The Girl With the Pendant Pearl

By James Pumpelly

When culinary grad Maria Valentino falls in love with French Quarter chef Roman Robideaux, she is torn between honesty and a dark secret: her rape on a Florida beach. But when the rapist appears among Bourbon Street revelers, Maria is confronted with a past that could at any moment destroy what love is promising.

A seductive story of redemption and triumph spiked with Louisiana culture, compelling mystery, and vivid characters, The Girl with the Pendant Pearl is breathtaking, yet complex and unpredictable, a feel-good, historically accurate narrative guaranteed to move you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483578958

Book preview

LX

PROLOGUE

The line between confusion and clarity is a fine one, the length of an instant. Quick as a thought, it’s the sudden awareness of when to stop, the heartbeat between feat and failure, fear and felicity.

Vice and virtue.

Memories can blur an instant; time, like the western horizon, blurring to a purple bruise as Maria stands alone on the high-rise balcony, the party pulsing behind her as remote and unfathomed as the treachery of darkness.

So, this is what my classmates do on spring break, she muses, a trifling dismay parting her lips, a sigh, the trace of a smile, If only they knew why I came…if only.

Memories emerge from an orphan’s trove of haunting moments - the tragic night a six-year-old learns of her parents’ death; Maria and her older sister Aubrey swept away like leaves in a fall breeze. Wrested from their Cajun roots and transplanted in Philadelphia, a doting spinster aunt considers their move north a move up - the recollections erasing her smile, the longing for home moistening her lashes, her moon-caught eyes.

I made the trip to be near the Gulf, to take in the salt air…to remember…to remember New Orleans, after a dozen years - years like chosen seeds awaiting their native soil. Now, at nineteen, I’m back on a Panhandle beach; the same beach Daddy brought me to the summer before he died.

Far below, the sun-brightened sand is fading to nightshades of gray, the crescent moon shedding silver enough to gild the cresting waves, their tidal dance like Gypsy skirts swishing advance and retreat. Advance and retreat…tears of the lost streaming back to shore, a lament as woeful as the lack of alarm the instant a thought leaps to action: Beware! Consider the consequence of your deed! But there is only the beckoning beach, the argentine waves, the hypnotic tides, the enchantment of moonlight and memories.

Wraith-like, she passes through the party untouched, the glass-paneled elevator a mirrored past, Maria becoming the little girl who once spent a week here with family. Out on the beach, she removes her shoes; the sun’s remembrance in the sand like the warmth of her daddy’s hand, a safety no harm can challenge. The redolence of adventure beguiles the fecund, salty scent of cavernous depths, of marooned starfish, of magical shells roaring like the waves in her ear. The damp Gulf breeze thickens her mahogany hair. Her toes trace the froth on the tide. The sea-drenched sand sinks beneath her shoeless feet as she slips from her daddy’s grasp to chase the flitting sandpipers. How comical their startled flight, their race with the surf, only the sand being immersed holding promise. Despite her youth, she understands - like nosing a blossom before nightfall wilts it shut; her innocence yet to connect the allure of the flower with the sting of the bee.

Or scents with danger….

From the darkness comes the strident odor of lighter fluid, the flash of a charcoal fire silhouetting an eerie diorama against a scrim of stars: the frightening form of a man.

Memories vanish, as does the little girl…and her daddy’s hand.

I’ve gone too far! Maria gasps, the high-rise pale and minuscule in the distance. For an instant - the line between confusion and clarity - she pauses, considering her options.

She has none, the sea-drenched sand sinking beneath her shoeless feet as she runs, terror thudding ever closer behind her -

The memory will roar for years.

What I recall most about that night is my mother’s laughter - musical, like glitter in darkness, or moonbeams dappling the hyacinths on the bayou behind our house - the excitement in her voice, as she calls my name:

Ro-Ro? Ro-Ro, where are you, child?

Mother abridges Roman Robideaux when no one else is near. I’m still her Tee-Roman (Cajun French for petite Roman), an endearing diminutive since my father’s demise, Roman Sr. bequeathing us the kind of sudden maturity a hard frost gives to apples, strengthening our resolve to live, to succeed. Tonight’s impromptu celebration is another benchmark in our quest.

From several dozen aspiring, second-year culinary students, I’ve won an internship at The Court of Three Chefs, one of the French Quarter’s premier restaurants. I’ll begin as a sous-chef, earning, upon graduation, the esteemed opportunity to be hired as a chef, a chance my mother calls a certainty. Oh, to have her faith!

Ro-Ro? She summons, peering through the trellised honeysuckle sheltering our pillared gallery.

I’m firing the grill, the whoosh of ignition directing her gaze to my moon-shadowed figure beneath the massive limbs of our live oak. Why don’t you go back inside? Make us a couple of cafes au lait, while the briquettes ignite. I’ll be right behind you.

What a crazy time to start work, I think, my tongs bringing order to the chaos of charcoal piled in my grill. Spring break inundates the Quarter…causes confusion…and confusion is rarely instructive.

A safe hour west of the imagined insanity, I turn my thoughts to home, my charming evening dressed in royal blue, shades of magenta and mango in her western hem, a brocade scarf, silvered with stars, tossed about her shoulders, the gleam of her crescent brooch silvering the bayou beside me.

How did this happen? Why did this seminal moment choose me, a Cajun boy on Bayou Teche? I ask my lovely guest, a passing cloud stopping by to powder her palish cheeks.

Passion! her silent reply a complicit wink.

Perhaps she’s right, I allow, in my breast a yearning to express not to be denied; for where ambition makes informed choices, passion does not. Like windowed candles for the fainting heart, my passion for food has lighted my path through a four-year degree, and on to culinary school.

Thomas Jefferson listed his passions as my family, my farm, my books, and books are my noble friends as well: companions by flashlight when Mother called lights out! Books comprise a knightly order of formative discipline touching the sword to my shoulders. I haven’t fingers enough on both hands to count the nights a hardbound classic saved me from some trouble my carousing classmates encountered; and once, the scorn of a girl. Well…almost. At least it took my hand and led me past it.

My grill sighs, a column of smoke standing up to question.

Yes…yes, I mumble, brushing smoke-words from my eyes, I hear what you’re saying, the willows soughing the bayou’s song.

I turn, the better to follow the willows brushing across the sky. Jade on navy.

Peace, the willows breathe, peace, peace, the day’s hard edges fading away, the night nebulous and feathery, as I imagine a girl sharing my transport, craving my kiss, her warm skin hungry for my touch.

Moving clouds stop. Solid earth moves. Two hearts lean closer - neither aware of the other.

This is how I remember the night of six years past; the night the crescent moon let down her silver lines to listen. Little did I know, then, what horrors she was hearing.

I latch the wrought iron door of the elevator and levitate to the third-floor balcony, leaving the deserted courtyard beneath me. Another day, another satisfaction to note in my imaginary journal, Roman Robideaux’s Secrets to a Happy Life. Six years I’ve worked here: one as an intern, five as a chef, and four as a third-floor resident; the ornate elevator, nick-named the parrot cage, like C.S. Lewis’s door in the wardrobe, a magical passageway between worlds so disparate, yet so near.

Following the burgundy carpet-runner to my apartment, I’m reminded of Mr. Lewis’s The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, looking down on the courtyard’s panoply of plants like meandering in the land of Narnia. Or perhaps it’s the skeleton key I’m fingering on my key fob, or the ponderous oak door guarding my secret world, either one anachronistic in the silicon-slimness of modern life.

Coming home is always transcendental, a complete remove from the clamorous courtyard and boisterous bars below. I smile at the brass knocker and nameplate the restaurant owners installed on my carved oak door the Christmas after I moved in. Chef Roman Robideaux, it reads, and under my name, in larger letters (as though the description carries gravitas), Private Quarters. In four years, no uninvited visitor has banged the knocker. Ask and it shall be given. Knock and it shall be opened. But ask first.

Home is where comforts live - coddling idiosyncrasies like playing Coltrane at performance volume. Or sipping sweet mint tea from a chipped Mason jar. Or sitting Yoga-still, eyes closed, submerged in Handel’s Water Music. Or curling up in my maroon, English leather wingback with Virgil’s Aeneid or Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley; or, when feeling passé from overexposure to dead authors, a current fiction bestseller. And tonight, in preparation for such idyllic delights, I’ve taken one of my favorite, post-work excursions: a jaunt through Rue Bourbon’s pixilated throng. For a moment, I pause a few feet from my door, reliving the pleasure-

Ambling along the near side of St. Louis Cathedral, past Jackson Square and across Decatur Street, I proceed to the exquisitely addictive Cafe Du Monde. I quickly secure, by merit of being a Vieux Carre chef, a table for two in the pavilion. (Taking my walk before returning to my apartment, I’m still wearing my white, double-breasted jacket and black, pinstripe pants.)

Cafe Du Monde’s pavilion provides a one-act play, in medias res, with every string on Nature’s harp put to the plectrum: discordant plucks and romantic arpeggios, familial harmony and drunken mirth; and the occasional mumbling existentialist questioning it all. To this conundrum, add the distraction of hot beignets, stippled with confectioner’s sugar, and a tar-black, steaming cup of dark roast coffee (or perhaps the tamer cafe au lait). White-plate simple, ambrosia exotic: puff a little sugar, blow a little steam, and voila! Heaven’s gates!

If the wait is torturous (and because I command a table for two), my quixotic waiter may, with permission, acquaint me with a visiting Tyrolean Burgermeister, or an awe-struck Wyoming widow; either addition culturally broadening.

The night is miraculous, in the biblical sense: in the steam of my second coffee, an angelic apparition appears, a vision of the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. I am certain I’ve seen her before - last summer, sitting under the moss-draped cypress in our courtyard, the momentous glimpse becoming the nonpareil of my dreams, the polestar hanging in my loneliness like the pendant pearl she’s wearing.

Now, here she is again! I do what seems prudent to wrest this second chance from mayhem’s maw, rubbing my eyes, gulping ice water to cool my nerves, checking for sugar dust on my cheeks and chin and employing the full benefit of my six-foot-three-inch frame to gaze at General Jackson’s equestrian statue in the square across Decatur Street. The general’s my landmark. I’ve been staring at his likeness, sipping my java, when, out of the corner of my eye, I espy the lady of my dreams. This time, however, despite standing up, I find only the general. I’ve never thought him handsome…and, if there is one thing I’ve learned: if you’ve nothing to say, it’s best not to say it. (So much for the general.)

With skeleton key at the ready and the ghost of my unexpected delight lost in the mist from which it sprang, I approach my door. After such an encounter, it’s reassuring to address something solid. My door is solid. Not so the rhomboid of moonlight streaming through the kitchen window, shimmering across the wavy glass of my barrister bookcase. Ghost notwithstanding, moonshine casts a convincing simulacrum of the pendant pearl.

Aware of a chill down my back, the kind you get when you inexplicably complete a stranger’s sentence, I stand motionless in the doorway, my apartment dark, except for the pearlescent moonlight across the antique glass. I think again of the vision. Somehow, the darkness helps, or the auguring moon, and I envision her once more, her hazel eyes luminous with joy, her focus on a small boy sitting opposite her. She is speaking to the child, the rim of her coffee cup pressed against her bottom lip, the breath of her words puffing wisps of steam. Then, she’s smiling - the cup out of sight - a smile thrilling the beholder. A whole body smile. A smile making me wish she were tasting one of my Cajun creations.

I challenge the memory: I ready myself for advantage…only to discover she isn’t there? I recall the pearl. But there’s much in the remembered moment unlike the summer before. The child, for instance. And the smile. I will believe in her smile forever.

I step inside, shutting the thick oak door behind me. My eyes adjust, and though I can see by the gleaming moonlight, I’m disquieted; fearful I might dispel the clarity of the memory by switching on the living room floor lamp. There is only one thing to do: set the memory to music. Congenitally organized, I know where to reach. By the ambient glow of my surround-sound controls, I insert a disc. Beethoven’s Opus 27, Number 2.

The Moonlight Sonata.

Collapsing in my favorite wingback, I wish I hadn’t downed that second cup. I want back inside my dream.

Morning arrives with punctilious precision, my Keurig burbling a steaming cup of Big Easy dark roast; the kitchen window turning pink with promise, the edges of a few nacreous clouds beginning to crisp and burn as the eastern sky catches fire. Oh joy of joys, I muse, savoring my kick-start java, another day of fun in the kitchen. Sleep-groggy, my pleasant dreams are fading behind a rising curtain of urgency: I recall my sous chef, Joanne Chop-Chop Leblanc, requested the day off. A relative’s funeral - a distant relative, I surmise, since she drove to Alabama - which means I must do the prep for my plat du jour gumbo. The recollection startles me, one hand revolving the K-cup dispenser in desperate jerks until I spot the fix: Sumatra Super Bold. It’s going to be an international kind of day.

From the parrot cage, I check off my proofs of purchase, the presence of certain personnel marking time with the certainty of a sundial on a cloudless day. From three floors up, Ida LeBlue’s short, ample figure appears fireplug stout as she snakes a garden hose through the courtyard. Every sunrise finds her spraying ornamentals and climbing vines in a pattern of movement formulated years before my arrival. Her husband Fred is of like stature, but any similarity ends there. Unlike Ida’s double-adjective bonhomie, Fred is withdrawn, preoccupied with abstruse quandaries, like the infinite metrical sizes peculiar to monkey wrenches. Sometimes, Fred can look puzzled to be still free of the tomb. Where Ida is often mistaken but never uncertain, Fred trudges along one thought short of a conclusion. Such ambiguity makes him the restaurant’s expert one-man maintenance department. He doesn’t take chances - which comforts me (the middle-aged couple occupies a third-floor apartment opposite mine). At the moment, he’s piloting a Clark hydraulic lift, second-guessing which light bulbs will expire, in the netting under the Plexiglas roof, before his next scheduled flight. With Fred high in the sky, and Ida puddling the flagstones, I’m part of the team, my elevator parting space like a zipper, as I sink to the courtyard below. Exiting the cage, I experience the kind of relief one feels when stepping out of a tight-fitting garment - which is why I’m taken aback to step in a pool of water:

Ida, your hose is leaking! I snap, more in surprise than irritation - the kind forgetting itself.

Fred must’ve run over it, she chirps, pointing her spray nozzle heavenward, an ephemeral rainbow prompting mercy. He’s dangerous when he’s high, the innocuous afterthought mitigating her accusation.

Should be a sign in the bars, I spoof. Warning: Men Can Be Dangerous When High.

Fred don’t drink, she reminds me, giving a redemptive but rueful hitch of her thumb at the roof, …never has.

Because he never came to that conclusion, I think, stooping to tighten the leaking connection.

I’ll sweep the water towards the nearest drain, Ida’s merry voice giving the illusion the perpetual cleft squeezed between her big gray eyes has disappeared.

Seen Vic? finding purchase on a dry flagstone, I stamp my safety shoes dry.

Seen Mr. Palermo go that-a-way, clutchin’ a styro. Should be in the kitchen. Pleased with her structured life, she nods towards the French doors ajar along the opposite cloister. …Right where he ought-a-be.

Mumbling thanks, I make my way across the courtyard like a book-chapter epigraph: vaguely relevant. But entering the kitchen, I segue from vaguely relevant to critically imperative. The ever buoyant, wise-cracking Victor Palermo - another of my fellow chefs - appearing crestfallen (euphemism for devastated). It’s nothing he says; in fact, he says nothing, his appearance screaming angst: yesterday’s five o’clock shadow casting shadows of its own, his half-lidded, puppy-dog brown eyes tear-streaked red. Even his nose, too thin for his round, florid face, now bulbous, nostrils flared and livid from tissue burn. Of average height and pasta-bellied, Vic carries his fifty years like an ex-pugilist allowing his speed bag to leave him in the dust. Only his trim mustache and slicked-back, salt-and-pepper hair give evidence of care. The dimples in the lobes of his ears are missing, while the cleft in his chin seems deeper. Perhaps the dimples play with laughter? I can’t be sure. He isn’t laughing. Without his lyrical, tenor voice coloring our morning, everyone’s aware Victor Palermo has lost some part of himself. I know I have.

Where’s Mark? And Helena…is she coming in? my questions rhetorical - I’m both the restaurant and personnel manager - uniformed employees continuing their lunch prep in silent response. Our third chef, Mark Collins, will be in for our weekly meeting with the owners, Jack Theriot and his wife, Helena; but I ask aloud for a reason: a failing effort to breach Vic’s discontent.

I phoned Helena, Victor approaching, his styrofoam cup raised in a gesture of mea culpa, she’s coming in to cover for me today. I-I know…I should’ve called you first…should’ve followed protocol.

Not to worry…. I bite my lips with the candor of concern, whispering, You under the weather, Vic? my attempt at privacy futile, speaking under your breath amidst the cacophony of banging cleavers, chopping knives, grating slicers, lettuce spinners, nutcrackers and pot washers like muttering into the east wind of a hurricane. Vic must read my lips, his eyes shifting, looking off into the middle distance as though assembling a story at the moment of telling.

The entire city’s six feet under, he shoots back, his distant stare retracting to the colanders of rinsed celery stalks, seeded green peppers and peeled white onions I retrieved from a vegetable cooler.

I wasn’t referencing sea level, I banter, honing my knife on a wood-handled sharpener. I meant-

I know what you meant; but I don’t need a jury to decide my fate. Jerking his head towards the noisemakers, he rolls his eyes indicatively. If it weren’t for his obvious disconsolation, I would laugh. His half-lidded eye-roll is like going comatose. All you notice is the whites of the eyes, like alligator garfish rolling over under the hyacinths in the bayou. I begin chopping celery, sliding the severed portions into a pile.

Want to go somewhere? I query, juggling suspicious thoughts about Chop-Chop’s relative - the one reaching from the coffin to interfere with my morning. No one’s in either bar, I venture, opening time more than two hours distant.

No thanks…I’m tight, a sip of air from his empty mug like a prop in a stage play. Got it together, he adds, compounding the lie. If you wanna chat, I’ll be home tomorrow. All day. Anytime.

Lawd willin’ an de crick don’t rise, I crack, assembling another log of celery stalks. It’s clear I don’t need an appointment.

That’s not Cajun, the trace of an ear dimple appearing, that’s redneck..and a cliche, too. Attempting a crush of his cup, he misses the bin with his toss. Where’s the help when you need ‘em? he fusses, bending to pick up the cup.

Another cliche, I think, hiding a simper; but Vic’s right about waiting to talk. A problem aged can be a problem solved. Sometimes, delay brings resolution. Regardless, I know where I’ll be tomorrow.

May I ask you something unrelated? I pretend the same nonchalance he’s feigning.

A flicker of the old Victor passes over his face, his kind eyes opening to their full, half-lidded indolence. Shoot…. A weary sigh escaping as he leans against the end of my stainless prep table.

Okay, why would a wealthy man work five, sometimes six days a week to earn less than a pittance of his investment returns? Why, when he could live the good life? Spend those workweeks in ways of which others can only dream?

Vic answers with some of the passion I’m hoping to stir:

You know…, he pauses, crafting his response, it’s normal, even expected, that every mother’s child will suffer some form of tragedy. The only question is how: an ill-fated romance? A debilitating accident? A wrong choice? But what makes the hero is the ability to recover, new energy suffusing his expressions. Born to wealth, I knew early on my privilege was not of my doing. I hadn’t made a choice warranting my life of ease. I wanted to sweat responsibility…feel the pain of failure, the joy of success. And since the art of cooking interested me, I decided to study, to hone any natural ability I might have to its optimum performance…preserve my Italian heritage.

I can always tell when Victor Palermo has something profound to say. He’ll moisten his lips, preparing for facile elocution; or, he’ll dig out a silence, expecting me to fill it until he’s ready - surprising dexterity from the bear of a man who can make a hot toddy soothe like a Chopin nocturne.

There’s never been a day when I haven’t felt rewarded, he continues, and reward, Roman, by definition, is something you earn. My whimsical choice would prove to be determinate. What more can a man desire? More wealth? No. The answer is always happiness, the satisfaction a man gains in knowing he’s done his best. And best, for me, is cooking.

I’m on to the peppers, now - and on to him. Whatever his problem, it’s unrelated to work. Until the morrow, the best I can do is keep him focused on accomplishments.

In culinary school, I reply, one of my mentors taught, ‘In the magic of cooking, there can be no assistant hiding behind the curtain. In fact, there can’t even be a curtain. Once you commit - like, say, tip a teaspoon of Tabasco into your sauce - there’s no going back.’

Victor nods agreement, standing erect at my work table, poised to act out the discourse. Food is another way to touch someone, he posits, gesticulating like only Italians do, whether it be affection, empathy, or merely a duty fulfilled, it has the intended effect, if properly prepared and presented. People see and feel with all five senses, taste and smell as important as a caress when judged by emotional response. A recent study confirmed a quick touch on the arm of a blindfolded stranger can impart specific emotions: love, sympathy…fear, disgust. The reactions to touch were found to be as accurate as facial expressions or spoken words. Like smiles and frowns, the sensory language is universal.

You’re always enlightening, Victor. I smile at my success in engaging his prehensile mind, I have much to learn from you.

Likewise, he responds, folding his arms, then letting them drop in readiness for comment. We both want our patrons to ‘Feel the love’.

Emeril? I prompt.

You know it! And science lends credence to his mantra. The same brain cells responding to the warmth of sunshine also rush to action at the touch of a loved one. As I said, a touch is registered by all five senses.

You could say the same about music, I add, thinking how a song can prompt memories.

Louisiana’s late governor Jimmy Davis must’ve been aware of the connection, Vic surmises, "…or at least suspected it when he penned You Are My Sunshine."

Could’ve, I agree, reaching for the onions. But back to food, a waitperson can enhance the diner’s experience by a single touch. Exhaustive research has proven the briefest, lightest brush on the arm or shoulder of a patron can increase the tip. Why? Because the whole dining experience takes on the emotion of intimacy, of trust, of mutual satisfaction, all of which begins, like you say, in the kitchen.

Victor steps back. (I think it’s the onions.)

Sometimes, I imagine: if food were a painting, I would be Rubens.

Rubens? Victor guffaws, the hearty nostrum he needs.

Yes, I persist, driving my point. His subjects appear to be comfortable with him, reclining in postures of, shall we say, intimate acceptance. They have the physiques of gourmands and Rubens seems bent on proving it.

Victor considers the image for a moment. Cooking and eating are emotional events. Most people regard emotion as the essence of the moment. It isn’t. Thought is the consummate orchestrator, the creator, the administrator of the moment, and emotion is the reaction. In other words, emotion is secondary. First, the thought, the idea of a dish, the recipe, the sum of its parts and their effect on the whole; then comes the satisfaction of preparing it. Understanding this puts you in touch with ‘touching,’ your thoughts find expression in the loved one’s eyes or the patron’s gasp of surprise and pleasure.

Rubens does it again! I exclaim.

Victor laughs for the second time, his usual, uproarious laugh, a thing huge and irrepressible. Ah, yes! he cries, it’s the art…the incalculable things of life…the pearl of great price.

The pearl? Vic’s metaphor bearing me aloft -

I see her again, her pendant pearl like moonlight in my dreams.

Three centuries have elapsed since Bienville selected a bend on the Mississippi for a settlement, the river’s decisive curve giving New Orleans its famous Crescent City sobriquet. But fame is diminished, even demeaned in the fettering humidity of this hot and listless Monday, the swelter scurrying tourists back to hotels, to resuscitating showers, to the refreshment of dry clothes, and to a plethora of air-conditioned clubs and bars for the iced relief coaxed from cocktails.

Mondays - the slowest days of summer for The Court of Three Chefs - bring intermittent respites from eager-voiced diners, the last lull of this torrid afternoon further emptying the courtyard. Only the purposed remain, their collective resolve disrupted by a five-year-old, wonder-eyed boy:

Where’s the man who tells the shrimp story, Aunt Maria? the child’s shrill voice obtruding into the hum of discourse.

He may not be here today, Maria tousling his white-blond hair, her hushed reply in deference to nearby patrons - their attention, summoned by the boy, devolving to her striking beauty. Demure in a white linen décolletage, there is nothing of the gaudy to distract from her classic features: mahogany-colored hair swept back in a high chignon, hazel eyes widening as if she’s chanced upon something long desired. Have patience, Brent…we shall see, one hand at her pendant pearl, her voice breathy, mellifluous, evoking at once the angelic and the femme fatale.

Momma says kids don’t show much patience, Brent surveying the courtyard for a male who might measure to his fairy tale expectancy.

I can well imagine Aubrey’s claim, a slight dismay darkening Maria’s olive cheeks, the sudden quiet alerting her to curious stares. We’ll learn soon enough if our storyteller’s here.

Pardon me, ma’am…but are you looking for Roman Robideaux? the handsome young waiter approaching with casual authority, his demeanor affable, black eyes bright with awe. Is your storyteller one of our chefs, perhaps? Apparent to all - save the twenty-something beauty before him - the waiter’s less-than-ordinary afternoon is soaring to superlatives.

I-I think so…he’s tall, with curly, chestnut hair and emerald eyes, Maria’s dreamy smile suggesting her delight with the vision, eyes closing to focus the memory. He walks with confidence, as though…as though departing unscathed from where others dare not venture.

Hmmm. Curly hair. Purposed stride. Manly valor. The black-haired waiter pleased to note Maria’s almond-shaped eyes are reading the nameplate affixed to his jacket. Gotta be Roman…Chef Roman Robideaux - curly, light brown hair; always happy and eager to share it. Even good with a story, if one has the time. But as to his bravery? an impish grin, a quick glance at Maria’s upturned eyes, a trait I fear I’m ignorant of; though I’d be amazed if Chef Roman lacks the temerity to come out here and make your acquaintance, Mrs…..

Miss, Maria corrects. Miss Maria Valentino; and this is my nephew, Brent Beaumont. I promised him a treat for his fifth birthday. A memorable gift, wouldn’t you agree? The best of New Orleans served under an ancient cypress.

Perfection, the waiter concurs, filling their water goblets. You said ‘ancient,’ which is true, the one you’re sitting under set in concrete, a virtual relic of history. In fact, some of the cypress trees in the Atchafalaya Swamp were a mere two centuries old when King John was sweating over the Magna Carta at Runnymede. Her smile giving him pause. Ahhh…you look like someone who’d be familiar with history…with conquerors and kings. With famous chefs. When I return to the kitchen, I’ll make Chef Robideaux aware of his fan club - and of your birthday, Brent. What’s your favorite dish, mac-n-cheese?

Shrimp! Brent exclaims, grinning toothily, and what’s your name, suh?

Clifford. Interjecting, Maria assures the waiter of his part in the celebration. Are you of French descent, Clifford?

Native American. Houma tribe. The tribe whose bloody pelts were hanging on the territorial stick when Bienville discovered them - named his fort Baton Rouge, French for ‘Red Stick’ - but you knew that, too, didn’t you.

A real Indian! Brent cries - laughter rippling through the courtyard.

Yes, the waiter redeemed by the boy’s admiration, but I don’t ride ponies. I wrestle alligators. Got one here, today, if you want to try a few bites.

Boy howdy! Yes, suh. I’ll try the alligatuh, please.

The Sprawlin’ N’awlins shrimp appetizer, for me. Batting her long lashes, Maria’s smile is not one for a camera - nor the ingratiating, false smile of one wishing to please - but a radiance, sublime and engaging. I’ll leave the alligator to Brent’s curiosity-

And leave yours to- Clifford cuts in, with a flirtatious wink, before better judgment prevails. I’ll-I’ll tell Chef Roman you’re here, he sputters, wheeling for the enfilade of French doors splayed along the lamp-lighted cloister.

The Court of Three Chefs is Maria’s apotheosis of Cajun cuisine, the gas-lanterned cloister and flagstone courtyard spawning the quixotic, her visit the summer before compelling her to stop in New Orleans, on her way to a Houston interview. In her memory, the old landmark waves like a pennant from the halyard of a privateer, an adventure daring enjoyment; that her sister lives in the Garden District but a cover for the whole affair. Reliving the memory with caught breath delight, she has followed the white-jacketed maitre d’ to her requested table, its starched linen napery and candlelit place settings diminutive under the moss-draped cypress. Ubiquitous clay pots overspill with exotics - green fronded banana plants, blue and orange bird-of-paradise, crimson love-lies-bleeding, purple and brown aspidistra - and green-leaved philodendron entwine the old cypress trunk. For one supreme moment, she takes it all in, holding her remembered pattern against the current scene: a palimpsest of imagined romance enhanced by an old world ambiance.

Reared by her spinster great-aunt, Maria’s formative years fostered a reluctance to concede to anyone or anything save academics, the pursuit of knowledge the least likely to fail her. Hungry for all things southern, her sister