“It’s not awful,” she said. “I’d call it artistic.”
I picked it up. It was heavy, and it had been a long time since my prewar high school job at Berger’s Burgers. But I managed to keep it balanced. “I’m guessing everyone is hungry, and as long as they get a bowl and a spoon, they probably won’t care.”
“That’s life in the Zone,” Tadji said, moving the curtain aside so we could head back into the main room. “A little chaotic, but on the better days, there’s spicy food and good company.”
? ? ?
Dinner was pretty damn delicious. The food was brilliant, and so was the conversation.
Burke, Gunnar, and Liam seemed to hit it off, shared stories about their weirdest experiences in the Zone. Between them, they’d seen a giraffe, two alligators in bathtubs, a drunken man on a unicycle, and a riot over a doughnut truck. There were grim stories, too, of death and sadness. But we’d all known too much of that. It was part of our shared history, and not something we needed to say aloud to understand.
The best part of dinner was the watching, the listening. I nibbled the crusty end of the loaf while the stories were passed around like good wine (which was hard to come by) and hot sauce (which Liam kept in a small pocket flask for “emergencies”).
I watched Tadji and Burke, and tried to figure out if the problem was chemistry or timing. A little of both, I decided, bummed on Tadji’s behalf.
I watched Liam eat, grin, pour enough hot sauce on his dinner to set his mouth aflame, and seem totally unbothered by it. He glanced my way, realized I’d been watching him again. His expression swung from surprise to amusement to male satisfaction.
I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks, but looked away casually, as if our gazes had just coincidentally met while I scanned the table, and not because I was finding my eyes drawn back to him over and over.
But I was. Maybe it was those eyes. Maybe it was his obvious strength. Maybe the fact that he’d helped me, or that I’d watched him try to protect that child in Devil’s Isle. We’d gone from strangers to mostly friends in twenty-four hours. And part of me wondered if we could be something more. That was probably a dangerous thought.
Liam opened his mouth, probably to say something sarcastic, but before he could speak, there was a loud pop. The lights went out, leaving us in darkness.
“And now we can get the party started!” Gunnar said, and we laughed as he’d meant us to do.
“Life in the Zone,” he said with resignation, pushing back his chair. “Claire, I’ll help you get the candles.”
It said something about the Zone and Gunnar that he was practiced enough at this to know what to do, where to find what he needed. Or maybe we’d all spent too much time in this building.
I rose, moved carefully through darkness to the counter and the shelf where I kept the candles and matches. I pulled them out—two silver candelabras with long white tapers, four hurricane lamps with butter-yellow beeswax candles I’d traded for several packs of batteries. I flicked a match against the side of the box, and the flame took. I protected the flame with the cup of my other hand, brought it to the candles’ wicks. A soft glow filled the room.
“At least moonlight is flattering,” Gunnar said as we carried the candlesticks back to the table, set them down the middle in intervals.
“There is something to be said for it,” Burke agreed, with a smile that Gunnar reciprocated.
“When we were kids,” Gunnar said, “Dad would take us to this cheap motel on Pensacola Beach. Cinder block walls, tile floor. It was not fancy. This was before he made his money.”
Gunnar’s father, Cantrell Landreau, had been a very successful surgeon. His practice had bought the family’s house in the Garden District. (The Arsenaults were an old family with old money. The Landreaus were relatively new to New Orleans and newer to money. Even after the war, that difference still mattered to some.) Cantrell had been a field doctor during the war, and had refused to leave the city when the war was over.
“We’d buy groceries when we got into town, fill a mini fridge with hot dogs and milk so we wouldn’t have to eat out. The beach was gorgeous then—white sand. Blue water. Absolutely amazing. They had these little grills on the patio. Just a firebox on a pole with a grate on top. Anyway, at night, after we’d spent the day on the beach, we’d walk down to the shore, with the moon hanging above us. The sand would have cooled off by then, and it would feel so good between your toes. We’d sit down on these wooden beach chairs, watch the moon and stars, listen to the waves rush in.”
We sat quietly for a moment, thinking about the scene.
“A beach vacation would hit the spot right now,” Burke agreed. “Man, or even just zoning out in front of the television.”
“Best way to spend a weekend afternoon,” Gunnar agreed.