The bookstore was nestled in a mini-mall in a funky two-story building in the Garden District. Inside, the store was as strangely constructed as outside, with multiple levels exploding with tables and shelves stuffed with colorful old and new books basking in the light of tall, street-facing windows. I was itching to check out the mystery and romance, but first I wanted to make sure Neil had what he needed. With the help of an annoyingly adorable clerk who kept fluttering her eyelashes in Neil’s direction, he was fully supplied with books, Sharpies and water.
A modest crowd had shown up to see him. He talked for a few minutes about his book and the pleasures of well-made cocktails, and then he sat at a table decked out in a red tablecloth and piles of his books and started signing and chatting with fans.
Wait. I knew one of those guys. Oh, hell. He was an ex-boyfriend from my more naive days who’d gone from flunky Bohemia barback to Los Angeles online celebrity mixologist Mr. Mixy. And boy, had he changed. He used to be kind of cute back in the day. I liked him clean-shaven. Now his beard was so big he looked like a Chia Pet. I did not want to see him, but I guessed at Cocktailia, I had to see everybody.
That didn’t mean he had to see me. I ducked into the stacks and started browsing. No titles jumped out at me in my usual niches, so I moved on to the case that held the cocktail books.
Ah, The Savoy Cocktail Book by Harry Craddock. I needed to replace mine, an old clothbound edition that had been the victim of a devastating Hanky Panky accident at home—a spilled cocktail, not actual hanky panky, unfortunately. The book had been soaked, prompting me to leave it out to dry on the back patio I shared with my aunt at our duplex.
The book then suffered a worse fate, as the Cavapoo I shared with my aunt—a mildly demented sweetheart of a dog named Astra—apparently liked the scent of gin so much, she chewed the spine and corners off before I found her with it.
This time, I picked up a paperback so I would be out less money when it met with the next disaster. Cocktail books tended not to remain pristine for long.
I peered around the end of the row of bookcases and glanced at Neil. The line had dwindled to a half-dozen chatty enthusiasts, who were gathered around him talking. Mr. Mixy was still there.
Neil had about fifteen more minutes anyway, so I meandered, finding myself in the childhood classics. What was it Dash had said about devouring books like these as a kid? C.S. Forester was one of the names he mentioned. I found one and pulled it out. Ship of the Line. Seafaring adventures. I loved the idea, even if boating made me resemble one of those science-project volcanoes that overflow when kids mix vinegar with baking soda. It wasn’t pretty.
Not a good image when one has a waning hangover.
I put the volume back and looked further. Howard Pyle—that was another one Dash had mentioned. Ooo, they had a pretty purple and gold edition of The Story of King Arthur and His Knights. I’d read this during my first swords and sorcery phase. I fanned through the pages, admiring the illustrations, wondering who would be considered a knight in today’s world. Arthur was a tough act to follow. Neil? Could his Excalibur be a cocktail spoon?
Ah, and Pyle’s The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood—opening it gave me a flashback to going to the library as a girl and getting this book. The language was a little thick for a kid, but that was part of the appeal. It talked about “a whole host of knights, priests, nobles, burghers, yeomen, pages, ladies, lasses, landlords, beggars, peddlers, and what not, all living the merriest of merry lives, and all bound by nothing but a few odd strands of certain old ballads … which draw these jocund fellows here and there, singing as they go.”
They could have been bartenders.
I pushed my glasses up on my forehead so I could look closely at the beautiful illustrations. I was so enraptured that I screamed a little when a hand clasped my shoulder. I spun around.
“Neil!”
“Yeah,” he said slowly. “That’s me.” He smiled. “I’m done. You ready to run our errands?”
I took a deep breath. “OK.”
“So those aren’t reading glasses?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah.” I pulled the glasses back down in front my eyes. “Actually …”
“What?”
“They aren’t really for anything. They’re not corrective. I just like the way they look. Plus, they keep juice out of my eyes.”
Neil barked out a laugh. “You’re kidding, right?”
I shook my head and bit my lip.
His gaze went there. His nostrils flared, and then he caught my eye—my eyes, which were widening behind my fake glasses at the lightning bolt that leapt between us.
“We’d better go.” My voice was husky. What the hell was that about? On an impulse, I hung on to Robin Hood. I could use a merry man. Serious guys made for too much angst. “I’ve got to check out.”
“So did you sell many books?” I asked as Neil drove us to our next destination, a big restaurant supply store with all the fruit and herbs we needed for tonight. Still a little freaked by that moment with him in the bookstore, I hugged my messenger bag, which was now nice and fat with my two purchases.
“They tell me it was a respectable number for a signing,” he said. “About twenty.”
“That’s awesome!”
“It’s kind of cool to think that someone is using it in their bar. Mr. Mixy even bought one.”
“Yeah?”
“What?”
“What what?”
“Your tone,” Neil said. “What about Mr. Mixy?”
“Formerly known as Stephan Sully. He used to live in Bohemia.”
“Oh? I never ran into him there.”
“Worked with me briefly.” I shot Neil a glance that said a lot more than my words.
He chuckled. “Did you mix it up with Mr. Mixy?”
I rolled my eyes. “I was young and stupid. At least I’m smarter now.”
“But you’re not an Instagram celebrity.”
“He’s still a loser. Now he’s just a famous loser.”
Neil looked pleased at this remark. “I saw you got Craddock’s book?”
“Yeah, my dog ate mine.”
A bubble of laughter popped out of his mouth. “You have a dog?”
“I have joint custody with my aunt. The truth is that Astra owns both of us.”
“Astra? Like the dog in the The Thin Man?”
“That’s Asta. This is Astra. My aunt named her. ”
“Ah, Astra. So she’s the ‘star’ of the house.”
“Ha ha! You have no idea.”
“I’d like to meet her.” He smiled. “Hey, we have a little time. Do you want to stop by and see if your parents are home?”
Talk about a change of subject. Talk about bad ideas. Dread filled me all the way to my eyebrows, but I didn’t want Neil to know just how chicken-shit I was.
“Sure,” I said.
I directed Neil to the Lakeview neighborhood. A lot had changed since the hurricane. There were nicer houses now, at least for those who rebuilt, but there were scars. All these years later, the roads were still buckled from being drowned when the levee broke and set the 17th Street Canal free. I felt like a time traveler, coming back here. A stranger.
I even got us a little lost on my way to my parents’ place, partly because I didn’t recognize it when I got there. The old house, a weathered one-story wood-frame affair that my father had inherited, was gone. In its place was a two-story brick home. It wasn’t upscale, exactly, but it had a solid, prosperous look about it.
“They’re doing OK, aren’t they?” Neil commented as he eased up to the curb and stopped.
“So it would seem.” Neatly shaped bushes and bright flowers grew on either side of the few steps that led to the green front door. Windows flanked the entrance; there were three windows on the second floor and a steeply pitched roof.
I didn’t move when Neil turned the car off.
He sat and watched me. “Pepper?” he asked finally.
“You might not want to come in.”
“I want to come in,” he said without inflection. Then he got out, came around and opened my door for me.
I couldn’t say no to that, could I?
It occurred to me that I was bringing a man home to meet my parents. I mean, they didn’t know the deal between us. But that’s what it looked like. At least Neil was sharp in another one of his vest and skinny tie combos. I was starting to regret giving my girls so much air time today in my tight T and vest. But what the hell. It wasn’t like I could disappoint my folks any more.
I surveyed the modest flower garden as I walked up the steps. It was punctuated with statuary, including a couple of cutesy bunnies, a little girl holding a watering can, and a praying garden gnome wearing an insipid expression. I wasn’t exactly sure where gnomes figured into my parents’ pantheon, but OK.
I rang the doorbell.
The door opened to reveal a strange woman in a pants suit, tidy pinned-up hair dyed black, and meticulous makeup on her seasoned face.
She looked me over with a mix of confusion and denial. “Kayanne?”