Tyler O’Neill’s Redemption (10 page)

Remy’s was alive tonight, every ragged Christmas light and Halloween decoration lit up, and it wasn’t even eight. The smell of catfish and crayfish boil was so thick in the air Tyler could take a bite of it. And the music…the music pumped out the open windows and doors. Piano and guitar, an accordion and trumpet—bright riffs and solos, all of them calling him home.

Tyler pulled on his favorite blue linen shirt, buttoning the one button that was left over his white tank top, wondering if anyone in there would remember him. Remy would, but that might be all. There could be a room full of strangers, not a welcoming face among them.

“Is that Tyler O’Neill?” a woman cried, and Tyler smiled, recognizing the Marlboro-refined voice of Priscilla Ellis. He caught the glimmer and shine of her signature pink sequins out on the deck.

“Is that the most beautiful blonde in the state of Louisiana?” he asked, tucking his fedora on his head, tipping it over one eye.

Priscilla opened the door to the kitchen, a side door that spilled out onto the same wraparound front porch. “Remy!” she yelled. “Tell the band Tyler’s here!”

He took the steps by threes and at the top he found himself in the ancient but unearthly strong grip of Priscilla’s hug. Somewhere between sixty and a hundred, five foot nothing, a hundred pounds and as blonde as a bottle could make a woman—that was Priscilla. And she was perfect.

“Where you been, boy?” she asked, her black eyes sharp, her lips as pink as the sequined shirts she favored.

“Around,” he answered, smiling down at her wrinkled face. This, he thought, more than The Manor, more than Bonne Terre,
this
was home. This woman and Remy and the stage in there, covered in cigarette butts and peanut shells.

“I wondered if you wouldn’t come back around here after your momma’s been poking her nose in places it don’t belong.”

He groaned—this was not why he’d come to Remy’s. To talk about his reasons for being here, his mom. He wanted to play some jazz and forget.

“All right, I see you,” Priscilla said. “But we’re talking at some point, boy.”

A giant Cajun man stepped out onto the porch, wiping his hands off on the apron around his thick waist. “I don’t believe it,” Remy said, his accent as thick as the swamp. “I just don’t believe it.”

“Hi, Remy.” Tyler stuck out his hand but Remy pulled him in for a bone-crushing hug.

“You,” Remy said. “You been gone too long.” Tyler was surprised to see the big guy’s eyes were wet. “That money you sent after Katrina—”

Priscilla crossed herself.

Tyler tried to stop the conversation before it got started. This gratitude business was always so damn uncomfortable. “Remy, seriously, you don’t have to—”

“I do. I do have to thank you, and you have to listen. The boys in the band were able to feed their families and give them clothes and a place to stay until they got back on their feet. We got a few of them trailers for some folks around here.”

“I’m glad,” Tyler said.

“And this last bunch of money.” Priscilla whistled. “Boy, you trying to buy the place?”

“No! No, I just know that times are tough and you guys know better than I do about people in these parts that need help the most.”

“Well.” Remy put his arm around Tyler, leading him in the back door through the steam and spice of the kitchen. Remy had to yell over the sounds of pots and pans and the cooks calling out Tyler’s name. “People out here are grateful,” Remy said while Tyler shook some hands. People he didn’t know were thanking him for what he’d done for their families. “The band is waiting for you and tonight your money ain’t no good. Now, what you need?” Remy asked, pounding Tyler on the shoulders.

“Let’s start with a beer,” Tyler said. His whole body, his heart and his head, the wounds from Juliette’s disdain—everything was good. Healed. “And see where the night takes us.”

She wasn’t even sure if she could do this. Apologize. Ask him for more help, now adding Miguel’s sister to the mix.

Laughter, surprised and exhausted, bubbled out of her chest. What a mess. What a freaking freak show of a mess. But sitting in her car doubting herself wasn’t going to get anything done.

She threw open her door and stepped across the lawn to the bright red front door of The Manor.

Maybe he’d see the humor in this whole situation. He probably would. Everything was a joke to Tyler.

Maybe they could just have a laugh at how ridiculous all of this was and be done with it. Wouldn’t that be nice?

The front porch was gone, and so she braced herself on the door frame and pulled herself up onto the narrow lip of the stoop.

The bright red door was cracked open.

Good Lord, didn’t Tyler take anything seriously? She’d told him there had been suspicious activity, that his own mother had been caught breaking into the place because of some gems.

She pushed the door open and it squealed in protest.

“Miguel?” An older man who bore a remarkable resemblance to George Clooney stepped into the foyer and Juliette reached for her gun.

“Who the hell are you?” she demanded, and the man put his hands in the air, his eyes wide and blinking in shock.

“Richard,” he said. “I’m Richard Bonavie—”

Juliette lowered the gun. The name rocketed out of the past and exploded in her chest.

“Tyler’s father?” she whispered.

Ten years ago, Tyler had told her about Richard Bonavie; absent father and gambler. Ghost. And Tyler’s voice had been bright with hero worship. Warm with all the love a parentless kid could create out of thin air.

Tyler found you,
she thought, an errant pain and a wild pleasure zinging through her chest.
After all those years of dreaming about you, he finally found you.

“Yes,” Richard said, lowering hands. “I’m Tyler’s dad. We’re—”

“Why did you think I was Miguel?” she asked.

“Two nights ago he left his schoolbag. He came back that night.” Richard lifted a backpack. “And he forgot it again today.”

“Oh,” she said, lowering her gun back to its holster. Suddenly things didn’t seem quite right. As the shock wore away the whole situation smelled slightly off.

“How long have you been here?” she asked.

“A week, maybe more,” he said, with a casual shrug that Juliette saw through in an instant. A week? Tyler had gotten here on Sunday night. Why hadn’t he told her that he was meeting his father here?

In fact…everything slowly, slowly clicked into place.

Oh, God, he’d lied. When she’d asked Tyler if there was anything suspicious or weird at The Manor, he’d said nothing. And maybe his father wasn’t worth mentioning to Tyler, but it sure as hell was worth mentioning to her!

Why are you surprised?
she wondered. She’d been waiting for something like this. Bracing herself for it. That she still managed to be shocked by Tyler’s duplicity, by his total lack of ethics or even decency, was ridiculous.

She should know better.

“How much more?” she asked, her voice sharp, and Richard’s smile got wider. Brighter. The confidence artist turning it up full blast.

“Not much.”

“It was you,” she said, connecting the dots, “that was sneaking around The Manor. The trampled plants, the damaged windowsills.”

Richard laughed and Juliette stiffened. “I forgot my key and I was early,” he said.

“You don’t have a key,” she snapped, ready to punish this man for Tyler’s lies. “Margot and Savannah haven’t seen or heard from you in years.”

Suddenly she realized what this was all about.

“You’re here because of the gems, aren’t you?”

He blinked, feigning wide-eyed surprise. “Gems?”

She stepped up closer, tired of the games the O’Neill men seemed to love to run on her. “The gems aren’t here,” she said, silky smooth. “They never were. And if you’re smart, you’ll realize that and move on.”

“I’m sorry, I’m confused. Is it a crime to spend time with my son? Have I done something wrong?”

Yes, she wanted to say. There’s something really wrong about leaving your children to their evil bitch of a mother. And then staying away from your son, creating holes and gaps with your absence where misguided hero worship could grow like some kind of rotten vine.

“Maybe not,” she said, but she would be running his name through the computer as soon as she had the chance. She’d bet good money that the man was wanted for something somewhere.

But right now she had bigger fish to fry.

“Where’s Tyler?”

“Remy’s,” Richard said. “He left about an hour ago.”

She reeled slightly at the name of the old jazz club, bombarded by a summer of memories she’d pushed away and tried to forget.

It was the last place she wanted to go, and Tyler was taking her back there, to the place where that summer had been most sweet.

And where the memories would be razor-sharp and waiting to slice her into ribbons.

The dim echo of Tyler’s words ten years ago.

You,
his voice whispered from the past, making her stomach clench and her head spin,
you and a piano are all I want.

“Right,” she whispered, feeling herself begin to collapse, fold inward with the memories. And she couldn’t have that.

He’d lied to her over and over again. About wanting her. Loving her. About his damn father being at the Manor.

She anchored herself in her hate, in her righteous anger, and she climbed the splintered wooden steps to the front door.

“Hold on a second there, sweetheart.”

Pink sequins glittered in the darkness and Juliette felt a crushing mix of fondness and resignation.

Priscilla Ellis. Tyler’s number-one fan. The old woman had never liked Juliette, which had more to do with Juliette’s mother’s money and her father’s job. But to say the distrust went both ways was an understatement.

“You here to get that boy all worked up?” Priscilla asked, eyeing Juliette through a haze of smoke. “Run him off again?”

“I’m here to get some answers,” Juliette replied, and Priscilla shook her head.

“I can’t have that,” Priscilla said. “That boy just came back and I need him.”

“To play piano?” Juliette laughed, “Please—”

Priscilla appeared out of the shadows so fast Juliette took a step back. “You don’t know Tyler,” she said. “You never did. You overlooked everything about him you thought was bad, and only saw what you wanted. You picked him into pieces—”

“That’s not true,” Juliette breathed, alive with all she’d felt that summer. Every ounce of love turned back on her like a knife. “I loved him. I knew him—”

She stopped. She thought she’d known him. But then he’d left and everything she thought she’d known was destroyed.

“Just like you think you know him now,” Priscilla said, taking a long drag on her Marlboro.

“I know what I need to,” she said, through her teeth.

“Right,” Priscilla said, taking her time with the word. “Tell me, you know about the money?”

“Don’t tell me he stole money?”

“See, there you go,” Priscilla said, the old woman getting angry. “You ain’t no better than you were then. Wanting to believe the best, but unable to get away from the worst. He deserves better than you.”

“He lied to me, Priscilla. You can stand there and be the authority on Tyler O’Neill, but he’s lied to me at every turn.”

Priscilla nodded. “He does do that,” she said. “Hard to blame him, though. With no real momma—”

“Oh, stop,” Juliette snapped. “Enough of the poor-Tyler-O’Neill story. Tell me about the money,” she demanded, a shimmering feeling crawling up her back, telling her that her world was about to get knocked around again.

“You know Tyler sent that big check after Katrina?” Priscilla asked.

The floor rushed away from Juliette’s feet. “No,” she said, her voice firm.

“Remy bought those trailers outside of town with it, gave all those musicians and their families a place to stay.”

Juliette couldn’t have moved if she’d tried, and Priscilla just kept going, knocking down Juliette’s version of Tyler like a punching bag.

“He sent another check just recently. We bought the land those trailers are on, and we’re going to use the rest of the money to build permanent houses.”

“Why do you need him here?” Juliette asked, her voice a whisper. “If you have the money, why do you need him?”

Priscilla shook her head as if disgusted by all that Juliette didn’t know about Tyler.

But Juliette did know. Everything she’d learned about him that summer—that knowledge that she’d torched and buried—returned as a ghost, taunting her.

That boy who’d grown up without a mother, with only a false idol for a father. That boy who had more charm than shame, more heart than sense—that boy needed a home. And people to love him.

“Because he needs us,” Priscilla said. “He needs to build those houses about as bad as we need them. And if you’re going to ruin that, I’m going to have to ask you to leave, Chief.”

Juliette was numb. Shaken.

“You going to ruin that?” Priscilla asked.

Maybe lying, she wasn’t sure, Juliette shook her head and Priscilla watched her for another second before walking away.

I need to leave. I need to be far away from Tyler tonight.

But the pieces of herself—her skin, her heart and her aching sex—wanted to stay here. Wanted to find out the truth.

The screen door opened at her back and the heat and laughter and clink of glasses and plates flooded out, surrounding her with the sounds of the living.

The band started warming up again. The piano’s big chords reverberated through Juliette’s shell-shocked body. It was a wave, a current, and it swept her up and carried her inside.

The air tasted like spice and sweat. The band roared into their set and the dance floor was packed.

Through the bodies, she saw the band, and the world, her heart, every function of her body—stopped.

Sitting at the piano, a narrow fedora low over his eyes, a wrinkled linen shirt open over a damp white tank top was Tyler O’Neill. His fingers working the keys, his feet on the pedals, his whole body coiled and curled, pumping and shifting, working the piano as if it were a life-and-death race to some finish.

She didn’t know how long she watched him, but Juliette was suddenly aware of her heart thundering in her chest, in her fingers, between her legs. Sweat beaded between her breasts, along her spine, and she felt like she had on too many clothes. There were simply too many things between her skin and the air that touched Tyler.

She felt everything she’d felt that summer when they came out here almost every night. Her, sick with love and lust, and Tyler, working up the nerve to play with the band. They’d sit in the corner, his fingers on her leg under the table, or on her arm or back—playing her as if she were a keyboard.

“Go!” Tyler yelled, lifting his sweaty face to the thin black accordion player and they smiled at each other, sliding in and through some riff, some narrow and bright tunnel of music until finally the accordion player threw up his hands.

“I give, man, I give.”

And then it was just Tyler.

He ran the back of his hands across the keys—a flourish—and stood up, the bench collapsing backward as if grateful for the break.

Remy’s erupted into applause.

Tyler raised his arms and bowed back to the band, lifting a longneck from the floor and taking a long swig, the muscles of his neck flexing as he swallowed.

She felt flush watching him, hot and full. Ripe.

Miguel, Richard, Remy’s, the music Tyler created—all of it turned to black and it was just Tyler.

Always Tyler.