Page 5 of The Shop on Royal Street
I shook my head. “Not at all. It’s so far below my budget that I’ll have plenty of money to do the renovations. And my landlord has already told me that I can go month to month on my lease on my current apartment on Broadway for a year, so there’s no time crunch.” I looked at Jolene, seeing her as a possible accomplice. Slinging my arm around her shoulders, I said, “And I’m sure Jolene would love to offer her expertise and contacts.”
She smiled, then sent a worried grimace at Beau. “I’m still new at this, but Beau works with the Preservation Resource Center. I’m sure he also has some contacts for you.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “The house still isn’t for sale.”
Melanie’s gaze strayed toward the stairs. “Look, why don’t we go somewhere to sit down and have a cup of coffee to discuss this? My feet hurt.”
I knew there had to be another reason she wanted to leave. Melanie’s feet would have to be bleeding and on fire for her to say that wearing heels had been a bad idea.
“There’s no discussion,” Beau said. “I own this house and it isn’t for sale.”
I tilted my head back to look him in the eyes. “Well, the MLS says differently. And I’m calling my agent right now to make an offer.”
Before he could respond, Jolene said, “There’s an adorable café right down the street, on Burgundy.”
“Is it vegan?” Beau asked. “Assuming Nola still prefers cardboard to real food.”
“I’m sure I can find something,” I said, less annoyed than I should have been. He’d remembered something about me that wasn’t pitiful. Which probably meant that he could recall more about me than I would have liked, but at least that part was from an earlier time, before the worst parts.
“Fine,” I said. “But I’m not changing my mind.”
Melanie practically pushed me out onto the porch, then hurried down the stairs to wait on the sidewalk with Jolene as I locked the door. Beau held out his hand for the key, but I ignored it, slipping the key into my backpack instead. A wind chime of blue Depression glass hanging from a rusty hook on the porch ceiling clinked behind me despite the complete absence of a breeze. I saw Beau and Melanie share a glance—Jolene oblivious as she reapplied her lipstick—but I wasn’t alarmed. It was as if the house was letting me know it and I were meant to be together.
For a woman whose feet supposedly hurt, Melanie had a long and purposeful stride. It could have been because of the promise of bakery items and café au lait, but a part of me said she was trying to put distance between her and the house.
The yellow building that housed Who Dat Coffee Cafe sat on the corner of Burgundy and Mandeville, a short walk from the house on Dauphine Street—yet another sign that the Creole cottage was meant to be mine. Living with Melanie had turned me into something of a coffee snob, and—although I’d never admit it—a craver of sweet baked goods. It had started when I began eating instead of discarding Melanie’s hidden contraband items when I’d replaced them with my Wasa crisps. Now I craved doughnuts like a mouse craved cheese, but I ate them in secret, which was enough to tell me that I was in full denial. But, as I’d learned the hard way, there were some vices that were better substitutions for others.
Tables sat scattered on the sidewalk outside the café, red umbrellas valiantly stretched over them absorbing the heat of the sun, pottedyellow flowers wilting prettily on their centerpiece perches. The words “Wake up & smell the Who Dat” covered one of the windows, right above a painted cup of coffee with white steam curling over the cup. An A-frame chalkboard sign by the entrance informed us thatIt’s never too late to start your day over.
We walked through the red wood-and-glass double doors, the warm yellow and the cluttered walls and the tin ceiling making me feel like I’d stepped back in time as the mixed scents of coffee and baked sugar made my mouth water. I heard Melanie swallow next to me. “I wasn’t really hungry,” she said. “But now I’m starving.”
“The Who Dat coffee cake is to die for. And their banana bread. And cupcakes. Oh, gosh, there is nothing here that isn’t worth the calories,” Jolene said.
We placed our orders, then settled onto one of the outside tables. I resisted getting something to eat and ordered only an iced coffee—decaffeinated and with soy milk—to hold to my face in an attempt to cool off. What I really needed was to fall into a fountain. Same with Melanie, judging by the size of her hair.
“Feels just like home,” she said, taking a spoon and eating a bite of whipped cream from the top of her café au lait. She’d also ordered a piece of the coffee cake—one fork, no extra plates. I was used to Melanie’s proprietary attitude toward her food, but I caught Jolene glancing at the gooey confection more than once.
“Don’t even ask,” I warned her. “You’ll end up with fork scars on the top of your hand.”
Melanie took a sip of her coffee so she wouldn’t have to lie.
I turned to Beau, summoning every crumb of advice from my long-suffering therapist about confronting adversity. Admittedly, she’d helped me over the worst of my issues. It wasn’t her fault that I was born too stubborn to pay attention to the rest. I wished my dad were here. He had a habit of inspiring fear in males who dared circle my periphery—although the one exception had been Beau. Jack had a knack for breaking down every problem into solvable puzzle pieces. But he was currently in London, on a book tour with his latestinternational bestseller. It was just me and Melanie—who apparently didn’t want me to buy the house. That left Jolene, who was currently placing on her head a wide-brimmed hat she’d pulled out of her enormous tote bag.
“So,” I began. “The house is for sale. I want to buy it. I can give you full asking price. I don’t see why this is a problem.”
Melanie and Beau shared another glance. He shifted in his chair. “The neighborhood would like to build a community center. My grandmother and I feel that the house would make a good charitable donation to the neighborhood.”
“So, when did you make this decision? Before you saw me or after? Because you should have pulled it from the MLS listing before I saw it. Now it’s too late.”
“It’s just... not for you. If it’s not demolished, I think one of the many restoration firms in the city might buy it to rehab. It’s a big job.”
I crossed my arms. “And because I’m a single woman you don’t think I can handle it?”
Melanie put a hand of caution on my arm. “Nola, I don’t think he’s saying that at all. It’s just that there are... things... about the house that you might not be aware of that could make living there... difficult. And I’m not talking about the termite damage.”
“If by ‘things’ you’re referring to restless spirits, you know they don’t bother me. I’ve lived in a haunted house since I was fourteen, so it would be almost weird for me if there wasn’t at least one or two rubbing elbows with me. I’m not sensitive to them. And Beau used to spend most of his free time hosting a podcast debunking so-called psychics, so I don’t understand the problem.”
I glared at Beau. “You said your business is buying old houses and rehabbing them. Not knocking them down. Obviously, the job was too much for you, so maybe you’re just a little jealous that I can handle it and you can’t. Fine. I graduated number one in my class in grad school, so I understand competition. But please don’t be petty about it.”
