His Uptown Girl

He wasn’t what she’d expected. Oh, Pansy had raved for days after finding out Dez Batiste and his partner had bought the old building across from them. Oddly enough, Eleanor had prayed for someone to snap up the old bank with its pretty mosaic tiles flanking its doors and the interesting fresco reliefs trimming the upper floor. But she’d hoped for a yarn shop or an organic health food store.

Not a nightclub.

Run by a hot young jazz musician.

Well, she wasn’t going to think about how hot he was or the sort of challenge he’d flung back at her.

He’d change her mind.

Huh.

Not likely.

Even if she’d likely have erotic fantasies about him all night long.

Pansy was right. She needed to get laid.

CHAPTER TWO

TRE JACKSON LIFTED the heavy bookcase with ease and placed the piece where Mrs. Dupuy indicated it should sit in her husband’s den. The bottom slipped a little on the slick Oriental carpet, but settled snug against the ornate baseboard.

“Perfect, darling,” the older white lady trilled, clapping together hands with fingernails tipped in fancy white polish. She then ran one hand along the aged wormwood that had been painstakingly restored. “Tommy loves pieces with history, and it’s perfect.”

Tre stood back and nodded, though he had no idea why anyone would want some old piece of furniture with marks and grooves all in it. He just didn’t get white people. Why buy something old when you could have something new, something solid steel, something that wouldn’t rot? But rich white ladies strolled into the Queen’s Box and dropped crazy money on old stuff all the time.

But he didn’t have to understand antiques junkies to do his job. For the past few months he’d been working for Eleanor Theriot, and he wasn’t sure how it had happened. One minute he was standing there looking at the help-wanted sign, the next he was filling out a W-2. Crazy stupid to be working for someone who could have him arrested in the blink of an eye, but he’d needed a job...and that sign had called out to him.

Mrs. Dupuy turned toward him, handed him two twenty-dollar bills and gave him a weird smile.

This particular crazy white people habit didn’t bother him so much. Rich ladies always tipped good unless they were real old. Real old ladies—black, white or purple-polka-dotted—didn’t part with money too easy. He bobbed his head. “Thank you, Mrs. Dupuy.”

“Oh, no. Thank you, Tre. And please tell Eleanor she made a good find with that piece. Exactly what I envisioned,” she said, smiling at walls the color of blood and sweeping a hand toward blossomy drapes. “Now if I could only find an antique secretary’s desk to fit between those two windows. You tell her to be on the lookout, you hear?”

“Yes, ma’am. I will.” He slid toward the wide double doors that opened to the marble foyer. Mrs. Winnie Dupuy was a lonely woman, spending much of her time shopping for things her too-busy husband might like. Which meant she could talk a blue streak if someone took up the other end of the conversation. Tre wasn’t. He had another delivery to make and it was across town. Had to get going if he wanted to make his brother’s game on the West Bank later that afternoon.

“You want a drink or something? I can get you a Coke or...maybe something stronger? Bourbon maybe? Or vodka?” Mrs. Dupuy asked, cocking her head like a little bird. She wore a pink dress that showed off her bosom and little clicky heels that rat-a-tatted on the hardwood floors. A strange bored-housewife gleam in her eye made him hurry his steps. She followed, running a tongue over her top lip then biting her lower. “Or if there’s something else you want? Something not on the menu maybe?”

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t had fantasies about a little something-something with a client or two. Some of the women he made deliveries to were fine, but Mrs. Dupuy was too skinny, too straight, and her husband was a judge. Besides, he had to get to Devontay’s game in three hours.

Better not even think about it.

“No, thank you, Mrs. Dupuy. I gotta get back to the—”

“Oh, sure. No problem,” she said, looking nervous, as though she knew he could read her thoughts and suddenly her unstated invitation was too real. She followed him out the room into the foyer and opened the large door painted black as sin. Sunlight tumbled in like a smack of reality upside the head. Mrs. Dupuy blinked, appeared confused. “Well, thanks again.”

“Sure,” he said, stepping onto the brick stoop.

The door shut behind him softly, like an apology, as he walked to the delivery van. He didn’t really blame Winnie Dupuy for not wanting to feel so empty. He knew what it was like to feel as if no one cared, to want some simple comfort, a human touch. He didn’t fault her...but he couldn’t oblige her and still be the man he wanted to be.

The man he’d promised his mama all those years ago.

The van was warm, which was good, considering a cold wind had picked up. New Orleans wasn’t cold in February, but it wasn’t warm either. The seat felt good against his jeans. He’d just pulled out of the driveway when his cell rang.

It was Big Mama—she always called this time of day.

“Yo, Big Mama, you get your applesauce cake yet?”

“I’ve done got it, sugar. Merlene had some with me, though she ain’t as fond of it. You workin’?” Big Mama’s voice was still frail. His grandmother had been sick a long time and he hated she had to be in the nursing facility. But what could he do? Neither he nor his aunt Cici could take care of her.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m getting off in a few hours for Devontay’s game. They playing at Erhet today.”

“You gonna call me and let me know how he do, ain’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am. I know you’d skin me alive if I didn’t.” Tre smiled as he swerved around the oncoming traffic and headed toward the store on Magazine. Luckily, he had only one more delivery, and it was a Queen Anne settee. Since the delivery was on the West Bank, Eleanor said he could take the van over the bridge—as long as he locked it up tight—and make Shorty D’s game.

“How’s Cici getting on with that new job? She going in on time, ain’t she? I worry about her.”

“Yes, ma’am, she doin’ fine.” Kind of. His aunt had missed work a few weeks ago and had to plead with the shift manager to put her on probation. Since then, she’d done good, making it on time every day, but he was worried because she’d started hanging with her former girls, going out, leaving Kenzie with him. Tre had threatened to call Child Protective Services if she went out anymore. He didn’t like threatening his aunt, but his cousin Kenzie needed a mother who wasn’t strung out and banging with the 3-N-G, a local street gang that hung on Third and Galvez.

He wasn’t worrying Big Mama about Cici or anything else. Her health wouldn’t tolerate no worrying. He wanted her to get stronger so maybe she could come back and breathe some life into that rambling house of hers where they all lived. Things weren’t the same with Big Mama gone. It had been too long since he’d smelled greens and hocks cooking and tasted her fried corn bread. Been too long since he’d heard her laughter in the kitchen and felt the tenderness in her faded hands.

“The doctor says maybe I can come home ’fore too long. They still working me to death, but I’m walking pretty good now. Maybe won’t be long, chile.”

Big Mama had fallen and broken her hip almost seven months ago. After extensive surgery, she’d done well, until the pneumonia had set in several weeks later. She’d been in a nursing facility ever since, determined she wouldn’t live out her days at Plantation Manor.

“That’s good. You keep doin’ what they tell you. Dr. Tom said you’ll be home to dye Easter eggs for Kenzie.”

Big Mama cackled. “Lordy, that’s in two months. I need to see that baby hide her eggs. Gotta make her a dress, too.”

Tre drove through the alley between the Queen’s Box and a vintage clothing store, and put the van in Park. A loading platform on his right led up to rusted double doors. “I’ve got to go now. Got to make another delivery before I can get out of here.”

“Tre, you don’t worry about me. You got enough to worry about. Try to take some time for yourself, chile. You not even twenty years old yet.”

He felt a hell of a lot older. “I know. I got time.”

His grandmother huffed but didn’t say more, and after promising again to call her about Devontay’s game, he hung up.

Pocketing the keys, he slid from the van, careful to lock it. As he came around the side of the van, Eleanor met him.

“Hey, Tre, we need to talk if you have a minute.”

He looked up, sensing what was coming. Winnie Dupuy had called. “Yeah?”

“Mrs. Dupuy called me a few moments ago.” Eleanor held tight to the door, looking embarrassed. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Oh, well, she said you made her feel uncomfortable. Uh, like in a sexual way.” Eleanor stared him in the eyes and he could see her discomfort, but she didn’t shy away. He, at least, liked that about her.