The Chef - James Patterson Page 0,73

Marlene. “I’m glad you’re here, Marlene. It means a lot. If Lucas asked me to join him for a meal with one of his girlfriends, I think I’d jump in front of a streetcar before I said yes.”

“Hmm,” Marlene says. “About that. Can I be honest here for a minute?”

Uh-oh. Believe me, that is never the way you want your ex-wife to start a sentence. I open my mouth to try to stop her, but Vanessa answers first.

“Of course you can,” she says. “Always.”

“When I first realized that Caleb was seeing a married woman, it didn’t sit right with me,” Marlene says, choosing her words well. “Not for any moral reasons. I just don’t want to see my business partner get hurt—unless I’m the one doing it. Sure, he’s tough. Especially when it comes to the fairer sex. But you can dent a cast-iron skillet if you hit it hard enough. Get me?”

Marlene spears a piece of steak on her fork and jabs it in the air for emphasis.

“You’ve proven me wrong, Vanessa,” my ex-wife says. “Whatever happens between you two is none of my business…but y’all have something really nice. I’m happy for you.”

For a moment, I’m speechless. And a little touched.

“That was lovely, Mar,” I say. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you be so…nice.”

“Yeah, well, don’t get used it.”

We all share a little laugh, our first of many this evening.

As dinner continues, I’m pleasantly surprised by how well the three of us are getting along. How charming Vanessa is, given her harrowing ordeal today. How gracious Marlene is, given that…well, she’s Marlene. The two most important women in my life discover a ton of shared interests to bond over, everything from country music out of Nashville, to the New York Yankees, to trashy reality TV like The Real Housewives of Atlanta. By the end of the meal, any tension there might have been between them has vanished.

Once I’ve settled the check, we head outside to the valet stand to wait for our cars. Mine and Marlene’s, that is. Vanessa’s Lexus is in the shop, thanks to today’s violent activities.

“What’s that building over there?” Vanessa asks. “I’ve never noticed it before.”

She’s pointing across the street to an unusual steel and glass structure with a long, plank-like entryway and a triangular trellised metal roof. The architectural style sticks out like Vanessa’s sore thumb from the genteel buildings all around it.

“Oh, that?” I answer with a smile. “It’s the Eiffel Tower.”

“Very funny,” she says. “Look, I know I’m not local, but don’t tease me. Really, what is it?”

Marlene sighs. “Actually, honey, he’s telling the truth.”

Vanessa corkscrews her pretty face, mystified.

“Straight from Paris, France,” I explain. “It used to be a restaurant at the top of the tower. Picasso, Charlie Chaplin, even Hitler—everyone ate there. When it closed in the 1980s, they took it apart, piece by piece. Shipped it over here. Rebuilt it. Now it’s a museum and event space called the Eiffel Society. We should check it out sometime.”

Vanessa shakes her head in awe as she sticks a cigarette between her lips.

“This city never ceases to amaze me.”

“It just goes to show,” I say, plucking the unlit smoke with my thumb and index finger, “that no matter where you come from, or what your past is, you can come to New Orleans and have a second chance. You can be accepted. For who you are.”

I lock eyes with her and hold her gaze.

“Hey, lovebirds, our cars are here,” Marlene calls out, breaking the connection.

“I’d offer you a ride home,” I say, “but I have some work stuff to take care of tonight. And it’s probably best if Lucas and I don’t cross paths.”

Vanessa nods. “I understand. I can get an Uber.”

“No way!” Marlene interrupts. “Vanessa, you’re riding with me. Hop in.”

I watch as these two women, an unlikely friendship now taking shape between them, get into Marlene’s stick-shift Passat and putter off into the night.

Then I go over to my car and hand the valet a twenty-dollar tip. But before I get behind the wheel, I walk behind the trunk and give the top a firm slap.

From the inside come frantic, muffled cries for help.

Angus, the white supremacist piece of human garbage I tackled earlier today, has been tied up in there this whole time.

I can barely suppress a smile as I quietly say, “Let’s go for a little ride.”

Chapter 62

I PULL onto St. Charles Avenue, a wide thoroughfare with two sets of streetcar tracks running down the middle.