All That Charm: (A Morning Glory Novel Book 3) Page 3

  “Wanna come hear some good music, little mama?” he called out.

  Eden swallowed hard. “No thank you. Maybe another time.” Then she practically ran toward Chateau Dauphine.

  Overall, the apartment building was a huge disappointment. The wrought iron scrollwork that had seemed so charming online was flaky, and the courtyard looked crowded with ratty patio furniture. Eden’s heart sank as she climbed the outside stairs to the second floor. Her new neighbors didn’t seem overly tidy. Broken umbrellas and soggy newspapers sat beside the two doors on either side of 3B, her new place. She managed to juggle her bags and pull out the key the landlord had mailed. Opening the paint-chipped door, she winced at the frigid air . . . and the smell.

  “Okay, okay,” she chided herself. “It’s been unoccupied and closed up.”

  She said a prayer as she found the light switch.

  “Thank you, Jesus,” she said as the overhead light illuminated a postage-stamp living room. At least the landlord had turned on the electricity.

  In the yellow glow, the apartment didn’t look so bad. She stepped inside and locked the front door, noting the sliding bolt was loose. She’d need to have that fixed. Someone could put a boot on the door and smash it in. Setting her bags down, she went in search of the air-conditioning unit.

  It rattled.

  Next, she found the kitchen with its gold-flecked Formica and chipped sink.

  It smelled like something had died there.

  Then she found the bedroom.

  It was the size of a walk-in closet.

  And finally the bathroom with a walk-in shower.

  It was covered in mildew.

  “Great.” Eden sighed, heading back toward the kitchen. First thing, she had to find the source of the smell. Opening the refrigerator, she found a carton of spoiled milk and a half-used stick of butter. She poured the milk down the sink, saying another prayer of thanks that the water had also been turned on.

  And then an enormous roach crawled over the counter.

  “Holy Jesus, Mother Mary,” she squeaked, jumping back. With nothing to grab to smack it, she left the kitchen and went back to the living room. She needed to go to the market, but since she’d lost a good hour on changing the water pump and another half hour trying to find the apartment, darkness had descended. No way she’d venture out alone in the dark. Besides, she wasn’t parallel parking again. Opening her purse, she pulled out a protein bar and a half-full bottle of water. Would have to do. She wasn’t going back to her car tonight. Not even for the cheerful plants, lamp, and other odds and ends.

  And please, sweet Jesus, let that cockroach stay in the kitchen.

  Please.

  The next morning, after walking through the strange neighborhood, Eden got her next piece of bad news over eggs she splurged on at a local bistro. Her furniture wasn’t coming until the following weekend.

  Rosemary and Jess had rummaged through their parents’ attics to find an old coffee table, end table, futon, and dresser, and Eden had used part of the money Lacy had left her to buy a new mattress and box springs. Her Aunt Ruby Jean had paid a few guys in the neighborhood to take the furniture down in their pickup truck, and Eden had planned to meet them in the morning before she reported to the dance school. But Jerry called to say his truck had thrown a rod and he’d have to fix it before he could bring her “shit”—his exact words. And not only that, but he didn’t have a day off until Saturday, so she’d have to spend a week on the blow-up mattress on, to be honest, sketchy-looking carpet.

  So not having a job was the icing on the cake. Or the straw that broke the camel’s back. Either way, it sucked.

  Turning her attention back to the phone and the woman who’d just given her the bad news, she said, “No, ma’am. I didn’t receive anything from Jill or anyone associated with the studio. Which would have been appreciated because I really need this job. Now I’m in a bind.” To her ears, her voice sounded whiney. Defeated. Eden straightened her shoulders. No. She was not defeated or whiney. She could handle this.

  “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do. Even though you never technically worked for us, Jill will probably vouch for you at other dance studios.”

  “Yeah. Sure. Tell Jill I said thanks for being so considerate,” Eden muttered into the phone.

  An awkward silence ensued.

  “Will that be all, dear?” the woman asked finally.

  “I guess that’s all there is, isn’t it?” Eden pressed the End button before she said something that showed her blue-collar roots. Like maybe “go fuck yourself.” But, of course, she wouldn’t do that. She’d worked hard on not using the profanity that seemed to come so easily to her . . . and on using correct grammar, which did not come so easily to her. That’s what happened when a gal was raised by a drug-addict stripper and a stepfather who robbed banks. She didn’t excel in social graces. But she was trying.

  Pocketing her phone, she looked up at the porch ceiling and took a few calming breaths. When that didn’t work, she kicked the square column because it gave her some satisfaction, then trudged down the steps. She’d have to find a job. Today. Perhaps another dance studio might be hiring? It was worth a shot. Spying a cute coffeehouse across the street, Eden headed for free Wi-Fi and a cup of coffee. She’d Google surrounding dance schools to see if there was a position available. If not, she’d broaden her search.

  Because she was not going back to Morning Glory defeated.

  That’s not how she rolled.

  Nicholas Zeringue couldn’t believe his bad luck was persisting. After spending all morning negotiating over a piece of land for the new restaurant, the owner had sold it out from under him. And then he’d emerged from his office to find the van he’d purchased a few months ago had been hit. Of course the culprit hadn’t bothered to leave a note, so Nick had to spend an extra hour he couldn’t spare filing an accident report and another twenty minutes on the phone with his insurance company. Which meant he’d been late to pick his daughter up from school. And that resulted in Sophie pitching a fit that was only soothed by reminding her they were meeting their soon-to-be ex-nanny Rhoda at the Earthy Bean. His seven-year-old’s love for both Rhoda and a cocoa loco was enough to calm her. Of course Sophie would, no doubt, end up smearing whipped cream all over her face. But big deal. The kid loved the damn sticky, sweet drink.

  Don’t sweat the small stuff.

  Rhoda waited out front, her whimsical skirt and crazy dreadlocks easily identifiable. She hurried to help him unload Sophie. Because the asshole had sideswiped the side of the van with the sliding ramp, it was hard to get the ramp out. Thankfully, the structure hadn’t been too damaged and was still useable.

  “Been waiting long?” He huffed, getting the bent sliding door back in place.

  “Only a few minutes. What happened to the van?” Rhoda asked, making a face. Rhoda Soileau had worked for him for five years, taking care of Sophie after school, traveling with him, being his right-hand woman. He depended on her more than he’d like to admit. She understood what it was like raising a daughter who had limited mobility, who needed to go to therapy twice a week, who had to be lifted on and off the toilet. But Rhoda had fallen in love with some dude over the Internet and wanted to move out to Lake Tahoe with him, leaving Nick without a caregiver for Sophie.

  Which sucked way worse than the dinged-up van or the missed opportunity on the land.

  “Some asshole hit me and didn’t leave a note,” he said, setting his hands on his hips and taking a deep breath. He needed to start running again if slight exertion like unloading his daughter rendered him out of breath. “Already have a call in to a shop that can get it done in a day, so that’s good.”

  “Some people,” Rhoda said, bending down to drop a kiss on Sophie’s cheek.

  His daughter jerked away, still intent on making Rhoda pay for leaving her. Nick needed a scotch and soda, but decaf coffee would have to do since after their coffee and snack, he had a meeting with Sophie’s teacher. E
ver since Rhoda had announced she was moving away, his daughter had been acting out both at home and obviously at school. Sophie had refused to do her homework, PT exercises, or to bear any weight on her legs, punishing him for something so out of her control. And likely she was punishing her teacher Dayna Young too. Thus the meeting later today.

  They rolled up the ramp to the coffeehouse with its bright awning and fragrant entrance. Since school had let out, the place was rocking with little girls in Catholic-school uniforms sucking down syrupy organic lattes, their thin moms in athletic gear sipping water and chatting on their phones. Nick spied an open table and left Rhoda with their order. He snagged the table and helped Sophie maneuver into a spot that kept her out of the way. After helping her reverse and inch forward a dozen times, he collapsed into the chair across from her.

  His daughter had thick dark hair he braided every morning and soft white skin that reminded him of her mother. Cerebral palsy had caused many of her facial muscles to atrophy, and the periodic jerking of her limbs drew attention, but her blue eyes were bright. She liked the sparkly lip gloss he applied every morning, and the pink watch on her wrist was her current obsession. She had learned to tell time last semester.

  Usually Rhoda picked Sophie up, but she’d taken part of last week and today to handle last-minute details of her move. Last year his father had retired, and with his mother focusing on the renovation of the downtown restaurant, much of the business was left to him. Which was fine. He loved being a cog in the wheel of the family restaurant dynasty. When it came to fine dining in South Louisiana, the Zeringue name was mentioned in tandem with the Brennans. Or Emeril or John Besh. Owning seven restaurants meant Nick spent much of his time putting out fires, meeting with marketing, and supervising the day-to-day operations. But his baby was the new seafood restaurant he wanted to build closer to Baton Rouge. If only he could find the right location. And not have the location sold out from under him. And if only he could stop Rhoda from—

  “Dad,” Sophie said, her hand jerking toward his.

  He smiled at his daughter, his heart filling with love as he chastised himself for dwelling on everything wrong with his life when Sophie was sitting beside him. Afternoon coffee was special. “What, baby?”

  She curled her hand over her watch. “Three thirty.”

  He checked his own. “So it is.”

  Rhoda started their way, balancing their order, and he realized he hadn’t grabbed an extra chair yet. Looking up, he spied an unused chair at the table next to them. Sitting there was a tiny woman who had her face buried in her hands as if she had a headache or was in some sort of despair. She looked up as he approached.

  God, she was pretty.

  The first thing he noticed was her eyes. They were a gorgeous purplish blue fringed with long sooty lashes. Her jawline was square, lips pouty, and her severe black hair only served to heighten the femininity of her face. Her tight spandex top clung to breasts the size of freestone peaches, and she didn’t look like anyone’s mother. No dyed blond hair, Juvédermed lips, or legs tanned by tennis. She looked naturally beautiful as she ducked her chin and averted her eyes.

  “Would you mind if I borrowed this chair?” he asked.

  Her gaze lifted and a faint pink warmed her cheeks. “Go ahead.”

  “Thanks,” he said, pulling the chair to him. As he turned, he noted the sheen of tears in her eyes. “You doing okay?”

  She stared at him for a moment, her eyes slipping toward Sophie, who fiddled with her watch. Finally she said, “Yeah. I’m fine. Thanks.”

  He nodded, wondering why he’d bothered to ask. She was a stranger, and just because she was cute didn’t mean he had to involve himself in the slightest way with whatever had made her sad. Still, something about her tugged at him. Vulnerability and the blush. Dangerous combination.

  Rhoda set his coffee down and slid a monster of a drink toward his daughter, drawing his attention from the lone woman to the whipped cream erupting from the domed plastic lid. Yep, sticky. Sophie motioned to her iPad and dangling earbuds. His daughter loved music, rocking back and forth. He popped her earbuds on, hooking them around her ears. She knew he and Rhoda were going to talk about the upcoming weeks. His daughter obviously would rather lose herself in Justin Bieber or Taylor Swift.

  Rhoda settled her ample butt in the chair he’d snagged for her and gave a heartfelt sigh. Her brown eyes found him. “Any luck?”

  “You know the answer.”

  For the past two weeks, he’d interviewed potential nannies to replace Rhoda. He’d thought it would be simple. It was not. One candidate he wouldn’t leave a rock with, much less a child, one was too elderly to lift his daughter, and the other seemed perfect but got hired before he could settle things with her. The referral agency had assured him they would do all they could, and last week they’d sent over Calli. She was in her early twenties, had no experience, but was in school working on a degree in early childhood education. He’d agreed to a trial run for a few days while Rhoda was off. Everything had gone well until Friday afternoon.

  Nick had arrived home early, set his briefcase on the counter, and frowned at the mess in the kitchen. The new caregiver wasn’t exactly the best at housekeeping. But then again, he hadn’t listed loading the dishwasher in the job description. Rhoda had spoiled him by making sure the place was tidy before she left for the day.

  “Hello?” he called, stepping into the living area. The TV blared Nickelodeon, and a bowl of popcorn sat on the end table. “Calli? Sophie?”

  No one answered. Nick walked toward Sophie’s room, but it too was empty.

  Maybe they were outside. The day had been temperate for mid-January, as was often the case in New Orleans, so maybe Calli wanted to give Sophie some fresh air and sunshine. He’d mentioned doing that periodically because vitamin D was critical to Sophie’s moods. He retraced his steps and headed for the courtyard, pushing open the double french doors.

  When he looked out, he saw his daughter sitting in her wheelchair beside the urn fountain. Water gurgled and splashed on the stones below, and one of her wheels was caught in the grating. Calli, her new caregiver, was nowhere to be seen.

  “Soph?” he called.

  His daughter tried to look behind her. “Dad.”

  He pulled the chair free from the groove where it had hung up. “Where’s Calli?”

  “Don’t know,” his daughter managed.

  “What do you mean, you don’t know? She’s supposed to be with you.”

  “She’s smoking,” Sophie said, her arms spasming more than normal. The child was upset. More so than usual. “I tried to find.”

  Nick felt rage flood him though he tried to mask his emotions. No need to get Sophie more upset. “Come on. Let’s get you inside and I’ll look for her. It’s getting cold out.”

  He pushed Sophie into the house. His daughter was working on getting proficient at manipulating her chair, but sharp turns and small tables were her enemy. A motorized chair wasn’t an option with her lack of muscle control. Seconds later, he settled her with the iPad and the newest book in her favorite series and went to find Calli.

  After searching the whole house, he found the twentysomething with the nose ring and too-tight clothes standing beside her compact car in tears. His first inclination was to grab her and shake some sense into her. But Nick never went with his first inclination. He prided himself in maintaining control.

  Taking a deep breath, he moved so he stood directly in front of her. “Calli, you left Sophie alone in the courtyard. How long has she been there?”

  Calli wiped her nose and sniffed. “Not long. I’m sorry. Just some personal stuff, you know.” Her eyes were red rimmed and her face bore evidence of effusive crying.

  “No, I don’t know. At the moment you’re on my time, and that supersedes personal stuff.”

  Calli brushed a hand over her cheeks, smearing mascara. “I know. It’s just Frank broke up with me. Three effin’ years and he said he doesn’t want t
o do this anymore. He wants to go out with this whore at his bar. I mean, she’s only like eighteen years old. A child. And he ends things with me? He even told this bitch she could move in with him. Do you know how fucked up that is?”

  Nick knew very well how screwed up something like that was, but that was no reason to leave a handicapped child alone. “You have a job. A child who depends on you.”

  Calli looked up, pain mirrored in her eyes. “Man, you’re cold as shit. My boyfriend just dumped me in a text. A fucking text. And you’re upset because your spoiled brat kid had to sit outside for an extra ten minutes while I dealt with this? Did you want her to hear me call him a douchebag cocksucker? ’Cause I could have parked my ass next to her and given her a lesson in how to cuss out a douchebag cocksucker.”

  “That’s enough,” Nick said, crossing his arms, fighting against his fury. His surrender to anger never gained him what he needed from those around him.

  Calli shook her head. “Look, I don’t need this shit. I told her I was stepping outside for a smoke and would be right back. All she was doing was sitting in the courtyard and watching the cat next door stalk bugs. I even put sunscreen on her.” She pushed by him, waving a hand.

  “I’m not done discussing this matter with you, Miss Brayden.”

  “Well, I’m done discussing it with you. This job isn’t for me. Your expectations are too high.”

  Expectations too high? She’d left his daughter on her own. Sure, the courtyard was only a few dozen yards away, but Sophie wasn’t like other kids. She was . . . different. And he was paying Calli to tend to his daughter. Not take smoke breaks out of—well, almost out of earshot—of his daughter. “My expectation is that you have your eye on her at all times. She’s not like other—”

  “Really? Like I didn’t notice,” Calli said, swinging around. Her hair stuck out in five different directions, and the smeared mascara made her overly dramatic as she gestured. “You’re her problem. She’s old enough to sit for a few minutes without her father freaking out. How’s she supposed to grow up and gain independence with you sitting on her? But it doesn’t matter, because I can’t take this job.”