Page 25 of The Shop on Royal Street
Pushing myself away from the door, I headed to the kitchen to continue sanding, a lone thought following me as I worked, a speck of dust in the eye that defied removal.Who was haunting Beau, and why did he pretend not to notice?
CHAPTER 9
The following week, I stopped my bike in front of the Past Is Never Past and let down the kickstand before securing the bike with the four lock chains that had cost more than the bike but were essential if I wanted it to remain in my possession. I’d paid only ten dollars to buy it from a kid on a bench in Washington Square Park. He was only twelve years old but apparently already quite the entrepreneur, I’d noticed on my neighborhood ramblings, with his random assortment of junk with price tags crafted from torn cardboard boxes. The bike—complete with hand brakes and a banana seat—was circa 1980, but it had been kept in pristine condition, meaning it had minimal rust and the brakes still worked. I didn’t ride it the whole way between Uptown and Downtown, but it was handy for getting around the Marigny and the Quarter and other nearby areas to run errands. It didn’t have air-conditioning, but it had the advantage of giving me full view of potholes to avoid. I didn’t tell my parents that I’d acquired the bike. Mostly because I didn’t want them to worry, but also because there was a part of me that considered buying it retaliation for their asking Beau to be my friend.
I didn’t ask questions when I handed the boy two fives—doublewhat he was asking because he had good manners and when I approached he stood and said “Yes, ma’am” and “No, ma’am,” which Jolene had taught me meant that he’d been raised right. He also had a beautiful smile, his white teeth bright against his dark skin, and he was small for his age, which made him even more endearing.
I’d since bought a few more essential items, like a small battery-powered fan, a water pistol ideal for squirting water on my face and at flying cockroaches, and a rubber bath mat that was perfect for my sore knees when working on the floors. I’d also since learned that his name was Trevor and he lived with his grandmother and nine siblings (he was number seven), and we were now officially friends and greeted each other with high fives.
I wiped the sweat off of my forehead after locking the bike, unfortunately catching sight of myself in the reflection of the store window. I’d been painstakingly removing nails and glue from layers of other flooring materials beneath the wooden floors, the generator Beau had brought humming happily in the background along with the whir of the floor fans. Although it was better to have fans than stagnant, humid air, the fans did funny things to my hair, which made me feel sorry for anyone who had to look at me. I opened the door to the shop, welcoming the icy cold blast of air-conditioning, and grateful that I was known at the shop and didn’t have to worry about security being called.
“Nola, what a nice surprise.” Christopher straightened in front of a Duncan Phyfe table—distinguished by its lion-paw feet and the urn pedestal festooned with acanthus leaves and rosettes—a polishing cloth in one hand. “Looks like you could use some refreshment.”
“I’m sure you meant to say ‘shower and a hairbrush,’ but if you’ve got a glass of ice-cold water somewhere, I’ll happily accept it.”
“Would sweet tea work?”
“Even better. Thank you.”
“It’s slow today, so I think I’ll join you if you don’t mind.” He exited through a door at the back of the shop that I hadn’t noticed before, a regular door with a knob and visible hinges, unlike the one on theopposite side that I’d seen Mimi enter with the two customers the last time I’d been there. I turned my face up to catch the breeze from the air conditioner, watching the price tags hanging from chandeliers dancing in the draft. I stopped to examine a sterling silver English tea set, circa 1820, nearly identical to the one in Melanie’s mother’s house in Charleston that had been in her family for generations. Ginnette—Ginny—had served me tea from it more than once, making me feel as if I really were her granddaughter. It had solidified the sense of belonging that I hadn’t known existed until I’d shown up on Melanie’s doorstep when I was fourteen.
Christopher returned with two tall crystal glasses garnished with lemon slices and mint, starched linen napkins cupping the bottoms. Handing one to me, he said, “Let’s sit down and give you a moment to cool off.” He led me to the desk in the corner in front of the hidden door and I sat in the chair facing him across the desk.
He studied me closely. “I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but you look tired. Working hard?”
I nodded, enjoying the cool slip of liquid down my throat. “My boss is almost as excited as I am about restoring my house, which means he’s allowing me to work seven a.m. to three o’clock in the afternoon, so I have a few hours at the end of the day to work on the house. I’m basically working two jobs back-to-back, and the heat just takes it out of me.” I didn’t mention the landline phone that rang every night, even after I’d wrapped it in a sweater and thrown it in my closet. At least Jolene could sleep through it.
“Sounds exhausting. Beau mentioned that he and Jorge have been there every day this week. So you must be making progress, right?”
“Well, if you call discovering that all of the plumbing pipes are galvanized metal and there is dry rot in the kitchen wall ‘progress,’ then I guess you can call it that.”
“Ouch,” he said, wiping a drop of moisture off of the desk’s surface.
“That’s what I said. Jolene is blogging about it now, and posting stuff on the website and YouTube channel, which has given JR Properties lots of exposure—just not drawn any craftspeople to come joinus on the project. Jolene said it’s because when she filmed there was some dust on the lens, and everyone is calling it a spirit orb. She’s cut out that section, but the damage is done.”
I took a long drink from my glass before holding it against my cheek. “And I take that back—we did have one person come see Beau in person to apply for a job. He’s a master carpenter with lots of experience. He just hasn’t worked for the last ten years.”
“Well, that’s good, right?”
“That he’s a master carpenter and eager to work? Yes. That he was in prison for manslaughter for killing his wife, not so much.”
Christopher’s eyes widened. “Is he saying that he was wrongly convicted?”
“No. That’s the thing. He pled guilty and served his time and says he deserves another chance. Beau did some research and the guy checks out. Perfect prison record, was trusted with tools, and taught other prisoners basic carpentry skills while incarcerated. Sad story, really. He had a nice life in a cute little house in the Bywater and his own business when it happened. Lost everything. He has a son he hasn’t seen since he went to prison—his wife’s family won’t allow it. The son’s twenty-five but developmentally disabled, so he lives in a group home.”
I put down my empty glass. “I hate to admit that I might be desperate enough to hire a convicted murderer, but I think I just might.”
Christopher nodded slowly. “I’d trust Beau’s judgment. He’s always been an excellent judge of character.”
I wanted to amend Christopher’s opinion about Beau’s judgment of character, but I chose to file that thought back in the place in my brain where I stored thoughts that should never see the light of day again. “Yeah, well, I’m still thinking about it. Beau says it’s up to me.” I sat up, placing my hands on top of the desk. “I was actually looking for Mimi. Is she back from Mobile?”
“I’m afraid not. She decided to head on up to Savannah and see what else she could find.”
I drummed my fingers on the desk. “I have something at the house that I want to store during the renovation—a door.” I nodded towardthe storage room behind me. “Beau said I needed to ask Mimi for permission, but I really don’t want to wait any longer. It’s in the way and I don’t want it to get damaged. Beau’s in Lakeview getting another project started, but our helper, Jorge, is at the house now. If Jorge and I can get it into his truck, do you think you could let us put it in the storeroom?”
Christopher didn’t say anything right away. “Is the door original to the house?”
I thought it was a strange question, but I was eager to save the door. “No. It’s from the Maison Blanche department store that used to be on Canal Street. Nobody knows how it ended up in my house, but it’s in perfect condition and I’ve included it on my plan to be the door to the downstairs bathroom. It’s perfect because it will filter in light from the bathroom window into the main living space, and because it’s smoky glass—miraculously still intact—it will offer privacy.”
