Page 16 of The Shop on Royal Street
“Does that mean it’s good?” I asked.
She nodded and took another sip. “Oh, yes. Very. It’s like a slap in the face at first, and then a kiss as it goes down.”
Christopher’s shoulders shook as he poured his own glass before sitting down in a Chinese Chippendale camelback sofa across from us.
I would have liked to spend hours examining the room, with its hand-blocked wallpaper, fluted arches, and inlaid-glass transoms, but Jolene had started asking the questions I wanted to ask but hadn’t yet figured out a way to wedge into polite conversation.
“So, Mr.Benoit...” she began
“Please. Call me Christopher. I’m sure with you working for Beau now, we’ll see each other enough to be considered family.” He smiled, the gleam of his white teeth matching the sparkle in his eyes.
“And are you family?” she asked with a bright smile and another sip of her drink, so that coming from her it didn’t sound rude.
He sipped from his own drink, something amber with two ice cubes in a crystal double old-fashioned glass, then stared down into it for a moment, thinking. When he looked up again, he was smiling. “In a way. Beau’s dad and I were thick as thieves growing up. Not such a common thing back in the seventies, to see a white kid from Uptown be friends with a black kid from the Treme. But my dad did all the deliveries for the shop, and learned a lot along the way. I used to ride along with him when I wasn’t in school or doing homework, and he taught me all about antiques, and what makes them special. When Igot a bit older, I worked in the shop, and had a real talent for selling antiques—mostly because I had a passion for them and was in my element extolling their virtues to customers. The Ryans paid for my college, probably because they knew Buddy—that’s what we all called Beauregard—wasn’t interested in the antiques business. Since he was their only child, I guess they saw me as their last hope.”
Jolene took a long drink from her glass, then leaned back in her chair, her perfect posture having disappeared at the same rate as her Sazerac. She pressed her napkin to her lips and hiccupped. “So, what does Mimi call you?”
Christopher’s expression became serious. “She calls me ‘the king of lost things.’ I seem to have a knack for finding missing pieces that most people can’t. Because they’re looking in the wrong place, mostly. Or because they’re hidden in plain sight. I’ve discovered that a lot of people can be looking directly at something and still not recognize what they’re seeing.” His gaze flickered toward me before he stood. “Can I get anyone refills?”
“Yes, please,” Jolene said, handing him her glass. “I’ll be sure to eat lots of étouffée to soak up the alcohol.” Since she usually had the appetite of a small bird, I was curious as to what she consideredlots. “Do you live here?” she asked; her filters, not always reliable, had certainly become relaxed with alcohol.
“Jolene, I don’t think...”
“No, I don’t.” Christopher’s face was turned from us as he mixed Jolene’s next Sazerac, and I felt as if that was intentional. As if he didn’t want me to see his expression. “I rebuilt my parents’ double shotgun in the Treme after Katrina, and I live there now. I have a lot of good memories from growing up in that house.”
Jolene sat up at the word “memories.” I’d thought that her meaning of the word was quaint until right now, when I couldn’t help but wonder if Christopher had used the word on purpose.
I sipped my water and looked around the room. “The Italianate style is my favorite. I love the wide-open passages between rooms, andall the access to the outside. I hope that if it’s not too late after dinner I can get a tour.”
“Maybe.” Christopher handed Jolene her drink and sat again on the sofa. “I understand that you want to buy that old Creole cottage on Dauphine.”
I nodded. “I’m a little obsessed with it. I can’t wait to get my hands on it and bring it back to what it once was. But Beau...”
He held up his hand. “I know. Mimi tells me everything. Hopefully we can work something out over supper.” At the sound of voices coming from the dining room, he said, “Which looks like it’s about to start.” He stood and held out his elbow to Jolene before escorting her to the dining room, leaving me to follow behind.
My parents’ dining room in Charleston was of similar proportions, with twelve-foot ceilings and ornamental plasterwork. But, as with all things New Orleans, these cornices and ceilings had more ornamentation, and bigger and more intricate moldings, and the room included a marble fireplace—even less useful in New Orleans than it would have been in Charleston. I stood for a full moment by the table, staring up at the ceiling mural, focusing on the cluster of painted grapes congregating around the center medallion from which an enormous Baccarat chandelier dangled. “Is that...?”
“The Roman god Bacchus at a thinly disguised orgy? Yes. It is. Good eye, Nola.” Beau held out my chair, waiting for me to sit. I was still looking up as he pushed in my chair.
From the head of the table, Mimi said, “It was done as an act of spite between my husband’s father and uncle in a dispute over ownership of this house. It was a parting ‘gift’ from my father-in-law’s brother before he moved out, and nobody looked close enough to notice the copulating cupids until it had been there so long that it had become a part of the house. It was most likely a point of pride that my father-in-law didn’t paint over it, to prove that his brother hadn’t put one over on him. Since I don’t think whitewashing history changes anything, I’ve left it.” She paused as she carefully unfolded her linen napkin andplaced it in her lap. “I’ve always loved objects that tell a story.” Mimi looked at me as she spoke, her eyes reflecting the light from the chandelier.
“And most people don’t look closely, anyway,” said Christopher, taking his place next to Jolene.
“Oh, I did.” Jolene giggled as she reached for the bread basket, then apparently forgot about calorie counting as she took two pieces of corn bread and began slathering both with butter. “But I was raised not to talk about sex in polite company.”
Beau walked around the table pouring wine into wineglasses, but he skipped Jolene’s glass and mine without comment. Before sitting, he placed the water pitcher within easy reach in the middle of the table.
The food was passed family style—Lorda had apparently already left to beat the sunset—and I took something of everything in deference to the chef, promising myself that I would separate the andouille sausage and crawfish from the gumbo and jambalaya and eat just the rice soaked in roux, and not be overcome by the tantalizing scents wafting up from my plate. I did take a piece of corn bread, but felt virtuous by not helping myself to the butter.
I wanted to enjoy the meal, and appreciate the food, the beautiful linens with the R monogram, the Limoges china, and the heavy sterling silverware, all under a hand-painted mural of the god of wine, fertility, and partying. But the relaxed demeanor exuding from Beau, and the unspoken disagreement between us, erased any enjoyment I might have had. I kept looking from him to Mimi, waiting for one of them to bring up the subject of the house I meant to buy, but the conversation was tossed between an Italian neoclassical inlaid walnut desk that had just arrived in the store, Christopher’s search for a Windsor lantern, and the excavation of a former outhouse behind Jolene’s family home in Mississippi. Apparently, Jolene had forgotten her grandmother’s instruction about acceptable dinner conversation, too.
After the dishes had been cleared by Beau and Christopher, Mimi led Jolene and me back into the parlor, Jolene rubbernecking to get a different view of the ceiling mural as we exited the dining room.When the men returned, they brought a plate of homemade pralines and a pot of chicory coffee. Not wanting to appear rude, I took a praline and accepted a cup from Mimi. Chicory coffee is certainly an acquired taste, and I hadn’t yet acquired it, but I figured now was the time to try. My house was on the line.
Jolene leaned over to me, her mouth full of praline, and whispered loudly while blowing crumbs, “Did you see the naked people on the ceiling? My grandmama would have her panties in a twist just knowing I even looked at it once.”
I wanted to add that talking with her mouth full was also enough to ruffle her grandmother’s underwear, but she was already reaching for another praline and I had more important things to talk about.
“So,” I said, before the conversation could be hijacked for another discussion about antiques or the weather or Jolene’s outhouse. “I want to buy the house on Dauphine. I’m preapproved by my lender, and you know I have the qualifications to restore it the right way, so there is absolutelynoreason why you shouldn’t let me.” I turned toward Mimi. “Is the reluctance to sell it because you were best friends with the young woman who was murdered in the house?”
