Rising Tides by Emilie Richards

path to the house. “I been cooking,” Izzy said, be fore she’d even reached the steps. “And cooking, cooking, cooking. It’s not right you should have to cook for the next four days, you with guests.”
    Dawn was sure Izzy knew the so-called guests weren’t Pelichere’s. She supposed that was half the reason Izzy had arrived. In South Louisiana, keeping up with neighbors was still the favored evening recreation.
    Pelichere introduced Dawn, and Dawn leaned over for Izzy’s enthusiastic kiss. Then she watched Joe, one ton to Izzy’s two, stagger up the path, well behind his wife, his arms loaded with grocery bags.
    “What’d you go and do, Izzy?” Pelichere asked. “Drain the Gulf and cook everything left wriggling on the bottom?”
    Pelichere scolded her friend while Joe made several trips from the truck. He left when he had finished, announcing that he was going down to the water to see what the dedicated fishermen still lining the beach were pulling in.
    “Pelichere, you sit out here with Izzy,” Dawn said. “I’ll bring you both some coffee.”
    Pelichere demurred, but Dawn ignored her. She re turned in a moment with cups and a pot of coffee Pelichere had left to drip in the kitchen. The coffee was thick and rich, black as goddamn, just the way Pelichere and Izzy liked it. Strong dark-roast coffee was as much a part of the local culture as seagulls and fishing luggers.
    “So tell me, Peli,” Izzy said, stirring three spoonfuls of sugar into her coffee—for energy, “how’s it going?”
    Dawn left them to chat.
    The kitchen was one of the more modern rooms in the house. The original kitchen had been built behind the house as protection against fire and summer heat. The foundation was still visible fifty feet away, and a portion of one wall remained, blanketed by an orange-flowering trumpet vine that was often alive with the frantic darting of hummingbirds.
    The new kitchen was large and airy. Tonight the blue gingham curtains billowed to the opposing rhythms of the wind and two ceiling fans. More wind blew through a screen door, carrying with it the scents of the distant Gulf and a closer tangle of honeysuckle.
    Dawn sorted through the bags Joe had carried in. Nothing was labeled, but she recognized much of it. There were two gallons of gumbo, thick with small crabs and okra, Tupperware containers of jambalaya with chunks of dark sausage and green pepper, pounds of cold spiced shrimp and, although it was the end of the season, several pounds of boiled crawfish, as well. There was a freshly caught redfish, inviting Pelichere’s master touches, and close to a half gallon of freshly shucked oysters. “Good news, Grandmère, ” she said as she stowed the last of it in the refrigerator. “It’s hot as hell and twice as much fun at your little house party, but at least we’ll eat like royalty.”
    A voice sounded behind her. “Has anything been left out?”
    She didn’t turn, but she knew the voice was Ben’s. “Still one big appetite looking to be satiated, aren’t you?” She dug back into the refrigerator and took out the boiled shrimp, holding it behind her. “Cocktail sauce?”
    “Please.”
    She opened a jar and sniffed it after Ben took the shrimp. “Peli’s own remoulade. You’re a lucky man.” She straightened and faced him. “This is supposed to be for tomorrow and after.Peli had food on the stove for over an hour tonight. Didn’t anybody tell you?”
    “I ate.”
    “I rest my case.”
    “Join me?”
    She determined to be casual and beat him at his own game.
    “I don’t think so. I’m going to clean the kitchen before Peli gets back in here. There’s no reason for her to be waiting on us hand and foot. She’s as much Grandmère ’s guest as the rest of us.”
    He pulled out a chair beside the round oak table under a trio of windows. “It’s nice of you to be concerned.”
    “But then, I’m a nice person, basically.”
    “That wouldn’t be the first adjective that