House of Blues (2 page)

For a moment there was a stunned silence. Dennis
broke it. "What do you mean you didn't give it to her?"

"Can't an old man get drunk and sentimental? I
was in a real good mood about Hebert's II, and anyway, it was my
birthday."

"Dad, are you saying you don't want me to take
over the restaurant?" Reed's voice was like
feathers—insubstantial, barely brushing the air.

"That's what I'm saying."

Dennis said, "Hey!" Anger shot from his
eyes.

"But you gave me a legal document. I'm the CEO
now."

"
I want it back on my desk by tomorrow morning."

"You can't be serious."

"Reed, you're too immature to be running a
business. We'd be broke in two weeks with you at the helm."

"What are you saying?"

"
I've already said it loud and clear. I was
drunk, I didn't mean it, and that paper means nothing either. I'rn
not retiring and you're not taking over."

"You can't do this to me! You just can't play
this kind of game. To me, it isn't a game at all. All my life, I've
worked for you, and now—" She stopped and flung out both arms
as she struggled for words. One of them caught Sally's dish, on its
high-chair tray. The dish flipped onto the child's chest and fell
back onto the tray. Hot beans dripped into Sally's lap.

She howled.

"You idiot!" shouted Arthur. "For
Christ's sake, Reed, you don't have the sense God gave a marmoset.
Look at that poor child. Don't just stand there—get that hot food
off her before she has to be rushed to the hospital."

Dennis reached for Sally, giving Reed a look that
said he wished he could do more. "It's okay, baby, you're all
right," he cooed, wiping at the red-brown mess with a white
linen napkin.

"Just look at that," said Arthur. "Her
clothes are ruined." There was a curiously satisfied note in his
voice.

Sugar went to the kitchen and plucked Reed's house
key off its hook; they lived only blocks apart and were in and out of
each other's houses constantly. Each had a key to the other's. "I'll
go get her some clean overalls."

Sugar slipped out easily, hardly noticed. She thought
of driving, but found she really wanted to walk. It was three blocks
there and three back—about a twenty-minute walk. Daylight saving
time had kicked in, so there was plenty of time before dark.

True, they were in the heart of the Garden District,
a high-crime area, but kids were still out playing; people were
watering their lawns, coming home from work. Though it was the
Heberts' weekend, it was still Monday for everyone else.

It should be safe enough now, and she needed the
break from her family. That and the fresh air. She took some deep
breaths. The city was a little like a sauna, but there was a breeze.
It was going to be a heavenly, velvety, subtropical evening.

Flowers were in bloom.

Sugar painted flowers.

This was her hobby and her art. She had wanted to
work in the restaurant, but Arthur hadn't wanted her; had tried
volunteer work, but had had the sense of being interchangeable with
everyone else who was doing it. She had to find something that was
uniquely hers, and she had happened to take a course in watercolor.
And that was it. She loved the softness of the colors and the
softness of flowers; the two belonged together.

She had tried other things, but she hadn't been good
at them. Figure drawing was beyond her. Landscapes were tedious.
Flowers were her. They went with her personality, and her name. She
was nicknamed Sugar for a reason—in her peaches-and-cream
blondness, she had reminded her parents of nothing so much as
something yummy for dessert. Her dad had told her that a thousand
times.

Pink was her favorite color.

Flowers were her delight, and her symbol. They were
endlessly fascinating, with their pistils and their stamens, their
petals and their sepals, their stems, roots, xylem, and phloem; she
was in heaven when she was surrounded by flowers and paint.

What's wrong with Arthur?

What does he think he's doing?

Sugar banished thoughts of the ugly thing happening
at her table. She wanted to be away from all that for a while.

But she couldn't stop herself.

Maybe he wants Nina to run the restaurant.

And maybe he just can't stand to give up control.

"Hey, Sugar." Mary O'Connor was on her way
to her car.

"Hey, Mary. Your yard looks nice."

"
You know, I just thought you'd want to know. I
was in Hebert's the other night and it took an hour for the
entrees
to come. It was a delicious dinner, but don't you think that's
ridiculous? I just thought you'd want to know."

"Thanks, Mary. I appreciate it."

"Well, actually, some of the vegetables were
really underdone. I don't mean
al dente
,
I mean barely warm. Raw, to tell you the truth."

"The chef is breaking in some new help; I'll
speak to him about it."

"Well, I knew you'd want to know."

She'd have to remember to tell Arthur. Or Reed. Who
knew who was going to run the restaurant? The players seemed to be
changing drastically.

Sugar was much more in the mood for flowers than for
complaints about Hebert's. Right now there wasn't that much in bloom,
at least on this street. There were some hibiscus and some roses,
though—some gorgeous double yellow hibiscus. They'd be fun to
paint. She didn't usually work with tropicals—something about them
seemed a little too easy, like long summer days with nothing to do.
She preferred a more complicated flower, like these double blooms.

A kid came barreling down the street on his bike,
pedaling so fast his feet looked like an eggbeater. He was giving it
every ounce of energy he had, pouring it on as if that were all there
was to life, moving your legs and feeling the breeze in your face,
your heart pounding in your chest until it hurt. Sugar could remember
doing that, and for a moment bemoaned the dulling effect of age,
regretted that she'd never do it again nor want to. Though she could
remember the act, she no longer had the slightest notion what it was
like to have that kind of energy.

As she drew closer to Reed and Dennis's, she walked
more slowly, enjoying herself, glad to be away from the oppression of
the house.

Of Arthur.

What's wrong with me? she thought. He's my husband
but I can barely stand him anymore. The older he gets, the surer he
is that he's right. Which is all he wants to be.

She didn't think at all about how the problem with
Reed would be resolved—she wasn't interested. She thought only
about Arthur. She thought he had been horribly unfair to Reed, given
the hard work she'd done for the restaurant. But fairness entered
into few of Arthur's decisions. He wanted what he wanted, which was
to be right, and to be in control.

She wondered what had made him think for a moment
about giving up control of the restaurant. He had said he would run
Hebert's II, and that he couldn't do both. But it would be like
Arthur to die trying.

Do married people ever really like each other, or
is it always this way? He doesn't like me or he wouldn't have other
women. And I haven't liked him since . . . when?

Since the time the
children started coming, probably. You fall in love and then you have
children,and you lose all sense of everything but that, and then one
day you look across the table and you think, "What am I doing
with this jerk?"

* * *

Reed's house was beautiful, even bigger and
better—restored than Sugars own. Reed wasn't much of a gardener—had
only a few perennials blooming—and the house was plain white with
green shutters; Sugar would have done something more imaginative with
it.

But it was freshly painted and graceful, a Victorian
with a wonderful huge front porch supported by Ionic columns.

The front yard was enormous. Two giant oaks grew
there, dwarfing a small forest of bananas.

Sugar entered the yard through the small iron gate
and walked briskly up to the porch, finding the view before her very
pretty indeed.

She fit the key in the lock, turned off the burglar
alarm, and relocked the door. Just as she headed up the stairs, she
heard the phone ring. Was it quickest to dash up the stairs or race
down and try to catch the call in the kitchen? She opted for the
kitchen and got there just as the phone stopped ringing.

"Hello?" she said, but Reed's voice on the
machine floated above hers, saying she wasn't home but the caller
could leave a message.

Sugar would have hung up, but the caller had heard
her.

"Hello?" said a man's voice. "Reed, is
that you?"

When Reed's alter ego had stopped speaking, Sugar
said, "It's Sugar Hebert, Reed's mother. Can I take a message
for her?"

"Why, Sugar, how are you, dear lady?" She
tensed at something forced in the voice, something falsely hearty.
"This is Milton Foucher, Dennis's father. It is a pure delight
to hear your voice."

"It's good to hear yours too, Mr. Foucher."
She had met him once—at Reed and Dennis's wedding—and she was
quite sure she wouldn't recognize him if he walked in right now.

"How have you been, Sugar?"

"
Just fine. How've you been? And Mrs. Foucher?"

"
Oh, as fine as frog hair, Sugar. We are doing
splendidly. Indeed we are."

Why couldn't he talk like a normal person? Hadn't he
ever heard of contractions? Sugar was about to ask him if she could
take a message, but he said, "We heard Hebert's was awarded the
concession for the casino restaurant."

"
Yes, we got it."

"Well, congratulations on that. We are very very
proud of you."

Sugar fought to keep her snobbery under control. A
part of her knew that Milton Foucher was a polite (if pretentious)
man who'd had too many children too late in life and that he had
suffered a lot—mostly due to his youngest, Dennis.

Another part of her didn't want to admit she was
related to him, even by marriage.

"Thanks a lot, Mr. Foucher; I appreciate that.
Could I—"

"
We were so happy for you when we heard about
it. That is a very important plum for you."

"It's going to keep us all pretty busy, I
expect."

"I only wish Dennis had gone into that
business"—his voice was full of regret—"but what can
you do with youngsters? You have to let them do what they want to
do—there's no help for it, is there?"

"There sure isn't." She hoped her voice
didn't betray the bitterness she felt.

"Well, I had better not keep you. I have some
sad news for Dennis."

"
I'm afraid he isn't here right now. Could I
give him a message?"

"Well, if you would, please. Tell him Justin is
not expected to live out the week."

Sugar searched her memory. Was Justin a relative?
"I'm sorry to hear that," she said.

"This thing is a terrible waste." Sugar
could almost see him shaking his head. "A terrible, terrible
waste."

"
I'll be sure and tell him."

Hanging up, she looked at her watch and hurried to
get the overalls. She'd been gone nearly twenty minutes, and it would
take her ten more to get back if she hurried instead of getting into
conversations and peering into everyone's garden. She hoped they
wouldn't still be yelling when she got there.

She raised a hand to set the alarm, but couldn't
remember the combination, punched out with such dispatch when she
came in. Now her mind was a blank. She had to sit down and focus till
it came to her.

She walked briskly back, but when she saw a pair of
teenage kids with reversed baseball caps coming down the street, she
crossed and circled a block that wasn't on the way. She'd probably
lost five minutes, with one thing and another. She was starting to
feel guilty.

She picked up her pace.

Finally, arriving slightly out of breath, she
remembered she hadn't brought her purse, had simply picked up Reed's
key and hurried out.

Feeling silly, she rang her own doorbell and waited.
It was probably a full two minutes before she realized no one was
coming. Glancing around for Reed's car, she didn't notice it at
first, wondered if Dennis and Reed had gotten so mad they'd stalked
out. But in that case why hadn't they come home?

She marched to the side of the house and turned over
the rock under which she kept an extra key. Letting herself in, she
felt for the first time a slight sense of foreboding; the lock didn't
give at first, not until she'd turned the key a few times. Could it
be the door hadn't been locked? Had she unwittingly locked it
herself, then had to fiddle to unlock it?

"
Arthur?" she called. Getting no answer,
she turned from the hall into the dining room, where her family
should have been. Instead there was blood.