Crescent City Connection

poet, or a music critic who never made it as a musician. Or—maybe this was it—the husband of somebody good. An artist, maybe, or even a doctor or lawyer. A bitter, pathetic little man who had tried to drag her down with him.
    When she got to the Michael Jordan-looking guy, he said, “Hey, baby. Lookin’ good,” and in its way, it was more polite. He didn’t think she looked any better than anybody else, and probably not nearly as good as that skin-and-bones white woman hanging on him, but he said what he said to make her feel good, not him. There was thoughtfulness in that.
    And all the women were nice. These weren’t those little tongue-clucking flutterbies like at that brunch that made her so mad she’d told Troy about it.
    Dear Jesus, is that what I did? Did I tell him so he’d do what he did? Is it my fault that poor little dog died?
    “Dorise? Dorise, watch out.” The hostess had seen her about to run into a table, nearly bruising her leg and sending little balls of cholesterol all over the living room.
    As she caught her balance, got her bearings, she happened to glance out the window and see Troy Chauvin waiting for her in a black Trans-Am.
    The hair on her forearms stood up. She thought,
Lord Jesus strike me dead if I ever look at a man again. Any man. Ever. Just get that Troy Chauvin out of my life and I promise to dedicate my life to the church.
    * * *
    Lovelace was sitting outside at the Cafe Marigny, working on a cappuccino and trying to get up her nerve when this guy with a puppy came by. It was a little brown-spotted puppy, totally irresistible. She bent down and held out her hand for it to lick, not even looking at the guy. She was patting the puppy’s head when he said, “Mind if I join you?”
    She looked up at him. Cute. Brown hair, brown eyes. Preppy-looking. Almost certainly gay. “Sure,” she said. And they talked.
    His name was Larry, he was from Connecticut, and he’d been living with this crazy girl who read the tarot in Jackson Square, but she’d thrown him out on account of the puppy. Not gay, Lovelace noted, and suddenly wasn’t sure she wanted male attention. She wondered if the guy was hustling her for a place to stay.
    But then he said he’d moved in with his brother, and that was even better because he realized the girl didn’t have all her marbles anyway. “Do you have all your marbles?” he asked.
    She laughed and then considered the reality, which wasn’t even slightly funny. “I’d run like hell if I were you. There’s not one sane person in my whole family.”
    “You must be Southern.”
    “Oh, don’t be so superior.” He really had no idea. Nobody could.
    “So what are you doing here? Do you work in a restaurant?”
    She started. It was like he was reading her mind, almost.
    He said, “It’s daytime, which is work time. Ergo, you must be a night worker. Like me.”
    “What do you do?”
    “Open oysters at Remoulade. But really, I’m writing a book.”
    Lovelace murmured, “Aren’t they all,” and was instantly ashamed of herself. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”
    He shrugged. “It’s true. Everybody is. What’s yours about?” His hair was curly and long, and he had incredible dimples.
    “I’m not quite that ambitious. I just want to cook.”
    “Is this a proposal?”
    She felt herself go pink. “More like a plea. They don’t have any jobs at Remoulade, do they?”
    “Ah. So you just arrived in town. Do you have a place to stay?”
    She nodded. “With my uncle. I was doing temp work but—”
    “Bleeeah.”
    “Yeah. I couldn’t hack it. And I really am a very good cook. I did it in high school. Of course, that was just a pizza kind of thing, but I’m not kidding, I can do it.”
    “Hey, I don’t own the joint. And I don’t think it’s the kind of place we could sneak you into with no experience.” He seemed to be taking her on as a project.
    “Do you know a place where we could?”
    He looked off somewhere in the distance. “I’m thinking.”
    “Why would you help me?”
    “Because you’re cute.”
    “Oh, please.”
    “And because you need me. You have a sad look around your mouth. A little bit sad and a little bit worried. You’re too old for a runaway, though. Tell ol’ Larry—what’s the matter?”
    “Well, how about you? You look like some refugee from the Wharton School of Business. What are you doing opening oysters?”
    “Trying to keep from cutting my fingers off.”
    She had met