After what felt like an immeasurable amount of time spent sobbing against Enoch’s chest, Carlotta gathered herself together and excused herself to the bathroom. She’d cried off all of her makeup and was slightly horrified at the image in the mirror. She washed away what she could and reapplied as she assessed how she felt. Somehow weeping in front of two complete strangers had granted her an unexpected sense of lightness and relief. Things she had never even hoped to glimpse before this trip.
When she re-emerged, she found Enoch packaging up the beautiful tintype he’d created for her. She watched him carefully wrap the heavy yet delicate piece of artwork. She watched the way his tee molded to those well-defined back muscles. When he bent to slide it into the box, the hem of that shirt pulled up to reveal a broad expanse of sweat-damp skin at his lower back.
“Hey, will it be okay if I leave it in my car?”
“How long do you plan to leave it in there?”
“I don’t leave until Saturday, so… two days?”
He stared at the packaged artwork, contemplating. “That’s a little longer than I would like to leave it exposed in this heat. I think it would be fine, but I can hold on to it until then and deliver it to your place when you’re ready to leave.”
“Oh, no. That’s not necessary —”
“Don’t be silly. Just text me the address of where you’re staying. Or I can lock up and bring it round to you now.”
She thought about that for a moment. Thought about her reservation for her solo anniversary dinner at Muriel’s in Jackson Square. Thought about eating alone and ending the night alone, and suddenly, she didn’t want to do it anymore.
“What are you doing this evening?” she asked, ignoring how fear and apprehension lumped in her throat.
“Nothing planned. Why?”
“Well,” she wrung her own hands nervously. “I had dinner reservations at Muriel’s, but eating alone seems extremely unappealing right now, and I’m here, in the neighborhood where John Paul grew up, and I wanna explore it.”
Enoch turned to face her and thrust his hands in his pockets. “With me?”
“Yes. You said, ‘we all miss him,’ so I’m guessing there’s a lot to know about who he was to y’all.”
He nodded and then looked down at his feet. “I don’t know… ain’t there somebody else you’d rather spend your time with?”
Carlotta’s stomach sank. “I’m sorry. I assumed you didn’t have plans,” she blubbered. “I’ll just—”
He grabbed her hand and stopped her mid-flounce. “I didn’t ask because I have other plans. I asked because…honestly? I can’t imagine why you’d want to spend another moment with me after the way I came at you.”
“I shouldn’t want to,” she agreed with a smirk. “But I don’t want to be alone either. I’d rather spend time with and around people who knew him than be alone.”
“And I’m just a good a person as any?” he asked in a playful tone.
“Considering the fact that I don’t have many options, I guess you’ll have to do.”
He nodded and smiled. “Okay, are you a picky eater?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“Then I know exactly where to take you. Just let me get everything locked up.”
“I’ll wait for you on the front porch. And Enoch?”
“Yeah?”
“You might wanna change your t-shirt. I kinda cried my face off all over you. Sorry about that.”
Enoch looked down, smiled, and then covered the huge makeup smudge with his hand. “Yeah, I’ll do that, but… I’m kinda flattered that you felt safe enough to allow me to comfort you that way.”
He dropped his head bashfully and turned to head inside and lock things up.
The front porch was deep and had a pair of lovely, high-backed rocking chairs and ceiling fans that stirred the humid air and made it more bearable. She fished her hand fan out of her bag, rocked, and enjoyed the quietude of the neighborhood. The setting sun reflected in the mirrored windows of the homes along the street and lit the pavement like fire — burnt orange, turquoise blue, and a bright violet streak that she loved the most. The street itself was more residential than where she was staying in Marigny. She enjoyed it while rocking and fanning herself.
Enoch emerged from the front door twenty minutes later wearing a slim-fit black t-shirt and what smelled like a fresh spritz or two of Tuscan Leather. Hiding her smile, she stood and met him at the door. His locs hung down around his shoulders again, and he hid behind them a little as he locked the door behind him.
“Are you up for a walk, or should we drive?”
Carlotta looked up and down the block. The evening was cooling down, and the sidewalks were clear. “I don’t mind the walk.”
“A’ight then,” he said, then offered his elbow like a proper gentleman.
That swoony little feeling came over her again as she notched her hand into the crook of his arm. “Thank you.”
“There’s a place a couple of blocks from here that makes good red beans and rice and fried chicken — a neighborhood place. Same family has owned it since I was little, and it’s one of the few places that survived Katrina. I think you’ll like it.”
“I’m sure I will. Like I said, I’m not picky.”
At the mention of Hurricane Katrina, Carlotta thought of those entries in John Paul’s old journals. There wasn’t much there except some passages full of survivor’s guilt followed by years of heavy drug use and drinking. Then … her.
“There’s lots of pics of J.P. there, too.”
“Really? So we’re close to where he grew up?”
“We are, but it ain’t nothing like it was then. Most of the older homes were too damaged by the storm to be saved. They stood derelict for a long while, and then developers came in, and you know how that story goes.”
She nodded. “I’d still love to see it, though. Could you take me over there?”
“Of course.”
They walked in amiable quiet until they arrived at the Nadine Cousin’s Cafe — known as just Cousin’s to the locals. It was a small, raised, cottage-style house rezoned as a restaurant. The back patio was in a shaded yard with one impressive live oak. Carlotta had learned on this trip that those live oaks lived to be two to three hundred years old and that they often died because the limbs grew so heavy that they broke off and split the trunk. She could see that this one was well-maintained and had steel supports holding up the heaviest branches. Inside, the paneled walls were white-washed and just as Enoch said, covered with photographs.
There was a bit of a wait, so Enoch talked to the hostess while Carlotta looked at the photos crowded on the walls in the small lobby. Cousin’s clearly had a history in this community. The pictures began in 1958 when they opened the doors into the present day. She spotted one of John Paul from what looked like the eighties.
“Is that Dem Boyz when they were actually boys?” Carlotta asked as Enoch moved in to look at the picture over her shoulder.
“Three of them. That’s Vince, and that’s Keith right there with the trombone. You know them. The drummer is Robert. He died of AIDS in the late nineties —”
“Oh, yeah, I remember. John Paul talked about him a lot when we first met.”
“The bass trombonist was the youngest, and he went off to Loyola and became a lawyer. He don’t play much no more. And of course, you know, J.P.,” he said, pointing him out.
John Paul looked young and gangly in the photo. Handsome but in that awkward way, men were when they were still growing into their bodies. “You seem to know a lot about the band.”
Enoch shrugged shyly and pointed at another picture of the band performing on the back porch of the restaurant. “Like I said, I grew up here. They played at Cousin’s all the time back then. They were basically the house band.”
Carlotta knew some of the story based on articles she’d read over the years. But the man she married wasn’t in those articles. When they met, he was a haunted man. Still fun-loving and quick to smile, which was how so many people described him, but he had a darkness to him too. John Paul lost so much during the floods — his mother and grandmother, who were the only foundation, love, and support he had at the time, his childhood home, old pictures, family heirlooms, and keepsakes. His life before Katrina was basically erased. Her heart broke for how lonely he must have felt in those years after Katrina. She understood why he needed to drown that feeling and did every drug he could to forget.
“That was a time,” Enoch said with a soft laugh bringing her back into the present. He was standing so close that Carlotta felt his breath on her neck, and she nearly leaned back to wordlessly encourage him to follow that breath with a kiss on that neglected patch of skin. “J.P. ‘n Dem Boyz had us all rethinking football every fall so we could join the marching band.”
“It’s that serious?”
“Oh, yeah. Dudes in the marching band got all the energy from the girls—especially trombone and trumpet players. But I’m sure you know all about that,” he added with a smirk.
I turned to him with my brow raised in faux offense. “I have no idea what you’re talking about or what you could be implying.”
“I’m sure,” he answered.
She definitely knew what he was talking about. While at a small event outside of Nashville, a woman had made a suggestive statement about horn players and oral sex that Carlotta was too naive to understand at the time. John Paul had explained in detail with his mouth between her legs why trumpet players and trombonists were so good at oral sex. “I mean, John Paul may have told me that a good trumpet or trombone player has to master their instrument. That a good one can play the full range of the instrument. That they can do all of the articulations — multiple tonguing, key and lip trills, runs, falls, slides…” she paused thoughtfully and let her gaze trace the shape of Enoch’s mouth. “Did you ever join the marching band?” she asked.
Enoch dipped his head, and the sly smile on his sexy mouth stretched even wider. “Are you flirting with me, Mrs. Mercier?”
“This isn’t flirting, but if we were flirting, I would demand that you stop calling me Mrs. Mercier,” Carlotta countered.
He laughed and nodded, taking it in stride.
They moved along the wall to the next set of photos. Enoch explained each of them and pointed out the ones that featured John Paul. There was a whole wall dedicated to Katrina.
“He tried to get here three days before the storm to evacuate Ms. Nancy and Ms. Darlene. He couldn’t get a flight into the city, so he flew into Dallas and drove in from there. He made it to Louisiana just before the roadblocks went up — right before the mandatory evacuation. But I’m sure he told you about all that.”
Carlotta shook her head as she stared at the photo of John Paul in a boat, pulling people to safety. “Actually, he didn’t.”
“Really?”
She turned to him. “John Paul didn’t talk about Katrina or his mother and grandmother except to say that losing them broke him.”
“Can’t disagree with that,” he agreed with a tight nod that left the truth unsaid. “It broke a lot of us, but what we went through runs deeper for someone like J.P., you know?”
Carlotta nodded, but she didn’t know. Not really. “Could you tell me about it?”
“Of course. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.” A concerned look washed over his face. It made her feel self-conscious to realize that so many people knew so much more about John Paul than she did.
“Hey, Enoch? Your table’s ready, baby. You can come on back,” the hostess said.
“Thanks, Portia. Here we come.” He tipped his head toward the waiting hostess and gave her a little smile. “Let’s get you something to eat.”
The two-bedroom house that had been converted into a restaurant was quaint and packed with patrons. Enoch must have been a regular because he stopped at several tables to say hello, and it reminded her of John Paul paying court whenever they went out in the small town they lived in. She wondered if Enoch had learned it from him.
The hostess sat them at a table near the back porch stage and right under the century-old oak. Enoch pulled out her chair, and she looked up at the branches as she sat. He was still standing over her and did the same.
“This is my favorite table. Close to the stage and under my favorite tree.”
“It’s a good tree.”
“It is.”
He lingered there for a moment, looking at her as if he might lean down and kiss her, but he backed away and claimed the seat across from her.
“Do you know who’s playing tonight?”
“Could be anybody. It’s a Thursday night. Open mic.”
“Anybody? Even you?”
“Nah, sorry to disappoint. I never played in the marching band. I’m pretty good on the piano, though,” he said, holding up his hands and wiggling his fingers. Long fingers. Long and dextrous, that definitely had its own appeal. “But Grace doesn’t have a piano here. Not anymore.”
“Shame,” she said, leaning forward to press her elbows on the table. “I’d like to see what you could do with those fingers…on a piano, I mean,” she added, leaning into the innuendo.
He bit his lip. “You sure you ain’t flirtin’, Mrs. Mercier?”
Before she could respond, the server came around to take their dinner and drink orders.
“Who’s this you got wit’ you? Grace is gonna be hot when she finds out you brought a date ‘round when she wasn’t here.”
Enoch laughed, but she could see he was a bit embarrassed. “She’s not my date, Faith. This is Carlotta Mercier. J.P.’s wife.”
The woman’s eyes went wide. “Oh, my god! I thought you looked familiar! It’s so good to meet you!” The woman practically squealed as she pulled out one of the chairs at the four-top and sat down with them. “We have y’all’s wedding picture up in the big dining room.”
Carlotta felt her cheeks heat with embarrassment. They loved John Paul so much that their wedding photo was up in the big dining room, but she’d never met these people?
“You was sucha pretty bride,” Faith continued. “I watched that segment they did on ETV of y’all’s wedding. But I have to say, you're even prettier in person. Ain’t she, Enoch?”
“She is,” he agreed in that soft, deep voice that felt like he was talking to Carlotta and Carlotta only. How inappropriate was it to be thinking about his mouth right now? The little smiles that quirked his lips drew her attention way too easily.
“We were all just so sorry to hear about his passin’,” Faith continued as if she didn’t hear Enoch and had missed the entire lust-heavy exchange between them.
“Thank you,” she said, which made her feel even more awkward and self-conscious because thank you for acknowledging my loss was another weird exchange she continued to have since his death. “Did you know John Paul well?” she asked, eager to move past that to happier thoughts. She’d cried in front of enough strangers today.
“Oh, yes. John Paul and my sister — Grace, she runs Cousin’s now — used to go together back in the day. Went to prom and everything. He was family.”
He was family… Family she’d never met. Family he’d never introduced her to. Something strange was happening to Carlotta’s perception of her husband and his relationship with his past. He told her so little. She only knew as much as the public knew. It was like she only knew a version of John Paul, which couldn’t be true, but that was how all of this was beginning to make her feel. She’d always viewed their romance through rose-colored glasses. Now she knew that wasn’t by chance. He wrote their story, and she never even considered that there might be another narrative.
“So, what brings you to town? How long you stayin’? Where you stayin’—”
“Faith…” Enoch said in a warning tone. When she looked at him, he gave her a look that asked what are you doing?
“What? I just wanted to know how long she was gon’ be in town ‘cause I’m sure once Grace and everybody find out, they gon’ wanna make sure she pass a good time while she here.”
“I’ll be here until Saturday,” Carlotta volunteered. “John Paul sent me down here for our tenth wedding anniversary to pick up a present that Enoch made for me.”
“Oh, wow!” Faith looked at Carlotta and then back at Enoch again. “So you knew she was comin’?”
“I did,” he said with a nod.
“Mighty interesting that you didn’t share that news with the rest of us,” she said with a raise of her right brow.
“It was the way J.P. wanted it.”
“The way J.P. wanted it,” she echoed bitterly as she stood.
Carlotta frowned, sensing that there was something deeper to that exchange.
“Anyways, happy anniversary,” Faith said with a smile that seemed less genuine than the one she greeted their table with. “I’m glad to finally meet you. I’ll go put in your order.”
She watched Faith until she was a few tables away, then turned to Enoch. “What was that all about?”
“I’m sorry. A lot of folks ‘round here are a little upset about the fact that J.P. never brought you back here. Some are more vocal about it than others because they imagine it as some sorta personal slight.”
“Personal slight? Really? Do they think I had something to do with that?” The thought of people assuming that she kept John Paul from coming back to his hometown made her feel sick.
Enoch shrugged and leaned forward to brace his elbows on the table. “Some do. Some are just hurt because they don’t understand why he would never come back. He was such a big part of this community. We don’t understand why he would do something like that.”
“Well, I didn’t. I would never do that. I wanted to come back here with him. He just kept telling me there was nothing here for him anymore and that his life was with me.” Carlotta shook her head. “I didn’t even realize how much I didn’t know about him until I started reading his journals after he died. Even then… it was more about feelings and fond memories. Not specifics.”
“Fond memories,” he murmured. Now his tone was as bitter as Faith’s. “So you mean to tell me that he ain’t tell you nothing about none of us? Nothing about his past?”
“Not nothing. But I’m beginning to realize that he only told me things he wanted me to know.”
“It’s really hard to believe that he told you so little about the place and people he came from.”
That sick feeling swamped her again. “Is that an accusation—”
“No, Carlotta. I ain’t accusin’ you. But I think…” Enoch paused for a moment as if he needed to collect his thoughts. “I think I’m just tryin’ to understand how the man you married is the same man who rescued my family and me during Katrina and countless others when he’d just lost his own. Who cared for my mother and me when my father died and paid my way through college. He supported me and my work until I could stand on my own. That man told you nothing about me?”
Carlotta was speechless. Enoch wasn’t just some random artist John Paul found on the internet who just happened to be from his hometown. They had a history, and by the sound of it, Enoch considered him family, too. Maybe even loved him as much as she did.
“I… I don’t know what to say,” she whispered. “When I met John Paul, he was drinking and using pretty heavily, but I think you know that. It nearly kept me from getting involved with him, but then he went to rehab and vowed he was done. And he was. The way he talked about New Orleans made me think that being here drove him to his addiction. So…what was I supposed to do, Enoch? I had to support him in that.”
He leaned back in his chair, dark eyes considering her and all that she’d said. “I can understand that,” he said finally. “It doesn’t make it hurt any less, but I understand it. I kinda hoped you would bring him back here when he died—”
“I thought about it, but he planned everything before he died because he didn’t want me to worry about it. Cremation and a short memorial service followed by a party. It wasn’t until I read his journals that I realized he’d changed his mind. That he wanted to be buried here.”
The words he’d written mere weeks before he died came to her.
I have to get Lotta to take me back home.
I don’t want to be buried anywhere else… I need to go home.
If I can’t die there, I want to be buried there.
Carlotta reached for her glass and took a big swallow of water. She didn’t want to cry again.
“I know how important funerals are for y’all.”
“They are,” he said with a nod of quiet agreement, then looked up at the makeshift stage on the back porch. The lights had just flickered on, and a young man dropped a couple of instrument cases there. “I think that’s what makes it hard, you know? Without a homegoing, it feels as if he’s still alive. Like… it’s just been a while since he visited, and one day I’m gonna look up and see him comin’ down the banquette with that big grin on and shouting, 'Hey, youngblood! What’s good?'”
Carlotta smiled at the image his words had created. John Paul was nine years older than her, but it sometimes felt closer to twenty. He was real old school and had old man ways about it him. She’d always thought it was just because he was country which in her mind was different than being southern, but now she considered that it was just his way. An old soul. My old man…
“When was the last time you saw him?” she asked.
“In New York, like two years before he died.” A faraway look softened Enoch’s face. “Some of my work had been included in a fine art photography exhibit. I sent him an email invite, but things had become a little… distant between us, so I didn’t expect him to show. But he happened to be in the city, so he stopped through. He said you were with him but were feeling under the weather. We went out for a cup of coffee and a catch-up.”
Carlotta realized that he’d seen John Paul when they were in New York getting a fourth opinion on his diagnosis. His doctors in Greenville had just told them that he was inoperable. They offered treatment to shrink the tumors but no hope of recovery. She was distraught after that appointment. They’d made love, and she’d cried herself to sleep afterward. John Paul had gone out while she was asleep and returned a few moments later. She didn't realize he'd been gone long enough to meet up with Enoch.
“We spoke on the phone a hand full of times after that, but I didn’t know he was sick,” Enoch said softly.
“Well, if it’s any consolation, we’d just found out that he was no longer eligible for a liver transplant that weekend. It had spread to his lymph nodes, and they’d found a spot on his lungs during the CT scan. ‘Death is certain’ was what the oncologist said.”
His eyes met hers across the table in stunned surprise. “But… he looked so good that weekend. I told him it was the healthiest I’d ever seen him.”
She shrugged and gave him a sad smile. “Because he was. He was in the best shape of his life when he started having all of these weird symptoms. I thought it was some digestive issue.” She shook her head and wiped away her tears. “I didn’t believe it at first. I kept taking him to different doctors, hoping to hear something different. But when the last oncologist suggested that we consider freezing some embryos because the radiation would make him sterile and —”
Carlotta pulled her bottom lip between her teeth to stop the deluge of emotions that wanted to pour out of her. He didn’t need to know all of that. The story was sad enough without telling him they’d hoped to start a family. That seven embryos were waiting for her to make a decision. Yet another thing she’d avoided for the last four years. It all felt like too much.
She took a deep breath and tried to push the tears down. All around them, twinkle lights winked on, illuminating the dark yard and instantly making it feel more intimate. Carlotta redirected her attention at Enoch again and saw that the young man was deep in thought, and his dark eyes glistened with tears.
“It might seem like our relationship was superficial, but it wasn’t. He was like a big brother to me. I miss him,” he said, his voice hoarse with emotion.
“I know.” Carlotta reached across the table and took his hand in hers.
“And I’m sorry you had to go through that alone. I wish he’d let us be there for him. He needed us, and it sounds like you did, too.”
“Thank you for saying that.” She closed her eyes and sighed. When she opened them again, Enoch met and held her gaze. “I don’t know why John Paul kept us from meeting each other. I’m sure he had his reasons. But we know each other now. And I’m here until Saturday so let’s make up for lost time.”
Enoch chuckled softly, then brought her knuckles to his lips for what she thought would be a chaste kiss. Someone should have told that to her body because her skin lit the instant she felt his breath play across her knuckles. He squinted his eyes. His lashes were still wet with tears he’d refused to shed and shining with mirth.
“You’re definitely flirtin’ with me, Mrs. Mercier.”
Carlotta knew she shouldn’t, but she definitely was flirting with Enoch. The fact that they’d spent the better part of an hour talking about their mutual love for her dead husband should have been enough to douse the attraction blossoming between them, but it did the exact opposite if she was being honest. It created a connective tissue, a shorthand, an inside joke they both knew. She felt comfortable with him. Familiar. He seemed to feel comfortable with her too.
During a dinner of red beans and rice, fried chicken, and cabbage, Enoch and Carlotta shared every bit of the man they loved with each other. She told him how he’d become the kind of guy that hiked and went to breweries on the weekend. How, after one visit, he fell in love with Maverick, their harlequin Great Dane, and immediately decided to bring him home. She told him about the artists he’d written over the years. The songs he’d featured on without wanting any credit or recognition. It felt so good to talk to someone who knew and loved him.
After dinner, they walked back to Enoch’s place shoulder to shoulder on the shadowed banquette. Her mind raced to find reasons to spend more time with him, knowing she probably shouldn’t.
“Thank you so much for having dinner with me,” she said as they approached her SUV.
He turned to her under the streetlight. “Mrs. Mercier, I’m—”
What came over her? Was it his mouth and how she’d stared at it all night and wondered about his taste? Either way, she reached for him, slanted her mouth over his, and delivered a kiss that had far more behind it than gratitude.
Enoch startled then held her away from him. “Baby, what y’doin’?” he asked, confusion in his voice.
She shrugged, then brushed her lips across his again. “Enoch…I’d really like it if you called me Carlotta.”
“Hm,” he grunted in response. His hand slid up her back and crushed her against him. The other hand cradled her cheek, stroking gently. “I’d like that too…Carlotta. But do you want this? I —”
She kissed him again. Kissed him to prove that she really wanted the kiss, to quiet any questions he had about her desire. More than anything, Carlotta needed and wanted to be held and kissed.
Enoch tipped her head back, and she sighed, lips parting so he could deepen the kiss. When she softened against him, he pivoted so that her back pressed against the passenger side door of her SUV. He slid his hand down the curve of his waist to her hip and wedged his thigh between hers. A move that only made her spread her legs wider and press her hips flush to his. To feel how hard this little bit of contact made him. To revel in how he slid his hands lower to cup her ass.
“We shouldn’t be doing this,” he murmured, then pulled away.
“I’m sorry.” Carlotta’s cheeks lit and burned like she’d been smacked. Sheepishly, she righted herself, closing her legs and pulling her dress down so that she was decent again.
“Carlotta,” he whispered, reaching out to grab her wrists to stop her nervous fidgeting. “I worded that poorly. I meant we shouldn’t do this now. We’ve had an emotional day, and I don’t know about you, but I feel a little raw.”
He was right. She did feel raw. She’d hoped his kiss would soothe it, and it did.
“You’re right. I’m probably just reacting to all the emoting,” she said with a nervous laugh. “It felt good to talk to someone about John Paul without being pitied or treated like the eternally weeping widow.”
“It did feel good to talk about him. And I was glad to be that person for you. But...”
Enoch made a soft sound, reached for her, and pulled her body up against his again. Sweat had dampened the back of her dress on the walk back to his place, and she felt flushed and sticky from the heat and a little bit self-conscious about it. But when his mouth covered hers again, she sagged against him. He lapped and sucked at her lips. A soft moan slipped from her when he gripped her ass, pressing her hard against the thick length. Kissed her with a recklessness that woke up the thing in her that coiled in the pit of her belly.
“Come on, baby,” he said softly, tugging at her hand. “We better take this inside.”