Page 15 of The Shop on Royal Street
“Yes. She’s in her element around antiques. Happily, Adele had an interest and a great acumen in antiques. Mimi really depended on her.”
“Adele?” It wasn’t my nature to be nosy, but the old house full of treasures and enchanting architectural accents, along with the knowledge of the locked room upstairs, lent a mysterious air to the evening. It was like the overture from the orchestra before a theatrical performance, and I didn’t want to miss any of it. Yet I’d grown into the type of person who didn’t like surprises, who wanted to know everything up front so she could plan. Maybe I’d learned to be that way from Melanie. Or maybe it really was possible to learn from past mistakes.
“Beau’s mother.” Christopher’s voice had gone somber.
“She disappeared during Katrina. Looking for Beau’s sister.” I knew so little about Beau’s background, mostly because he didn’t talk about it, which made me reluctant to ask about it. But that dark note in Christopher’s voice made me want to know more. I wanted to understand the connection I felt to Beau despite all of the friction, wondering if it was because of the shared loss of our respective mothers and the holes inside us that could never be completely filled.
“Yes,” he said, a finality to the one word that made it clear that the conversation was closed. “Won’t you join me in the parlor?”
I pulled my gaze from the painting to follow Christopher through a set of open pocket doors into the front parlor. Jolene elbowed me gently, and I wondered if she, too, felt the eyes from the portrait following us.
Christopher indicated a pair of Biedermeier chairs upholstered in a deep salmon velvet in front of the white marble fireplace, the soft ticking of an ormolu clock on the mantel melding with the steady hum of central air. He moved to stand in front of a Georgian mahogany secretary-bookcase that contained bottles of liquor and crystal glasses of various sizes. Holding up a bottle of Sazerac Rye whiskey, he said, “May I get you ladies something to drink? I make a mean Sazerac, if I do say so myself.”
A frosted crystal pitcher containing water and floating lemon slices sat on a shelf behind him. “Just water for me, please.”
Jolene hesitated a moment. “Water for me, too.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “If you’d like a Sazerac, go for it.”
Christopher’s gaze moved from me to Jolene. “It’s got a bit of a punch, but it’s still early, and we’ll make sure you eat enough of the feast Mimi is preparing so you can drive home. Or Nola can drive.”
At my look of horror, Christopher belted out a deep laugh. “New Orleans drivers are the worst. They’d hardly notice one more bad driver.”
I grimaced. “I don’t know how to drive.”
“Most of them don’t, either.” He smiled broadly. “No worries. We’ll see that you get home safely.”
“The offer still stands to teach you, Nola.”
We turned to see Beau standing in the doorway we’d come through.
Jolene looked at me with surprise. “I thought you said no one had ever offered!”
“I believe I offered more than a few times,” Beau said, approaching the bar and placing two ice cubes from a silver ice bucket into an empty glass.
“You really should learn,” Jolene insisted. “It’s what my grandmama calls a life skill that you will always use and appreciate. Like potty training and playing tennis.”
There was a brief silence while we all digested her words. Turning to me, she said, “I’ll be happy to teach you. Or Beau can.”
“The offer still stands,” Beau repeated at the same time I said, “I think I’d rather eat glass.”
“Nobody’s eating glass,” Mimi said as she appeared from the door leading to the dining room, the tantalizing smell of food drifting in from behind her. “I hope you’d all prefer crawfish étouffée instead.” She smiled at Jolene and me in greeting, then looked at Beau. “Would you please join me in the kitchen? Lorda is helping me tonight, but she’s spending more time talking than helping.”
“We’re happy to help,” I said, but Beau waved us back.
“I got this. I know my way around Mimi’s kitchen, so she won’t have to yell at me as much. And I know how to handle Lorda.” Mimi sent him a disapproving glance as she led him through the dining room, and I fought the urge to follow, if only to make sure Beau didn’t put something in my food.
“Who’s Lorda?” I asked Christopher.
“The housekeeper. She’s been with the family forever. Lives in Chalmette with her mother, so she has to be on the road home before it gets dark. We have a guesthouse out back she uses when she has to stay late, and calls her sister to go watch their mother. Really nice lady, but she can talk your ear off on just about any subject.”
“Let me guess,” Jolene said. “Lorda isn’t her given name, but shewas probably a jabberer as a child, and because all the adults around her would say, ‘Lord-a-mercy, that child sure talks a lot,’ the name stuck.”
Christopher laughed as he handed us our drinks, along with starched white linen cocktail napkins monogrammed with a large crimson red R.“How did you know?”
“I’m Southern. Names like Precious, Honey, and Stinky dot my family tree. I’ve got a natural ear for name etymology.” She took a sip of her drink, her eyes widening.
“Wow. Doesn’t that just take the rags off the bush!”
