Page 24 of The Shop on Royal Street
“I guess you could say you and I are survivors. So that’s one thing we have in common.”
“I wouldn’t go that far. It’s not like we had a choice.”
“Sure, we did. We always have choices. But sometimes we have to be bullheaded enough to make the right one.”
Feeling uncomfortable with the conversation, I stood and stretched. “I need to get back to work. Was there anything you needed to tell me? I’m assuming there’s a reason for this visit other than to remind me that I owe you.”
“Fine, then. I was going to offer you a generator and water dispenser that one of my crews doesn’t need right now, but if you’re not interested...”
“I didn’t say that,” I said quickly. “But aren’t you worried they’ll get stolen if we leave them here? I need to fix the lock again because the front door keeps opening, even when I know I locked it and turned the new dead bolt. I have a strong feeling it’s not the lock, but I need to do something.”
“Do you really think someone is going to break in here?”
“Good point. I can’t even get people Iwantto come inside.”
“You know, maybe you should sign up for Nextdoor. That’s a great way to find people.”
I frowned. “I thought the whole idea of partnering with you was because you had the human and technical resources. I might as well be doing it all on my own. It’s what I wanted to do when I first started, and you and Jolene talked me into this arrangement.”
“And I’m still keeping up my end of the bargain. It’s just that my guys are from New Orleans and are ridiculously easy to scare off. One guy said the house had bad juju. Whatever. I’ll keep working on them. But that’s why I suggested Nextdoor. Members are in your community and will know people who wouldn’t be bothered by things they can’t explain.”
“And if I can’t find anyone to work here? Then I run out of money and can’t afford to pay my rent, and I’ll have to sleep on an unfinished floor without air-conditioning.”
“Do you really think I’d let it come to that? It’s why I came today. To offer you help until we can get a reliable crew in here. I’m a licensed contractor and can do the plumbing work and some electrical work. I didn’t want to insult you by offering my help.”
I swallowed, feeling unbelievably grateful, yet still ashamed at how much I owed him, and how hard it was to tell him. Almost enough to make me cry. Or maybe it was the heat and my exhaustion. “You’re not insulting me. It’s obvious that I need help—although through no fault of my own.”
His mouth turned up at one corner. “So you’re saying you need my help.”
“I’m saying I need an electrician. And anyone who knows how to plaster a wall, because I haven’t a clue and watching videos isn’t enough. And a plumber, because, well, the portable potties reek in this heat. Lastly, I really need a carpenter. I can’t open the locked door at the top of the stairs, but I don’t want to hack through it because I want to be able to reuse it. As a last resort I can call a locksmith, but I really don’t want to damage the door and would rather just remove it intact.”
“Sorry about that—I’ve never had a key to that door. It wasn’t included when the property manager Mimi hired after my grandfather passed turned over the keys when I took over. He said the closet was just filled with junk. I meant to get it opened at some point, but I guess I forgot.” He crossed his arms and looked at me smugly. “So, if you’ll just admit that you need my help, I’ll show up here first thing Monday morning with a sander, a generator, fans, and Jorge and anyone else on your list that I can find. And I will be here most days when I can’t geta crew together for you until the job is done. You just need to say that one little phrase.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
He shook his head. “Nope.” He stood, knocking off one of the Mardi Gras necklaces. He stooped to redrape it. When I didn’t say anything, he said, “Suit yourself. The heat index is supposed to be one hundred and three tomorrow. Good luck with that.” He began walking down the steps, then paused at the bottom, eyebrows raised.
“Fine,” I said. “I need your help. Just as long as you know that I could do this all on my own. I’m just running short on time through no fault of my own.”
Beau looked up toward the two dormer windows before quickly glancing away. “Yeah, I know. And just as long as you remember that you insisted on buying this house against my better judgment.” He stepped toward his truck before turning around again. “Did you bring your guitar from Charleston?”
“Yeah. Why?” I didn’t think it was worth mentioning that I hadn’t opened the case since I’d placed it in a corner of the back room. Or that I didn’t really consider itmyguitar, becausemyguitar had belonged to my mother and had burned in the fire.
“Because I play, too. It’s something else we have in common. Frenchmen Street is a real happening music scene. You should try it sometime. They also have open mic nights. In case you’re interested.”
“Why is it so important to you that we have anything in common?”
Beau’s jaw tightened briefly before he responded. “Because Jack and Melanie told me you needed a friend here.”
His admission hurt. Not just because it confirmed that my parents were worried about my choice to move, but because they had more or less asked Beau to be my friend. It was humiliating. “I don’t need a friend. I just need a plumber. And a carpenter.”
He jerked open the driver’s-side door of his truck. “Don’t forget an electrician.”
“That, too,” I yelled after him as he pulled out onto the street and drove away.
I watched his truck disappear and felt the need to apologize. I turned to go back into the house, mentally preparing myself to return to hand stripping the cypress floors. I stopped midstep, my breathing suspended in mid-inhale. My heart thudded loudly as I looked down at the worn floorboards. A single and very distinct set of a woman’s wet footprints, each toe and heel clearly defined, each print surrounded by a spray of water droplets, led from the doorway to the porch steps, then toward the curb where Beau’s truck had been before the prints vanished.
I quickly headed back inside, closing the door on the footprints, remembering what Beau had told me about his mother and how she disappeared during Katrina. I leaned against the door and spoke to the empty house. “I can’t help you. I’m sorry.”
