ended up at the wrong end of a policewoman's gun.
Teensy advanced on Meg, her drink forgotten in her maternal rage. "How dare you say such a thing!" She raced over, stabbing her finger towards Meg. "My baby was a victim. He did nothing to get himself in trouble. Why, I don't know who you think you are, but you're not welcome here at all. Just get your things and get out!" She stamped her foot, then glared at Parker. "You, get her coat and call her a cab. Or have Horton do it." She broke into a sob and Dr. Prejean moved over to her, his arm wrapped tight around her shoulders, crooning words of comfort.
Parker stood his ground.
So did Meg.
Then she turned on him. Sotto voce, she said, "Did you make up that story you told me?" Her eyes were wide and large and full of unshed tears.
Parker shook his head. "I told you the truth," he said softly.
She faced the others. "I'm Jules's widow and I'm not going anywhere."
Aunt Mathilde had raised her eyepiece and was studying Meg as if she'd discovered a cockroach on her chandelier. Amelia Anne had retreated to the chair opposite that of her daughter's. Isolde hadn't bothered to glance up. Kinky was looking highly amused and was no doubt about to escape himself, off to score whatever his drug of the moment happened to be.
Teensy lifted her face from where she'd buried it against Dr. Prejean's chest. In a voice that shook, she said, "I asked you to leave!"
Meg looked from her mother-in-law back to Parker. Parker found himself shaking his head in the negative, and wondering at the same time why he did so.
"Of course she's not going anywhere!"
Once more, everyone turned toward the doorway. Framed within the archway sat Grandfather Ponthier, his hands poised on the power controls of his rather souped-up wheelchair.
"Who is that?" Meg asked the question.
Parker smiled. "Grandfather Ponthier," he said. "He always did have a great sense of timing."
Five
A great sense of timing? Meg had to smother a hys terical giggle. She stared at the wisp of a man advancing on her in a wheelchair. His body looked shrunken, but the masterful way he held his head signaled Meg that here was a man used to being in charge.
“Well, you've got more sense than CeCe or Marianne, I'll give you that," he said as he braked to a stop next to her and Parker, who remained by her side.
Very much used to being in charge. Meg smiled and the old man glanced sharply at her.
"Grandfather," Parker said, "may I introduce—"
"You think you have to tell me what goes on in this house?" He fixed Meg with one eye. The other remained half-hidden behind a drooping eyelid. With the good eye, he winked.
Meg decided instinctively to accept the wink for the friendly gesture it was and ignore the bark. What the heck? If she misjudged him, he'd only snap her head off. After jumping feet first into this misadventure, she might as well shoulder her way through it.
Winking back, she said, "Why, then you know my name is Margaret, but call me Meg, please!"
The old man nodded. Shooting a glance at Parker, he said, "Couldn't help but hear what with Teensy carrying on to wake the dead. So, Meg, what brings you to New Orleans?"
Meg involuntarily exchanged a look with Parker, who was looking just as surprised at his grandfather's question. Why say he knew everything that went on in the house and then ask that question?
Parker lifted one shoulder slightly and Meg figured she was on her own. "Jules brought me," she said. "As I'm sure you know."
He laughed. "Oh-ho, you're no shrinking violet." He slapped his knee with his right hand. Meg noticed his left one lay in his lap, unmoving. That was the same side of his body as the eye that drooped. A stroke for this powerful man must be very hard to bear. Considering that made any strong words much easier for her to accept. Much easier than the coldness of the stone-faced Mathilde, who'd approached them, her grown daughter in tow.
"He may or may not have
Teensy advanced on Meg, her drink forgotten in her maternal rage. "How dare you say such a thing!" She raced over, stabbing her finger towards Meg. "My baby was a victim. He did nothing to get himself in trouble. Why, I don't know who you think you are, but you're not welcome here at all. Just get your things and get out!" She stamped her foot, then glared at Parker. "You, get her coat and call her a cab. Or have Horton do it." She broke into a sob and Dr. Prejean moved over to her, his arm wrapped tight around her shoulders, crooning words of comfort.
Parker stood his ground.
So did Meg.
Then she turned on him. Sotto voce, she said, "Did you make up that story you told me?" Her eyes were wide and large and full of unshed tears.
Parker shook his head. "I told you the truth," he said softly.
She faced the others. "I'm Jules's widow and I'm not going anywhere."
Aunt Mathilde had raised her eyepiece and was studying Meg as if she'd discovered a cockroach on her chandelier. Amelia Anne had retreated to the chair opposite that of her daughter's. Isolde hadn't bothered to glance up. Kinky was looking highly amused and was no doubt about to escape himself, off to score whatever his drug of the moment happened to be.
Teensy lifted her face from where she'd buried it against Dr. Prejean's chest. In a voice that shook, she said, "I asked you to leave!"
Meg looked from her mother-in-law back to Parker. Parker found himself shaking his head in the negative, and wondering at the same time why he did so.
"Of course she's not going anywhere!"
Once more, everyone turned toward the doorway. Framed within the archway sat Grandfather Ponthier, his hands poised on the power controls of his rather souped-up wheelchair.
"Who is that?" Meg asked the question.
Parker smiled. "Grandfather Ponthier," he said. "He always did have a great sense of timing."
Five
A great sense of timing? Meg had to smother a hys terical giggle. She stared at the wisp of a man advancing on her in a wheelchair. His body looked shrunken, but the masterful way he held his head signaled Meg that here was a man used to being in charge.
“Well, you've got more sense than CeCe or Marianne, I'll give you that," he said as he braked to a stop next to her and Parker, who remained by her side.
Very much used to being in charge. Meg smiled and the old man glanced sharply at her.
"Grandfather," Parker said, "may I introduce—"
"You think you have to tell me what goes on in this house?" He fixed Meg with one eye. The other remained half-hidden behind a drooping eyelid. With the good eye, he winked.
Meg decided instinctively to accept the wink for the friendly gesture it was and ignore the bark. What the heck? If she misjudged him, he'd only snap her head off. After jumping feet first into this misadventure, she might as well shoulder her way through it.
Winking back, she said, "Why, then you know my name is Margaret, but call me Meg, please!"
The old man nodded. Shooting a glance at Parker, he said, "Couldn't help but hear what with Teensy carrying on to wake the dead. So, Meg, what brings you to New Orleans?"
Meg involuntarily exchanged a look with Parker, who was looking just as surprised at his grandfather's question. Why say he knew everything that went on in the house and then ask that question?
Parker lifted one shoulder slightly and Meg figured she was on her own. "Jules brought me," she said. "As I'm sure you know."
He laughed. "Oh-ho, you're no shrinking violet." He slapped his knee with his right hand. Meg noticed his left one lay in his lap, unmoving. That was the same side of his body as the eye that drooped. A stroke for this powerful man must be very hard to bear. Considering that made any strong words much easier for her to accept. Much easier than the coldness of the stone-faced Mathilde, who'd approached them, her grown daughter in tow.
"He may or may not have
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