Page 62 of The Shop on Royal Street
With a sidelong glance she led us next door to a Spanish Renaissance mansion with a green tiled roof, and deep porches along the first floor. “I think this is it.”
“Does it really matter?” I asked. “I can only hope that your plan B doesn’t involve knocking on a door unannounced.”
She looked at me with genuine shock. “Dressed like this?”
I rolled my eyes. “That wasn’t my point. But seriously, why are we here?”
“Don’t you want to meet your mystery admirer? If it’s the same guy who wants to buy your door, it would give you a good excuse to set up a meeting, even if you have no plans to sell it. I figured if he lives here and goes running in the park, we might catch him going or coming.”
“And then what? Light myself on fire so he’ll stop to chat? Or just let him know that I’m stalking him?”
“That would be plan C. I haven’t quite worked that out yet.”
“Can I help you?”
We both whipped around at the sound of the male voice behind us.Without thinking, I shouted, “Hairy toad,” cringing immediately at the perplexed expression on the man’s face.
“Michael? Michael Hebert?” Jolene blurted, pronouncing it the French way, with a silent H and T. “It’s so great to see you again—it’s been, what? A year? Two years? Whatever—it seems like forever ago.”
He stood on the street, holding his bicycle, looking at us with interest. He was even more good-looking close up, his dark hair more chestnut but brightened with sun-streaked highlights, and hazel eyes looking dusky green, most likely owing to his green polo shirt. He smiled, but his confusion was evident. His eyes narrowed for a moment. “Wait a minute—preservation technology? Or was it environmental law? I seem to remember a redhead in one of those classes. We were a pretty small group, though. I’m sorry—I don’t recall your name....”
Jolene extended her hand. “Jolene McKenna. I was pretty shy back then, so I kept to myself. I decided to stay in the city and now work in the preservation field. What about you?”
Michael kept glancing at me, as if waiting for an introduction, but I didn’t want to interrupt whatever plan C was. “I still live here.” He indicated the Spanish Renaissance house. “With my aunt and uncle.” He shrugged. “My sister moved away, but there’s something about New Orleans that won’t let go of some of us, you know?”
“I most certainly do,” Jolene said with a sympathetic nod of her head. “Just like my friend here, Nola Trenholm. She’s from Charleston, but after just one year of undergrad at Tulane, she knew she had to come back.”
He turned to me, and his gaze didn’t register surprise, almost as if he’d expected to see me. It was a look of familiarity, as if he already knew who I was.
As if reading my thoughts, he said, “I’ve seen you before—running in the park. We must go at about the same time, because I’ve seen you there a lot.”
“Yes.” I nodded eagerly. “That’s probably it. I thought you looked vaguely familiar, too.”
He grinned, his teeth white against his tanned face. “I noticed you were admiring the architecture on the street. I take it you’re into old buildings, too?”
“Oh, yes. I have a master’s degree in historic preservation from the College of Charleston, and I work as an architectural historian for a civil engineering firm here in New Orleans.”
“And she just bought her own house in the Marigny and is restoring it,” Jolene added.
“That’s amazing,” he said without looking away. He also didn’t volunteer anything about himself.
“I work with JR Properties,” Jolene interjected. “We buy and renovate old houses and sell them.”
When he still hadn’t said anything, I asked, “What about you?”
It took him a moment to answer. “Oh. I work for my uncle on various projects. Right now I’m also the research assistant for one of the preservation professors at Tulane. It’s a good gig and it’s convenient, since I’m just next door.”
He smiled again, which made me forget that he really hadn’t told us much at all.
“I have an idea,” Jolene said in a tone of voice that always made me nervous. “I’d love to host a little dinner party at our apartment and invite some other preservation-minded friends so we can compare notes and get to know each other.”
“That sounds great,” Michael said, looking directly at me.
“Wonderful. As soon as I figure out when, I’ll send you a text. We’re on Broadway, so not too far.”
“I’ll look forward to it.” He pulled out his phone. “You’ll need my phone number. Give me yours so I can call you so then I’ll have yours, too.”
“Oh, right,” Jolene said, then proceeded to give Michael my cell number. “Just let it ring—we didn’t bring our phones with us.”
