Page 73 of The Shop on Royal Street
“Not really. Neither did my sister, Felicity. I don’t think Aunt Angelina wanted us to, but Uncle Robert said it was important to spread our wings. They hadn’t been able to have their own children, so they treated Felicity and me as if we were theirs.”
I took a sip of my wine. “How are they related to you?”
“Aunt Angelina and my dad, Marco, are brother and sister. They were very close growing up. Their mother, Marguerite, had lost a sister when she was younger, and I think she was a bit overprotective of them when they were children, so they grew up relatively isolated, but had each other as best friends into adulthood.”
“My siblings are only twelve right now, but I imagine I would feel the same way about them if I should ever need someone to take over raising my own children. So I’m guessing you see your aunt and uncle almost as your real parents.”
“Pretty much. We were raised by them since we were really young. And we didn’t want to leave them for boarding school at all, but it wasn’t up to us. Our biological parents were insistent that we experience life outside of New Orleans. It was part of the agreement when our aunt and uncle took over as guardians. I think they wanted us to plant new roots up north. I’ve always wanted to ask them why, but we don’t see them, and we only get a package and a short letter every Christmas and birthday.” He took a sip of wine.
“I’m sorry. I know that hurts, regardless of what kind of good they’re doing as missionaries.” I touched my glass to his. “Here’s to absent parents, and to the other parents in our lives who love us as if we’re their own.”
He looked at me with his beautiful eyes, and a welcome warmth flooded my chest. “I couldn’t have said it better.” After another sip he said, “In some ways it worked. Felicity fell in love with the Northeast, and while we both decided to stay there for college, she now lives and works in Manhattan, for Sotheby’s. I decided I wanted to come back, and my uncle offered me a job with his company.” He shrugged. “So here I am.”
“A love of old things must run in your blood, then,” I said. I lifted my glass to take another sip but found it empty. Our waiter rushed over and refilled my glass before I could protest, although at this point I was feeling too good to really want to say no.
“I think it does. That’s why I’m so interested in finding remnants from the Maison Blanche store. My uncle wants the new condos he’s building to be ultramodern, but I think adding historical elements will really make them stand out.”
“It would make them meaningful,” I said. “And not like all that cookie-cutter stuff being built nowadays.” I had started sounding less like myself and more like an undergrad explaining why they wantedto study historic preservation. Sort of like someone saying they wanted to go into retail management because they liked to shop.
The waiter cleared the table in preparation for bringing out our Baked Alaska. I went to lean forward, but my elbows missed the edge of the table and I simply bobbed my head. Either Michael hadn’t noticed or he was just being polite. “Like my door,” I said.
“Your door?” His eyebrows rose with interest.
I nodded. “Um-hmm. I have a door from one of the upstairs offices that used to be above the retail space at Maison Blanche. There were lots of doctor and dentist offices up there, and they even had a pharmacy. The door has that pitted glass and original hardware with anMBon the doorknob plate and it will make the perfect bathroom door in the new house. Assuming I ever get an actual bathroom.” I held my napkin to my lips to stifle a hiccup.
“You’re so lucky to have it. Where did you find it?”
“In my house! On the first day I walked inside. It was right there in the upstairs room, leaning against the wall. Mimi wanted to put it in the dumpster. Can you imagine?” I might have swayed in my seat and had to grab hold of the edge of the table to steady myself. Fortunately, Michael didn’t seem to notice.
“No, I can’t. But I’d love to see it sometime.”
“As long as you understand that you can’t have it. It’s not for sale.” I gave my head an exaggerated shake.
“I get it. If I’d found it first, I wouldn’t want to sell it, either.”
“It’s kind of a pain to store it, though. I didn’t want it to get damaged during the renovation, so I had it stored at the Past Is Never Past—the Ryans’ antiques shop on Royal Street. But Mimi sort of threw a fit—she isveryparticular as to what goes in her storeroom, apparently—so I had to move it to my apartment.”
“I’d love to see it...” Michael began, just as the football-shaped Baked Alaska was wheeled to our table and then flambéed tableside. After the commotion of the preparation, and the exclamations of how amazing the dessert tasted, and the embarrassment of knocking my wineglass over and onto my dress, the conversation was forgotten.
I excused myself to go to the ladies’ room to try to blot out the wine from the dress while Michael paid the bill. When I’d returned he escorted me back to his car, because I wasn’t used to wearing heels and my feet hurt, and I found myself leaning more heavily on his arm than when I’d arrived. I wasn’t drunk. I’d had only one cocktail. And a glass of wine. Or was it two? Most of a glass had ended up on my dress. But I hadn’t had that much to drink and I was definitely not drunk. I could remember what I ate and what we’d talked about. What Michael’s long fingers had looked like wrapped around his drink; how both sides of his face creased when he smiled, and how I’d told him that when he grew old they’d be permanent.
I definitely wasn’t drunk.
When we reached my apartment, Michael walked me to the door. Jolene had helpfully turned on the single-bulb outdoor fixture, where a large moth—at least I hoped it was a moth—was currently tossing itself against the glass.
“I had a wonderful time tonight,” he said.
I could barely focus on his words, my brain too busy wondering if he would kiss me and if I should let him. If I wanted him to. And there, in the tiny dark recesses in the way, way back, the thought of how his kiss would compare to Beau’s.
After a pause, when I realized he was waiting for me to answer, I said, “Me, too. I loved everything about it. Especially that Baked Alaska.”
He chuckled. “I love a girl with a healthy appetite and who loves sweets as much as I do.”
I closed my eyes and tilted my chin, my eyelids pink from the bulb above us, the moth continuing its endless battle with the light.Clack, clack, clack.
Michael leaned forward, the faint scent of his cologne and soap making my nerve endings jump to attention. He leaned a little to the right and his lips landed on my cheek, where they lingered only briefly.
He stepped back and took my hands as I opened my eyes, hoping he couldn’t see my disappointment. “Good,” he said. “Because I’mhoping you’ll go out with me again. What are you doing tomorrow night?”
