Big Easy Bonanza

exercise bike by the front window, it looked not only presentable but actually nice. Cookie had swept, dusted, vacuumed the furniture, and stuck some daffodils into a green pitcher.
    “Cookie’s…” Both spoke at once.
    “Go first,” said Skip.
    “… different. Changed.”
    “You’re not kidding. In the last few hours apparently.”
    “Really? You mean it hasn’t happened over the years?”
    “You haven’t seen him lately?”
    “I guess not.” The saucer eyes were wistful. “We used to date. A long time ago.”
    “You’ve gone out with everybody in town.”
    She lowered her head and when she raised it, she was blinking away tears. “Skippy, I never thought you, of all people…”
    “What is it? What did I say?” But, too late, she knew. She remembered O’Rourke’s “whore of Babylon” remark.
    “You know what you said.”
    Weirdly, she felt almost as much of a pang as when Steve got angry with her. She had hurt Marcelle, and Marcelle was someone she was coming to care about. The thought astounded her. Marcelle St. Amant, girl airhead, my best friend. Well, she might really be an airhead, Skip wasn’t sure yet, but she was a warm and generous soul. If she wasn’t a murderer.
    “I’m sorry. I just meant you’re so pretty and popular … I didn’t know you and Cookie were an item.”
    She smiled, apparently mollified. “Well, we were fourteen at the time.”
    “You’re kidding.”
    “He dumped me. My first broken heart.”
    “Cookie dumped
you
?”
    “I’ve never gotten over him. We didn’t speak for years. In fact—till now.”
    The plot certainly thickened. Who would imagine the gross-out king and the bruised magnolia as star-crossed lovers?
    The men arrived with the shrimp, heralded as Cookie’s Famous Cajun Tempura, which their host was serving as an hors d’oeuvre and which proved to be, logically enough, shrimp tempura spiced Cajun style. Cookie had even made some without the spices for André, who withdrew temporarily from a TV upstairs to stuff his tiny face.
    There was a salad course after the tempura, and then the best paella Skip had ever tasted. Cookie said, “Shucks, honey, it’s nothin’ but jambalaya with a funny spelling.” But Marcelle’s stream of compliments continued to flow.
    “You should open a restaurant, Cookie, really you should. This is the best stuff I ever put in my mouth.”
    “What this town needs—another restaurant.”
    Skip shrugged. “There were a million restaurants when K-Paul’s opened.”
    “Which reminds me,” said Cookie. “Did anyone ever hear of blackened
anything
before it did?”
    No one had.
    “You see. Even Prudhomme had a gimmick.” His voice had an edge to it.
    “Wait a minute,” said Skip. “I think I just detected something.”
    “I’ll drink to that.” Cookie raised his glass. “Kojak has detected something.”
    They all drank, and all accepted refills.
    “What have you detected, Kojak?”
    “You’ve thought it out about restaurants. You really do want to open one.”
    “Ah—not really.”
    But she could tell he did.
    Marcelle said, ”If you could do anything you wanted with your life, what would it be?”
    He stared at her. Skip expected one of his cracks, but he looked down at his lap. Finally, he said, “Cook, I guess.” She thought it probably cost him to say something serious, even three words.
    Marcelle said, “You’re so lucky.”
    He stared as if she were the Pythian Sibyl, about to dispense wisdom such as he had never heard before. “You have something you love.” She let a beat pass. “To do.”
    No one spoke.
    “You all have it,” she said. “You don’t know what a gift that is.”
    “You have André,” said Cookie, whose disdain for children was famous among the women he’d dated.
    Skip had to stop herself from slapping at her ear to make sure it was really working right. Next these two would climb up on the table and sing a duet.
    “I love him to distraction,” said Marcelle. “But it’s not the same as having something to do.” Her voice rose to something that was almost a whine.
    Thank God. Back to normal.
    “Steve, you’re the luckiest of all.”
    “Me?”
    “Because you’re an artist. What it must feel like to make something! To start with nothing and make something that’s really yours.”
    “Cooking is like that.” Cookie spoke a little huffily, but Steve was still preening.
    “You know, not many people understand that. They don’t think about it.