She nodded. “There are a few in town. They’re trying to bring the language back.”
“You had good teachers. And I’m from Paris, so only my opinion counts.”
She smiled again and made him promise to come for breakfast tomorrow with his girlfriend. A pinky swear was demanded and given. As Kingsley walked off toward Café du Monde, he caught himself feeling that same happiness he’d felt the night of his birthday. Only here, now, the fear was gone. Had he left it in Manhattan or lost it in New Orleans? Either way, laissez le bon temps rouler…
Chapter Thirteen
At noon they boarded a streetcar—not named Desire, sadly—for a tour of the Garden District. Kingsley had been to New Orleans before. Mardi Gras, years ago. His memory of the city was only of its nightlife. He had stayed out until dawn, returned to his hotel, and slept all day before going out again in the evening. Other than the parties and the parade, he hadn’t seen much of the city. He certainly hadn’t done any daylight tourist activities. Not his style. But Juliette loved looking at old houses—she had a Gothic streak in her bones a mile wide—and what made her happy made him happy.
Shamelessly, Juliette took photo after photo with her phone, like every other tourist on the streetcar. When the tour guide, speaking in an almost-impenetrable Cajun accent, pointed out Anne Rice’s old house, Juliette took a dozen photos of it and immediately texted them to Nora.
“She would love it here,” Juliette said. Kingsley had to agree. Mistress Nora would do well in a city known as The Big Easy. Art. Literature. Sin. Booze. What more could a porno-writing Catholic dominatrix want? Maybe they would come back next autumn, all of them together for one last hurrah before he and Juliette decamped to St. Bart’s.
“Are you sure we have to leave Sunday?” Juliette asked as they turned a corner, and the streetcar eased slowly down a street so dense with ancient oaks that they blocked the sun.
“We could try to get a hotel and stay another week, if you like.”
“You probably have too much to do back home.”
“If you want to stay, we’ll stay,” he said.
She smiled, almost wistfully, and put her hand over her belly. “We have a doctor’s appointment on Tuesday. I shouldn’t miss it.”
“We can come back after.” He put his arm around her shoulders. She nestled in closer to him…for about two seconds, before she decided she needed to hang out the side of the streetcar to take more photos. “I know you’re not looking forward to another winter in New York.”
“Who would be?” she said without turning.
“What would you say if I told you we only had to stay there one more winter?”
Slowly, she lowered her phone and ducked back into the streetcar, a dozen beautiful old houses sliding by unseen, forgotten.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I mean…I want us to move away, start over somewhere safer. Warmer.”
They had taken their seats near the back so they could speak without interrupting the other tourists. He was glad now that they had a little privacy. Juliette covered her mouth with her hand and glanced away.
“It’ll be for the best,” he said. “I was thinking St. Bart’s. Safe, beautiful. Our children will grow up speaking French. We’ll get a villa there. No more winters.”
She turned around and looked at him. “You can’t mean it.” She lowered her voice and added, “What about Søren?”
“He knows.”
Her lovely dark eyes widened. “You already told him?”
“I already told him,” he said. “A few weeks ago. It’s done. Call it a fait accompli.”
Because it was a fait accompli if he’d already told Søren. Because that was the hardest part, the biggest barrier, the only thing standing in their way. Nothing could stop them now.
“But the clubs—”
“We’ll sell them. Or I’ll find someone to take over The 8th Circle.”
“Who would run it?”
“The King is retired. Long live the Queen?”
Juliette nodded. “Nora would do an excellent job. But the townhouse—”
“We’ll sell it. We could buy ten of these,” he said, pointing at a row of ivy-draped Louisiana mansions, “for the price of one Manhattan townhouse on Riverside Drive.”
Juliette shook her head—not to say no, but because she was clearly in shock and couldn’t quite take it all in yet. They rode the next few blocks in silence, not even hearing what their tour guide had to say about the cemetery, about the beads on the trees and fences…
“I never let myself dream,” she said, and looked at him again. “But you already told him.”
He nodded slowly.
Again, she shook her head. “I thought you’d never give up the city and the clubs and the power…then I thought you might, after all that happened. But then you and he—and you were so happy, and I was happy for you, but I told myself now it would never happen. And that was fine. New York is fine. It’s only…”
“It’s not where you want to be. And if you don’t want to be there, I don’t want to be there.”
She rested against his chest again, her hand on his heart, and his chin on the top of her head.
“You were right,” she said. “This is the best gift.”
He kissed her hair. “You’re missing a good house,” he whispered.
She sat back up and turned with her phone to take a picture of an enormous white mansion with a black iron fence surrounding it, a large yard filled with tropical plants and an imposing portico with four white columns. It was the sort of house children dream of living one day. A true dream house. Even now, Kingsley was daydreaming of their children playing hide-and-seek in a garden like that, playing fetch with a dog in a yard like that, growing up safe and coddled and spoiled and loved in a house like that.
“If anyone has a spare eight million on them,” the tour guide said, “that one’s for sale. It’s a fixer-upper.”
Juliette laughed and looked at him. “How much do you have in your wallet?”
After the streetcar tour, they went out in search of lunch. Juliette joked she was on the hobbit diet now that she was pregnant: first breakfast, second breakfast, elevenses, lunch, dinner, tea, supper. Kingsley was happy to indulge her. New Orleans had surprised him with the incredible variety and quality of their restaurants. The whole city was putting Manhattan to shame.
As they strolled toward the cafe, hand in hand, Juliette said, “You know, St. Bart’s is tiny. I mean…teeny tiny. I checked my phone. The whole population is less than ten thousand people. Could you survive living in a small town on an island?”
“For you I could.”
“Have you ever lived on an island for longer than a month or two? It’s harder than people think. Especially if you’re not used to it. I was used to it, and even I got island fever.”
“It doesn’t have to be St. Bart’s. I only thought of it because it was French and safe and one flight to see your mother. We could move to L.A. if you wanted, San Diego, Miami—”