Unperturbed, he said, “Technically, that’s a bayou.”
“Technically, I don’t care.”
He squeezed her hand. “Come meet Lew.”
Despite the high peak of the roof, the ceilings were low inside the store. With a scant handful of small windows, shadows lay thick between the squat, wooden aisles; dust clung to shelves, marks of fingers and sleeves where merchandise had been taken and restocked. The walls and floors were a rough gray barn wood, the overhead tube lights flickering and hissing. A window unit chugged and fussed and failed to cool the entire space; they walked through a pocket of cool air on their way to the wooden counter.
Behind the register, a bent man in a trucker cap perched on a stool, dealing a hand of solitaire onto the rough surface of the counter. He had the sleeves of his striped button-up folded back, and his wrists were thin, knobby, dark tan and speckled with sun spots. He glanced up at the sound of Mercy’s footfalls, his face deeply lined, cracked and leathery under the bill of his hat. He wore rectangular-framed glasses low on his nose, and peered up at them with filmy eyes a long moment before he gasped.
“That…” His voice sounded like it had been used often, deep and well-oiled, despite his frail outer shell. And there was that Louisiana accent, so unlike the traditional Southern accent, one familiar to her because of Mercy. “That’s not – nah, that can’t be Remy Lécuyer’s boy.” He put his feet on the floor and the effort of straightening his legs looked like it hurt. “That’s not Felix, is it?”
Mercy reached across the counter, caught the man’s hand, and steadied him. “You know it is, you old fart,” he said with deep affection, smiling. “Hey, Lew, how you doin’?”
Still beaming, the man said, “Mad as hell I ain’t seen you in years! Boy, when you move back to New Orleans, you’re supposed to come visit more often. What’s it been? Two? Three?”
“Three and a half,” Mercy said. “But I got bad news, man. I’m moving back to Tennessee.”
“Son of a bitch. You just can’t stay put, can you?”
“Nope.” His free arm came back, encircled Ava’s shoulders and pulled her forward. “Lew, I want you to meet my wife. This is Ava.”
The pride in his voice furthered the inside-melting. She wanted to cry and smile all at once. Instead, she said, “It’s very nice to meet you, Lew.”
The old man was gaping at her, still smiling a little. “Wife? Did you say wife? Oh no, she’s too pretty for you. Wife? I’ll be damned.” He laughed. Then he sucked in a big breath. “Ava? Now, you don’t mean…she’s not…” He looked at Ava. “Are you that little girl he keeps in his wallet?”
Before she could answer, his smile became small and warm, and he nodded. “It is you.You’rehis girl.”
Ava felt the shock bloom and turn to wonder. She looked up at Mercy, but he wouldn’t meet her gaze, his high cheekbones suspiciously dark. She stared at him, hand slipping up under his jacket and shirt in the back, so she could press her palm to his skin. Stared until he finally granted her one bashful glance from the corners of his eyes. She didn’t say anything, because she didn’t have to.
He had a photo of her at ten in his wallet – she knew that. But she hadn’t known that he’d showed it to people, that he’d talked about her. That, in the eyes of people she’d never met, she was “his girl.”
She rested her head against his chest, soaking up this proof of unspoken love.
Mercy cleared his throat. “Sweetheart, why don’t you go see if there’s anything good to drink in the back? Aisle seven.”
She nodded and slipped away from him, knowing this was his way of asking for a moment alone with the shopkeeper. “Lew, do you have chocolate?”
“Aisle twelve.”
There was something quaint and picturesque about the cramped store with its odd assortment of goods, all the dark barn wood absorbing the light. The liquor was arranged by brand, shelves sagging from the weight. Ava took two bottles of Johnnie Walker Red…and then two more. She didn’t care about drinking. She didn’t want to be numb right now, not when she had him all to herself. But Mercy liked his Scotch, and he could put it away.
Arms loaded with bottles, she managed two Hershey bars before she had to admit defeat and go back to the counter for a basket. She paused a few feet back, and watched Lew and Mercy exchange a handshake.
“…long as you need it,” Lew was saying. “I’ll be happy to.”
“I appreciate it.”
“And if anyone comes sniffing, you know I’ll turn ‘em away.”
“Appreciate that, too.”
Mercy turned and spotted her, and came to take the bottles out of her arms, put them on the counter. “Anything else you want?” he asked. “The house should be stocked, but I don’t know with what.”
“House?”
“I’ll explain on the way.”
Amid the cluttered shelves, she found microwave popcorn, a box of saltines, and a block of white cheddar. Staples from her college years; she could live on that stuff for weeks if need be. Mercy bought some bait, fresh hooks, a few lures, and some fishing line. Lew told them they needed to come back and visit him, and he assured, with a wink for Mercy, that “not a soul” would catch their trail from here.
