Listen to Your Heart - Fern Michaels [19]
Josie parked the car, reached for the Maltese and the slip of paper containing Marie Lobelia’s address. Her gaze raked the house numbers. She had a block and a half to go. Rosie squirmed until she was comfortable and proceeded to lick Josie’s ear. Josie laughed all the way to the Lobelia gate, where she rang the bell and waited patiently for it to be opened.
“Miss Dupré! How nice of you to visit. Please, come in.”
“Mrs. Lobelia, this is so beautiful. Can we sit out here? It’s wonderfully cool and shady.”
“I think this is my most favorite spot on earth. This building was the first thing my daddy bought when he became a man. It’s been in the family forever. I moved back here fifteen years ago. Can I offer you some refreshment? Perhaps some sweet tea, a cola, or something with a little more gusto. Like a beer perhaps.”
“Sweet tea would be wonderful.”
“My girl has gone to the market. I’ll fetch it for you. Make yourself comfortable. You can put your dog down—she won’t be able to get out.”
Josie stared with open mouth at the magnificent oak tree in the center of the courtyard. Barbe espagnol, also known as Spanish moss, dripped from the branches. The tree had to be three hundred years old. She tried to guess the measurements of the humongous trunk but had to give up. It would take at least four grown men with long arms to reach around it. A wrought-iron bench circled the tree. She knew it was custom-made, for there were no breaks anywhere in the iron. Amazing, she thought. Everywhere she looked there were colorful flowers in clay pots on the beautiful, low brick walls. Just the right height for watering. The brick on the ground was just as beautiful, with emerald green moss growing between the bricks, some of which were being pushed askew by the heavy, thick roots of the ancient tree. It didn’t alter the beauty of the courtyard one tiny bit. She slipped off her shoes and wiggled her toes over the luscious moss while Rosie sniffed out every nook and cranny. She was careful not to disturb the moss. Moss was precious to New Orleanians.
Josie chose a small wrought-iron bench with a cushion as colorful as the flowers on the walls to sit down on. Rosie immediately scampered to her side. I could go to sleep right here, she thought. Did Mrs. Lobelia’s children play out here when they were children? Somehow she knew they climbed the old tree and swung from its gnarled old branches. That’s what she would have done.
“Here you are, my dear. So, how do you like my courtyard ?”
“It’s so beautiful I don’t know what to say. This tree is so gorgeous, it takes my breath away. Did your children climb it when they were little?”
“Yes they did. I did, too, as a matter of fact. Sometimes I think it cries for children. I talk to it, you know. And to my flowers. I play music for them. I’m not off my rocker, as you young people say. There’s a little fountain in the back part by the little grotto, but it isn’t working today. We need to replace some hoses. It’s so hard to find help these days. It’s a little job, and no one wants to spend the time or the effort on little jobs. All they think about is money and how much they can gouge you for. Now, tell me: What brings you here and what can I do for you? Don’t tell me you came up with a recipe already.”
“I’m good but not that good, Mrs. Lobelia. Actually I came here to make a proposition.”
“I’d like it if you would call me Marie and, if it’s all right with you, I’ll call you Josie. What kind of proposition ?”
“The ladies you’re inviting to your King Cake party, and the ones you plan to surprise on Mother’s Day, are they all of an age with you, retired so to speak?”
“Yes, they are. Why?”
“Are any of them good cooks?”
“Every