Page 61 of The Shop on Royal Street
We speed walked down Freret to cut through campus, which we found preferable to dodging full garbage cans and broken sidewalks onBroadway. When we reached the park, Jolene stopped me and grabbed my T-shirt. Before I knew what she was doing, she’d tied it in a knot at my waist.
“There,” she said, swiping her hands as if she’d just put out a fire. “Now you don’t look like you’re pregnant with all that bagginess. There’s nothing wrong with showing off your figure, even in workout clothes. The secret is to let your clothes be tight enough to show you’re a woman, but not too tight to show you’re not a lady.”
Despite myself, I snorted. “Very funny. Did your grandma teach you that?”
“Actually, no. I read it in a book. But it’s accurate either way.” She began walking, pumping her arms as if she were preparing to take flight, and I had to jog to catch up to her. “Okay, you be on the lookout. Use a secret code if you spot him.”
“A secret code?”
“Yes. Like ‘Hairy toad.’ ”
“ ‘Hairy toad,’ ” I said slowly. “And then what do we do?”
“You just keep looking. If we don’t see him, then we’ll go to plan B.”
“But I don’t even know what plan A is!”
“Don’t worry, Nola. We’ll figure it out. It’s good for your brain not to always have everything planned in advance. Keeps you creative.”
“Fine,” I breathed, unable to carry on conversing because I was panting too heavily.
We went around the path three times without spotting him, or any male older than four and younger than seventy. We stopped at the fountain where I’d seen the man before; I put my hands on my knees as I gasped for breath before using the knot on my T-shirt to wipe the sweat from my face.
“No luck?” Jolene asked. She had delicate perspiration beads on her forehead, her makeup still perfect, her ponytail sleek and bouncy, soft curls forming around her headband.
I shook my head. “This is the usual time I go running and when I know I’ve seen him. He must not be running today.”
Jolene turned toward the exit of the park. “I guess it’s time to turn to plan B.”
I trotted after her, still gasping as I tried to catch my breath. I needed to lay off the muffins. I thought of Jolene’s offer to make my green smoothies but quickly pushed it aside. In typical Melanie fashion, I decided I’d think about changing my diet when the renovation was done and I wasn’t so stressed.
“Where are we going?” I asked as we jogged across St. Charles Avenue.
“To Audubon Place.”
“I thought you said it was private.”
“It is. But my best friend and sorority sister from undergrad, Mary-Swan, lived here—and her family still does. I’m in the habit of bringing them baked treats, so I’m on the approved-access list and the security guards know me. Plus, I practically lived in her house during exam weeks. It was a quiet place to study. And it had a chef’s kitchen where I could bake off some stress.”
With only a couple of bats of Jolene’s eyelashes, she and I walked through the gate, slowing our pace so I could marvel at the various architectural styles of the palatial homes set amid towering oak trees on a wide boulevard, a manicured park in the middle separating each home from the neighbor across the street.
“This is very SOB,” I said, admiring a white stuccoed mansion with a red terra-cotta–tiled roof.
“Pardon me?”
“South of Broad. In Charleston. It’s where you find historic houses like this. My family’s house on Tradd Street is SOB. Melanie inherited it and it’s been a love-hate relationship ever since. She swears that as much as she loves it, she still has dreams where she uses a flamethrower to solve all of her renovation problems.”
“Ouch. I can see now why you turned to historic preservation.”
“Eventually. I used to want to be a professional musician and songwriter. But there was something about bringing derelict houses back to life that carried special meaning for me. I guess I found the parallels to my own life irresistible.”
“There’s still time,” she said gently. “My grandmama didn’t know she wanted to be a funeral director until my granddaddy died. People kept telling her to sell the family business, but she’s as stubborn as a mule under an apple tree and wouldn’t budge. And now her funeral home is rated number one in the state and people agree that her customers look better when she’s done with them than when they were alive.”
We stopped in front of a Queen Anne Victorian with an inviting wraparound porch and leaded glass front doors. “Is this it? I didn’t bring the paper with the address, but I think this is the right one.”
“I didn’t, either, and I only glanced at it once.” Jolene bit her lip. “And this is the main reason why I don’t like to exercise—there’s no way to carry your pocketbook with everything you need.”
“It was just a piece of paper, Jolene. There’s plenty of room in your bra top.”
