The House on Prytania (Royal Street #2)(13)
Author: Karen White

 

I heard her on her phone, and I figured she was speaking to either her mother or her grandmother by the number of times I heard “Bless ’em” and “Lorda mercy.” By the time she’d emerged, hair and makeup in place but otherwise looking a little flustered, I was already dressed and ready to go in my best jeans, sweater (the Lilly Pulitzer one that Melanie had given me), and ankle boots. I’d even brushed my hair.

 

“Everything all right?” I asked.

 

“I hope so. My whole town is in a tizzy because the mayor died from a heart attack and now everybody’s fighting over his funeral.”

 

“Did he not have a wife or significant other?”

 

“That’s the thing. They were hitched but not churched, if you know what I mean, so his sister wants to take over. The girlfriend wants him buried in his favorite Ole Miss game-day outfit, including a bag of chips and a bowl of dip in case he gets hungry.”

 

“That’s insane.”

 

“I know, right? What if Jesus is an LSU fan? Anyway, as the town’s funeral director, Grandmama is fit to be tied trying to get all sides to agree so they can finally lay poor Mr. Tyson to rest.”

 

While I searched for something to say, she examined my outfit choice. “You look nice, Nola, but are you sure you want to wear that?”

 

I looked down at my sweater. “What’s wrong with this? I thought you said you liked it.”

 

“Oh, I do. I even want to borrow it. But hasn’t Beau already seen you in it?”

 

I grabbed our coats from the rack by the door and tossed Jolene’s to her. “Even if he has, I don’t care. Besides, he’s a guy. I’m sure he couldn’t recall what he wore yesterday, much less what I did.”

 

She pulled a silk scarf from her pocket and draped it around my neck before knotting it at my throat. “I think you’d be surprised what Beau notices about you.” Smoothing the scarf, then patting it gently, she said, “There. Now you’re ready.” Jolene opened the door at the top of the stairs. “Please grab that plate of pralines on the coffee table and bring them.”

 

“I thought Mimi said that you didn’t need to bring anything.”

 

“Really, Nola, have I taught you nothing? I’d rather my hair catch on fire than arrive at a party without bringing something.”

 

I grabbed the plate and led us down the stairs.

 

It had started sprinkling while I was getting dressed, and it was now pouring. I stopped on the first outdoor step, protected from the elements by the small arched overhang. “We should take an Uber. Since you don’t like driving in the rain.” I looked at Jolene hopefully.

 

From her other coat pocket she’d pulled out one of those plastic hair bonnets that I’d seen only in documentaries from the sixties and seventies, when big hair and bouffants had been in fashion, and she placed it on her head, tying the clear plastic straps in a pretty bow beneath her chin. Jolene’s grandmother had purchased the world’s supply of rain bonnets before they’d gone permanently out of style, and she’d made sure her granddaughter had her own stash. It would have been comical if Jolene didn’t take her hair so seriously. Or mine. But I had drawn the line the first and only time she’d tried to put one on me.

 

“Don’t be silly,” she said as she stepped out next to me, pulling the door closed behind her and locking it. “We’re so much safer in Bubba, because he’s so big and made of steel. Unless I hit a truck carrying something flammable, we’ll be fine.” She moved to the next step while snapping open her umbrella. Looking back at me, she said, “You coming?”

 

Not feeling reassured, I walked with her to the car and got in while she held her umbrella over me. Then she moved to the driver’s seat and gracefully sat while simultaneously closing the umbrella without splattering water anywhere.

 

“One day you’ll have to show me how you do that,” I said.

 

She smiled at me and turned the key in the ignition. “Baby steps, Nola. Baby steps. Let’s work on proper mascara application and accessorizing first, and then we can move on to more advanced things.”

 

I wanted to laugh, but I didn’t think she was joking.

 

I didn’t release my hold on the door handle until she’d safely parked Bubba in front of the Ryans’ house on Prytania, not seeming to mind that both right-side tires were on the curb.

 

Jolene looked at me in the dim light from the ceiling bulb and frowned. “I told you that you should have worn one of Grandmama’s bonnets. Your hair looks like you stuck your finger in a light socket.”

 

“Thank you,” I said, staring back at her. “And you look like you’re auditioning for the matchmaker part in Fiddler on the Roof.”

 

“True,” she said, unlatching her seat belt. “But when I get to the front porch and take it off, I won’t look like roadkill dragged in by the dog.”

 

Beau met us at the door and took our coats, his eyes lingering on my hair briefly before he showed us into the front parlor and excused himself to hang up our coats. Christopher stood by the bar while Mimi and her newfound granddaughter, Sunny, sat close together on the settee, deep in conversation, their hands clasped together between them. They both looked up and smiled but didn’t move apart or stand.

 

“Thank you both for coming,” Mimi said. She indicated two velvet salmon-colored Biedermeier chairs by the white marble fireplace. “Please have a seat and let Christopher know what you’d like to drink.”

 

Beau returned to the room and leaned an elbow on the marble mantel. “I told Christopher that I’d be happy playing bartender, but he’s a little territorial, so I’m not going to argue.”

 

“I’m not territorial. I’m just better at mixing drinks than most people.” Christopher turned to Jolene with a smile. “How about a Sazerac?”

 

“No,” Beau and I said in unison at the same moment that Jolene said, “Yes, please.”

 

“It’s just that last time . . .” I started.

 

Jolene smiled sweetly, the same smile she would use right before she said Bless your heart.

 

Christopher grinned. “One Sazerac and one water with lemon coming right up.”

 

I sat next to the fireplace, for the first time noticing, perched on top, a small bust of Bacchus, the Roman god of wine and revelry. It corresponded with the Bacchus orgy irreverently painted on the dining room ceiling—a family legacy of sorts, initially meant as a taunt from one brother to the other, and now a point of pride for the Ryan family.