“Mostly I just want new clothes at a discount.” Zoe laughed.
“Well, there it is. The truth.” Remi laughed too.
“How are you and Aunt B getting along, anyway? Are things better?”
“They are better,” Remi told her as she gazed out her window and saw Bianca’s car backing into a space. “In fact she just pulled up. She’s going to help out tonight.”
“Good, I’m glad to hear it.” Zoe smiled brightly. “Anyway, I have to go, Mom. A few of us are going out for pizza, and they’re all waiting for me. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Have fun, baby. I love you.”
“Love you, too, Mom. Take care.”
Remi watched as Bianca stepped out of her Mercedes SUV, a pair of Ray-Bans on her face, a bottle of mineral water in her hand. Her hair had grown a bit, her face was full, her signature lipstick was on her lips. She wore a colorful sundress that hugged her curves.
A minute later she was standing in the doorway of Remi’s office. “Is Scott working the bar today?” Bianca asked. “There’s a gentleman out there looking for two bottles of rosé.”
“Can you grab them for him?” Remi asked.
“I’ll take care of it.” Bianca disappeared down the hall, her sandals click-clacking against the hardwoods.
She was back a few minutes later and seated on the opposite side of Remi’s desk. They chatted briefly before preparing for the night’s event.
It was a full house atJoie. The garden was filled with laughter and pulsed with life—every table taken, every chair filled with conversation. Glasses clinked and laughter drifted in the air. The white lights glowed overhead as darkness fell upon the garden.
The jazz band played, and tonight they’d brought a vocalist—an older man wearing a suit and a bow tie, who moved through the crowd singing in a deep baritone. He wove between the tables as he sang, connecting with the crowd, allowing them to sing along occasionally.
Along the gravel path, the food trucks formed a colorful row, each with its own menu—one selling Cajun dishes, one fried catfish, and one smoked barbecue ribs on a huge pit. One of them handed out warm slices of pound cake in wax paper baskets.
It was one of those nights that felt like summer would never end. Music moved through the garden like it would live there forever. But Remi knew better. Summer was winding down. She could feel it in the shift of the evening breeze, and she hated to see it go. This wasJoie’s first summer—its first real breath—and it had bloomed into more than she could have imagined. The laughter, the music, the poetry, the people who came from near and far just to be a part of it.
She knew the nostalgia of this summer would live in her long after it was over. There was a certain magic in firsts, and she wasn’t sure the summers that followed would match the feeling of this one.
But for now she lived in the moment. And she intended to soak in every second of it.
Chapter Forty-two
Bianca
The smell of sweet potato pies and fresh collard greens drifted in the air. Bill Withers’s “Lovely Day” floated from the speakers; its feel-good groove filled the house. In the oven, Abuelita’s Cuban stuffing baked slowly—the sweet plantains, chicharrónes, Cuban mojo, and day-old Cuban bread coming together nicely in the dish. Bianca had hunted for every ingredient, scouring several markets, but managed to find them all.
Remi’s Creole macaroni and cheese—Grandma Lorraine’s recipe—rested on the countertop, the top of it a perfect golden brown. Its spices filled the kitchen. Grandma Lorraine’s recipe was unwritten but etched in Remi’s memory. She’d helped make that rich and soulful dish plenty of times in Louisiana.
Crema de vie—the Cuban version of eggnog made with sweetened condensed milk, cinnamon, and good rum—chilled in the refrigerator. Those little glasses of tradition would be sipped on throughout the day.
The kitchen was alive, not just with food but with history. With the roots of two families coming together—Bianca’s and Remi’s. All filled with love passed down from generationto generation. They sang the words to “Lovely Day,” loudly, while Mila wrestled with the bird, flipping it over on the cutting board with a grunt, her sleeves already dusted with flour and other seasonings. She rubbed it down with butter, pressing it into every crevice and sprinkling it with Cajun herbs. It was her first Butterball turkey and she was determined to get it right.
She removed the stuffing from the oven, set it on top of the stove, and popped in the bird. She smiled to herself, wiped her hands on a towel, and took a step back, proud of her work.
Leo and Harry sat in the living room, beers in hand, eyes locked on the television. They shouted at every key play, groaning at fumbles, cursing penalties, and high-fiving each other after every touchdown. They laughed and talked like old friends, like they hadn’t just met that very day.
When the doorbell rang Zoe hopped down from the kitchen stool, her curls bouncing as she moved. “I’ll get it!” she called, already halfway to the door.
She swung it open to find Paloma on the doorstep, smiling and holding a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc in the air.
“I brought the wine,” she announced.
Behind her stood Bas, wearing an Oakland Raiders jersey, denim shorts, and black slides. He hugged Zoe tightly, flashing an easy smile before stepping inside.