But then her eyes fell on Ricky, and she strutted right past me.

"Oh, you must be Ricky!" she said, pecking him on the cheek. "I've heard so much about you."

All I could think was, Ugh! Sukey, you don't even know him!

But there she was, just standing there in her knee-high white patent-leather boots and a little outfit that showed her belly-a tight little top and totally red vinyl hot pants.

"Sukey," I said, "this is Ricky, my teacher. And Ricky, this is my girlfriend, Sukey, whom I've known all my life."

Ricky said, "Sukey, how fabulous to meet an old friend of Calla's. Who has been cutting your hair?"

"Julia."

"Oh, Julia," Ricky said. "Hmm. Well, turn around."

And so she did.

"I like it," Ricky said, tapping his finger to his lip. "I like the look on you."

"It could be tapered a little bit more toward the neckline," I said.

And Sukey just kept on flirting with him-God! All she'd ever done was flirt, flirt, flirt, since the day she was born, I swear.

Then Sukey complained to Ricky that he was working me so hard that she hardly ever got to see me.

"Well," Ricky told her, "let's just the three of us go out right now. What do you say? Let's grab some cocktails in the Quarter."

So we took the streetcar down as far as it went and then walked on over to the Napoleon House, one of my favorite places. When you walk in, you can just feel how ancient it is, with its peeling paint walls and floors, small rooms and little tables, and bartenders who've been there forever. I mean, I wouldn't know, since I'd never been, but you could almost think you were in Europe!

"Ah!" Ricky said, seeming to catch the European idea in my mind. "Isn't it a shame that they outlawed pure absinthe?"

Sukey said, "Oh, yes! It is."

And I thought, I'm not sure I like the two of them together.

To change the subject, I piped up with, "Now, Ricky, we need to talk about that woman who's coming over from Natchez to discuss those antebellum ringlets."

"Uh-oh, shop talk," Sukey said. "That's my cue to go to the bar." She came back and listened to us for a while, then said, "Excuse me just a minute, I have to go to the bathroom." She came back with yet another drink, and then all three of us chatted some more.

Then Ricky said, "Hey, the two of you are something else. I can tell that you've known each other forever, just the way you look at each other."

I laughed, but then I looked at Sukey and suddenly noticed a kind of tiredness and fragility around her eyes. "Suke," I said, "Ricky's right. Even though we have different schedules, we've somehow got to get together more."

Sukey answered me with a little slur in her voice. "Calla-" but then she stopped herself. She just took my hand and gave me a short kiss on the cheek and a long one on the lips, right there in the middle of everyone. And I could smell bourbon on her, so strong!

Sukey must have seen me grimace, since she said, "I met a friend earlier today, and we had a little quick nip of bourbon-you know, just a shot. This guy, Skip, I swear he's crazy. He said, 'Bring my girlfriend a jigger of bourbon.' So I drank it to make him feel good."

Ricky raised a questioning eyebrow at me as Sukey continued, "But I had to say, 'Look, Skip, I'm a working girl. I have to go to work tonight.' And I do, y'all. So I've got to go now."

"Hey, wait a minute," Ricky said. "Calla, I've been wanting to have you over. Why don't the two of y'all come for brunch in the New Year. Calla, it's time for you to meet Steve, my man of five years now. You two will love each other. What do you say?"

Sukey said, "We would love to!" And all I could think was: Wow, I can't believe he's been with Steve for five years.

"Well, I'm off," Sukey said. "Calla, it was real good to see you. I love you, baby." She gave me a big hug, and it struck me again how tiny she was.

She whispered, "I feel like a squirt next to your long-legged self."

I whispered back, "You make me feel ten feet tall. What else is new?"

We've said this for years.

Then she went, "Ta!" and was out of the room before I knew it, leaving me with my worry.

Chapter 22.

1974.

On Fat Tuesday, the last day of the Mardi Gras season and the highest of its festivities, Sukey and I headed over for brunch to meet Steve, Ricky's boyfriend, for the first time. Ricky and Steve lived in an upstairs apartment in an old building with high ceilings and slow-turning ceiling fans. Steve was so gracious and kind from the moment he opened the door and gave Sukey and me big welcoming hugs. He won my heart right off the bat.

And their place was beautiful. The floors were old cypress planks, and as you looked around the living room you could see places where the old wallpaper of magnolia flowers and leaves showed through the paint, highlighted by lamps with tiny lights behind crystal tear-drops.

"Oh, Ricky, I love this!" I said. "What do you call how this apartment is fixed up?"

"Well, Calla," Ricky explained, "it's Old Louisiana meets Cubana meets Parisian."

"Wow," I said.

"Yeah, wow," Sukey said. Then she asked, "Can I use your bathroom?"

"But of course," Steve said, and led us down the hallway. The bathroom had old fixtures and an extra-long claw-foot tub. Once we were alone in there, I couldn't help but jump around and say, "Isn't this just wild?"

"Yeah," Sukey said, putting a pill in her mouth and swallowing it. "I have a headache." She gave me a wink. You just had to wonder.

Ricky and Steve's kitchen was much larger than mine, so we had plenty of room to stand around and talk while they were cooking. I took the time to take a good look at Steve.

Steve's complexion was as olive as Ricky's was fair. Ricky was the taller of the two, and while he was lithe and sleek, like a tawny cat, Steve was more muscular in build. And unlike Ricky, the flamboyant one always dressed in the latest style, Steve's navy slacks and blue polo shirt were subdued, though no less impeccable. I liked the two of them together.

Ricky got out a big copper skillet and placed it on the stove. "That's gorgeous," I told him.

"You won't believe it, but I got this for five bucks at a garage sale."

Ricky then uncorked a bottle of olive oil, poured just a splash in the skillet, then added a pat of butter. He quickly peeled and chopped a few cloves of garlic, tested the oil by flicking in a drop of water, then added the garlic to the pan.

"Ricky, you're just like a ballet dancer, only with kitchen utensils," Sukey said, and we all laughed.

Then Ricky grabbed two little chili peppers, split them down the middle, removed the seeds, and tossed the pepper halves into the oil, along with the garlic. Next he threw open the icebox door to see what the food gods had left him. In short order he pulled out a carton of eggs and a hunk of sharp, hard cheese that he called Asiago, which he handed to me along with an antique-looking grater.

"That was my dead aunt Bettye Kaye's," he said. "My dad always called her 'a piece of work,' said that she was addicted to Hollywood. But I loved Aunt Bettye Kaye, and I think of her every time I use this grater." Ricky was full of colorful stories.

He instructed me to grate the cheese while he finely diced a little stubble of leftover chorizo sausage, along with a red bell pepper. I was used to being Ricky's helper.

On the counter was an odd-looking mixing bowl. It was cream colored on the inside, but the dark reddish brown outside looked like someone had tapped it all over with a ball-peen hammer, making little round indents. I turned it over and saw "Kla Ham'rd" stamped on the bottom. "Is that bad or just poetic spelling?" I asked.

"Another Aunt Bettye Kaye relic," Ricky said. "She was known in three parishes for her cooking."

When I set down the bowl, Ricky broke eight eggs into it, using only one hand. Then he just whipped up the eggs with his wire whisk, adding a touch of cold water and fresh-ground white pepper. Then he plucked the little chili peppers out of the skillet and poured in the eggs. In no time, the deliciously sweet and savory smell of peppered oil, egg, and garlic filled the room. After swirling the eggs around the pan for a minute, Ricky added the chorizo, the grated cheese, and the diced red pepper.

"Now, Steve, my secret ingredient," he announced. Steve picked a shiny little apple from the fruit bowl and tossed it to Ricky.

Ricky pulled the skillet off the fire. He cored, peeled, and quartered the apple in the blink of an eye, then diced it and tossed the tiny pieces into the omelet. After thrusting the skillet back onto the burner he sprinkled the top of the omelet with dried dill. When the egg started to firm up and the mixture could easily slide around in the pan, he slipped an extra long spatula under it, tilting the pan slightly, and flipped one half of the omelet on top of the other. Then letting the folded omelet cook for another minute, he flipped it in the air, catching it back in the pan.

"Bravo!" we all said, clapping.

Steve had started setting the table with plates, forks, coffee cups-all wonderfully mismatched-and linen napkins embroidered with the name of some restaurant. Sukey and I sat down and started tearing off big pieces of crusty French bread, as Steve splashed some red wine into our juice glasses. By then the omelet was done. Ricky topped it off with a dollop of sour cream and fresh dill. It arrived at the table like a starlet pulling up to the theater for a movie premiere, camera flash-bulbs flashing, on the arm of Ricky, the leading man. We all oohed and aahed.

"That just smells so delicious," I told Ricky, "but it's way too pretty to eat."

"Not for me," Sukey said. "I'm starved!"

Ricky cut the omelet into four portions and slid them onto our plates. Then I raised my glass of wine and said, "A toast! To Ricky, the master chef."

After we finished eating brunch, Ricky put on some Neville Brothers and I started to boogey. I couldn't help dancing whenever I heard my favorite band. The music got going, and so did I.

"Come on, y'all!"

And soon the four of us were dancing all together, our hips swaying, and our arms high up in the air.

Then Ricky went to the other room and came back with four gorgeous Mardi Gras masks with blue feathers that I couldn't believe were for us.

"Look! Look, look!" Sukey said, as she put hers on. "Please, a mirror, please."

"Mystical blue, just beautiful," I said, turning toward Steve, who was beaming with pride. "You made these, didn't you?"

Ricky jumped in. "Yes, he did! My lawyer, the mask maker!"

"It's a lot more fun than writing briefs," Steve said, grinning at Ricky.

I looked at them and saw two happy people, and my idea of perfect love changed completely in that moment.

We all clinked glasses, and then Ricky stood up to make a toast of his own. "To us!" he said. "To the four of us!"

"To us!" Steve sang forth.

"To us!" Sukey said, swallowing her wine in one gulp, "to us, the Quartet That Care Forgot!"

"To us!" I said. But in fact, I cared about so much.

Then Sukey said, "To the big party!" And we headed out on to the streets for the biggest party in the country.

We stepped into a sea of thousands of people, parties of every kind and stripe and gender-people in costumes, people on stilts with painted faces, men elaborately dressed as women, dogs dressed as kings. The city became one giant party, one giant bar. Before long the crowd began to move like one giant body of music, drumming, bright feathers, sequins, rhinestones, and jewels of every color. I found myself being pushed along by the crowd of people until I could hardly make a decision about where I wanted to go. I didn't like this feeling. When it comes to Mardi Gras I like feathers and rhinestones, but just on Main Street where kids can run alongside the floats and catch beads and candy while their parents sit in lawn chairs visiting and keeping an eye on their little ones.

Chapter 23.

1974.

A few weeks after Mardi Gras, Sukey and I were over at Ricky and Steve's for the evening. I had been going back and forth about whether to go up to La Luna for my birthday. The three of them were encouraging me to stay in New Orleans to celebrate this year, and as they were suggesting places in town they might take me, the conversation turned to the most unusual bars in New Orleans. I swear, I could not believe some of the things they were describing! At one bar there was a live monkey, they said, and at another, a stuffed alligator as big as the entire length of the bar. Then Ricky said something about a carousel bar, and I asked, "What's that mean?" All three of them turned to me, and Steve said, "Calla, have you not been to the Carousel Bar in the Monteleone Hotel?" Ricky chimed in, "That does it, Calla. That's where we're taking you for your birthday." So the four of us made a date.

Because the Monteleone is a famous old hotel, I decided to wear the ice blue linen halter dress that Aunt Helen made for me. It was elegant, not too dressy, and not quite as short as a miniskirt, but still sexy. I had platform shoes that would go with the dress just fine, and some spangly earrings. For a bit of flair, and just to keep that Sukey girl on her toes, I decided to wear the fall I had gotten at a discount through L'Academie. So I put my hair up, weaving in the fall, and ended up using quite a bit of Aqua Net. My hair was long and thick to begin with, so I didn't really need a fall like someone who had thin hair or wanted their hair to look longer. As I stared in the mirror I worried that I looked like a Dairy Queen triple soft ice cream cone. But hey, I was the birthday girl, after all!

JoAnn's shop downstairs was closed, but I could see that she was still there, having a glass of wine with a friend, so I knocked on the window and she waved for me to come in. When I did, JoAnn said right off, "A vision has entered my shop. A vision."

"Is my hair too much, JoAnn?" I asked a little sheepishly.

"Where are you off to?"

When I told her, "The Carousel Bar at the Monteleone," JoAnn and her friend looked at each other, nodded, and said in unison, "Perfect."

Then JoAnn had me walk back and forth a couple of times so she could study me.

"Beautiful. Calla, that dress looks like it was just made for your body."

"It was, JoAnn. Made by my aunt in La Luna," I told her.

"I have a vintage clutch in that same shade," JoAnn said to her friend. "Marti, don't you think this outfit calls for a clutch?"

"I'm not sure I can afford a clutch on top of drinks at a pricey hotel bar just now. I have my monthly budget to think about," I said.

But JoAnn patted my hand and said, "I'm sending it out with you as a loaner-to advertise."

"Oh, JoAnn, thank you so much. Do you want me to take some business cards to hand out at the bar?"

Both JoAnn and Marti just laughed at that. Then JoAnn said, "Calla, don't you tell anyone that I lent this to you. I have a business to run. I'm only doing this because you're my friend-and my very favorite tenant."