The House on Prytania (Royal Street #2)(36)
Author: Karen White

 

“That he is,” I said, feeling as proud as if he were my own son. “So, who fixed it up and painted it?”

 

“Trevor picked the distressed black himself. And then Christopher and Jolene showed him the right way to strip the old varnish and use the right painting technique.”

 

I found myself close to tears before another thought occurred to me. “What would have happened if Trevor had suggested orange or purple or some sort of wild design?”

 

“Then you’d have yourself a hideous island, because there is no way we could have told him he was wrong. I haven’t seen that kind of excitement on a kid’s face since the Saints won the Super Bowl. Happily, it worked out.”

 

“Happily. I couldn’t have found anything else as perfect. I’ll have to find some way to pay him—at least for his time.”

 

“Agreed. But I’d suggest not asking him first, or you’ll end up paying for a whole lot more than just his time.”

 

We both started laughing, louder and longer than necessary, as if trying to put more than only miles between us and the unknown entity in the upstairs closet.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER 13

 

 

Despite Jolene’s threats, no hoses were used to get me ready for my date with Michael at Commander’s. But I’d been wrong to assume that because it was Michael Jolene would allow any shortcuts.

 

As I attempted to deflect yet another dosing of hair spray, she said, “You need to pick out a signature scent that will make him think of you every time he smells it so that even after you scrape him off the bottom of your shoe the fragrance will torment him.”

 

“I don’t know any perfumes. How about Charlie? My little sister used to love that.”

 

Jolene froze, her hand and the can it held mercifully suspended. “A signature scent shouldn’t be something your little sister wears or something you can pick off the shelf down at the Walmart.” She put the can on her dressing table and began to fluff my hair at the scalp with something she called her teasing comb. “Maybe we can sneak in a visit to Saks this weekend. They have the best fragrance department. But first we have to go check out the Saint Expedite statue.”

 

“The what?”

 

“It’s over on Rampart, at the Our Lady of Guadalupe Church. I’ve always wanted to see it, and I thought we could squeeze it in during our sightseeing this weekend.”

 

“Saint Expedite?” I said. “Is that a real saint?”

 

“Sort of. Long story, but Saint Expedite is named after the label on a crate that arrived at the church. It contained only him and no explanation. At some point he became the patron saint of impatience, and there are speed prayers and shortened novenas for his followers, who are always in a hurry. Saint Jude is in the other corner of the church, so we could go see him, too. Saint Jude is the patron saint of lost causes, so I thought I could go have a talk with him.”

 

“But you’re not Catholic.”

 

She looked at me as if I’d just told her the sky was blue.

 

“Whatever,” I said, slipping from the chair to make my escape. I was allowed to wait for Michael downstairs, “just this once,” since Jolene was still too angry to look at him. I picked up the small bag and cashmere wrap she had loaned me, and I fled toward the upstairs French door.

 

“Hang on! I forgot the Preparation H!”

 

I quickly ducked into the upper hallway, making it to the first landing before Jolene could reach me. I looked up in horror as she brandished the yellow and white tube. “I’m pretty sure there is no need for that, Jolene!”

 

“Don’t be silly. It’s for that red blemish on your forehead. Just a dab and it will be gone in an hour. It’s also good for pores and—from what I’ve heard, of course—for squeezing into skinny jeans. But that’s for times when you’re not going to be in a crowd. Everybody will recognize the smell, and heaven forbid they think it’s coming from you.”

 

I was more than a little relieved when I heard the sound of a car door closing outside. “Maybe next time. He’s here.”

 

Slightly mollified, she said, “Fine. Hopefully, it’ll get bigger and redder so that you’ll look like a cyclops by the end of the evening and it’ll ruin his appetite.”

 

I grimaced up at her. “Gee, thanks. I guess I’ll just feel self-conscious all night and hope that nobody calls animal control to come get me.”

 

Jolene laughed. “You really are funny, Nola. I have no idea why Beau says you don’t have a sense of humor.”

 

The doorbell rang, and I paused for a moment before opening the door, my hand on the knob as I waited for my heartbeat to slow.

 

“And remind Michael that I have a Barbie head and I know how to use it!”

 

She ducked out of sight just as I opened the door and found myself face-to-face with the person I’d once planned to never lay eyes on again.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

• • •

 

The bright teal and white Victorian building on the corner of Coliseum and Washington Avenue in the Garden District is a New Orleans icon on the same plane as such lauded landmarks as St. Louis Cathedral and the Superdome. Commander’s Palace (just Commander’s to locals) is the sort of place where New Orleanians go to sit at favorite tables to celebrate their big and small moments while enjoying some of the best food in the city. It’s also where visitors (and uninitiated newcomers, such as myself) go for pretty much the same reason, but sit at less favorable tables.

 

Michael and I spoke very little on the drive to the restaurant, and even after we were led to a cozy table for two in the back corner of an elegant yellow and cream dining room, we kept our conversation on such fascinating topics as the weather, Jolene’s latest culinary masterpiece, and what Mardi was wearing for Halloween. It was as if we’d both agreed on a temporary truce until we were numbed by so much fabulous food that we could speak honestly without worrying about feeling potential barbs.

 

After a large meal that I mostly couldn’t taste, Michael asked for two dessert menus—reminding me that there was a lot to like about Michael Hebert despite, well, my inability to trust him. We each ordered a crème brûlée, even though our server insisted a single order was big enough to share. Something I’d learned from Melanie, and was now relishing as I awakened to the nonvegan world of real food, was that I did not like to share my dessert. I’d yet to stab a fork into anyone’s hand, but I had a feeling the first time lay in the near future.