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Chapter Fifteen
Ronan
Chez Yvette looks the same as it always has. The Creole decor features bright colors and bold patterns, with red-and-orange striped upholstery in the waiting area. The walls are painted a warm terracotta.
The building is old, with exposed brick and wood beams that add historic character and warmth. The dining room is an eclectic mix of chairs, tables, and other furnishings—some wooden, some wrought-iron. I spent many an afternoon dusting those chairs when I was a kid.
Jazz posters, Mardi Gras masks, and vintage photos of New Orleans landmarks grace the walls, and potted palms and fresh flowers create a lush, inviting atmosphere.
My grandmother, Yvette Thibodeaux, comes toward us swiftly. She is in her late sixties, but she doesn’t look a day over forty. Her light brown skin is still mostly free from wrinkles.
“Ronan, you gorgeous boy!” She grabs me in a ferocious hug.
Mémé, as I grew up calling her, is only a bit over five feet tall. I tower over her, but she grabs me as if I’m still a toddler running to her.
She pulls back. “Let me look at you. Just as handsome as ever. I’m so glad you’re back in the States. But why are you up in New York when you could be down here?”
Before I have a chance to answer, she turns and grabs Mary’s hands.
“And who might you be, you gorgeous thing?”
“Mémé, this is Mary,” I say. “Mary Sandusky.”
She reaches up to cup Mary’s cheeks. “You are just beautiful, chérie.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs…”
“Thibodeaux. Yvette Thibodeaux.”
“I hope it’s not rude to say this,” Mary says, “but you look so young. You’re absolutely beautiful.”
Her brown eyes beam. “Good genetics, apparently. But I think it’s also important to be young at heart. Ronan’s mother’s been trying to get me to retire, but I won’t hear of it. I had her when I was merely fifteen, you know.”
“So I’ve heard. It’s amazing that you were able to accomplish so much and also raise a child at such a young age.”
“Chérie, you do what you have to do. Ronan has told me to break out the finest on our menu for the two of you. I saved you the best table in the house.”
I take Mary’s hand and lead her to the table. It’s a round table and can actually seat six, but Mémé has reserved it for us. Place settings for two are already on the table, seated close together so we can see everything in the restaurant.
“We’re going to start,” I say, “with turtle soup with a splash of sherry.”
“With a Sazerac, of course,” Mémé says.
“What’s a Sazerac?” Mary asks.
“It’s a classic New Orleans cocktail made with rye whiskey, absinthe, Peychaud’s bitters, and a sugar cube,” Mémé says.
“Absinthe?” she asks.
“It’s an anise liqueur. Tastes like licorice.”
“I’ll try anything once,” Mary says. “Sure. Bring me a Sazerac.”
“I will do that.” Mémé smiles. “And your turtle soup will arrive a few minutes after the cocktails. I’ll have Greta bring you some water as well.”
“Perfect,” I tell Mémé. “Merci beaucoup.”
“De rien, mon cher.” Mémé flits away, looking absolutely gorgeous in her bohemian-style skirt and blouse.
