cleared his throat. “Listen, Jack, I'll get right to it. It's pretty much what I expected. That fall killed Bergeron. Must have been one steep flight of stairs; I'll say that much. I've signed off on the certificate. You can pick it all up in the morning.”

“Thanks for your trouble, Frank.”

“There is one thing, though,” the medical examiner said. “Nothing to do with the body.”

“What's that?”

“You said no one in the family had been informed of Bergeron's parole; is that right?”

“That's right.”

“Well, I read the transcript of the nine-one-one call, and Haskell said something about Bergeron violating his parole when he called in to dispatch.”

“So?”

“So how do you suppose he knew that? If Bergeron burst in unannounced, drunk as a skunk and on the attack, it seems kind of unlikely he'd take the time to explain to Haskell how he'd gotten out of prison, don't you think?”

“Maybe Ben just assumed.”

Collins sighed. “You're probably right.”

But even as he said it, Jack knew he wasn't right. And as he let the curtain drop back over the window, he realized that he'd actually been quite wrong. About almost all of it. In the next instant, he knew why the window was open and the apartment door was locked. He knew why Charles had gravel in his hair and in his shoes, and he knew it wasn't the feet of a ladder that had made those divots in the dirt beneath the apartment window, but the feet of a man.

Ben's nurse was right; people could surprise you.

“Anyway.” Collins sighed. “It doesn't matter now. Let's put the seal on this one, Jack. The wife and I are due up to camp tomorrow for a week with the grandkids, and I've got some new flies I'm itching to try out.”

Jack nodded numbly. “Night, Frank.”

“Good night, Jack.”

Jack hung up and turned back to the bed, finding it empty. He walked downstairs, through the parlor and the den, until he found Dahlia in the kitchen doorway, the sink light riding along her naked body.

He came to her, seeing her eyes misting with tears. “You okay?”

She reached out for his hand. “I have to tell you something, Jack.”

He took her hand and drew her to him, their foreheads touching. “I know.”

Thirty-three

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Josie stood behind the café counter, purse in hand. “You sure you don't mind, Dahl?”

“Go,” Dahlia said firmly, already fixing herself an iced coffee in a tall glass. “I think I can hold down the fort for an hour.”

“You're the best.” Josie gave her sister a quick hug. “If you get in over your head, just kick Harvey and Chip out and lock up.” She nodded to the two lobstermen where they sat at a table nursing coffees and slices of pecan pie.

“Oh, please. I used to work the counter by myself all the time.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Josie said, smiling. “Why do you think Momma fired you?”

“Very funny.”

“Hey!” Harvey Waterman turned in his chair, shaking his empty mug. “If it ain't too much trouble, when you girls are done gossipin', we'd like some more coffee over here.”

“Oh, just hold your damn horses!” Dahlia winked at Josie. “See? Told you I haven't lost my touch.”

Josie rummaged through her purse for her keys. “Now listen. If Wendy McMullen comes in for her gumbo, remind her to check for shells if she plans to give some to little Bo, and to keep the bag upright on the way home because there's a little container of hot sauce in there for Chester 'cause I know he likes his extra hot.”

Josie turned for the door and turned back again. “Oh, and Frannie Potts is supposed to come over at four to set up for their knitting group. Those covered plates of pralines in the back are for her. Don't let Patty Sawyer tell you they're for the town meeting. She did that last week and Ben let her walk out of here with the lot of them. I could have killed the woman!” Josie stopped to find Dahlia smiling at her. “What?”

“Nothing,” Dahlia said. “Just that Momma would be proud of you.”

Josie reached for her sister's hand across the counter, squeezing it as her eyes teared. “She'd be proud of
us
.”

When Josie had disappeared through the swinging kitchen door, Harvey waved his napkin. “What's a fella gotta do to get a refill, for cryin' out loud?”

“Tip,” said Dahlia, drawing up the pot and sweeping around the counter. She filled both men's mugs to the top, patted them each fondly on the shoulder, and returned to her post. She was about to brew a fresh pot when the cordless rang at the register.

She picked it up. “Little Gale Gumbo Café.”

“Julep? That you?”

Dahlia froze. “This is Dahlia.”

“Dahlia? It's your daddy, girl.”

As if Dahlia hadn't known. A hundred years could pass and she'd recognize that gritty voice in an instant.

“Since when do they let prisoners make toll calls?” she whispered.

“They don't.” Charles snickered, a crackling sound like ribbons of birch bark in a swollen fire. “I ain't
in
prison.”

Dahlia reached for the counter, her fingers gripping the rounded edge, her legs shaking. “What did you say?”

“You heard me, girl. I'm out. Paroled. Four years early for good behavior. Go figure. I was gonna tell your sister the good news. Where she at?”

Dahlia looked numbly around the room, seeing Harvey and Chip scraping the bottom of their pie plates, licking the sides of their forks; the front door opening, Marion Chase stepping in.

Out
. No, it wasn't possible.

Dahlia swallowed. “Josie left.”

“So when she gonna be back?”

“Not for a while.”

“Well, shit. I gotta speak with her. She's holdin' money of mine and I need to come get it.”

Chip raised his hand, nodding to Dahlia for the check. She looked away.

“Horseshit,” she whispered tightly into the phone. “Josie would never have kept money for you.”

“What the hell do you know? It just so happens family
means
somethin' to your sister. Loyalty and respect. You never did have a lick of that. Now, twelve thousand dollars may not seem much to you, but I tell you what—it's more than enough to get me back on my feet.”

Twelve thousand dollars. Dahlia's throat tightened. The exact amount Josie had given Camille for the café all those years before. The money she'd claimed was from Wayne's savings.

“Dahlia? You still there, girl?”

Dahlia took in a deep breath, trying to keep the panic from her voice. “She'll send you a check.”

“A check? Christ, girl, I can't wait on no check. I'm out with nothin'. I need that money yesterday. No, ma'am, I'm comin' to get it in person.”

Dahlia's heart raced. She should have known it wouldn't be that easy. It didn't matter that it had been more than twenty years since she'd last seen him, twenty-five since she and Josie and Camille had left him in New Orleans. Time had stood still for Charles Bergeron. While Dahlia and Josie had watched their mother grow into a bold and independent woman, their father had only become more fixed in his bitterness and greed.

She might have pitied him if she hadn't hated him so deeply.

“I'm comin' up on the bus tomorrow first thing. Already got my ticket.”

Tomorrow. Dahlia reached for the wall, dizzy. Harvey and Chip twisted in their chairs, looking pointedly at her. Marion Chase came toward the counter, knotted finger already pointed to the case.

Dahlia turned and pushed through the kitchen door, falling against the sink.

Jesus, she was going to be sick.

“You hear me, girl?” Charles said. “I'm tellin' ya I got my ticket.”

She drew in a shaky breath, finding a glimmer of strength and seizing it. “I don't want Josie to know you're coming.”

“What'd you say?”

“You heard me.”

“Don't you tell me what's what. You think I'm gonna come all the way up there and not see my baby girl?”

“You mean that same baby girl you guilted into taking your blood money?”

“You don't know shit. Tell me somethin'. Just how you figure you gonna get the money without tellin' her?”

“I'll think of a way.”

“You got no right.”

“Your parole officer approve this trip?”

“Christ, girl, I only been out a day. What do you think?”

“If you tell Josie,” Dahlia said though clenched teeth, “if you so much as dial her fucking number and hang up, I'll call your parole officer and tell him you're leaving the state. Then you'll never see your money. How's that for what's what?”

The line went quiet. Then Charles chuckled low. “Shit . . . Same ol' Dahlia. Still can't give up the fight, can ya? Maybe you are my daughter after all.”

Dahlia heard the front door open, heard Wayne greeting Harvey and Chip. Her heart galloped.

“Not on the island,” she said. “I'll meet you on the mainland. Somewhere near the bus station.”

“You just get me that money, girl. I'm gonna be up there Thursday night. Fella at the ticket window said the bus pulls into Portland at eleven fifteen.”

Dahlia closed her eyes. “There's a diner next to the bus station,” she said. “I'll wait there for you. And don't you dare try and come over here earlier. I'll call the cops if you do; I swear to God.”

She hung up just as the kitchen door swung open and Wayne stepped through.

“Who was that?”

Dahlia handed Wayne the phone and pushed past him. “Nobody.”