Lottie’s time with Gabriel had been severely curtailed since he started helping Rosette at her Chartres Street café a few years ago. What started as a stand selling coffee and hot calas—the deep-fried rice cakes eaten for breakfast—had, over the years, become an outdoor café with chairs and tables. Churchgoers who poured out of Saint Louis Cathedral on Sunday mornings spilled right into the café that bore Rosette’s mother’s name, Café Elizabeth.
Fueled by the possibility of talking to Gabriel, who actually cared what she thought, Lottie hurried past the piano bench. “I will return tout de suite,” she told a tight-lipped Madame before heading to the library. Justine truly was reading. Romeo and Juliet, of course. Lottie plucked the play out of her friend’s hands. “Rosette and Gabriel are on their way to visit. Tell Agnes the lessons are almost over. See if they can stay until we finish.” Lottie felt as surprised as Justine appeared by the urgency in her voice.
“We?” Justine returned the volume to the étagère, sliding it between Macbeth and The Tempest. “I’m finished. So what I’m actually asking is if they can wait on you.” She held a small silver tray she’d found on Grand-père’s desk up to her face and smoothed her hair along each side of her part.
“Charlotte.” Lottie didn’t need to see Madame’s face to assess the level of her irritation. The second syllable of her name sounded as heavy as an anchor. An anchor that landed on the t.
At that moment, Lottie mentally thanked her grandmother for deportment lessons. She turned around, cast her eyes downward, and clasped her hands loosely at her waist. “Forgive me, Madame Fontenot. I did not want to forget to deliver an important message to Justine.”
“I have other students today, so your lesson will have to end right on time. Come with me. You have already wasted enough time.”
Lottie nodded and, when she sat next to Madame on the piano bench, produced a genuine smile and said, “Let’s begin.”
Chapter Two
...........................
If a Shakespeare character could write about music to her ears, then an orchestra waited in the courtyard for Charlotte.
The melody of Agnes’s round voice, Rosette’s words riding on the wave of emotions, Gabriel’s steady hum as he talked to the cook, and, like an unexpected clash of cymbals, Justine’s laughter as she spoke to Grand-mère. They were all gathered around the cypress table near the outdoor kitchen, the women’s dresses an explosion of soft hues amidst the fruit and magnolia trees. Agnes, Rosette, and Gabriel wrapped pairs of pecan pralines in madras squares. Standing away from the smoke that curled like soft gray ribbons through the lemon trees, Justine and Grand-mère chatted, their heads tilted toward one another like flowers whose blooms are too heavy for their stems.
How is it that my grandmother converses with my friend, even pats Justine’s hand, and yet her talks with me seem like an obligation—sometimes a nuisance? Grand-père says I’m too sensitive. Maybe Grandmère isn’t sensitive enough.
Lottie picked up her skirt to avoid tripping on the steps that led from the screened gallery onto the slate pavers that surrounded the garden. Had it been summer, no one would have ventured far from the back room that opened to the courtyard, allowing even the whispers of breezes. The New Orleans summer wrapped such a steamy blanket around the city that most residents fled for summer homes in the country or across the lake. Grand-père owned a cottage in Mandeville, so they sometimes spent cooler days enjoying the lake breezes. Families not so fortunate dressed in lightweight linens, slept on their porches, and prayed for an early fall. But today, the January sun treated them to warm breezes. Winters rested in New Orleans.
Lottie headed in Grand-mère’s direction, because to do otherwise would be to risk her sharp-edged tongue later.
“Madame Fontenot had another class scheduled. She apologized for not speaking to you before she left. She said she will be back next week,” Lottie said.
“So, Charlotte,” Grandmother said, glancing at Justine for a wisp of time, “did you enjoy the lesson?”
Lottie glared at Justine, who appeared to be entranced with the slate paver on which Lottie stood. “Well, I think the lessons will be interesting.” She wouldn’t be dishonest, especially since she suspected that Justine had already suggested Lottie’s lack of enthusiasm.
Grand-mère frowned at Lottie. “You must listen more closely to your deportment instructor and eliminate ‘well’ from your conversations.” She turned toward Justine and placed her hand on the young woman’s cheek. “My dear, you must have your bonnet, or else this dreadful sun will scorch your lovely ivory skin.”