Iron Lace Part 2

"A story?"

She was silent for a moment, then she shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe that's what it's all about. Maybe that's why he's considering it."

"Or maybe he's considering it because he's fallen in love and he needs an excuse to stay in town awhile."

Music flowed through the bar from the back room, slow, smoky jazz from another decade. She recognized "It's Too Soon to Know," one of Jake's favorites. She smiled. "Sometimes I think you believe all those foolish old songs I sing."

He dropped her hand, but only to cup her chin. "Sometimes I do."

Belinda was sitting on her side of the front porch when Phillip pulled into her driveway. Two neighborhood kids were sitting on the rail in front of her, leaning against a thick tapestry of jasmine vines that scrabbled to the roof. The older of the little girls was braiding the younger's hair.

"You're never going to need kids of your own," he said as he climbed the steps. "You've always got plenty of somebody else's."

"Best way to do it. That way I don't have to worry about taking care of some man, too."

Phillip wasn't sentimental. What sentiment had survived his childhood had been bled out of him, one drop at a time, in places like Birmingham and Montgomery. But something, some loose wire inside him, reconnected at the sight of Belinda.

She was wearing dark print harem pants and a fringed top that stopped short of her navel. Just weeks before, she had cut her hair nearly as short as a man's, and the effect was stunning. She had a long, regal neck, and an oval face accented by curly-lashed almond-shaped eyes. The radically short haircut brought the whole woman into view, the beauty, the pride.

The temper.

"You left coffee cups all over my desk, Phillip Benedict."

"I plead guilty." He leaned against the porch post. "What do you think I should do about it?"

"I think you ought to get yourself inside and clean up, that's what I think."

"You going to leave your little friends and come inside, too?"

"Amy, you done yet?" Belinda asked.

The oldest child, chubby-cheeked and sa.s.sy-eyed, giggled and slid down to the porch floor. "You gotta do what he say, Miss Belinda?"

"I never do what he says. You remember that."

"Then you're not going in?"

"Just 'cause I'm getting cold. You two scoot."

The little girls scampered off, skipping down the walkway, then along the curb. The oldest took the youngest's hand.

"Isn't it kind of late for them to be outside?" Phillip asked.

"They stay with their aunt at night while their mama cleans office buildings down on Ca.n.a.l. Aunt's got six kids of her own, and she has trouble keeping track. They'll be okay. Amy's an old lady at eight. But I'm going to follow behind them, just to be sure. You go on in." She got to her feet.

"You know every kid in the neighborhood, not just the ones that have been in your cla.s.ses."

"Nah. But they all know me."

Phillip put his hand on her shoulder and stopped her before she could descend the steps. "Were you an old lady at eight?"

"I was an old lady at three."

"Come on, old lady. I'll go with you."

They walked hand in hand after the two little girls. New Orleans was a stoop-sitting kind of place, a place where the first puff of cool evening air was savored gratefully by the thousands of lungs that had waited patiently all day for it to arrive. Tonight, old people sat together reminiscing, and young people made their own memories, all in plain sight of their neighbors.

There was nothing special about Belinda's neighborhood. Some of the small houses were well cared for, with neatly trimmed lawns and fresh coats of paint. Others showed an absence of hope and energy. The worst example was a block and a half away, on a wide corner lot. They stood in front of it and watched Amy and her sister cross the street, scamper through yards and up to a porch overflowing with children.

"This is the saddest house on the street," Belinda said.

Phillip turned his attention to the house in question. "Why do you say that?"

"Because it's got the most potential, but it's been empty as long as I've been living here. It used to be for sale. Probably still is, but n.o.body wants to do the work to put up another sign. There were squatters here last month, before the cops ran them off. But they'll be back. Rain'll pour in through the broken windows, and pretty soon the wood'll rot through. The city'll condemn it and take it down, and then there'll be a vacant lot here to dump trash on. And n.o.body'll build."

Phillip wasn't attached to houses. As long as he had a roof over his head, he was content. He never stayed anywhere long enough to care about more. But he imagined that Belinda's description of things to come was accurate, and it seemed a shame. The house had once been the finest on the block, two-story, with elaborate cast-iron grillwork defining wide double galleries.

"Whoever built this house had dreams," Belinda said.

"What do you mean?"

"See all that iron lace? You don't see much of that on this street. A woman built this house. A strong woman who knew what she wanted."

He put his arms around her and rested his chin against her ear. "You're guessing? Or do you know the history?"

"You just have to look at the house to know."

"Maybe it just takes a strong woman with a strong imagination to see it."

"It takes a strong woman to make dreams come true."

He thought of the strong woman he had met this evening. "I got the strangest phone call today."

She turned so she could see his face. "Did you?"

Thunder rolled across the sky, drowning out the possibility of a reply. As they stood there waiting for it to pa.s.s, the first raindrops began to fall. He tugged her hand, and they loped back toward her house.

On her porch, he shook his head and sent raindrops flying. Then he put his arms around her again.

"It looks like I might be staying around for a while."

"And just where do you think you'll be living if you do?"

"I was thinking about here. If you'll have me."

She didn't say yes, because she didn't have to. Phillip knew he was welcome. More was unspoken than spoken between them, but some things were perfectly clear.

"So tell me about that call," she said.

"I'll tell you about it inside."

"You do that, 'cause it's getting cold out here, and your arms aren't warm enough to take care of it."

"They're not?" He grinned down at her. "You're sure about that?" He lowered his head and nuzzled her cheek until she sighed in defeat. Her lips were soft against his.

There had been other women in his life. More than he could probably remember. But none of them had been as seductive as this one. As her body melted into his, he listened to the New Orleans rain, and he thought he might not mind listening to it for a while longer.

CHAPTER THREE.

Aurore chose the morning room for her first session with Phillip. The room was airy and open, warmed by sunlight and cooled by a soft breeze. There was a comfortable round table where they could sit, he with his notebook in hand and she with the one cup of real coffee she was allowed every day. As she spoke, she would hear birds outside the windows, and they would remind her that she was seventy-seven and the events she described had happened long ago.

She was ready by the time he arrived. She wore a comfortable lavender dress and no jewelry, hoping she could set a casual tone. But inside, she felt anything but casual.

When Phillip walked into the room, she was captivated once again by how handsome and confident he was. He wore a white shirt and a dark jacket, but no tie today, as if he planned to get right down to work and had no time to stand on ceremony. He carried a tape recorder, and held it up as he entered, as if in question.

"Yes," she said. "I think that's a good idea."

He seemed surprised that she hadn't put up a fight. "I'm glad. It will make things easier for me. But I'll still be taking notes."

"You can plug it in over here."

He crossed the room and began to set up the recorder. "I'll give you the tapes when I'm all finished."

That wouldn't be necessary, but she wasn't going to explain that now. "I've asked Lily to bring us a pot of coffee and a plate of her calas. Have you had them before?"

He was bent over the electrical outlet. "Don't think so."

"They're rice cakes. When I was a little girl they were sold in the Vieux Carre by women in bright tignons who carried them in woven willow baskets that they balanced on their heads. Sometimes I would shop at the French Market with our cook, and if I was particularly good, she would buy me one as a treat."

"It sounds like a real piece of old New Orleans."

"A piece I'm not really allowed to eat anymore, but sometimes Lily indulges me."

"Do you do that often?"

"What?"

"Break the rules that were made to protect you?"

She laughed. "As often as I can. At my age, there's very little to protect." When he straightened and looked at her, she added, "May I call you Phillip? It seems easier. And I'd like you to call me Aurore. Almost no one does anymore. Most of my close friends are already dead, and the next generation is so afraid I'll be offended without a t.i.tle."

He didn't answer, he just smiled, as if she had asked the impossible and he was too polite to say so.

"Have you thought about how you'd like to start?" he asked.

She had thought of little else. She still wasn't sure. "Perhaps we can ease into it. Do you have questions you'd like to ask? Background? That sort of thing?"

"I'm a man with a million questions."

"Good. I'll try to be the woman with an answer or two."

Lily, dark-skinned, white-haired, and too thin to look as if she enjoyed her own cooking, arrived with a platter of golden brown calas dusted liberally with confectioner's sugar. She set them on the table and returned in a moment with a coffee service featuring a tall enameled pot, which she set on the table. "One," she told Aurore firmly. "And one cup of coffee. I'll be counting." She left with a swish of her white nylon uniform.

"She means it," Aurore said.

"Who hired who?"

"It's a draw. We suit each other. I don't listen to her, and she doesn't listen to me."

"Sort of like Mammy in Gone with the Wind. Gone with the Wind."

"Nothing like it. She does her job well, and I pay her well. We have nothing but respect for each other."

"And at the end of the day, she probably goes home to a street without a white face on it."

"If that's true, I suspect it's a tremendous relief, after taking care of me all day."

He settled himself across the table from her. She poured him coffee. The stream wavered in rhythm to the tremor of her hands. "How do you take it?"

"Black."

She smiled. "Segregation at the breakfast table, as well as everywhere else. I take mine white."

His smile was a reluctant ray of sunshine. "So, what do I know about you already?"

"Have a cala." She pa.s.sed him a plate and a napkin, and edged the platter in his direction.

He helped himself. "I suspect you have something to prove here. That as your life winds to a close, you want to make a statement about who you were. And the statement is as important as your life story."

"And the statement is?"

"That you were different from others of your cla.s.s. That for this time and this place, you were a liberal. Am I correct?"

"Absolutely not."

He worked on the cala, watching her as he did. "All right. What do I really know? Facts, not guesses."

This answer interested her immensely. She poured milk into her cup and stirred. "What do you know, Phillip?"