Chapter Three

Julia waited for the charming Mr. Broussard’s vehicle to disappear from sight. He drove a truck, far newer than hers, and a vibrant red color more suitable to a sports car. To give him some credit, the sides were splashed with mud as if he did take it out on the back roads to check on construction sites. Her uncles would show disdain for the color but respect the dirt. They often judged men by their trucks, and so did she after working with them for so long.

She doubted if they carried the same equipment. Julia peeled off her soaked T-shirt and replaced it from a pile of Regal Restoration tees on the front seat. When working in the heat, she often changed several times a day. She shucked the tool belt and tucked in the shirt. From the glove compartment, she took a packet of Wet Wipes, cleaned her hands, and rubbed her face with another, as she wore no makeup today. Slightly grateful that she kept her dark brows shaped and her lashes were naturally long and full, Julia swiped on a slash of hot pink lipstick using the rearview mirror. She took down her ponytail and finger-combed away the hat hair. A few little ringlets formed around her face as they often did in humid weather. Nothing she could do about the work boots. A quick spritz from a small bottle of perfume, and she was ready to go. No, she wasn’t primping. The man might be a future client if she could be convincing enough.

Of course, Remy Broussard beat her to the bustling restaurant—judging by the crowded parking lot—serving a substantial lunch crowd. She spotted his truck at once, but had to wait for another to move before she could get a space. Like the gentleman he claimed to be, the man waited for her in the reception area. His long, lean form lounged against the distressed cypress wall covered with old advertising signs. He wore a white dress shirt open at the neck, complete with cufflinks, belted into jeans with just enough wear to seem authentic. Eyes dark as a moonless night, midnight hair side-parted, but combed back, definitely styled in a place without a barber pole outside like Ike’s of Chapelle. She studied him exactly as he’d leered at her not too long ago, from those compelling eyes to his rugged shoes with a brief stop at his crotch.

His face, also lean and clean-shaven, delivered a wicked, white, deep-dimpled smile in Julia’s direction. Damned if he hadn’t enjoyed her inspection. “I thought you might have gotten lost.”

Oh, a woman could get lost in those dark eyes, be seduced by that devilish smile. She felt a pulse of lust not experienced lately, a year or more actually, if she were honest with herself. Too bad they were already on opposite sides, but not too deeply in conflict yet. Still, nations rose and fell, battles were won and lost in the bedclothes at times. She tried to shake the idea out of her head, but it wouldn’t leave voluntarily. He took that as part of her response to his question.

“No, just wanted to clean up a little. I’m more convincing without a soaked T-shirt.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that.” Before she could come back with a snappy retort, he said, “They’re holding a table for us,” and pointed the way to a cozy spot for two with a view of the bayou and a gaily painted Victorian house across the water.

Julia led the way and almost reached their destination before she heard, “Hey, Jules, over here! We got plenty of room for you.”

Oh great, the uncles had decided to dine out instead of making hero sandwiches in the motorhome. They sat behind massive seafood platters half devoured, the delicate leg bones of frogs stripped of their meat, the crab shells empty of stuffing, and a central cup of seafood gumbo drained. Plenty remained: fried oysters and shrimp, a fish fillet, and a patty of some kind. A crab claw appetizer plate still held a few pinchers ready to dip into sauce. The waitress stopped to ask if they want a second beer. Glancing at Julia, they shook their heads and stuck to ice water. “Say, our niece and her friend are going to join us. Okay?”

Since that meant a bigger tip, the server hurried to grab napkin-wrapped cutlery from a vacant table and ask for their drink orders. With no choice left, Julia slipped into the chair Remy held out for her next to Uncle Sal. He offered a hand to Uncle Sammy, who wiped his greasy fingers with a napkin before accepting, and leaned across the table to shake with Sal, smooth as if no plans had been upset.

“Remington Broussard,” he said in introduction since Julia hadn’t taken care of that.

She dove in. “My uncles, Sal and Sam Rossi, the most important members of the Regal Restorations team. Mr. Broussard is, um, a potential client.” She noticed his dark brows rose, but he didn’t deny it. She had to establish a business relationship before her relatives started to interrogate him as a potential husband instead of the sexual playmate she had in mind.

“Polish off those crab claws while you wait, why don’t ya,” Sammy offered, his broad face made even wider by his grin. “So, what’s the nature of your project?”

Since Remy casually selected a claw by the tip, dunked it into spicy cocktail sauce, and sucked the bit of exposed meat from the cartilage, Julia rushed to answer for him. “Mr. Broussard owns the old hotel I checked out this morning. You should see the coffered ceiling in the ballroom. It’s not nearly as bad as it seems. We could do molds from the best of the squares to replace the worst, and repair the others. Some new gilding and it would be magnificent. The walls have cracks of course, but those can be patched.”

When Remy failed to match her enthusiasm, Uncle Sal chipped in. “Nothing like lime plaster. Withstands damp, doesn’t mold or mildew, not like gypsum or Jesus God, that wallboard they use today. Jules knows her plaster, and if she says it can be salvaged, she’ll be right.”

Remington Broussard mustered a polite smile. “An unusual profession for a woman, plasterer.”

“We taught her all she knows. This kid could do perfect flat work on walls and ceilings by the time she turned seventeen. Her daddy wanted better for her, though. Sent her off to college to study history, then historic preservation, and picked up some business courses too, but she worked with us summers saving the money for her education. Some of the old guys around gave her training in ornamental plaster, but we all thought she’d fly the coop once she had those fancy degrees.” Sammy made a pair of fluttering wings out of his thick fingers since Sal was busy attacking his baked potato side dish. “But, turned out our girl liked getting her hands dirty more than working up stuff on a computer. Now, she does both. No one puts on a finish coat as well as Jules.”

The waitress arrived with the unsweet tea for Julia and a glass of red wine for Remy. He ordered the large bowl of chicken-sausage gumbo, which came with French bread and potato salad. She selected a lady-like seafood salad. The server carried away empty salad bowls and beer bottles to make room and allowed the conversation to continue.

“Very interesting,” Remy said.

Sal took over. “Yep, Jules made contacts, turned us into Regal Restorations when we were once only plasterers working on old buildings in New Orleans. Now we can do the whole shebang. Her daddy would be so proud of his baby girl if he’d lived to see this day. And you, what’s your game?”

“Architect, mostly high-rises and condos. I generally supervise my own projects.” He sipped his wine.

Throat suddenly dry, Julia gulped her tea.

“Remington Broussard, Remington Broussard.” Sal pondered. He pointed a finger across the table. “You’re the guy who lives in the house they call the Black Box across the bayou and a little upstream from the Alleman Plantation. Marv Holcomb is planting non-invasive bamboo to blot out the sight from Getty’s backyard.”

“Yes, that’s right. I designed the building. I’m aware the locals don’t appreciate its style and call it that, but I believe the world has enough room for all types of architecture. No need to be mired in the past.” Apparently, Mr. Broussard took no offense.

Uncle Sammy, always the more jovial of the pair, said, “I bet that place is a chick magnet. Can’t see much inside because of the tinted glass, but at night that staircase to the stars shows up when the lights are on. I do believe I’ve seen some female forms moving up and down too.”

“Possibly my mother or sister visiting, but maybe we both need bamboo hedges,” Remy remarked mildly. “The first floor is my office with an outside deck and dock. The second is my living room and kitchen, the third my bedroom and bath. Both have balconies overlooking the bayou. I’d be glad to give you a tour anytime—day or night.”

He said those last words with his eyes on Julia’s face, closing out the uncles for a moment that appeared almost intimate. Sammy missed the suggestion, but not Sal sitting next to Jules. In his youth, he’d possessed the red hair that sometimes popped up among the appropriately named Rossi family. Now with it mostly gone, what remained was shaved close to the scalp. However, his temper remained fiery. Sal’s wide face, full of faded freckles, colored. “You hitting on my niece? Because we stand in for her father now.”

“Aw, come on, Sal. He don’t mean nothing, do you?” Sammy elbowed Remy with a brawny arm covered in dark hair, maybe a little harder than necessary for a friendly gesture.

The man straightened in his chair and offered Sal a cordial smile. “The invitation extends to all of you of course.”

The arrival of the gumbo and seafood salad saved the day. Their waitress deposited a refilled bread basket on the table. “Anything else I could get for you, boys?”

“Maybe some more of the honey butter. Bet it’s as sweet you are, babe,” Sam answered. Despite toting a sold middle-aged gut, he still had all of his hair, a crown of salt-and-pepper curls, and his tendency to flirt intact.

The waitress, also middle-aged, plump, busty, and experienced, smiled. “Not half as sweet as our white-chocolate bread pudding, a house specialty, Junior Polk’s own recipe. Can I interest you in dessert, cher?”

“Love when women talk to me in French. Yeah, I’ll take some,” Sammy said.

Sol, scowling, added. “Yeah, make that two.”

Clearly, he had no intention of leaving Julia alone at the table with the Broussard guy. Both uncles would stay protectively by her side until they finished eating, not allowing her to get down to the nitty-gritty concerning the Queen. Sometimes working with family was so frustrating. Whenever they left New Orleans, Aunt Franny exhorted her niece to keep Sam away from other women, and Aunt Rosa begged Julia to make Sal stay out of bars where he’d likely get into a scrape. Usually, doing heavy work in the heat took care of both problems as the men turned in early to get a sunrise start before the temperature rose, but sometimes Julia got tired of babysitting them both. At times, she’d posted bail and warned off Sam’s latest conquest. They in turn guarded her virtue like two giant foo dogs whether she wanted them to or not.

“We got the time to see your place today. We’re waiting for the brown coat to dry. Shoulda been finished by the end of February, but all the goddamned rain this year set us way back. Good thing our slate man finished up the roof early or there could have been more damage. Most of that was in the attic.” Sal helped himself to more bread as the waitress carried away the remains of the stuffed potatoes still encased in foil.

“Do you stay on the job regardless of the weather? That seems inefficient,” Remy said, and immediately drew a defensive remark from Sol.

“Hell, no. We go back to the city and do some small jobs. Most of the older homes in New Orleans have plaster walls, even the little places. With all the oyster shells around, they made their own lime in pits way back to do the job. We found horsehair in Alleman’s walls used to bind the plaster. You could still tell it came from a brown horse or maybe a mule. Now, it mostly comes with wood fibers.”

“Enlightening.” Remy Brossard spooned his gumbo and offered the accompanying potato salad to anyone who wanted it. Julia felt a trifle embarrassed when Sam took him up on the offer after his gargantuan meal.

The bread pudding arrived swimming in a sweet sauce. Sal pressed half of his dessert on Julia. “You can’t do heavy work on a salad.”

She pointed out they weren’t working today, but she ate it anyway. So good!

The final check came, a hundred dollar plus whopper. Three credit cards belonging to Sal, Julia, and Remy hit the table. Sam shrugged. “We each have a company card. Doesn’t matter which of us pays.”

“I insist,” said Remy Broussard. “I invited Julia, Ms. Rossi, to dine here and am happy to include her co-workers.”

The uncles did not fight his offer, nor did Julia. This was a business luncheon, or should have been, not a date. Mr. Broussard could write if off on his taxes just as Regal Restorations did. Too bad Sal and Sammy didn’t forget about the offer to tour the Black Box.

“You lead the way. We’ll follow.” Sal jingled the keys to the second Regal Restorations truck they had at their work site, same gray color but closer to silver than the one Julia drove, and newer. Its Regal Restorations logo still stood out with the royal blue lettering topped by a crown while her vehicle’s sign had long since peeled away.

They followed the red truck out of the shell parking lot, made a left at the bridge, a right by the vast cemetery, then drove along the bayou until they came to a lengthy paved drive guarded by two massive live oaks of distinguished age and a metal electric gate. They had arrived at the Black Box.