Love Story on Canal

by Angela Lee

Chapter Thirty-Six

  Rather than stay in her parent’s home as custom dictated, Pan and Fin decided to reside in his townhome temporarily. With the election now a week away, they had decided to forego a honeymoon. Fin had suggested bowing out of the race, while Pan had argued that the community needed a strong leader. A honeymoon could wait.

  The night had been exhausting. She stood beside Fin in his library removing shards of glass and applying a salve to the burn on his shoulder. Fin reached for Pan’s hand, “Enough. I am fine.”

  “If I do not treat the burn, it will fester. Once the infection is present it will burn from beneath the skin and begin to puss and ooze. Eventually, the infection will lead to moments of fevered delirium,” she had paused in her ministrations to speak. She had barely taken a breath during the morbid description.

  Fin placed two fingers over her mouth to stem the graphic description from continuing, “I am fine.” Her new husband repeated evenly, as he stood to face her.

  Fin’s hands cupped her face, he used his thumbs to make circles on her temples, “You deserved a better wedding night. You are exhausted.” As Pan closed her eyes and sighed, he commanded, “Sit down.” He guided her to the ottoman in front of his chair. She was so weary that she didn’t even question the position. Her senses did register that he had seated himself in the chair directly behind her and was pulling the foot stool she sat upon closer to him.

  In the next moment, she didn’t care or question the odd arrangement. Fin’s large hands had found her shoulders and were working magic into her tense muscles. His expert fingers located each tense knot from neck to shoulders to back and kneaded until they relaxed. Pan moaned as she relaxed back into his warm touch and closed her eyes in relief. She felt comforted as his hands moved from her back to her waist and then wrapped around her sides. Fin pulled her close, holding her from behind, his head now resting on her shoulder.

  It felt so familiar, so natural, like she was in the place she was always meant to be. “I almost lost you tonight,” she said softly.

  “Not so easy, that.”

  “It is easy,” she said turning to face him. “It is easy to lose those you love. And it is painful.” Fin moved to hold her, to quiet her but she shook her head, determined to have her say. “I told you that we would not suit, that our union would hinder your success, that I would bring you low.”

  “None of that is true, belle. How many times must I convince you? I love you. Everything you do amazes me. You make me want to work harder, do better, to be…more,” he said in exasperation, but she held up a hand.

  “Fin, all of those things I said, maybe they were true. But they weren’t the whole truth. Almost two years ago, my twin sister died.” Fin knew this. He had heard some through gossip and a little from Pan and her family. “What most people don’t know is that I was delivering her baby when she died. I was home from medical school, and she insisted that I do it. Not Papa. As a physician, I know women die in childbirth. It just happens. Gigi was young and strong, full of life. There were never any signs of complications. Then everything went wrong in a matter of minutes. She died and so did her baby. I couldn’t save her,” she sobbed as the tears and memories came.

  “I blamed myself for a long time. I wasn’t there for the whole of her pregnancy because I wanted to go to medical college, perhaps that was a mistake. Or maybe I should never have been the one to deliver the baby. None of it mattered, in the end. I just didn’t know how to live without her. I didn’t want to live life as an unmarried doctor and I didn’t want to become a wife and mother and not practice medicine. I was stuck. Most of all, I didn’t think I deserved to live a happy life when she didn’t get to live hers. Me delivering her baby was supposed to be the fulfillment of both of our dreams.” She held her husband’s face in her hands. “Fin, I love you. You make me happy. Happier than I have been in a long time. For the first time, since I lost my sister, I want happiness in my life. With you.”

  Her new husband scooped her into his lap and kissed her. He held her there cuddled into his chest, his cheek laid against her hair, “We will have a happy life, I promise you.” Her tears continued to fall as she laid her head against his chest. Fin stroked her back and promised her a life of happiness over and over. Exhaustion and peace finally took hold and Pan drifted to sleep.

  A while later she stirred at the sound of Fin’s voice, “Pan, open your eyes a moment, my love.” She was still tucked against his chest but now he carried her, “You won’t want you to miss this.”

  “Hmmm?” she mumbled without opening her eyes.

  “Just wake up for a moment, my bride. You’ll want to remember when I carried you over the threshold on our wedding night,” Fin whispered.

  “You can’t carry me with those injuries. It’s my wedding night. Wouldn’t fall asleep,” she mumbled against his chest eyes still closed.

  Fin chuckled and muttered, “The burning in my chest and shoulder are worth every minute, belle.” He kissed her forehead and said, “Welcome home, Dr. Weathers.”

  Epilogue

  The next two weeks were a blur. Pan was out of the townhome before Fin each morning. She made rounds at the hospital with Papa, visited the orphanage, prison, and to her various patients throughout the city. She allowed herself three hours for her rounds each day before spending the rest of the day at his side, wanting to support him in the last days of the campaign.

  Word spread quickly that the two had married, though they had yet to announce it. There was an article about Fin’s leadership over the Irish Channel rescue and rebuild courtesy of the Times. Some complimentary editorials about his efforts ran in some of the other publications.

  Rumors of Pan’s role as a physician also spread, and unsurprisingly there was some negative backlash. Fin laughed it off telling her it meant nothing. Papa agreed, telling everyone at dinner that several Creole wives had asked when his daughter might begin taking her own patients. Still Pan held her breath until the ballots were counted.

  Two weeks later it was announced that Fionne Weathers had won the City Council seat. Rather than head directly home from the Villere’s celebration dinner, Fin’s driver brought them to the campaign office. Pan followed him out of the carriage asking, “More work to do?”

  Fin laughed, “There is something I wanted to show you, belle.” He leaned closer and whispered, “Have no doubt that I have every intention of returning you home and to our bed very soon.” She chuckled and blushed at the same time. He reached over to give her a gentle kiss, “I have never been so happy.”

  She asked coyly, “Because of your victory?”

  “Because of you,” he said all seriousness. “I have a wedding gift for you today.”

  “I could not possibly deserve another gift. It is your day! And yet this morning you told my parents that you had already arranged their adoption of Tom. That was an amazing gift. I need nothing else. I should be giving you a gift,” she beamed. Her arms wrapped around his waist.

  He kissed her there on the street and murmured against her mouth, “Save your gifts for later. Right now,” he leaned his head in the direction of the building they stood before.

  Following Fin’s nod, Pan looked toward the building beside his campaign office, aware that the interior was still lit. The sign in front had been covered by a painter’s cloth. It was the same building that Fin and Alex had been in the night he had rescued her.

  “This building has served a lot of purposes in its day. Most recently, a tavern with upstairs rooms for rent,” Fin said in response to her unasked questions. They had not moved from their spot on the brick sidewalk, looking into the building that obviously was under renovation.

  “What will it be next, husband? A new office for Weathers’ Shipping?”

  “No, this will be a different endeavor. One Dr. Weathers will pioneer,” Pan looked to him with a start. She held her breath in anticipation, but Fin gave her no further information.

  “Come inside.” Her husband steered her thr
ough the construction to a closed door at the front. He opened it and allowed her to enter first. Unlike the rest of the building, this room was devoid of construction work and materials. It must have been the first area that had been worked on and it was already complete.

  Pan gasped, grabbing her skirts with both hands and furiously working the fabric at her sides. She rushed about the room mentally inventorying its contents. Counter space held a variety of medical tools. An exam table was set up in the center of the space. She stood still staring at the diploma that was mounted on the wall. “It’s an examining room. This is to be a medical clinic,” she breathed.

  “Read the diploma. It is your clinic, wife,” Fin corrected.

  “I don’t understand. How did you know how to outfit this office?”

  “Your father is responsible for its design. I asked it of him the day I asked for your hand. You’ll have a separate office and waiting room. I thought perhaps we would open a pharmacy with the rest of the first-floor space,” he said from the doorway. “Perhaps you’d like to establish a working women’s residence upstairs. There are lots of decisions for you to make.” Her breath caught at the idea and she clapped her hands in excitement.

  Fin looked down where his foot toed the ground, “I thought you might call it the Hygeia Clinic and Boarding House for Women,” he added quietly.

  Pan raced across the room to throw her arms around her new husband. She smothered him in kisses as she chastised, “How are you so wonderful? I’ve pushed you away for so long but still you did this. Stubborn, overconfident, handsome, lovable man.”

  “Do you like your wedding gift, my love?” Fin asked, laughing into her kiss. Holding her tight, closing the door behind him, he lifted her from the floor. She giggled in delight as her new husband; her overconfident, stubborn, handsome, and loveable new husband, carried her across the office whispering something about testing the exam table.

  “I do love it, Fin. Not as much as I love you.”

  From the Author

  Dear Reader,

  I hope you enjoyed reading Love Story on Canal. I’m already hard at work at the next NOLA Girls Romance. It’s the story of Luna, a biracial journalist, and Deacon, a Union soldier. It’s a risky match, and I’m excited about their happily ever after. Look for it Spring 2020. Here’s an excerpt. Enjoy!

  -Angela

  Love Story on Magazine

  The shadowed corner of an already darkened balcony was the perfect place for a man like Lt. Deacon Stone to relax. His head propped against the brick building behind him, eyes closed to near slits, he sat silently, holding an unlit cigar in one hand and a tumbler of whiskey in the other.

  The woman on the opposite end of the shared balcony had yet to realize he had been watching her work for the last ten minutes. Her backside, round and lush, was displayed for his solitary pleasure as she leaned against the iron rail to arrange the laundry. As if to entice him even more, she hummed a low sultry tune that weaved magic around him, creating images of her full, pouty lips parted in expectation of his kiss.

  In truth, Deacon had no idea what her lips looked like. He had been listening to her for the better part of an hour and had yet to see her face. The balcony attached to his rented room was shared by the apartment next door. The French doors leading into the next apartment had been propped open when Deacon had initially come out to the unexpected sight of dresses airing out across the balcony ironwork.

  A week ago, he had rented the small efficiency above Celeste's Restaurant on Ramparts, a few blocks shy of the red-light district. The rent wasn’t as cheap as some of the other spots, but he had a clear view of at least four other boarding houses from his balcony and the restaurant traffic promised to provide plenty of gossiped leads.

  He had living quarters on base, but preferred city lodging because so much of his assignment involved being out until the early hours of morning and not always in uniform. Having an apartment kept him closer to those he might need to watch. He had received a tip about some activity two blocks south and would be looking for a residence there tomorrow. The Army Lieutenant would change quarters multiple times during a special assignment, relocating to position himself more strategically at intervals.

  It was getting close to time for him to head out into the city. Another night of prowling the bars looking and listening for any snippet of evidence that rebellion was afoot. New Orleans had surrendered to the Union siege early in the war and without much of a fight, but there was always danger of a Confederate resurgence in the city. The Union administration was adamant that they were not willing to lose the shipping port.

  When Deacon had first stepped onto the balcony for a moment’s peace on the spring evening, he had been pleasantly surprised to hear piano music coming from the adjacent apartment. He had closed his eyes and breathed deeply, soaking in the comfort of a somber melody and letting it wash away the many stresses of this assignment in a way that his glass of whiskey could not do.

  And then a voice had joined the pianist’s keys. The song was in French, a tune he was unfamiliar with, but the feminine voice purring the words was low and seductive, a gentle caress on the wind. Deacon opened his eyes.

  He stood and walked to the iron grill work that framed the patio, positioning his backside against the bars so that he had a clear view inside his neighbor’s apartment. Cloth covered furniture and boxes littered the floor. Rolled Carpets, stacks of artwork, wooden trunks filled every inch of space. His furnished room looked nothing like this cluttered space. Though his own room was tidy, none of the furnishings in his rental looked as valuable.

  Tucked into the far corner of the room was a gleaming black piano forte in contrast with the rest of the room that really looked to be an overstuffed dusty storage closet. Even more out of place was the exquisite bouquet of lilies that sat atop of the piano.

  A small candle burned illuminating the area. As he watched, the music ended. The musician’s profile revealed a young woman with her head bowed, ebony mixed with copper ringlets fell from an intricate style blocking her features and feathering the length of her tanned arm.

  The woman stood from her seat, revealing an enticing figure, all legs and curves. She circled around the piano looking about the room before she faced in the direction of the doorway where Deacon stood admiring.

  Deacon stepped back from the light, so that he could continue to watch without her realizing. Rather than walk forward, her attention strayed to the floral arrangement on the piano. She caressed the glossy, white petals with the tips of her bronze fingers, obviously lost in her thoughts. Her full frame gave a slight shake from her shoulders, and it took only a moment for him to register that she was weeping. Somewhere inside he knew that this was a violation, sharing this moment without her consent.

  Deacon battled the urge to step inside and comfort the woman, knowing that the right thing to do was to leave the beauty to her grief. Just as one foot was poised on the precipice of a bad decision, the front door to the apartment opened. Thankfully, a giant of a black man had come to the grieving girl’s rescue. A brief feeling of disappointment fluttered on the peripheral of Deacon’s awareness.

  He stepped further out of the light and sat back in the shadows to finish his drink before leaving. He could hear bits of the conversation inside. The voices grew more distinct, a clue that the speakers had moved nearer to the doors.

  The man’s voice was low, but he seemed to be comforting her. You will survive this. We are all here for you. Deacon imagined that she had just lost her sweetheart. Hell, girls everywhere were getting letters from both sides about boys who would never come home. You are not alone.

  The woman’s sniffles were the only sound of her sorrow, no dramatic wailing or sobs.

  A few minutes later he heard the apartment door close. Again, that flutter of disappointment. This time the sensation settled in his gut. This would be his last night in the boarding house, and he would have liked to have been able to listen to her music a bit more.

>   Deacon was surprised when the French doors opened, fully flooding the balcony with light. The musician, who he assumed had left, emerged onto the balcony with more dresses to hang, humming a little as she worked. More and more her humming paused as she sniffled. Until the dam broke and silent weeping, once again, took hold.

  His internal battle resumed. He should not intervene. He was a stranger to this woman and it was unlikely that she would accept his comfort. But he could not continue to sit here. It would be that much worse if she turned around and discovered him. Deacon tucked the still intact cigar into his front pocket as he sat silently waiting for an opportunity to slip away.

  His decoy came in the form of rowdy laughter from a group of soldiers passing below. Their volume distracted the woman and he slid from the chair back into his room. He closed the door with only the slightest click of the door’s latch. Deacon felt rather smug that she had never noticed a thing.

  Of course, he was an expert at stealth. He was, after all, a spy.

  Acknowledgements

  With great thanks to the collection of readers and other writers who kindly offered time and talent to help me accomplish this dream.

  My writing partner Beth Shannon- you were the first person I was brave enough to share this work with. I am so grateful we met through Goodreads and took a chance on sharing our work with a stranger.

  Alpha and Beta readers- TL Martin, Pam Hoffman, Sharon, Jenna Collett, Sami E, Margaret - your candor and encouragement kept me going.