Ramon gets the door, and Iris steps inside. But she’s panting, and her arms strain as she hefts the basket up ontoNonc’skitchen table. I follow bemused.
Clearly winded, she turns to me, takes a deep breath and lets it out. “Hi, Beau,” she pants. “Is your uncle here?” She dabs her wrist against invisible sweat on her forehead and something about the gesture tempts my smile, but I keep it in check.
“I think he’s upstairs.”
“Oh.” Her chest rises and falls again. She gestures to the mammoth basket. “I brought him a few things.”
This time my smile breaks free. “I see that.” I guess she’s the kind of person who needs recognition for everything she does. But then again, she’s got to be used to people watching her all the time. When she’s around, it’s hard to look anywhere else. As a matter of fact, Ramon and Iris’s friend Sally followed us inside, but I barely register their presence.
Iris’s slender brows knit together. “How’s he doing? Is he okay?” If I didn’t know she was an actress, I’d say that was real worry in her eyes.
“He’s okay.” I give her a half-shrug. “He’s having surgery Friday, and then hopefully the worst will be behind him.”
Her eyes do this quick-flutter thing before they widen.“Surgery?”Surprise and distress hang in her voice, and I pause. Maybe this isn’t acting. I frown.
“Yeah, it wasn’t a clean break, but the orthopedist says that with PT following the surgery he should be alright.”
“Ohman,”she moans, looking sick.
“Stop scaring her,”Noncbarks, filling the doorway. “I’m gonna be fine.”
Iris whirls around to face him. “Oh, Mr. Hebert. Look at that cast. Oh crap, I’m so sorry. God, I’m so sorry.” Her words run into each other, and she shakes her hands like she’s trying to air-dry them. Then she gestures toward the basket. “I couldn’t sleep last night, and I started thinking about all the things you might need or want over the next few days, so I brought over what I could find.”
She starts unloading bundles from the basket and setting them on the table. “I placed an order from a medical supply store and got you a cast cover for the shower, and there’s a cast cooling kit because it’s hot as f—I mean, as hell down here,” she stammers, holding up a slim package. “You can hook this up to the hose attachment on your vacuum cleaner and—”
“Iris—” Ramon vies for her attention.
“—it sucks moisture out of the cast to keep you cool and prevent itching and, you know—” she wrinkles her pert little nose, “odors and stuff—”
“Iris,” Ramon tries again, moving in.
“And there’s some slippers in there because tying shoes right now is going to be tough and—”
“Iris, you wrapped all of these so Mr. Hebert could open them,” Ramon blurts, grabbing the presumed pair of slippers from her. “Let the man open his gifts.”
She shoots her PA an exasperated look. “But I wasn’t thinking. Unwrapping these with one hand? That was dumb. How’s he going to get through the string?”
Nonc’slow laugh fills the room like fog. When I look at him, he’s watching Iris with twinkling eyes, clearly loving every minute of this. “I think I can handle a little string, darlin’,” he says, beaming at her. Then he reaches into his pocket. “Any Cajun man worth his salt keeps one of these on hand at all times.”
He takes out his pocket knife and waves it at her. But I spy the problem before he does.
“How are you gonna open that?” I ask softly.
Noncfrowns down at his trusty knife. The thing is ancient. The horn and mother-of-pearl inlaid handle is worn from years of use and the soft buffing of denim over the decades spent in his pocket. He might use the blade every day, but he’s not getting it open one-handed.
Without another word, I reach into my pocket and pull out my considerably shinier knife. I release the blade and hand it, hilt first, to my uncle. He takes it with a sour expression and places the tip to one of the twine ties on the package in front of him. It pops immediately—I keep the blade sharp—andNoncunwraps the parcel to reveal a pair of lightweight scuff slippers. But even without handling them, I know Iris didn’t pick these up at Target. The rich, brown leather looks buttery soft and obviously expensive. The label, stamped in gold on the heel, reads L.B. Evans.
Now, I’ve neverseena pair of designer men’s slippers before—hell, I’ve never even thought of them—but I’m pretty sure these make the cut. And it’s a close call, but I manage not to roll my eyes again. If Iris Adams wants to throw her money around for all the world to see and go and spend ninety dollars on a pair of slippers for my uncle, why should it bother me?
And yet it does bother me. Hell if I know why.
“Mais la,” Noncutters. “These are too nice.”
Iris steps closer, bending over the fancy slippers, her dark hair falling over one shoulder. “No, they’re perfect. It’s too hot down here for a pair of moccasins or fleece lined slippers. And just feel them,” she says, reaching down and rubbing the leather between her thumb and fingers. “They’re so soft.”
A serene smile shapes her delicate mouth, her lips the color of pomegranate. The smile looks innocent, but the color is sinful, and the confusing combination keeps me staring at her mouth longer than is sensible.
WhenNoncdoesn’t respond, Iris looks up at him, sees his lingering hesitation, and then her innocent smile turns wicked—which suits the pomegranate shade perfectly but does unexpected things to my pulse.
