“Unless you have other plans?” I said.
As if unaware of the hostile gaze being beamed at him from Nola, he said, “Only if it’s no trouble, I’d love to. It’s been a while since I’ve had a home-cooked meal. Lots of ramen noodles and pepperoni pizza. And my specialty macaroni and cheese with sliced hot dogs.”
“So you’re not vegan?” Jack asked, his expression thawing.
“No, sir. I like food I can taste. I have nothing against vegetables, but give me some crawfish and andouille sausage to go with them. Or a juicy steak or hamburger—or both.” He patted his flat stomach as my own growled loudly.
I turned to Nola. “Would you please put another place setting on the dining room table for Beau?”
With yet another heavy sigh, she pulled out silverware from the drawer, and slammed it harder than necessary before retreating to the dining room.
“You said you had something for me?” I reminded Beau.
“Yes.” Beau reached into his backpack and pulled out a sandwich-sized Tupperware container. “Sorry it took me a while to get back to you—I had a project due for school, and then I had to wait for my grandmother to send me this.” He placed the container on the table and Jack and I gathered around to watch Beau pull open the lid.
The box was filled with loose old buttons of various sizes, designs, and materials. Thin strips of what appeared to be dehydrated leather straps lay at the bottom of the container, shriveled like dead earthworms on a summer sidewalk.
Nola returned, making sure she stayed on our side of the table instead of standing next to Beau. She studied the contents of the box for a moment, then said, “It looks like the buttons used to be strung together on strings or leather straps.”
“Very good,” Beau said, his eyes lighting on Nola.
Her cheeks flushed. “Just a guess, but those little bits of old leather here and at the bottom of Charlotte’s coffin kind of gave it away.”
Nola reached inside and plucked out a brass button with a fleur-de-lis etching on top, rolling it between her callused fingers.
“You play guitar?” Beau asked.
Nola’s cheeks reddened again. “A little.”
I shared a sidewise glance with Jack at Nola’s grand understatement.
“Me, too,” Beau said. “I love the sound of an acoustic guitar, probably because I remember my mother playing to me when I was really little. She used to make up her own songs.”
“My mother did, too,” Nola said softly, her eyes focused on the button between her fingers.
Jack and I reached for her at the same time, our arms encircling Nola in an awkward group hug. Knowing Nola’s tolerance of parental affection was limited, Jack and I moved away after a moment, although the places where Jack had touched me still smoldered.
“So,” Nola said as she tossed the button back into the box, “why were these with the Frozen Charlotte doll?”
Beau scratched the back of his head. “We’re not really sure. Mimi—that’s my grandmother—also collects charm strings, and she believes that might be what those buttons in the coffin are from. She’s just not sure why they’d be together, although the Victorian time period is the same for both.”
“Charm strings?” Jack asked, his finger flicking through the buttons.
“Yeah. It was a thing girls did back in the eighteen sixties. They would sew or string buttons on a piece of fabric or a leather strip. When they added the thousandth button, that’s when they would supposedly meet the man they would marry.” Beau chuckled. “I guess before TikTok and Instagram, girls had a lot of time on their hands.”
“Girls?” Nola crossed her arms.
“Boys, too,” he quickly added. “Mimi has a whole section in the back room of the store with anthropomorphic taxidermy and diatom arrangements to prove that guys also had weird ways of keeping busy. She actually has an entire rabbit school and a cat wedding complete with preacher and pulpit. And a nice collection of diatom arrangements using butterfly wings and insect legs. Pretty cool, huh? You should check it out online—I handle their website and those pages get the most hits.”
Nola wrinkled her nose. “Did you get your weirdness from your grandmother, or is it something that runs in your entire family?’
Beau considered her with somber eyes. “I wouldn’t know. My parents disappeared during Hurricane Katrina, trying to find my little sister. I was only five years old, so I don’t remember very much about them.”
Nola clenched her eyes shut. “I’m . . . I’m so sorry. I didn’t . . .” She stopped, knowing that any apology wouldn’t be adequate.
“I’m curious, Beau,” Jack said. “I knew a Dr. Beauregard Ryan from New Orleans when I was with the Army. He patched me up once in Afghanistan. Any relation?”
Something flashed behind Beau’s eyes, but he didn’t flinch. “Yes, sir. My father.”
Jack nodded, his expression giving nothing away. “And you don’t know what happened to your mother or father after Katrina?”
Beau paused. “No, sir.”
There was a moment of silence as we all realized Beau wasn’t going to add anything else. The silence that fell was mercifully broken by the binging of a text on Beau’s cell phone. He slid it from his pocket and looked at the screen.
“Sorry—thanks for the invitation to stay for dinner, but I have to go. My podcast partner is having technical issues with some of the equipment and I need to see if I can fix the problem before we record tonight.”
“No worries,” I said. “Hopefully we can do it another time soon.”
He nodded. “And thank you, Mrs. Houlihan. It sure smells good—sorry to be missing it.” Beau stuck out a hand to Jack. “It was nice meeting you, sir.”
“Likewise,” Jack said, his expression level.
“Beau,” I said, “since you’re calling me Melanie, I think you should call him Jack.”
“Actually, ‘sir’ is fine. Or ‘Mr. Trenholm.’?” Jack smiled.