Free Wading Home: A Novel of New Orleans by Rosalyn Story Page A

range, while his head chef wiped greasy fingers on a towel. The man was in my kitchen! Simon said, his voice pitched high, ringing with giddy joy. The man was actually in my kitchen! The president’s strong paw engulfed Simon’s hand, and his eyes seemed fixed on his as he praised Simon’s shrimp etouffee, his bourbon-laced bread pudding, and of course, his red beans and rice. Then, he truly listened while Simon told about his Auntie Maree, his teacher and the true chef in the family, from the old home place at Silver Creek.
    But a picture with the president? Apparently an honor reserved only for owners, not the lowly genius chef whose artistry had put the restaurant on the culinary world map, and more money in Parnenter’s pockets than he could spend in a lifetime.
    “The president was a big fan of your father’s cooking. He came whenever he was in the state, right up until the week we closed.”
    Right , Julian thought. Maybe the president would have been a decent business partner. He stared down into the tea, then took a long, thoughtful drink.
    Parmenter put down his cup, his whitish brows furrowed. “I want you to know, Julian, I will do whatever I can to help you find your father. I count him among my dearest friends. You know that.”
    Julian paused a moment, then spoke quietly.
    “Yes, sir.”
    “I know a few people at the police department. They are stretched horribly thin, but there’s at least one or two men I can count on for help.”
    “I’d appreciate whatever you could do, sir.”
    “By the way, where are you staying?”
    “At the Best Western in Baton Rouge.”
    “Oh? Why don’t you stay here? I have so much room. My chef, I’m sure, will be back soon, my housekeeper too. You’ll be so much more comfortable…”
    Julian bit his bottom lip. Stay here? He didn’t even want to be here now.
    “Thanks. I’m good where I am.”
    For the next few minutes, Julian listened while Parmenter went on about the night of the storm, the sounds of deafening thunder and rain, the crashing of tree limbs. The feral braying and cawing of the wind and the eerie calm when it finally ended. How it was so different from anything he’d been through before, even Betsy.
    “It was terrible, I must say, a little frightening. But I suppose here in the Garden District we fared better than most.”
    You got that right. Julian finished his tea and got up to leave. Parmenter hobbled up with his cane. “Well, all right. I’ll make some calls today. You checked the whole neighborhood? No one has seen him?”
    “Sir, there’s nobody in the neighborhood. Daddy’s part of the Treme took on about four or five feet of water in most of the houses and the streets. But there was a whole lot more than that in some of the other parts of town.”
    Julian told him about the Lower Ninth, where houses had floated from their slabs, and New Orleans East and even further away in St. Bernard Parish, where the waters rose to the eaves and even covered some rooftops until the whole city was drained.
    Parmenter bowed his head, frowning, his face pale. “I haven’t been too well lately. I haven’t been out of my house since…I listened to my radio for a while yesterday until the battery died. I guess I didn’t realize…”
    For a brief moment, Julian felt a twinge of sympathy. If Parmenter had had children, grandchildren, they would have rushed in to look after him, occupying rooms in the enormous house, fluttering and fussing around him. And maybe he would have had a clue about the devastation in the rest of the city.
    Parmenter opened the door and the two stepped out onto the gallery. The afternoon sun was full, the twisted branches and leaves of trees spindled out like disheveled hair after a night of restless sleep, and the air was thick and muggy.
    “By the way,” he said, “how is the young lady, your friend? I remember meeting her once years ago. What was her name? Very beautiful.”
    Where did that come from? He had not