Page 72 of The Shop on Royal Street
“Really?” I remembered Christopher telling me that Mimi hadn’t set foot in the house since the murder of her friend, and then it had been rented out for years, so I wondered why she’d said that. Of course, if the outside porch and backyard were as cluttered as they were when I first saw the house, saying it was cluttered would have been a valid assumption Mimi could have made whether or not she’d actually seen the inside.
“It was definitely full of junk when I bought it. I think we’ve filled two whole dumpsters and are working on the third. Seems the more we tear out, the more we see needs to be torn out. I should have my head examined for wanting to restore a house in a city where there are two kinds of termites.”
“Well, I for one am glad that you did decide to restore it.” Michael extended his arm toward the door. “Shall we?”
We said good-bye to Jolene and I scratched Mardi’s neck and ears before leading Michael down the stairs.
“What’s that perfume you’re wearing?” he said as we reached the bottom.
It was Jolene’s, and I had no earthly idea what she’d spritzed on me. I recalled the big bottle of perfume that held pride of place on my little sister’s dresser and said the name of it before I could think twice. “Little Princess,” I said. I did an internal eye roll as soon as I said it.
I heard the smile in his voice as he said, “Who knew? And where does one find it?”
We’d reached the bottom of the stairs and he’d reached around me to open the door. With my height and the addition of Jolene’s borrowed heels—not too high, since, according to Jolene, the higher the heels, the lower the morals—I could almost look Michael directly in the eye.
Knowing there was no way out, I said, “Probably Walmart. Why would you want to know?”
I stepped outside and I heard his car keys jingle as he pulled them from a pocket. “I like to bring a small gift on a second date.”
I paused by the passenger side of a black Mercedes sedan while he opened the door for me. “But we haven’t even been on our first date yet.”
He grinned that grin again as I situated myself in the soft leather seat. “Yeah. But I’m an optimistic kind of guy.”
By the time we’d parked the car at the Royal Orleans hotel in the Quarter and walked next door to Antoine’s on St. Louis Street, I felt as if I’d known Michael a lot longer than a few days. We had so much in common, including our love for old buildings and historic architecture, and how important our families were in our lives. Our conversation almost sounded scripted, since everything fell together like puzzle pieces, yet still spontaneous and warm. Not that I would compare Michael to a dog, but it was the same feeling I’d had when Mardi had first approached me. It was exhilarating to talk with someone who knew nothing about me except what I wanted to tell him. For the first time in a very long time I felt as if I weren’t being judged with preconceptions.
I had passed the iconic two-storied structure of the famed Antoine’s a multitude of times but had never been inside. Just from reading about the history of the city, I knew its premier eatery contained a labyrinth of fourteen dining rooms all decked out with New Orleans lore and antique memorabilia from the carnival krewes that for generations have held official functions at the restaurant.
The maître d’ knew Michael, addressing him as Mr.Hebert, and escorted us through the building to a dining room lit with antique chandeliers and filled with white-cloth-covered tables.
As we settled into our seats and were handed menus, our server asked if we’d like a cocktail to start.
Although always prepared for this question and my answer, for the first time in years I hesitated. I knew it was because I was nervous. It had been a long time since I’d had romantic feelings. I’d been too busy rebuilding my life and graduating from college and grad school with honors. I deliberately left Beau out of the equation. Feelings for him were taboo, just another complication in an already complicated life. Yet he always seemed to loom on the periphery of my consciousness, a dark specter I couldn’t exorcise. The kiss the night before had only clouded my feelings further. Just one glass of anything stronger than water could soothe my nerves and help me forget.
Seeing my hesitation, the waiter said, “May I suggest the French seventy-five? We make it here exactly like Harry’s Bar in Paris, where it was invented.”
I could almost taste it, the champagne bubbling in my mouth before sliding down my throat; the tingling in my limbs as the gin slowly relaxed my muscles and my nerves melted away. The confidence I’d feel to go with the dress and heels. To feel like everybody else again.
“Yes,” I found myself saying. “I’d like a glass.”
“And I’ll have a Glenlivet twenty-one on the rocks, please,” Michael said as if everything were normal. As if something monumental hadn’t just happened. As if I hadn’t just decided after several years that I was now strong enough to have one drink and stop.
As we opened up our menus, I said, “I should have offered to give you my phone number for you to call me in case you needed to cancel.” I grimaced. “But you already have it. Jolene gave you my number when you asked for hers when we ran into you in front of your house.”
He smiled. “Good. Because it was your number I really wanted.”
My face heated as I bent my head to focus on the menu, and I wasbarely aware when the drinks arrived. “To new beginnings,” Michael said as he held up his glass.
“To new beginnings,” I said as I clinked my glass with his and took a sip.
As we shared our appetizers of escargot bourguignon and oysters Rockefeller I found myself relaxing, making the one drink last and telling myself that was all I needed. But when our main courses arrived and Michael ordered a bottle of wine, I didn’t say no.
We talked about our families, and our love of dogs, and how I didn’t mind having siblings much younger than me. I didn’t mention Melanie’s extracurricular activities or my dad’s job, since Michael hadn’t recognized his name. Nor did I talk about my birth mother, or how I’d ended up in Charleston. In the soft glow of the cocktail and wine, I felt confident that we would have all the time in the world to get to know each other better.
“I’m curious,” I said. “You mentioned that you were raised by your aunt and uncle. How did that happen?”
“My parents are missionaries. Apparently very dedicated ones, to leave the raising of their children to other family members.” Michael shrugged as if it didn’t bother him, but I could tell otherwise. I knew the look.
“And then you were sent up north for boarding school. Did you want to go so far from home?”
