Page 26 of The House on Prytania
Beau caught my hand before I had the chance to show the impatient driver a rude finger gesture. “I’m not sure what the speed limit is, Nola, but I’m pretty sure it’s more than fifteen miles per hour. I’m actually surprised it took him this long to honk at you.”
I sent Beau a withering glare. “I told you I wasn’t ready for public roads.”
He unbuckled his seat belt and stepped out of the truck. “You did great. You just need to practice going a little faster. I think you’re ready for I-10.”
I climbed out, then slammed my door. “You have a death wish or something? Personally, I’d like to make it to thirty.”
Beau stepped in front of the truck, his gaze intense, his expression a mix between anger and... something I couldn’t name. Whatever it was made a cold sweat break out along my spine. “I’m not sure who you’re trying to fool, Nola—you or me. You were born to defy any fear that dared to stand in your way.”
I took a step toward him, ready to challenge his assumptions about me, especially anything related to the first thirteen years of my life, but paused as I caught the scent of a woman’s perfume, strong and pungent, wafting across the porch, as if the lady of the house had just come out to greet us.
“Do you smell that?” I asked quietly.
Beau nodded before we turned in tandem to look at the house. We stood on the narrow strip of yard in front of the one-room-wide house posed on squat, sturdy brick piers. The six-paneled sun-faded yellow door sat beneath a rectangular transom in a Greek key surround, welcoming visitors and the home’s owners alike with an elegant flair. Despite the home’s small stature, the Classical Revival architectural details, including dentils and a low parapet, and four Doric pillars holding up the front gallery, made it seem much bigger. Almost like a young girl dressing up in her mother’s clothes. Full-length six-over-nine double-hung windows, each with full louvered shutters, opened onto the front porch.
Two missing slats in one of the louvers gave the facade a gap-toothed expression that added to the sense of benign neglect corroborated by the flaking paint and overgrown weeds. I bent to peer through the opening between the louvers and immediately jumped back as a shadow moved just past my sight inside the room beyond.
“I thought the house was empty. Is someone meeting us here?”
“Nope. At least, no one I was expecting.” Beau snapped therubber band on his wrist and began climbing the porch steps just as a door slammed somewhere inside the house. Our eyes met. “Stay here,” he said, motioning me to stay behind him.
“Seriously?” I stepped up on the porch to stand next to him. “Either we go in together or we stay out on this porch and call the police.”
The unidentified scent once again floated around us. Or, more accurately, fell on us, as I could feel tiny droplets of moisture on my bare arms as if I’d just been spritzed with a perfume bottle.
“Do you recognize the fragrance?” Beau asked.
“Not really. Although...”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Although it’s similar to a fragrance my grandmother Amelia wears. Sort of old-lady-like. Not that she’s an old lady,” I said quickly. “Well, she’s notthatold. But there’s definitely a similar note. Like tea rose or something else that’s appealing to, well, women of a certain generation. It’s not exactly threatening, is it?”
“No. It’s not.” He snapped the rubber band one more time before pulling a key from his pocket. The slide and click of a door being unbolted came from inside as the handle turned and the door swung slowly open.
We stood without speaking for what seemed like a full minute, peering at the interior, which was darkened by closed drapes and dark brown wood. Beau began humming, and it took me a moment to realize the song was “SOS.”
“Really, Beau? ABBA?”
“I figured, if it works for Melanie, it might work for me.”
“And is it working?”
“Let’s find out.” He pushed the door all the way open, then stepped inside. “Hello?” he called out. Only a heavy silence answered. Not that an intruder would respond, of course, but if there was someone in the house, hopefully hearing Beau would encourage them to leave through the back door. Assuming that the possible intruder was the living, breathing kind.
Without waiting for him to invite me to join him, I followed him into the front room. Shotgun houses were designed with an economy of space in mind in order to fit multiple houses on a single street. They were built cheek by jowl in working-class neighborhoods in New Orleans and across the South. It took my eyes a few blinks to get accustomed to the dimness. Because shotgun houses were typically built close together, windows were rarely installed on the sides. They were a frequent addition during renovations, but in this front room none existed, all the light coming from the two floor-to-ceiling windows next to the front door and from the transom window.
Oversized and overstuffed furniture crowded the twelve-foot-wide room. A hand-carved rocking chair sat next to a laminate side table with a missing leg that had been replaced by a sawed-off baseball bat. A floor lamp had a homemade rubber band–and–paper clip contraption holding the broken lampshade onto its base.
“I hope it’s not all like this,” I whispered.
“Why are you whispering?” Beau whispered back.
Annoyed because I didn’t have an answer, I asked, “How many rooms?”
“No idea. There’s very little information on the listing site—I don’t think anyone’s been here for a long time to update the listing. It looks like a typical shotgun, which means the next room is probably the dining room, then the kitchen, then a small bedroom, then a bigger bedroom at the rear. Somewhere there’s a bathroom—hopefully two. And hopefully in better condition than the ones at your house.” He gave an exaggerated shudder.
“Funny. But yeah.”
