The Beau & The Belle

by R.S. Grey

  Laughter and shouts grow louder outside, and I wonder if it would be rude to put on noise-canceling headphones, or better yet, go study somewhere else.

  “Maybe this is a good thing,” she continues. “I’ve been waiting for an opportunity to overtake you in the class rank, and these tests just might do it.”

  I laugh. That’s wishful thinking. I might be distracted today, but I’ve done nothing but eat, drink, and breathe law for the last three years. I’m ahead of the rest of my class by a mile.

  “Here,” I say, passing her the notes.

  She takes them and her eyes widen in wonder. “Are you shitting me? You have all this memorized? He didn’t even go over this in lecture yet.”

  I shrug, trying not to gloat. “You know how Bancroft likes to throw things on tests that he wasn’t planning on covering for another week. What’s his saying? Always be prepared, and then prepare some more.”

  She curses under her breath and starts reading, bringing her thumb up to her mouth so she can nervously chew on the nail. She does this every time we study for something. She’s just as prepared as me—we both know it—but it’s almost like she has to have a nervous breakdown before every test or she doesn’t feel like she’s studied hard enough. I want Max to get here more than ever.

  “LAUREN!” a girl shouts outside. “You seriously suck at chicken!”

  I growl.

  Brittany’s head snaps up and she frowns. “What’s up? Are you stressed about the test?”

  I point out the window. “No, I’m annoyed that we’re having to study in the middle of a high school pool party.”

  She laughs and drops her notes, pushing herself up so she can come stand near me at the window. “Don’t be such a killjoy. It’s cute. Don’t you remember those carefree days?”

  I don’t reply, and she leans forward and parts the blinds to see outside. “See?! How can you resist that?”

  “What?”

  “High school love.”

  I go against my better judgment and turn to see what she’s pointing at. When I first arrived, Lauren was sitting on the edge of the pool, but now she’s treading water in the deep end with some blond kid, smiling.

  “He’s totally into her.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Easy: above all else, high schoolers are herd animals, but see how those two are off on the side doing their own thing? That’s a clear sign there’s something going on.”

  “Okay, Stevie Irwin. I think you should stick to practicing law.”

  “Ooh, and see how he keeps finding a reason to touch her? There is palpable liking going on.”

  The guy swoops in and lifts Lauren in his arms, cradling her like he’s carrying his bride over the threshold. She holds her nose and every few seconds, he tips her back and dunks her head. I remember playing that game, but I don’t remember the objective. I’m still watching when he dunks her all the way back so she flips over and goes under for a few seconds. I push closer to the window just before she surfaces again, wiping hair out of her face and laughing. She looks happy.

  I didn’t recognize the guy earlier, but now it’s obvious that it’s Preston Westcott. He looks like a younger version of his dad. He’s the kid who made Lauren cry the other night.

  “Do you know her or something?” Brittany asks, and I realize she’s studying my face. I don’t know what she sees, but it’s enough to make me turn and refocus on the notes scattered across my coffee table.

  “I’m renting this apartment from her parents.”

  She frowns and tips her head. “That doesn’t really explain it.”

  “What?”

  “The creep-o way you were looking at a high school girl.”

  “What are you implying? If you must know, she confided something in me the other day, and I feel a little protective over her.”

  “Yeah, okay.” She chuckles. “Still, maybe you shouldn’t drive around any playgrounds for a while. I think 500 feet is the typical—”

  My eyes narrow. “Drop it, Brittany.”

  Her gaze widens in shock. I’m not usually so curt. “Whoa.” She holds her hands up in innocence. “All right. I was just making a joke.”

  “That’s not really the best material. Again, stick to your day job.”

  “Holy shit, Beau. Chill out.” She’s shocked. I’ve never been so brusque with her before; I’ve never really had a reason to. “Where were we? Chapter 14?”

  I’m not quite ready to play nice, so I turn and pin my gaze back to my notes.

  “I’m on 15.”

  LATER THAT WEEK, Mr. LeBlanc invites me to dinner. They’re hosting the Westcotts, and Mr. LeBlanc thinks it’s a good opportunity for me to introduce myself and get on the mayor’s radar. After all, upward mobility in this city is more about who you know than what you know.

  I find my best black suit, the one I usually wear during mock trials when I want to seem especially intimidating. It was a gift from my mom for Christmas two years ago. She must have scrimped and saved for it all year long. At the time, I tried to insist that she return it and buy one half the price. Hell, even a suit that cost one-fourth of the price would have worked, but she wouldn’t budge. She wanted me to look the part.

  When I head over to the main house, I find Mrs. LeBlanc in the kitchen finishing up last-minute prep. I’m not surprised that she’s outsourced the cooking to a catering company. There’s a chef flitting around the kitchen, whipping and chopping while waiters polish china and set the table.

  I tap my knuckles on the doorframe to announce myself and Mrs. LeBlanc glances up with a wide smile.

  “Beau! You look so handsome.”

  I smile and thank her as her hands fly up to touch her hair, still up in rollers. “And look at me! I’m not even close to being ready yet! Oh gosh, would you mind staying down here and overseeing the prep? You know where most everything is if they need a platter or glassware, right? If not, Lauren should be down in just a second.” She tips her head toward the stairs and raises her voice. “Lauren! Are you almost ready?”

  “Coming! Coming!” Lauren says, her voice carrying down the hall.

  A moment later she’s there standing in the doorway of the kitchen, blonde curls tumbling down around her shoulders. She’s wearing a dark red dress, the hem going well past her knees. It’s boxy and ill-fitting, but worse than that, she’s wearing what I can only describe as Halloween makeup on her face.

  Mrs. LeBlanc slaps a hand against her mouth to keep her laughter contained. “Lauren, I thought we’d moved past the smoky eye phase? You know this is going to end up like the fake eyelash debacle that landed you in the ER.”

  Lauren pouts. “I thought I did it better this time—I followed the instructions on the back of the makeup.”

  Mrs. LeBlanc grabs her shoulders and spins her back around. “Let me just say this: I know only two people who can pull off that much eyeshadow—Bette Davis and Johnny Depp.”

  I chuckle under my breath as her mom leads Lauren back upstairs, presumably to wash her face. I don’t know why she even bothers with that stuff. She doesn’t really need it.

  Mr. LeBlanc comes down a few minutes later and invites me to join him in the formal living room. A waiter is standing at the threshold with cocktails, and I eagerly accept one. It’s been a while since I’ve had anything other than cheap beer. After we toast, I take a small sip of the gin and tonic. It’s somewhat bitter, slightly sweet, and it goes down smooth—the mark of something top shelf.

  “Good, right?” he asks me.

  I nod and take another sip. We discuss law school and my aspirations after I finish while we wait for the rest of his guests. He’s surprised to find that I won’t be pursuing law as a full-time career.

  “Most people study business or economics before starting an investment firm,” I explain. “Then they spend half of their money on overpriced lawyers. I always figured it made sense to be my own counsel.”

  He chuckles and takes a sip of his drink. “I knew
you had a tenacious spirit when I first met you. Westcott is going to like that.”

  It’s another few minutes before the doorbell rings. I stand to accompany Mr. LeBlanc into the foyer and then he pulls open the door and welcomes his guests: Mr. and Mrs. Westcott, along with their son, Preston. I’m surprised to see him hovering behind his dad, fidgeting with the uncomfortable sweater vest that’s pressing his bow tie into his neck.

  “Mitch, it’s good to see you,” Mr. Westcott says, stepping into the house.

  He’s taller than his son, barrel-chested with a booming voice. His white hair is parted to the right and his blue eyes are piercing and incisive as they sweep past Mr. LeBlanc and land on me. “This must be young Mr. Fortier. Good to meet you, son.”

  “Call me Beau.” I accept his hand and offer him a firm handshake, careful not to apply too much pressure. There’s an art to first impressions, and I can tell by the approval in his eyes that I’ve not missed the mark.

  “What is it that you do, Beau?”

  “He’s in his final year at Tulane Law,” Mr. LeBlanc supplies for me, sounding like a proud father rather than my landlord. “After that, he’s planning on taking the New Orleans financial world by storm.”

  Mr. Westcott nods, still assessing me. “With a face like that you should be in politics, not wasting away in dreary old finance,” he says with a chuckle.

  “I’ll take the compliment.” I laugh. “But it seems to me that nowadays finance and politics are almost one and the same.”

  He turns to Mr. LeBlanc. “See that charm? He’d be a great politician!”

  I catch Preston narrowing his eyes at me, seemingly annoyed with the situation. I don’t have time to read into it though because Lauren is dashing back down the stairs, fresh-faced and anxious to join the group. Her gaze sweeps from me to Preston and then back again. Her eyes drag down my suit, and I spot a little blush at the tops of her cheeks.

  “Lauren, come say hello to Lori and William,” her father says, wrapping a protective arm around her shoulders and tugging her in close.

  Mrs. Westcott steps forward and beams. “It’s good to see you, sweetie. How are you enjoying your junior year?”

  “It’s been going well,” Lauren says with a quiet voice. “I’m about to start going on college tours.”

  “I wish Preston would take the same initiative,” Mrs. Westcott says, throwing a teasing glance back to her son, who’s still hovering behind his dad. “Preston, come say hello. Stop sulking in the background.”

  Preston throws his mother a disdainful glare but steps forward nonetheless.

  “Hi Preston,” Lauren says with a tentative smile.

  He nods in her direction but remains quiet, opting to stare past us into the dining room with his hands stuffed in his pockets.

  Mrs. LeBlanc joins the group and we move toward the formal living room. Cocktails flow, though Lauren and Preston are limited to some kind of pink lemonade. Preston rolls his eyes as he takes his glass off the waiting tray, as if it’s silly that he can’t drink with the adults. I wonder if they snuck alcohol at the pool party the other day. My friends and I were definitely drinking at 17, but Lauren seems so much younger than I remember being at that age.

  The chef announces that dinner is ready and we’re ushered into the dining room. Place cards are set up around the table, assigning us to our seats. Mr. LeBlanc and Mrs. LeBlanc sit across from one another at the heads of the table. Mr. Westcott and his wife flank Mr. LeBlanc on either side. I’m positioned next to Mr. Westcott, Lauren sits on the other side of his wife, and Preston takes his seat beside me.

  The dramatic first course is presented to us: pompano en papillote covered with a sauce of wine, shrimp, and crabmeat. I’ve barely managed my first bite when Mr. Westcott turns to me.

  “So, Beau,” Mr. Westcott says, clapping me on the shoulder. “You had a full ride to LSU and you’re at the top of your class at Tulane—tell me, were you a St. Thomas man?”

  All eyes are on me as I answer. “No, sir. I grew up just outside of town, a few miles toward Baton Rouge.”

  “Did your father practice law?”

  I think back to that rusted red cab sitting on my mom’s property. “No, sir, he didn’t.”

  “Ahh, so you’re blazing your own trail,” he surmises. “And your mom, did she grow up here?”

  He’s not asking these questions for conversation’s sake. He’s heard the Fortier name before and is trying to place it. He’s trying to see if I’m worth knowing.

  “Don Fortier—Beau’s great-grandfather—used to work at the architecture firm with my grandfather,” Mr. LeBlanc says with proud smile. “They designed quite a few of the homes around the Garden District.”

  The Westcotts ooh and aah with renewed interest. With this tug on her husband’s line, Mrs. Westcott keeps fishing.

  “So then why on Earth did your family move away?” Mrs. Westcott says with a confused frown. “Surely they were renowned in New Orleans?”

  “My mother enjoys a quieter life,” I say in lieu of a full answer.

  “Sounds like bullshit to me,” Preston whispers, but both of his parents still hear him.

  “Preston!”

  “What?” he says defiantly.

  “Hey I…I got an A on my calculus test this week!” Lauren suddenly announces loudly. “Actually, it was the highest grade in the class.”

  “That’s great, honey,” Mrs. LeBlanc says with a smile.

  “What high school did you go to?” Preston asks, turning to me.

  “Yeah”—Lauren interrupts with a peacekeeping glance between us—“I really didn’t think I was going to do that well because our teacher included a few trick questions.”

  I see what she’s trying to do and while it’s admirable, I don’t need her to deflect the attention away from me. I’ve dealt with bigger and badder brats than Preston in my life. I turn to face him.

  “I went to Madison High School.”

  There is no further confusion about the sort of life I had growing up. My embattled high school shut down shortly after I graduated because it wasn’t meeting the state’s minimum requirements. In other words, most of my graduating class can barely read above a 6th grade level. It’s a major problem in rural areas, and one of the reasons wealthy people in Louisiana spend so much on private school educations.

  “So it wasn’t really a quieter life your mom was after, it was a cheaper one,” Preston jabs.

  “Prsssstnnn,” his mom hisses reproachfully. “Apologize now.”

  “It was a joke!”

  “It’s okay.” I smile before conceding matter-of-factly. “You’re right, Preston, I’m very lucky to have made it to where I am today with such an inauspicious starting point.”

  Silence falls around the table, and I’m not sure how to continue. Preston, like a boy poking a hornet’s nest, looks disappointed that I haven’t taken the bait. He has it out for me all right, though I haven’t figured out why.

  “Some of the best men I’ve met in my life have been self-made, Beau,” Mr. Westcott says, turning an admiring gaze toward me. “Don’t let your humble beginnings define you. Preston could learn a thing or two from you.”

  Preston snorts, and I have my answer. It’s hard having your father’s praise aimed at someone other than yourself, especially if you’re coming from a place of low self-esteem.

  “Preston, I’m not warning you again,” Mrs. Westcott cautions, admonishing him in front of everyone.

  The conversation shifts toward a discussion about delayed updates with the levees at Lake Ponchartrain. We’re in the middle of hurricane season and there have been reports of a few storms brewing in the gulf. I listen half-heartedly as waiters sweep in to replace our appetizer plates with the second course. Lauren tries to engage Preston across the table, but his replies are sharp and brusque. Whatever annoyances he has toward his father, he’s taking them out on her.

  “Have you done any college tours yet?” she asks with a sweet smile.<
br />
  “No.”

  She leans forward. “Rose and I have one scheduled at LSU in a few weeks. You could come with us, I’m sure.”

  He grunts in response and doesn’t even bother looking up at her. His attention is on his plate.

  “Beau, what exactly are your plans after graduation?” Mr. Westcott asks, drawing my attention once again.

  I’m forced to engage him, though there’s no way he’s pulling me into politics. It’s not what I want for my future. We talk about the merits of working in the private sector versus the public sector. Mr. Westcott argues that public service is one of the only ways a person can truly make a difference in social welfare. I respect his perspective, but I beg to differ. I think the rising tide brought by conscientious business investments has the power to lift all of society’s boats.

  All the while, Lauren frowns at her plate, pushing her food around with her fork rather than eating it. It’s a sad sight I keep replaying in my mind long after dinner is over and I’m back in my apartment, alone, sipping beer and reading through notes. Midterms are over, but that doesn’t mean I get a break. I’ll take a breather once I walk across that stage and collect my law degree.

  A light rapping sounds on my apartment door so I push my textbook onto the coffee table and stand, looking around for a shirt.

  “Beau?” Lauren’s voice asks gently. “Are you awake?”

  I freeze. It’s past midnight. She shouldn’t be here.

  The knocking continues. “Beau?”

  She’s never come over to my apartment before, not since that first day when she gave me a tour. Her being here isn’t a good idea, but I can’t just pretend I’m not home. I grab a shirt and decide to answer the door without letting her in.

  Lauren is standing on the other side of the threshold with her hair pulled up in a ballerina bun, wide eyes, flushed cheeks. Her short-sleeve button-down pajama shirt is pink with white polka dots and matches her shorts underneath. She looks like she’s about to go to her first sleepover.

  Her bottom lip is tugged between her teeth, and when our eyes meet, she lets it go. “Hi.”

  I glance past her, toward her parents’ house. All the lights are off. It’s quiet.