At eleven a.m. the next day, Simone was ready for her noon luncheon with Caroline Bannon. She wouldn’t leave for another half hour or so since it was only a fifteen-minute trip into the city. Gabe would be dropping her off in their rented BMW.
Gabe had been a busy beaver already, having gone out at nine this morning. She’d spent the morning turning herself into an upper-class trophy wife. A white, nubbed silk, mid-thigh designer suit (with the label cut out) and black Manolo Blahnik slingback pumps, the first being an upscale thrift-shop find from two years ago, and the latter a guilty-pleasure indulgence she’d been unable to resist when passing a Chicago boutique window last winter and which she’d conveniently labeled “My Christmas Present to Me.” Her brown hair, still glistening from her hot-oil conditioning several days ago, was upswept into deliberate disarray. Simple pearl stud earrings and her diamond wedding band. No blouse under the suit jacket which gave a clear view of her no-bra cleavage, just enough to tease but not enough to be slutty.
All this had taken more than two hours. How—or why—did women waste so much time doing this? And some of them did it every day!
She was standing at the kitchen counter talking with Gabe, who was drinking a bottled water he’d taken from the fridge. She was drinking nothing, afraid to spoil the effect of her make-up.
Gabe was going for the casually affluent look today, too. Dark brown pleated slacks, a golf shirt with a Palm Springs Polo Club logo on it, and loafers that probably cost as much as her Blahniks. When she’d raised her eyebrows on first seeing him this morning and remarked, “Expensive tastes!” he laughed and told her, “I raided my dad’s closet upstairs.”
“Tell me more about your morning,” she prodded him. He’d already mentioned some “research” he’d done just by chatting up some folks who had businesses in the vicinity of Pitot’s offices, on the supposition that he frequented some of them. He did. Including a jewelry store that loved him for his generosity to his wife. Yeah, right. It wasn’t his wife he was buttering up with expensive trinkets.
Then there was the outdoors store where Pitot bought a lot of rope, Gabe had told her.
Rope? She didn’t want to know.
Gabe had told her, anyway. “Thin, flexible rope, that easily works itself into slip knots. And harnesses. He also favors harnesses, the kind mountain climbers use and men who like to see women in . . . gear.”
Eew!
“I also cased the apartment building that Pitot owns about a half block from his offices. He wasn’t there, but his property manager will undoubtedly mention my having dropped by. I get the feeling that Pitot keeps a close hand on all his projects.”
“That’s why he’s so rich.”
“Probably. There aren’t a lot of people who can afford $5,000 a month rent, and that’s only for a one-bedroom.”
“Just how wealthy is Pitot?”
Gabe shrugged. “Billionaire, I figure.”
“No wonder Saffron is willing to pay us so much for the deets on Pitot if it ensures that she gets a share if—when—he dumps her.”
“What does she look like? I mean, why so insecure? Is she a dog?”
“Hardly. Saffron isn’t bad, for her age. But no woman, no matter how beautiful, can compete with youth. Caroline, or females like her, will always be younger versions of themselves.”
“I guess.”
“If Pitot is such a hard-nosed businessman, I wonder how closely he checks up on people before inviting them into his close circle. What if he finds out you’re not a doctor?”
“Simone, my family is brimming with doctors, all over the country, and abroad. There has to be a Storm cardiologist somewhere. As long as there’s no photograph when they Google my fake name.”
Just then, they heard the sound of a car pulling into the driveway.
“Uh-oh! Your parents?” she inquired of Gabe.
“Nah. I talked to my mom last night. They won’t be coming back until October.”
They went through the hallway to the front entryway and opened the door to find Caroline Bannon exiting a shiny silver Jaguar, which made their rented BMW look like a rustbucket. Oh, well. Money talks.
“Caroline!” Simone said, walking out the door to the front steps.
“Diane!”
For a moment, Simone forgot that she was supposed to be Diane Storm. But then she extended her hands and Caroline responded with air kisses on both sides of her face. The scent of some expensive perfume wafted from her. Joy, Simone guessed.
Simone’s favorite since she was a teenager was Diorissimo, a much cheaper scent than Joy. But she’d forgotten to bring any perfume with her. As a result, the only thing wafting from her was olive oil and the Caress soap that had been in her guest shower. “I thought I was meeting you at the restaurant.” Simone frowned with confusion. Maybe last night’s wine had been more potent than she’d realized.
“You were, but I was in the neighborhood and thought I would save you the effort.”
Yeah, right. More like Pitot had sent her to see if they really did live at this upscale address.
“How nice of you!” Simone said. “Especially since we have only the one rental car here, until our vehicles arrive next week. Right, sweetheart?” she said to Gabe.
“Right,” Gabe agreed. “Now, I won’t have to drive you into town, honey. I can check out a few golf courses since I already had my meeting at the hospital this morning.” Then taking Simone’s cue, he turned to Caroline and stepped forward, extending a hand. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Lawrence Storm. You can call me Larry.” He gave the woman a manly scrutiny, designed to show that he appreciated her beauty.
And beautiful she was in a jade-green, sleeveless sheath with pale green alligator pumps, both of which were undoubtedly designer quality. Her diamond earrings, if they were real, could provide a down payment on most people’s houses.
Caroline gave Gabe an appreciative once-over right back. “And I’m Caroline Bannon, but you can call me Caro.” Gabe had released her hand, but she let her fingertips trail over his wrist.
Signals . . . it was all about signals. I like what I see. I’m willing. Are you?
“Did your meeting go all right at the hospital?” Caroline asked with seeming casualness.
“Yes. If I decide to open a practice here, I’ll need hospital privileges. Just a technicality.” He made a fake grimace of distaste at the need for such an inconvenience.
Simone was more and more impressed with Gabe’s ability to come up with impromptu details.
On the way to the French Quarter, Caroline talked about all the places she thought Simone might be interested in as a newcomer to the Crescent City. Beauty salons. Can anyone say olive oil? Catering companies. Mothers . . . the Cajun version of catering companies. Home cleaning agencies. I wield a mean toilet brush. Only once did she shock Simone, or rather catch her off guard, when she asked, “Do you wax?”
Simone thought about joking with, “What, furniture?” But she knew exactly what Caroline meant. “No. Larry likes me better with a neat trim down there. Reminds him of a golf course. The man does love golf. Of course, he would go for getting my pubes de-haired if he could watch me screaming my ass off.”
“You’re probably right to go that route. Frankly, so many women go bald today that I’m thinking the trend will go back. And bedazzling! Who wants jewelry pasted on your landing strip? I’ll take my diamonds around my neck or on my fingers, thank you very much.”
Simone was beginning to like Caroline. She wasn’t at all the bimbo that she’d imagined she would be. “How did you get to . . . um, be with your friend?’
“Be his mistress, you mean. No need to beat around the bush, ha, ha, ha. I’ve been with Marcus for more than a year. Before that I was a call girl.”
Whoa! Shades of Tante Lulu and her hall gal reference! “Why . . . I mean . . . oh, never mind.”
“Ask me anything. I graduated from college with a teaching certificate and I worked two years trying to pound English literature into brain-dead high school juniors for a pittance. One day I decided to reevaluate my life. I asked myself, what do I like to do? And the answer was sex. I like sex. All kinds. And I’m good at it. So why not get paid for my services?”
“Well paid if this car is any indication,” Simone said.
“Right. And I have enough money stashed away that if I get too old to attract a desirable partner—I’m very selective—or if decide I want to do something else, I can.”
“So, you’re not looking for marriage?”
“Hell, no!”
“I can’t really blame you, Caro,” Simone said, being deliberately familiar with her nickname. “I was a nurse who married the doctor. What kind of cliché is that? Every mother wants her daughter to marry a doctor because they make so much money. Not that I don’t love Larry madly.”
“Of course you do. Love is fine, but what about sex? Do you like sex, Diane?”
Talk about blunt! “Definitely.”
“What kind?”
She pretended to be flustered. “All kinds, I guess.”
“Anything kinky?”
Wow! This was some conversation for new acquaintances. “A little. Some spanking. Sex toys. And other stuff.”
“Don’t you ever get bored with just one man?”
“Larry is really good in bed.”
“Nice to know, but that doesn’t answer my question.”
“I suppose,” she revealed, pretending embarrassment. “Larry wants to try it . . . you know, a ménage . . . but I just don’t know. How can I love Larry and do it with another man?”
“Maybe it’s the ultimate act of love. Surrendering your wishes to the man you love. If Larry wants to engage in a ménage, it doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you. Just the opposite.”
What a crock! Gag me with a silver-plated teaspoon. “I never thought of it that way.”
“I remember the first time I did it with two guys, it about blew my mind. Take the best orgasm you’ve ever had and multiply by ten.”
By then they’d reached the Quarter, and Caroline swung expertly into a parking space that conveniently opened up on the side street just off Bourbon where the historic Galatoire’s Restaurant, noted for its French Creole cuisine, was located.
Simone had shrimp étouffée, which was good, but she wished she’d ordered what Caroline had when she saw her Crabmeat Sardou, a yummy dish that included artichokes with creamed spinach and lump crabmeat under a blanket of hollandaise. Not for the diet conscious. They both sipped at white wine. Their conversation was normal, like that of two new friends getting acquainted. Movies they liked. Sports they didn’t like. Fashion. Men.
Then it was not. Normal, that was.
When they were both done and sipping at strong Creole coffee, Caroline said, “Listen, Diane, I’d like you to meet Marcus and some of our friends. Can you come to dinner on Friday night?”
“I appreciate the offer, but—”
“Marcus has a lodge up on Lake Pontchartrain that is lovely this time of the year. It’s only ten miles away.”
“That sounds great, but—”
“There will be two other couples. We’ll all be staying overnight. You can stay, too, if you like. Not good to drink and drive, y’know! Ha, ha! Or you can go home to your own bed, if you like. It’s all a matter of choice.”
There was clearly a message in those words, matter of choice.
Simone thought quickly. Today was Tuesday. If they made plans for Friday night, she could go back to Houma and work for a few days before returning. Then, hopefully, she and Gabe would get all the info they would need in that one night, and be done with the case.
“I’d love to come, but let me check with Larry first and get back to you. I was going to decline because we need to fly back to Chicago tonight to take care of some last-minute details involving the sale of our condo. We should be back by Friday.”
“Wonderful,” Caroline said, whipping out a platinum Amex card before Simone could offer to pay, which she had no intention of doing.
As they were exiting the restaurant, Simone asked, “How should I dress?”
Caroline gave her an amused look and said, “You are so sweet.”
Simone couldn’t recall the last time anyone had called her sweet. Maybe Adam when he’d been sucking on . . . No, no, no! No thinking about Adam right now. She put a deliberately confused expression on her face. “I meant, cocktail party dressy or lakeside casual?”
“Sweetie, you can wear anything you like.” And Simone thought she heard Caroline add, under her breath, “Or nothing at all.”
The question was: Who was the real winner? . . .
Adam was in court with Luc and Mike Pham at one-thirty when he got Simone’s text message, I’ll be back this afternoon!
He smiled but was unable to text back anything but, Good. Date tonight? and see her immediate response, Yes! So pathetic was his desperation for her becoming that he interpreted her exclamation mark for wild enthusiasm. And it didn’t even matter that he was still a little mad at her for making him worry last night.
The jury entered the courtroom once again and the judge read them instructions for deciding on damages in the Cypress Oil case. A half hour ago, Luc and Adam had declined Cypress’s last-minute settlement offer of five hundred thousand dollars on behalf of their client, even though his actual damages had been less than that.
To both Luc’s and Adam’s consternation, Mike had that sleaze lawyer Jessie John Daltry with him. Not sitting at the bench, of course, since it wasn’t his case, but just behind them, offering unwanted opinions. Adam assumed, but refused to ask for both personal and ethical reasons, whether Daltry’s appearance meant the divorce was proceeding or some effort was being made to hide funds. He almost hoped the rumor was true that his wife was seeking help from Legal Belles, but he couldn’t ask Simone.
Once the jury went off to deliberate, lawyers for both sides met with the judge in his chambers to discuss various legal issues, including Cypress’s plans to appeal. “You can do whatever you want, gentlemen, but I don’t think you have any grounds,” the judge said. “My suggestion is, tighten your belt and prepare to pay. Then get your shit in order before some other shrimpers, or the whole blessed bayou, decide to sue.”
The Cypress lawyers were not happy campers and were heard muttering something about “judicial bias” as they stormed out. Luc and Adam were only back in their office for an hour when there was a call announcing a jury verdict. They contacted Mike who was out for a liquid lunch with Daltry, and they met the two of them, reeking of bourbon, back at the courthouse. Adam handed Pham a sleeve of breath mints.
Valcour LeDeux had showed up by then, flanked by some Cypress execs, all looking grim faced. Mike’s father was there, also, but not his wife. There was a Vietnamese woman, dressed in smart business attire, sitting in the back of the courtroom, but Adam knew it wasn’t Thanh Pham. It was probably her sister—a university professor, he believed.
The verdict was for one million in actual damages, and three million in punitive damages. Their law firm had taken the case on a contingency basis (no win, no cash), and after expenses, like investigators and expert witnesses, Adam and Luc would rake in a cool thirty-three percent. More than one million dollars.
Of course, Daltry was probably telling Mike that he would have done the job better and for less. Which was bullshit. Daltry was known for screwing his clients with exorbitant commissions and expense accounts.
No matter! It was cause for celebration. The elder Pham appeared dazed, and the Vietnamese woman had already left the courtroom. Valcour muttered to Luc as he passed, “Ya did this ta spite me, son.”
Luc bristled at the word son and replied, “No, Daddy Dearest, the size of your wallet means nothing to me.”
Luc and Adam shook hands with Mike and clapped each other on the shoulders.
“How soon do I get my money?” Mike wanted to know as they walked down the courthouse steps and put Mike’s father in a taxi.
“Not right away,” Luc told him. “First, we have to see if there’s an appeal, in which case you would get nothing for a while. Often defendants use that as a delaying tactic and then offer a much lower amount to settle.”
“I’m not settling.”
“I wouldn’t suggest that you do,” Luc said.
“If you ask me . . .” Daltry started to say.
“No one asked you,” both Adam and Luc said at the same time.
“If there’s no appeal, you could cash out within a few months,” Adam told Mike, trying to soften the tension. “Hey, lighten up, everyone. It was a good day. We should all be happy.”
“I am, I am,” Mike assured them.
“When can Mike get court papers spelling out the verdict?” Daltry asked.
“Possibly tomorrow. Why do you ask?” Luc had some history with this guy and was having trouble maintaining a civil tone.
“Because I might need to show them to the bank if I want to get a loan against future cash inflow,” Mike revealed before he noticed Daltry motioning him to keep quiet.
“That is not a good idea,” Adam said. “You never know what might happen in these cases. I’ve seen companies declare bankruptcy and then show up months later under a different name to avoid payouts.”
“Cypress Oil isn’t about to go bankrupt,” Daltry interjected.
Luc ignored Daltry and said to Mike, “As my Tante Lulu is wont to say, ‘Don’t trust the gator who brings wine to the table.’”
“What the hell does that mean?” Mike wanted to know.
Luc just arched his brows as if Mike should know without being told, which of course irritated Mike, which was Luc’s intent.
“How about a drink to celebrate?” Mike suggested in a more conciliatory tone.
“Maybe later,” Adam said before Luc could say something more antagonizing.
“I’ll be out of town later,” Mike said. “At least the next few days.”
“Oh?” Adam asked.
“Going to Vegas. I’ll be back on Thursday.”
“Really? I didn’t know you were a gambler,” Luc remarked.
“I’m not. It’s business.”
“Don’t say anything,” Daltry advised.
Which caused both Adam and Luc to exchange glances. What business could a shrimper possibly have in Vegas? And what did Daltry have to do with said business?
Whatever. Their relationship with Pham would soon be over.
They all shook hands and parted ways, with a promise to connect again once they heard more from the court.
When they got back to the office, after being congratulated by Mildred and raising toasts with cups of water from the cold dispenser, they went into Luc’s office where they discussed upcoming cases, strategy, and who would handle what for the next two weeks.
“So, how are you going to celebrate?” Adam asked Luc.
“Hah! Sylvie won’t talk to me since it turns out my swimmers, which I thought were de-finned, are still swimming.”
“She’s really pregnant then?”
“It appears so.”
Adam grinned. “So, there’s an epidemic of LeDeux pregnancies. You and Sylvie, Charmaine and my cousin Rusty, Tee-John and Celine, and how about Remy and Val?”
“Still waiting to find out.”
“And you all blame Tante Lulu?”
“Oh, yeah! She has an in with the celestial powers.” He glanced meaningfully at the St. Jude statue on his desk.
“I think it’s kind of nice.”
“You would. You’re safe . . . for now.”
“For good,” Adam proclaimed. “I have no plans for more children.”
“Oh, so naïve! Have you heard the story about how God laughed for the first time? It was when he heard a man say, ‘I have a plan.’ It was probably that other dumbass Adam.” He grinned and shook his head. “So, how are you going to celebrate our win?”
“I have a date.”
“Really? Another one. This is getting serious, my friend.”
“It’s just a date.” When would he learn to keep his mouth shut?
“Hah! When a Cajun girl has more than one date with a fellow, her Mama starts crocheting pillowcases.”
“I have plenty of pillowcases and mine are a gazillion threads to the inch from my marriage, thanks to Hannah’s insistence on only the best.” He regretted immediately having mentioned his dearly departed wife. What a way to put a damper on a good day! “What does one do on a date, anyway?” More blabbing! I must have a late-onset clueless gene. Or maybe I was always clueless . . . can anyone say nympho wife? Well, in for a penny, in for a pound, as Dad always says. If Luc can quote his relative, so can I. “I’ve already taken her fishing and out to dinner.”
“Adam, Adam, Adam.” Luc looked at him as if he was . . . yep, clueless. “Are you really asking me what to do on a date?”
“Other than that!”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Are you on some kind of crazy-ass abstinence kick?”
“Not exactly. Not permanently, anyhow. And just for a little while.” He sighed on seeing Luc’s incredulous expression. “You probably think I’m crazy.”
“You ought to talk to Charmaine. She decided to become a born again virgin at one time.”
“I am not becoming a born again virgin. Jeesh!”
“Well, of course you’re not. You have no little thingee down there to sew back up. Although you could probably get uncircumcised, but . . . ouch!” Luc put a hand over his crotch.
“This is a ridiculous conversation. Forget I said anything.”
Which didn’t deter Luc at all. “At your age, I would think you’ve had lots of experience dating.”
“Not really. It’s been more than ten years since I married Hannah, and then in the past two years, since she died, the whole man-woman scene has changed drastically. They don’t date anymore, Luc. They just hook up. Not that I haven’t done plenty of that. But still . . .”
“I was born too early,” Luc complained. “When I was single, a guy had to work hard to get in a girl’s pants. Now, it seems, the ladies are just as likely to dip into a man’s tighty whities when he bends over to pick up her hanky.”
“Hanky? What are you . . . ninety years old?”
“What’s yer point?”
“Bottom line. I’m trying dating, for a change. And I’m at a loss as to what to do.”
“Well, I like the fishing. Good choice there. Did you catch any fish?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Holy crawfish! Someone’s irritable.”
“I am not irritable. I’m in a good mood.”
“How about a movie? Seen Fifty Shades of Grey yet?”
“Can the jokes, Mister Comedian.”
“I am not being a comedian. I’m serious. Sylvie and I watched a video of that movie, and, whoo-boy, that’s probably when she got pregnant. For an old guy, I still have moves. Wanna know—”
“Forget I asked for your advice.”
Luc ignored him and went on, “A concert would be good.”
“What concert?”
“I don’t know. The only live music I listen to is Remy’s band, and wild zydeco isn’t very romantic. Did I ever tell you about the time Sylvie and I had to hide out in a swamp fishing cabin for days and the only music available was Barry White, and I’d been threatening her with nude dancing since we were in kindergarten, practically. Hey, how about nude dancing for a date?” At Adam’s glower, he shut down that line of advice and made a great show of wiping a hand over his face to remove the smirk. Then, with only a smidge more gravity, he said, “Of course, you could always try a simple walk in the park.”
“What park?”
“How do I know what park? Any park.”
“A movie seems the safest route, but not some porno flick,” Adam mused.
“I’m not sure Fifty Shades qualifies as porno,” Luc said.
Are we really going to have a discussion over the definition of pornography? Now? I don’t think so! Adam waved a hand dismissively and rose to leave Luc’s office.
“Congrats, buddy, on winning the good fight today in court.”
“Back at you,” Adam said.
Just then, Mildred came over. “I forget to tell you that Tante Lulu was here earlier, and she left a gift for you, Adam.”
“For me?”
“This oughta be good,” Luc said, following Adam as he opened the door of his office and almost tripped over something that sat on the floor. It was a large pine box decorated with flowers and intertwining vines. Pretty, in a primitive sort of way.
“It’s yer hope chest, cher,” Luc announced gleefully.
“That is just great.” With trepidation, Adam opened the lid. On top was . . . what else?
Crocheted pillowcases.