But, really, to Angel, Grace was hotter in her simple blouse and pencil-slim skirt, her red hair tamed into its Meg Ryan flip today, strawberry gloss on her lips.
“First on the agenda,” Samantha said, “is a discussion of the Duval family. Ms. Rivard, it is critical that the Duval project be handled privately by your family and not by the foundation. It was started before we were formally incorporated and was never voted on by the board.”
“If we’re gonna hafta vote on every little thing, we’ll never get anythin’ done,” Tante Lulu complained.
“Yes, we will. You’ll see.” Then, turning to the entire board, Samantha asked, “Is everyone agreed? The Duval project will not be funded by the Hope Foundation. Ayes? Nays? The ayes carry.”
“I never expected y’all ta pay fer them chillen,” Tante Lulu grumbled.
“Speaking of votes,” Daniel LeDeux said.
Which earned him a frown from Samantha. “Can’t you wait until new business at the end of the agenda?”
“No, I can’t. I expect to be gone by then.” Even so, his eyes were glued to her chest and its skimpy, barely-there scrap of silk.
Samantha arched her eyebrows and murmured, “I could only wish!”
“Yer dancin’ on my last nerve, boy,” said Tante Lulu, who was on Daniel’s right, as she turned and swatted his arm with one of the folders that sat in front of each of them. “Shush yerself, boy.”
Red-faced, Daniel ignored her and barreled on, “This board is too damn big. I move that we cut its size in half, and I’ll be the first one to bow out of the… um, privilege.”
“Me, too,” said Angel, Grace, John, Remy, and René, one after another.
Which would leave Luc, Charmaine, and Tante Lulu, which was perfect, in Angel’s opinion.
“Listen, most of the time, we won’t need a full board to meet. And, in fact, schedules usually won’t permit everyone to make all the meetings,” Samantha explained. “So, I suggest that we keep the board as is, make committee assignments, and see how things go.”
The board stayed the same by a 12–6 vote.
Samantha gave Daniel a speaking smirk of triumph, to which he just sank down in his seat, probably to take a nap. But no, he deliberately ogled her breasts, again, which caused Samantha’s cheeks to go pink as Maire’s suit.
In a whisper that could be heard by everyone in the room, Tante Lulu chastised Daniel. “Sit up straight. How ya ever gonna attract the girl if ya slouch?”
“What girl?” he asked with alarm.
Tante Lulu motioned with her head toward Samantha, which caused her hat to almost fall off and both parties to choke and reach for glasses of water.
Now Daniel’s face was pink, too.
“And holy crawfish, when’s the las’ time ya got a haircut? Charmaine could cut it fer ya. Right, Charmaine? And mousse ’im up good. He’s too flat.”
Everyone at the table was looking at Daniel, assessing his pink face and flat hair, which looked fine to Angel, but what did he know?
Daniel, wise for a change, said nothing. And he’d stopped goading Samantha with his breast ogling.
Next they adopted a mission statement, approved a bank balance of two million, fifty thousand dollars—a million from Tante Lulu matched by the Starr family, and fifty from the auction held last week—and agreed to the hiring of an office staff.
“Now we need to set up a procedure whereby we decide what projects or individuals or families warrant our help,” Samantha explained. “Believe me, this will not be easy. I’ll turn this portion of the meeting over to Dorothy Starr, who is a marketing director for Starr Foods. She and her partner did a survey of needs here in N’awleans and southern Loo-zee-anna. Aunt Dot?”
Samantha sat down, and Aunt Dot stood up.
“You’re going to be shocked,” Aunt Dot said in her raspy no-nonsense voice. “Did you know that there are twenty thousand families still displaced from Hurricane Katrina? Four years and still homeless! It’s an outrage. If that’s not bad enough, there are ten thousand Katrina orphans who are still in foster care. Of the one thousand children adopted during that period, one hundred were returned or rescued because of shoddy screening procedures, everything from abuse to neglect.”
He heard Grace gasp at this last statistic but then figured maybe she was reacting to all of it. It was sad.
“In addition,” Aunt Dot went on, “while salaries have gone up somewhat since Katrina, utilities and rents have shot up almost fifty percent, if units are even available. Records show that there were more than forty thousand affordable apartments in N’awleans before Katrina and Rita, but less than half of them are being rebuilt. So where do people go? Mostly they cram several families into one apartment, or move out of the state or go homeless. All of this exacerbated by Hurricane Ike last year.” She paused for everyone to digest what she’d said, then added, “At the present time, we have three hundred and fifty-seven wishes in the hopper, many of which we cannot meet. We have to prioritize. And I’m not just talking about a wish to go to Disneyland or a baseball game. Some of the wishes are downright heartbreaking, like the little girl who lost her mother during Katrina and wants us to find her father, a Marine or navy SEAL—no one knows for sure—who supposedly never knew of his paternity. And illness—I haven’t even mentioned the physical problems that aren’t being addressed because of our underfunded clinics and uninsured people.”
“So, where do we start?” Leave it to Tante Lulu to cut to the chase.
Aunt Dot sat down, and Samantha stood again. “I suggest we set up a number of committees, headed by board members.”
Oh, God! If there was anything Angel hated it was committees. They talked everything to death. He would rather be out there doing. Hands-on. Like building a house, which was where he should be today.
“I have office staff that can funnel all the requests for aid or notification of problems to the appropriate committee,” Samantha continued. “And I’ll serve on each of the committees, as needed. Same for Ms. Rivard.”
“Stop callin’ me Mzzz. Sounds like a bee. I’m Tante Lulu.”
“Okay, Tante Lulu.” Samantha smiled.
And for the first time Angel realized what a gorgeous woman Samantha Starr was, with her auburn hair and tall, slim body, despite all the freckles. Probably he hadn’t noticed her because of Grace sitting beside him. Maybe I should make a play for her, just to get Grace jealous. Hmmm.
“Now, as to the individual committees.”
Daniel LeDeux groaned, suspecting what was coming.
“For example, one of the committees could deal with health issues. Perhaps triaging the most critical cases or pointing out those most easily resolved. Maybe even setting up a Hope clinic in the future.”
Everyone, including Samantha, stared at Daniel, who finally shrugged and said, “Okay, dammit.”
Tante Lulu swatted him again for swearing.
Samantha shoved toward Daniel a folder that was so thick it caused his eyes to widen. He had to be thinking he’d been had.
“We at Starr have the wish committee pretty much under control, but we’ll be coming to you for final approval of the cases and expenditures,” Samantha continued. “For example, you’ll see at the back of your folder a list that we’ll discuss before adjourning today.”
“I wanna be on the family one,” Tante Lulu said. “Grace and Angel can help me.”
So much for volunteering!
And their folder was just as thick as Daniel’s.
Holy crap! There must be a hundred applications in there. How is Tante Lulu—how are WE—going to turn any of them away? And hey, I might not even be here much longer.
“I’ll serve on yer committee, too, Louise, my dear,” Stanley offered.
“Much obliged, Stan,” Tante Lulu thanked him with a coy smile. “And Luc can handle legal stuff,” she added. “Tee-John kin help him, since he’s a cop and knows how ta get around laws and stuff.”
“Tante Lulu!” John protested.
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“Well, it’s true. Remember the time you was a sex cop.”
“Tante Lulu!” John protested again, then clicked his tongue and gave up the fight, which was usually the case when dealing with the old lady’s outrageousness.
Other committees were established then with Starr and LeDeux family members assigned to serve, including finance, fund-raising, and public relations.
“Speaking of public relations,” Samantha said, glancing to her wristwatch, “a Times-Picayune photographer should be down in the courtyard about now. He needs us all in a picture to accompany an article about the new foundation.”
Most of them groaned but figured there was no use arguing.
Afterward, everyone left, except for Luc, Tante Lulu, Angel, and Grace. Luc said he had something important to discuss.
“I’m hungry,” Tante Lulu whined.
“Okay, we can talk over lunch,” Luc suggested. “Since you’re all dolled up today, Auntie, how about Antoine’s?”
“Yippee! I ain’t been there fer a while.”
Since it was so close, they began walking through the French Quarter ’til they reached St. Louis Street.
Out of the blue, Tante Lulu remarked, “That Stanley sure is a hottie, ain’t he?”
Her remark met with total silence.
“He has a hot cha-cha hiney, ya gotta give him that.”
More silence.
“Didja know he has a Magic Fingers bed?”
Grace giggled.
Luc chuckled.
And he thought, Oooh, way too much information. Immediately followed by, I wonder where I can buy one of those.
“How do you know that, Auntie?” Luc asked.
“How do ya think I know?” She grinned up at her nephew, then said, “Jeesh! You’d believe anything. I was in Montgomery Ward’s the day he bought it fer his wife, Sophie. She died ten years ago, bless her heart.”
“Oh,” Luc said, clearly glad to erase the mind picture they were all enjoying, or not enjoying.
“I’m thinkin’ about buyin’ one of them beds fer Daniel. That boy needs somethin’ ta get his juices goin’ again.”
They all laughed.
“You, too, Grace.”
Grace didn’t laugh, but he did.
Which prompted Grace to elbow him in the side.
“How about me?” he and Luc asked at the same time.
“You two gots enough juice ta fill a punch bowl at Mardi Gras.”
He and Luc grinned at each other.
Grace looked disgusted.
Once they arrived at the famous restaurant, Tante Lulu and Grace went in first. Luc hung back and whispered to him, “I hate to say this, but this Duval situation has developed a high Hindenburg factor.”
“How so?”
“I talked to a judge yesterday, in confidence. He’s a friend. He says we’re in deep shit, even if we get the house up ASAP. I have a strong premonition that CPS is going to take those kids away and then let us duke it out in court.”
“This is going to kill Tante Lulu.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Well, let’s face facts here. There’s no way in the world that Tante Lulu is going to let them separate those kids. She’ll go to jail herself first.”
“She’d probably consider it a grand adventure.”
On that happy note, they went in to have lunch.
Chapter Eight
Family ties are sometimes cruel…
That’s her. That’s the bitch.”
Andrea Fletcher cowered in the bedroom closet of her Atlanta, Georgia, home, listening to the railing voice of her stepfather, George Allison. It was always best to hide when he was on a rant… or when he was into the booze. He wasn’t an alcoholic, exactly, but he did go on his binges.
As usual, her mother, Ruth Allison, said nothing to stand up to his tyranny, except to insert the occasional, “Oh, George!” Hard as it was to fathom, even after ten years, her mother thought George walked on water. The only saving grace for Andrea was that George was a sales rep for a pharmaceutical company and was often on the road—and the fact that she’d recently graduated from high school and could leave home. Of course, George had spent her college fund, given to her in her adoptive father’s will, which George had considered his due. After all, he’d “allowed” her to stay in his house. Now she’d be forced to live at home and attend the local community college, or leave home and get a job with no skills.
“How do you know it’s Andrea’s mother?”
Andrea straightened, her eyes going wide with shock.
“Because I saw those adoption documents you keep hidden, that’s how. Grace O’Brien was her mother’s name. That’s her, all right. The bitch who gave her kid away. Look at the picture in this newspaper, dammit. Same red hair. Same green eyes. They look alike, ferchrissake!”
Andrea’s heart was beating so fast she could hardly hear what was being said in the bedroom next door.
“Where did you get this newspaper, honey?”
“New Orleans. When I was passing through last week.”
Andrea had known since she was five years old that she was adopted, and until her adoptive father died when she was eight, life had been good. But then her “mother” had remarried, and a day didn’t go by without George complaining about all the money her upkeep was costing, how she didn’t do enough work around the house, how her grades weren’t good enough, how she dressed like a tramp, how she could damn well get a job and start paying rent now that she was out of school or, better yet, move out so they could have some blessed privacy.
Ruth had always told her that her birth mother had no interest whatsoever in her “mistake.” That she’d been a slut who couldn’t even say for sure who the father was. She would have had an abortion, except she’d waited too long. Otherwise, Andrea would have done a search for her on the Internet. In the past, she’d always thought there was no point, unless she wanted to tell her what she thought of her. Which was sounding better and better by the minute.
In her own sad way, Ruth loved Andrea, but she loved George more. Sometimes—no, all the time—Andrea wondered why she’d ever been adopted in the first place. Weren’t adopted kids supposed to be special, the chosen ones? Hah!
“Well, I’ll tell you one thing, Ruth. The bitch is gonna pay. Grace O’Brien is loaded, and believe you me, she’s gonna share the wealth.”
“What… what do you mean?”
“I asked some folks in the hotel lobby, and they told me the people in this picture just started a foundation. The LeDeux and the Starr families are millionaires, they said.”
“But you said Grace O’Brien.”
“Don’t matter. If she’s associating with the jet-setters, she’s got cash, too. Guaranteed.”
“Oh, George! What are you going to do?”
“Have a little talk with the lady.” Andrea could hear the greedy smirk in her stepfather’s voice. “If she wants to keep her good name, she’ll pay.”
“But that’s blackmail, honey.”
“No. It’s payment for all I’ve done for her girl. Meanwhile, you make sure Andrea sticks close to home. I’ll put a hold on her college bank account tomorrow, and—”
You mean the bank account that now has a total of fifty dollars in it?
“—and don’t you be givin’ her any money. Whatever you do, don’t tell her about her bitch mother—not yet. Or she’ll be runnin’ off to the arms of Mommy dearest.”
Not likely! Oh, I’m gonna find her, all right, but not to give her a big hug. No, I’m gonna give her a piece of my mind.
Fat tears slipped out of her welling eyes. Not the first time she’d cried over a mother who hadn’t wanted her.
If you’re not a lesbian, then what are you?…
Grace and Lionel were sitting at the table in Grace’s cottage transcribing Tante Lulu’s traiteur’s notes onto a laptop, while Lena was in the bedroom resting.
The computer-savvy boy, whose interest in medicine was
stimulated by the herbal remedies, had developed a wonderful program to record the lifelong recipes and observations that clearly had historical value. The software not only indexed the various herbs, but cross-referenced them with their varied uses.
Best of all were Tante Lulu’s remarks on the people she’d healed and their life stories, related to each of the remedies. It was a living history, not only of the bayou, its people, its medicinal plants, but of an incredible lady who’d lived an interesting and full life. Grace didn’t consider herself competent enough to write a book about Louise Rivard, but someone should.
“Some of this stuff is really weird. Do you think it works?” Lionel looked up from the keyboard and took a sip of sweet tea, a staple here in the South.
“Probably. Every time I scoff, she proves me wrong. Like this ‘smoking the baby’ business. Really, it sounds awful, but in the end, it’s just a primitive way of clearing an infant’s lungs. Almost like a vaporizer.”
Lionel quirked an eyebrow. “I dunno.”
“I read an article in a magazine recently about how alligator blood might be used as a possible human antibiotic. It has something to do with the gators dating back to the stone age, when they had to survive all kinds of mangling and maiming, so their bodies built up these immunities. She may not know all this history, but I’ll bet Tante Lulu already knows that alligator blood has its uses.”
Lionel’s pierced eyebrow was still raised in disbelief.
“I’ll take you with us tomorrow when Tante Lulu makes her weekly rounds. She’s crazy as a loon sometimes, but believe me when I say she knows what she’s doing.”
“I like her. So do I.”
“The only thing she hasn’t been able to cure is my thumbnail biting.” She laughed and showed him her right thumb with the nail bitten down to the quick. “And believe me, she has tried putting some yucky goop on it. To no avail.”