Page 113 of The Fourth Option
“I don’t know what that means,” she said.
“Never mind. It’s an eighties classic. I can see Grandma has taste.”
“Her name’s Gloria,” Belle said as she merged back onto the road.
Rolling at sixty, pointed into the setting sun, Belle glanced sideways at him. “You clean up nice. I didn’t realize you had a neck under there.”
“I didn’t want to scare Gloria.”
Belle smiled. “She doesn’t scare easy.”
Gloria Travois lived in a weathered Creole cottage on Kerlerec Street, a half mile from the French Quarter. The house, built in 1910, wore its age well. Its white clapboard siding had faded to a soft gray, and the wrought-iron railings on the porch bore flecks of rust, but the windows were clean,the shutters freshly painted, and the flower beds were well tended. Every third or fourth house on the street was run down. One was boarded with vines crawling up the siding. Another had a tarp for a roof.
Belle parked the AMC on the cracked driveway.
“Where’s the Beamer?” Walker asked.
“Garage.”
They climbed the steps and Walker looked around while Belle worked the keys on the iron security door.
“Half the block’s gone to hell,” she said, noting Walker’s apprehension.
Inside, the floorboards groaned beneath their feet, the sound echoing faintly through the quiet house. The walls were a gallery of distant worlds, decorated with sepia-toned portraits of tribal elders, close-ups of wild-eyed predators mid-hunt, and sweeping vistas of jungles shrouded in mist or deserts cracked and endless. One photograph caught Walker’s attention: a tight shot of an alligator, its yellow eye sharp, the rest of its body submerged in dark water. The image was intimate, almost confrontational, like the creature had been watching the photographer as much as the photographer had been watching it.
“Her work?” he asked, voice low.
“Every shot.”
Walker followed Belle to the kitchen, where Gloria was finishing rolling out a pie crust. She was small and wiry, her silver hair pulled into a bun. Coke-bottle glasses magnified her brown eyes. She wore a linen blouse and slacks. Her hands were dusted with flour.
“You must be Chris,” she said, extending a hand after wiping it on her apron.
“Yes, ma’am. It’s nice to meet you.”
“And this is Paladin,” Belle said. “He answers to Pal.”
Gloria bent down and stroked the dog behind his ears.
“Hope you brought your appetite.”
The dining room glowed with warm light, the kind that softened edges and made the world feel safe. The table was set with mismatched china and cloth napkins, each piece looking worn but cherished. In the center, a cast-iron pot ofcoq au vinsteamed, its aroma rich with wine, garlic, and herbs. A basket of fresh baguettes sat beside it, their crusts golden and crisp, still warm from the oven.
Walker sat across from Gloria, Belle to his right. Paladin lay under the table, tail thumping now and then, content in the way only a dog can be when surrounded by family.
Gloria bowed her head. Walker and Belle followed suit.
“Dear Lord,” she said. “Thank you for this food you have set before us. Please bless my granddaughter and her new friend Chris. Keep them safe on the road ahead, and I implore you, dear Lord, please impress upon my granddaughter the importance of a good, hearty meal. Amen.”
“Amen,” Walker said.
“Amen. That wasn’t embarrassing at all,” Belle said.
“Well, eat something, my dear.”
Belle rolled her eyes.
“So,” Walker said, breaking off a piece of bread, “you were a photographer?”
