She tossed a glance at Eleanor, who’d stood beside him, oddly silent.
“Yeah. Tre came by and I pretty much forced him to come, using cookies as bribery,” Eleanor said with a smile, though her eyes searched past Pansy and Eddie. Probably looking for her daughter.
Pansy smiled down at the ten-year-old, who Tre suspected was already on his second cookie. His brother was a pro at sneaking things and working people—his smoothness scared Tre at times. “Have as many as you want, Shorty D. In fact, I have a bunch more in the back and I’ll send a bag home with you.”
Shorty D wiggled his eyebrows. “Now, that’s what I’m talkin’ about.”
Pansy laughed and turned to Eleanor. “So I saw Blakely arrive with Dez.”
Pansy said it like a question.
“Yeah. I had no idea she was coming in for the whole Mardi Gras weekend. The last time I talked to her, she’d pleaded to being ‘so over’ the parade thing. But here she is, bringing sorority sisters with her.”
Pansy’s eyes narrowed and some unsaid communication obviously occurred between the two women. Tre suspected it was over Dez Batiste.
Tre knew Dez from the Second Line Players. When Tre was in middle school, he’d participated in the program and Dez had been the one to place Tre on the list that helped him get a scholarship to St. Augustine, enabling him to attend the historic African-American Catholic school and participate in the Marching 100, the famed New Orleans marching band. With its precision, discipline and support, the band stamped its mark on Tre. The principles he’d learned at the school stuck with him, keeping him strong when the wind blew him near to the ground. But things had been so bad lately, he wasn’t sure he could hold out against the life he could lead, a life that would buy bread, new shoes and respect in his hood. He’d wanted more for Shorty D. More for himself, but things weren’t working.
Dez had been a shining star for him years ago. A man who, though he didn’t look black, was the son of a racially mixed father and Cuban mother. He’d been raised several streets away from the projects where Tre had scratched out an existence. Dez hadn’t gone to St. Augustine; instead he’d attended Ben Franklin and the NOCCA program for the arts. But once Dez had experienced success, he hadn’t turned away from his roots. He hadn’t turned his back on boys he could help in his hood—Dez had been cool like that.
But for some reason Tre didn’t want to run into Dez now.
He wasn’t sure why. Maybe he was embarrassed he no longer played the sax. Maybe he didn’t want to come across as some punk who barely made a living moving furniture and went grocery shopping with food stamps. Shame engulfed him, and his pride was hard to swallow when confronted with a man who’d beaten down obstacles and hammered out a future on the very instrument he loved. Something Tre couldn’t do ’cause he had sold his horn and had to support two kids who weren’t even his.
A few people shuffled around the exhibits mounted on tall white rectangles, and suddenly Dez was in his line of sight, standing near a fine blonde girl that could only be Eleanor’s daughter, Blakely.
Dez and Blakely looked good together. His golden skin offsetting her lightness. His hardness emphasizing her softness.
“Eleanor,” Dez said, coming over. Tre hadn’t seen Dez since his freshman year at St. Aug, and the man looked different. He hadn’t lost his swag, but he looked as though life had given him a few licks. Shit, that bitch Katrina had given them all a few blows, leaving them dizzy, broken and feeling around on the worn earth for some traction.
Blakely was fine, that was for sure. But she looked like every rich chick he’d ever seen. Shoulders straight, hair down her back with a sort of eat shit and die attitude that a brother couldn’t touch. But she was a dime—perfect ten.
“Hey, Mom. Took you so long I was starting to worry you’d already taken up old-lady driving,” Blakely said with a sassy smile. On the surface, the words sounded teasing, but there was an edge to her tone, a sort of I’ll show you.
Made him wonder about Blakely.
About why she felt threatened by her mother.
Then Eleanor glanced at Dez and something fired between them. Then Tre knew. Dez didn’t want Blakely. He wanted Eleanor.