As much as she would have preferred to wear the comfy Converse high-tops that she had personalized with quirky drawings, she strapped on a pair of black platform sandals and headed outside. Since her mom, dad, and Gran’ had already left in the family sedan, she climbed into the Falcon. Jan honked from the Cuties’ minivan. “We’re going to Mass before we hit the plantations,” she yelled. “We’re practically locals now, huh, Kyle?” Jan clapped Kyle, who’d been awarded the front seat, so hard on the shoulder that he flinched, and the Cuties took off behind the Crozats.
*
As Maggie motored toward St. Theresa of Avila Catholic Church, she pondered how best to deal with the Clabbers’ passing. The Crozats were in a tough spot. They had to find the right balance between what they owed their guests and what they owed their late guests. A memorial—that’s what the situation called for. She’d ask Father Prit if he’d lead a memorial for the Clabbers. That would give everyone closure and allow her to help Crozat’s visitors formulate some guilt-free postmemorial tourism plans. This might even create the positive press that the family desperately needed, although Maggie couldn’t stop herself from imagining a travel website review that read, “Some nasty old fart and his weird wife died, but the airboat swamp tour was awesome.”
She made a mental note to check with Pelican PD in the morning and see if the department had tracked down any Clabber relatives who could share whatever plans the couple had made for shuffling off their mortal coil. At the risk of being insensitive, the sooner they headed to their final resting place, the sooner those at Crozat could move on with their lives.
Maggie pulled into the church parking lot, which was already full of vehicles ranging from brand-new Mercedes to decades-old pickup trucks. St. Theresa’s served a tiny parish with a wide range of parishioners. There were Cajun descendants of the Acadians driven from Canada in the mid-eighteenth century by Le Grand Derangement, and Caucasian and African Creole families that could trace their Louisiana lineage back almost three hundred years. More recently, St. Theresa’s had welcomed the Vietnamese fishermen and their families who now called Pelican home.
Maggie walked into Saint Tee’s, as the locals called it, and settled into the Crozat family pew, inhaling the chapel’s unique fragrance of old wood combined with generations of gardenia perfume. Lia slid in next to her. She folded her long legs to one side and adjusted her flowing tangerine summer dress so that it covered them. “How are you doing after last night?” she asked.
Maggie shrugged. “We’re okay. There’s not much we can do until we hear the results of the autopsy. Oh God, saying that, it really hit me. Those poor people are dead.”
Lia put a comforting hand on Maggie’s knee. Maggie squeezed it back. Father Prit Vangloo began the service, which was unintelligible to most of his parishioners. Originally from New Delhi, he’d brought a thick accent with him when he came to America barely a year before. Pelican knew its parish was too small to rate an American or even an Irish priest, so they welcomed Father Prit, who was kind and giggled like a besotted schoolgirl whenever he talked about Pope Francis, whom he idolized. Parishioners eventually came up with a way to handle his poor pronunciation. “We just pretend he’s leading a Latin Mass,” Gran’ explained. Maggie, who’d met her share of Sikh cab drivers in New York, had little problem understanding the good Father and often found herself pulled into post-Mass conversations to subtly translate.
Ever the papal fanboy, Father Prit’s homily focused on the pontiff’s familiar themes of humility and service to those less fortunate. Maggie prayed that the Clabbers had found peace, or at least less to complain about, wherever they ended up. The choir sang, the service ended, and the attendees all poured into the parish hall, where the Hospitality Committee had laid out a postservice spread that was the envy of every church in the area. Tables were piled high with fruits, homemade pies and pastries, and traditional local treats like boudin and fried oysters.
Maggie noticed Kyle staring at the spread. “I’ve got paralysis of choice,” Kyle told her. “I don’t know where to begin.”
“I’ll make it easy for you,” Maggie said. She pointed to a beautifully arranged tray of pastries. “These were made by my cousin Lia, the best pastry chef and candy maker in Louisiana, and possibly the world. Lia, come here.”
Lia, who was nodding and pretending to understand as Father Prit pontificated about something, excused herself and came over to Maggie. “Lia, Kyle. Kyle, Lia,” Maggie said. And in the moment the two shared shy hellos, the electricity between them was so palpable that Maggie could feel it. Even Gran’, busy arranging the buffet, glanced up, drawn by the charge. The only thing missing was a chorus of angels or cartoon characters with their eyes popping out on springs as the bubble over their heads read “boooinnng!” A line from Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, which Maggie hadn’t read since sophomore year of high school, popped into her head: Kyle and Lia “no sooner looked but they loved.”
“Lia, you must make a plate of your incomparable delicacies for Kyle,” said Gran’. “Oh Maggie, look, there’s Renee Harper.” Gran’ practically yanked Maggie away from Lia and Kyle, who were already so deep in conversation that they didn’t notice.
“Subtle, Gran’,” Maggie said. She started toward Renee, but Gran’ pulled her back.
“Stop, Renee will see you.”
“I thought you wanted to say hello.”
“Oh Lord, no. I just wanted to get us out of the way so that whatever was sparking between Lia and Kyle could catch fire. That Renee Harper is a Glossy if there ever was one.” Gran’ had coined the term Glossy as a sarcastic loose acronym for Gracious Ladies of the South. “I notice that Jim Harper isn’t with her. Too bad. That’s one man who could use a little church-bred humility. But no, as usual, God has to play second fiddle to Jim’s ‘busy schedule.’”
“That’s not very Christian of you,” Maggie teased her grandmother.
“We’re not Christians, we’re Catholics, and we can say whatever we want because we get to confess. Now, let’s find your parents, I’m ready to go.”
Maggie and Gran’ located Ninette and Tug next to the punch bowl, where they were being peppered with questions from locals eager for gossip about the recent deaths at Crozat.
“Honestly, that’s all we know right now,” Tug told the group, which dispersed disappointed at the lack of news.
Ninette downed her glass of punch. “I’ve never wished this was hard punch more than I do today,” she said as she dabbed the slight sheen on her face with a tissue.
“I happen to know where there’s a full bar,” Gran’ said. “Home again, home again, jiggity jig.” She blew an air kiss to Maggie and led the others to their car.
Maggie snacked a bit more and then made her way to the Falcon, where she was less than thrilled to find Ru Durand, dressed in uniform, waiting.
“Hey, Ru. I didn’t see you at Mass.”
“I couldn’t make it. The Lord chose to make it a work day for me instead.”
Jan and the Cuties, who were heading for their van, interrupted the perfunctory conversation. “I swear, every time I think I’ve had the best meal in Louisiana, I have another one,” Angela said.
“Oh, that is so true,” Suzy echoed.
“Suze, see if you can pry Kyle away from that pretty baker,” Jan instructed. “We need to get going.”
“Where y’all off to?” Ru asked affably.