Mike pulled his truck onto the concrete drive of a small, but neatly-kept, brick home on St. Louis Avenue. Marceline Baptiste greeted him at the kitchen door, the one reserved for close friends and relatives. The spry seventy-two year old beamed up at him as the wonderful aroma of baked goods and coffee wafted through the opening.
“Bonjour, Michael! I had a feeling I’d be seeing you. It’s something, how you always manage to show up when I’m baking tarts.”
Mike folded his tall frame in order to embrace the petite, but plump woman. He straightened, passing a hand over his flat belly as he smiled into eyes the same shade of green as Angelique’s. “It doesn’t hurt to have an inside informant.” The woman’s deep rich laughter put him immediately at ease.
“It also doesn’t hurt that I ask her to let you know,” she said, plating several of the half circle shaped pastries and placing it on one end of her antique kitchen table. “Sit tois.”
Mike obeyed, seating himself and within seconds, was savoring a delicious mouthful of spicy sweet dough oozing with delectably sticky fig preserves. “Oh God, manna from heaven.” He planted a kiss on the woman’s cheek, then settled down with a tart in one hand and a steaming mug of coffee in the other. “I’ve been dreaming about this all day long.”
Angelique’s mother was a retired librarian and an avid gardener. The latter revealed itself in the abundance of color in her pampered front yard, even at the end of winter—as well as the nimbleness of her movements around the small, neat kitchen. Her still smooth skin was the color of rich coffee laced with a generous portion of cream, a testimony to her Creole bloodline.
Mike craned his neck to see through the door into the living room. “Is Mr. Rene here?”
A tall, thin man with dark hair, liberally peppered with silver, spoke from the hallway. “Ici, Monsieur Harper!”
Mike gave the man a broad smile, extending his arm to shake the big man’s hand. “Mr. Rene. It’s good to see you.”
“Comment to ye, Mike?”
“I’m good . . . C’est bon, merci.” Mike squinted and scratched is head. “Did I say it right?”
The seventy-six year old man flashed him a brilliant smile, his hazel eyes glinting with approval. “That is correct. Ca c’est bon. It’s good. Somebody’s been practicing.”
Mike winced. “No sir. To tell you the truth, I don’t have anyone else to practice with anymore. The one guy at the office that spoke French retired a few months ago and Angelique moved, so . . . ” He put up his hands in a show of helplessness.
“Ah, merde. You’ll just have to come visit us more often,” Rene commented.
“Merde? I’m not sure I know that word,” Mike said.
“That’s because it’s foul and he knows I don’t like that kind of language.” Marceline shook her finger at her husband, “And for sure not in my kitchen, old man.”
Rene winked at Mike as he mouthed the word shit to him. The big man leaned over to wrap his arms around his wife from behind and planted a big kiss on her cheek. “It won’t happen again, mon coeur.”
“It won’t if you know what’s good for you,” she said. “Sit, old man. You take up too much room in my kitchen.” Marceline commanded, as she bustled around, getting two more mugs from the cabinet for her and her husband.
“So, what’s going on with you and my daughter?” she asked. “Has she agreed to marry you, yet?”
He smothered a laugh at her bluntness. “No ma’am, but she knows I’m ready to throw my hat in the ring as soon as she’s ready.”
“Bon. Bon. She is tete dure-stubborn, my Angel. Just like her pere.” She smiled at her husband.
Rene grunted and gave Mike a wink. “Her mere is the stubborn one. Don’t let this vieille femme fool you.”
Marceline placed her hands on her formidable hips. “Vieux verrat! Bouche ta gueule or I’ll send every last fig tart in this kitchen off with this gentleman, here. No sense wasting my good baking on someone who doesn’t appreciate me.”
Mike cleared his throat and decided to intervene. “Okay, you two, let me see if I got all of that. You,” he said, pointing to Rene, “called her an old lady, and you,” he said, pointing to Marceline, “called him an old boar and told him to shut his mouth, right?”
The couple stopped their good natured name calling long enough to beam up at him in approval.
“Bien bon—very good, Monsieur Harper,” Marceline gushed.
“Merci beaucoup—thank you very much, ma’am,” Mike replied.
Rene slapped him on the back and laughed. “You must be practicing somewhere.”
Mike shook his head. “I have an excellent memory. Now you two quit the name calling long enough to sit and visit with me. Besides, it’s useless . . . ah . . . inutile . . . because I know the two of you are crazy in love.” He grinned as the couple exchange affectionate glances. “I bet as soon as I walk out that door, you’ll be all over each other.”
Rene chuckled and sidled up next to his wife. “Only if she lets me, eh Marceline?” He pulled his wife close and nuzzled her neck.
“Arret ca. Stop that.” She pushed him away, but couldn’t stop the blush that crept over her face. She gave in, giggled like a school girl then shook her head at her husband of fifty-three years. “Can’t you behave yourself even when we have company?”
Mike swallowed a mouthful of pastry. “Ms. Marceline, just be thankful he’s not aiming that charm at all the other ladies in the neighborhood.”
Rene winked and wiggled his eyebrows at her. “That’s right. You could be married to a ‘Creole Casanova’. You’d better be thankful I’m a one woman man.”
The old woman snorted with amusement. “I think it’s you who should be thankful. At our ages, a woman who’s a good cook is a lot more useful than a horny old goat. Besides,” she said, holding up a dangerous looking pair of kitchen shears, “I keep these sharp. After I’d finish with you, you wouldn’t be much use to anyone, including me.”
Mike exploded with laughter as the couple joined in.
After two cups of coffee and three more fig tarts, he sat back and rubbed his belly in satisfaction.
“Ms. Marceline, nobody makes fig tarts like you,” he told her.
“Oh, mais no.” She waved off the compliment. “That recipe came from my grandmother, cher. Everyone in my family makes them just like that, but merci beaucoup, anyway. You take some with you to share with your co-workers at the station.”
“That’d make their day, ma’am. The last time I brought some of your tarts to the office I had to distribute them to keep some of those guys from hogging them all. When it came down to the last one, the captain pulled rank and claimed it.”
Marceline chuckled and got up to wipe down her spotless countertop. “So.” She glanced back at Mike. “Angel told me you’re acquainted with Liam Nash.” She passed a warning glance at her husband, who’d grunted his disapproval at the mention of Liam.
“Yes ma’am, I’ve known Nash for fifteen years. He’s a good man.” He played with his coffee mug, sliding it back and forth in his hands. “It looks like I’ve got my work cut out for me. He wants her back.”
“He left her once, he’d do it again,” Rene said, the disdain for the man clearly apparent.
“Rene, fais pas ca,” his wife fussed. “It’s not our concern. Besides, there was more going on than we knew about at the time.”
Mike nodded. “Nash had a bad time of it and had to get himself straightened out, but he seems okay now. I really believe he’d be a good husband for your daughter.”
The two older people turned to him in shock. “You do?” Marceline asked.
He nodded again. “Sure, I do. Liam’s a good man.” He gave her a wink and a devilish grin. “But I’d be better.”
During that night’s phone conversation with Angelique, Mike told her about the visit with her parents. He chuckled as she burst into laughter.
“What was she calling him today? An old goat or an old boar hog?”
“Both, I think, but it’s easy to see she dotes on him.”
“She spoils him rotten, and he does the same to her,” Angelique snorted. “They’re still crazy about each other even after fifty something years of marriage.”
“That’s what I want, Angel,” Mike said. “I admit I could do without the name calling. It seems like a waste of time to me, when they could be doing something better.”
“Like what? They’re just bored and too old to do anything else, for God’s sake.”
“They’re not dead, Angel. I’m sure they still get a little action every now and then.”
“Ew. Uh uh! Don’t you dare make me think of them doing—of having—ugh!”
“Hey, I’ve been told that old people do it too, just not as often, and with a lot more creativity.”
“Stop,” she pleaded. “I don’t want to hear that.”
He laughed and offered to change the subject. “What did you do today?”
“We had one patient finish her radiation therapy and two more begin theirs. And another . . . ”
“What happened, babe?”
“You know, they’re catching so many cancers at earlier stages these days, and saving so many lives. But every once in a while we have someone who ignores the symptoms until it’s too late to save them.”
Mike was quiet for a moment as he pictured her, agonizing over the loss of a patient. He knew that she went out of her way to get close to ‘her people’ as she called the patients who received treatment at their facility. “Did you lose someone?” Her quiet sniffling told him that if she hadn’t, she would soon. “You’ll feel better if you get it off your chest.”
“Ms. Laura’s daughter called to tell us she’s not doing well.”
“Is she in the hospital?” He wished he could be there to hold her while she cried at the hopeless situation.
“Not yet, but she’s at home, and Hospice is there every day to make sure she’s kept comfortable until—until it’s over.” She finished in a whisper.
Mike pushed a hand through his hair, still damp from his shower. “I’m sorry, babe. She’s the one that brought cookies and sent flowers to the office, right?”
Angelique sniffed loudly. “That’s her. I need to go, Mike.”
“I know, but I hate the thought of you being miserable over there all by yourself. I can be there in under an hour if you let me.” He held his breath, hoping she’d agree.
“It’s tempting, but I can’t let you do that.”
Ten minutes later he stared at the phone once they’d call it a night, wondering what it was going to take to get her to choose him. He dropped his phone on his nightstand with a clatter and stretched out on the bed. He slipped his hands behind his head, both his heart and his body aching for the gentleness of her touch, her words, her mouth on his.
He looked down at his throbbing erection. “Give it a rest, would ya? You’d think you’d be used to this shit by now.” As though it understood him, his painfully swollen body part jerked to nearly upright. He rolled out of bed with a groan, hoping a cold shower would give him some relief.