False Pretenses - Kathy Herman [33]
“Thanks. I did the painting and refinished the floors myself. I made the curtains and the tablecloths and found an unbelievable closeout sale on the French country furniture. It took everything I had to get Zoe B’s going. And all those years of restaurant experience paid off. The place was a hit and just took off. The locals love it, but I get a lot of tourist business, too.”
Pierce moved his gaze slowly around the room. “I just live a couple miles up the bayou, but I didn’t realize Zoe B’s was here until a month ago. Discriminating Cajun that I am, I’m impressed with the cuisine. Your crawfish étoufée is the best I’ve tasted. You’re doing a great job here. I admire you for following your dream. I love to cook and have always wanted to be a chef, but I have neither the credentials nor the experience. The fact that I’ve taught history at Roux River High School for seven years means nothing on a résumé for a wannabe chef.”
“Pierce, for heaven’s sake, you’re only thirty-one,” Zoe said. “Don’t give up on your dream.…”
A screechy, scraping sound brought her back to the present, and she realized the rain had stopped and her wipers were still on. She turned them off and backed off the accelerator. All she needed was a ticket stamped with the date and location.
The one thing she had never lied about was her feelings for Pierce. How could she have known when she lied to him about her background that he would win her heart and she would fall head over heels in love with him—and become his wife? Until she met Pierce, hadn’t she found men to be despicable and untrustworthy? Could it be any more ironic that now it was she who could not be trusted?
She hated the lies! But what was she supposed to do after the fact? If Pierce ever found out she could rattle off falsehoods like a mantra, would he even be able to stand the sight of her?
God, I’m not a bad person. You know I didn’t set out to hurt anyone. I was just trying to survive.
She saw a green highway sign. Only twenty-five miles to Alexandria. She suddenly felt light-headed and queasy. Nothing in her wanted to go through with this.
CHAPTER 10
Pierce Broussard stood next to the table by the window at Zoe B’s, missing Zoe and commiserating with Hebert, Father Sam, and Tex about Remy Jarvis’s murder.
“Pierce, I hope you don’t mind us occupying this table so long,” Father Sam said. “Normally we’d have been out of here an hour ago.”
“You’re fine. Nobody’s having to wait to be seated.” Pierce put his hand on the priest’s shoulder. “You gents stay as long as you like. I’ll have Savannah bring you more coffee.”
“I tink we’re all shell-shocked,” Hebert said. “Hasn’t been a lynching on da bayou in decades.”
Pierce nodded. “So why now? And why Remy?”
“Guess all we can do is surmise,” Father Sam said, “until the sheriff catches the lost souls who did this.”
Pierce looked out the window as two doves landed on the balcony railing above Sole Mates, the women’s shoe store across the street and three doors down. “I know I sound like a stuck CD, but I don’t understand why there wasn’t a whisper of this beforehand.”
“Not everyone carryin’ a grudge speaks up before he blows,” Tex said.
Father Sam took his glasses and began wiping the lenses with his napkin. “I’m encouraged that Reverend Isaiah Rhodes from Praise Tabernacle expressed his outrage and asked whites not to retaliate, but to wait for the authorities to sort this out. He’s a well-respected clergyman. People will listen.”
“Reasonable people will,” Pierce said. “All we need is for a few unreasonable folks to let their anger turn physical. We’re liable to have race riots on our hands.”
Half a minute of silence went by.
Finally Hebert said, “Did I tell y’all I knew Remy when he was jus’ a little peeshwank? Kids called him Runt till one year he shot up like a weed and towered over all o’ dem.”
Tex raised his bushy eyebrows. “I can’t picture that Texas-size boy ever bein’ a runt.”
“Dat was a long time ago.” Hebert traced the rim of his coffee cup with his index finger. “I’ll tell you sometin’ ’bout Remy Jarvis: What