Tyler O’Neill’s Redemption by Molly O'Keefe Page B

Halloween decoration lit up, and it wasn’t even eight. The smell of catfish and crayfish boil was so thick in the air Tyler could take a bite of it. And the music…the music pumped out the open windows and doors. Piano and guitar, an accordion and trumpet—bright riffs and solos, all of them calling him home.
    Tyler pulled on his favorite blue linen shirt, buttoning the one button that was left over his white tank top, wondering if anyone in there would remember him. Remy would, but that might be all. There could be a room full of strangers, not a welcoming face among them.
    “Is that Tyler O’Neill?” a woman cried, and Tyler smiled, recognizing the Marlboro-refined voice of Priscilla Ellis. He caught the glimmer and shine of her signature pink sequins out on the deck.
    “Is that the most beautiful blonde in the state of Louisiana?” he asked, tucking his fedora on his head, tipping it over one eye.
    Priscilla opened the door to the kitchen, a side door that spilled out onto the same wraparound front porch. “Remy!” she yelled. “Tell the band Tyler’s here!”
    He took the steps by threes and at the top he found himself in the ancient but unearthly strong grip of Priscilla’s hug. Somewhere between sixty and a hundred, five foot nothing, a hundred pounds and as blonde as a bottle could make a woman—that was Priscilla. And she was perfect.
    “Where you been, boy?” she asked, her black eyes sharp, her lips as pink as the sequined shirts she favored.
    “Around,” he answered, smiling down at her wrinkled face. This, he thought, more than The Manor, more than Bonne Terre, this was home. This woman and Remy and the stage in there, covered in cigarette butts and peanut shells.
    “I wondered if you wouldn’t come back around here after your momma’s been poking her nose in places it don’t belong.”
    He groaned—this was not why he’d come to Remy’s. To talk about his reasons for being here, his mom. He wanted to play some jazz and forget.
    “All right, I see you,” Priscilla said. “But we’re talking at some point, boy.”
    A giant Cajun man stepped out onto the porch, wiping his hands off on the apron around his thick waist. “I don’t believe it,” Remy said, his accent as thick as the swamp. “I just don’t believe it.”
    “Hi, Remy.” Tyler stuck out his hand but Remy pulled him in for a bone-crushing hug.
    “You,” Remy said. “You been gone too long.” Tyler was surprised to see the big guy’s eyes were wet. “That money you sent after Katrina—”
    Priscilla crossed herself.
    Tyler tried to stop the conversation before it got started. This gratitude business was always so damn uncomfortable. “Remy, seriously, you don’t have to—”
    “I do. I do have to thank you, and you have to listen. The boys in the band were able to feed their families and give them clothes and a place to stay until they got back on their feet. We got a few of them trailers for some folks around here.”
    “I’m glad,” Tyler said.
    “And this last bunch of money.” Priscilla whistled. “Boy, you trying to buy the place?”
    “No! No, I just know that times are tough and you guys know better than I do about people in these parts that need help the most.”
    “Well.” Remy put his arm around Tyler, leading him in the back door through the steam and spice of the kitchen. Remy had to yell over the sounds of pots and pans and the cooks calling out Tyler’s name. “People out here are grateful,” Remy said while Tyler shook some hands. People he didn’t know were thanking him for what he’d done for their families. “The band is waiting for you and tonight your money ain’t no good. Now, what you need?” Remy asked, pounding Tyler on the shoulders.
    “Let’s start with a beer,” Tyler said. His whole body, his heart and his head, the wounds from Juliette’s disdain—everything was good. Healed. “And see where the night takes us.”

    J ULIETTE PARKED HER SEDAN out front of The