by Grey, R. S.
I’m sweating in this suit. It wasn’t a long walk from the streetcar on St. Charles Avenue, but the temperature outside is hovering in the 100s and the humidity is stifling.
“That’d be great,” I say, removing my jacket.
“Wonderful!” Then she glances down at her stained hands. “Oh, right. Well, you’ll have to help me with that.” She laughs at her blunder and heads for the sink.
I jump into action. “I’m happy to. Where are the glasses?”
“In that cabinet right there. Grab three. There should be some lemonade in the fridge. I made it this morning.”
I do as she says and by the time I’ve filled the three glasses with ice-cold lemonade, a man’s voice sounds down the hallway.
“Still painting, Kath? Isn’t that student coming soon?”
“He’s here now, honey!” she calls back. “We’re in the kitchen!”
She smiles apologetically at me as I take a seat at the table across from her, and then Mitchell LeBlanc steps into the kitchen in a khaki-colored linen suit, the summer uniform of every wealthy man in New Orleans. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, but when I stand to shake his hand, I still have a few inches on him. His hair is thick and gray, and he has clear-framed glasses that he tugs off and folds closed.
“Beau Fortier,” he says, repeating my name as if trying to jog his memory. His eyes narrow thoughtfully. “Fortier. I haven’t heard that name in quite a while, though I think my grandfather’s partner at the design firm was an old Fortier.”
I smile. “He was.”
His eyes light up. “Small world.”
Smaller every day.
“Is that what you’re studying at Tulane? Architecture?”
I shake my head. “Oh, no. I don’t have a creative bone in my body. I’m in my final year of law school.”
“Tulane Law, huh?” His brows rise. “That’s a tough program to get into.”
I adjust my collar, slightly uncomfortable with the amount of attention on me at the moment. “I’m proud to be a part of it.”
Kathleen speaks up. “Mitch, didn’t the Fortiers used to own the property across the street?”
The question doesn’t surprise me. Mitchell and Kathleen didn’t buy this house; it’s been in their family for generations. The LeBlancs always lived across the street from the Fortiers, up until the day my grandfather got booted. That’s why the name LeBlanc remains etched in stone downtown while my own is hand-scripted in chipped paint on the side of a mailbox on the outskirts. I smile at the thought.
“They did live there,” I fill in before he can. “But the house isn’t in our family anymore. We actually live a couple miles out of town now.”
Mr. LeBlanc frowns, and I assume he’s reading between the lines. “Shame. That’s one of my favorite homes in this neighborhood.”
As the owner of an architectural preservation firm, I’m not surprised that Mr. LeBlanc has an appreciation for the house.
I nod and take a sip of my lemonade, nearly choking as it burns my throat. It’s so tart and acidic that I have to actively keep my face from contorting in disgust.
Mrs. LeBlanc smiles expectantly, so I nod and force out a clipped assessment. “It’s, um…invigorating.”
Mr. LeBlanc laughs and takes a sip of his own. “Jesus, Kath! Are you trying to kill the poor boy?” Then he turns to me. “Don’t bother. She thinks she’s Paula Deen, but she doesn’t ever follow recipes.”
“Real culinary artists just eyeball it!” she insists.
He shakes his head, ignoring her, and continues, “Whatever you do, don’t eat anything she offers you. Our daughter, Lauren, does most of the cooking around here.”
I pause. “Lauren?”
Both parents smile, clearly pleased at the mention of their daughter. If this were the 1840s, they’d point me in the direction of her oil painting over the mantel. “She’s our only child, a junior at McGehee this year.”
McGehee is the expensive all-girls prep school a few blocks over. It’s not surprising that their daughter goes there. I’ve seen the students from the school walking around the Garden District with privilege seeping from every non-acned pore. They’re the future debutantes of New Orleans, but beyond registering their giggles as I pass by, I don’t pay them much attention.
“She’ll actually be home soon,” Mrs. LeBlanc says. “You should get to meet her before you leave. Maybe you can get her interested in grad school.”
I nod politely, but I’m not all that interested in a family meet-and-greet. Even if I end up living on their property, I won’t be spending much time with them. It might seem strange, but living here is a means to an end. I need a new place to live for my last two semesters of school and when I saw the apartment on this property pop up for rent, I jumped at the chance. I have goals—big ones—and living in this area, across the street from my ancestors’ old house is a perfect reminder of everything I’m working hard to get back.
“I’d be happy to.” I reach down for my small worn leather briefcase. “So, about the apartment—I’m living off of student loans right now, and the price you’re asking is a few hundred dollars outside my budget.”
I see a mixture of pity and indecision brewing on Mrs. LeBlanc’s face, so I press forward before either of them can speak.
“Now, I’m not looking for a handout, but in the past I’ve been able to work out special arrangements with landlords—odd handyman jobs, painting, lawn care, that sort of thing. If that’s something you’re interested in, I’d be happy to write a check for two months’ rent right now.”
They should turn me down. They probably have a dozen other applicants for the apartment. It’s in a great location, and the photos made it clear that they’ve updated it in recent years.
Mrs. LeBlanc laughs. “You haven’t even seen it yet. Don’t you want a tour?”
Not really.
I’m honest with them. “I’ve been living in an old place south of Magazine Street. I’m sure the toolshed on this property has better amenities than I’m accustomed to.”
She frowns. I know it’s not fun being confronted by the hardships of the poor, but I’m not ashamed of my humble beginnings. In fact, they motivate me. I’m at the top of my class at Tulane and president of the law honor society. I have an undergraduate degree in business and a small nest egg I’ve grown through investing over the last few years. I have a singular goal: to restore the Fortier name to what it once was.
“Well if you’re sure, I think we can work something out,” Mr. LeBlanc says.
I don’t even hesitate before replying.
“I’m sure.”
Chapter Two
Lauren
I have no time to waste! No time! I would have been home already but I had to stay late for student council since I’m the treasurer. I know, it’s a ceremonial position at best, but I needed something to put on my college applications and I didn’t win president or vice president. The only position more worthless than treasurer is secretary, which is filled by a girl who was picked solely on the basis of her immaculate handwriting. Today, during our meeting, I sat watching the clock tick while Rose, our class president, argued with Elizabeth, our VP, about the theme of the cotillion dance.
“Can you believe she wants to do Midsummer Night’s Dream?” Rose asks before dramatically pretending to gag herself with her finger.
“Ugh, so 1600s,” I lament, only half-listening as I pick up the pace on our walk home from school.
“A Night in Paris is a way better theme.”
“Oh yeah, very classy,” I agree.
“You’re not listening.” She speeds up. “Why are we rushing!?”
I glance down at my pink digital watch. “Because it’s already 4:30!”
Damn. Damn. Damn.
“Oh my god, you’re hopeless. You really think he’s going to be on messenger right now?”
“He has to be!”
We’re halfway home from school, speed walking down the sidewalks in betw
een McGehee and my house. I’m going so fast, I leave scuff marks on the aged concrete. We pass two old grannies and they broadcast their disapproval with humphs and wagging fingers.
Rose lives one block over, and we’ve walked to and from school together since our parents decided we were old enough. I have a lot of friends at school, but no one like Rose. She’s the only person who knows the real me—the me who freaks out over the idea of instant messaging with Preston Westcott. Just thinking his name makes my heart flutter. It could also be the adrenaline from the all-out run I’ve broken into.
“Doesn’t his baseball practice start at 5:00?” she asks.
“Yes!” I exclaim, sprinting wildly. My backpack flails violently, swinging from one side of my body to the other. I grip onto the straps and hold on for dear life.
Rose sighs and starts to run beside me. “This is stupid! He doesn’t even know you exist!”
“Not true! Last week, he responded when I messaged him!”
“What’d he say?” she asks, panting beside me.
“‘Sup?’”
“And then what happened?”
“I said ‘nm, you?’ and he didn’t respond. He was probably busy, or his dial-up lost connection!”
She groans as we turn the corner onto my street. I’m so close. I think I can make it in time. He usually doesn’t leave for practice until around 4:40. I know this not because I’m creepy, but because I’m…observant.
Every day follows the same pattern. I rush home from school and sign on to instant messenger praying Preston will message me first. He goes to St. Thomas, the all-boys school that partners with ours. Every girl in my school knows who he is, and every girl in my school is probably praying he’ll message with her today as well. Rose thinks it’s silly that I even bother trying to compete with the rest of them for his attention, but I can’t explain it. He’s just so, so…cute. Tall and tan with shaggy blond hair he usually covers under a baseball cap, he looks like one of the Abercrombie & Fitch models they put on the side of the bags. I hoard them in my closet.
Rose reaches out and grabs my hand, yanking me to a stop in front of my house. We’re both out of breath. It’s the backpacks—private school educations weigh a lot.
“If he is online, do not message him first,” she says, leveling her light brown eyes on me. “Make him come to you.”
I wish I had half of Rose’s confidence. She’s beautiful, dark with long inky hair that reaches the middle of her back. Her eyes are almond-shaped and her lips are full. Even worse, she’s never had a pimple a day in her life. In a blockbuster film, she would be cast as the leading lady and I would fill in as her petite, spunky sidekick. She would be a love interest; I would be a laugh track.
I nod, repeating her phrase, “Make him come to me.”
Then I wave goodbye, promising to fill her in on all the details as I unlatch the gate and run up the path to my front door.
If I weren’t so preoccupied, I would have picked up on the voices chatting in the formal living room. Instead, I kick off my shoes, toss my backpack near the umbrella stand, and bolt toward the stairs.
“Lauren! There you are!”
My head whips to the side, my feet freeze, and I slide across the front foyer in my socks à la Tom Cruise in Risky Business. When I come to a stop, my attention snags on the man sitting across from my parents. He pushes off his knees and stands, presumably to shake my hand, and my lungs tighten as if squeezed by a boa constrictor. I make a little noise—an audible oof—and his eyes narrow curiously, a subtle hint that he’s heard me.
He’s in his mid-twenties and dressed in a suit, but he’s lost the jacket. His white shirt is rolled to his elbows, contrasting with the formality of his black tie, which is pinned to his shirt with a silver bar. He rounds the side of the couch toward me and my parents are saying his name in introduction—Beau Fortier—but I’m focused on his broad shoulders and chest that taper to a trim waist. I have to tilt my head back as he steps close and I think I’m supposed to introduce myself, but my parents are doing it for me, like I’m a child.
“This is our little girl,” my dad says, proud.
Though I hate the term of endearment, compared to this man, I am just a little girl.
“Lauren LeBlanc,” I correct the moment before his hand takes mine in a firm grasp.
Up. Down. Up. Down. My hand is limp. Beau is the one doing the shaking, and I’m just along for the ride.
“We call her Lou,” my mom supplies from behind him. If I were closer, I’d jab her in the ribs.
Beau smiles politely, still staring down at me.
He has classical features—strong jaw, straight nose, piercing eyes—and his full lips balance it all, leaving me wondering if he’s handsome or beautiful, intimidating or inviting. His raven hair is trimmed short, parted to the right. His eyes are arresting—gunmetal blue, sharp and glacial.
“Lou, why are you so out of breath?” my mom asks with a laugh.
“I ran home.”
I say it like it’s obvious and boring. Duh, I ran home. Duh, who doesn’t go for a jog in a plaid skirt with a 30-pound backpack? I try to look as relaxed as possible while panting at the feet of this handsome stranger with the face of a war hero. Beau releases my hand, turning back to my parents. I press my hand to my heart and realize it’s still hammering in my chest, now more than ever.
Who are you?
Who are you?
Who are you?
My brain begs to know—just out of harmless curiosity, of course.
“Beau is thinking about renting our apartment,” my mom fills in as if she can hear my pleading thoughts.
My eyes go wide with wonder.
He would live on our property?!
“Actually, I’m ready to sign the lease today,” he says with a strong voice. Boys my age sound like chipmunks in comparison.
My mom laughs. “Tell you what, give us a minute to talk and get the paperwork in order. In the meantime, why don’t you head out back with Lauren and let her show you around the apartment.”
They want me to give him a tour.
I swallow and play it cool. “It’s just right through here.”
I walk through the dining room and the kitchen and he follows after me, his dress shoes clapping against our hardwood floors. I wish I’d kept my shoes on. My socked feet feel silly now, as if I need one more thing drawing attention to how young I am. At the back door, I slide into my dad’s loafers waiting by the rug, too lazy to hunt down a pair of my own shoes. When I glance over to Beau from beneath my lashes, I swear he’s wearing an amused expression. I yank open the back door and he’s quick to reach out and hold it for me so I have to duck under his arm to step outside. A gentleman, I tell myself in awe. Most guys I know only hold the door open if they’re planning on tripping you. I smile in thanks and heave a sigh of relief once we’re outside, both because we’re out of earshot of my parents and because out here, Beau doesn’t seem quite so suffocating.
What is it about age that makes youth feel self-conscious? I try to tell myself to relax as I focus on the manicured path in front of me.
Finally, he breaks the silence.
“You go to McGehee?” he asks.
I nod enthusiastically, somehow impressed that he knows something about me. “How’d you know?”
“Well, your parents told me, but I think I might’ve been able to guess.” He gestures toward my uniform.
Oh, right—I’m still wearing my plaid skirt and white polo with the school logo. My wild, curly hair is coiled up in a ballerina bun and I have a matching plaid headband holding back the flyaways, though if history is any indication, it’s probably lying down on the job. I resist the urge to reach up and feel for chaos. There’s no sense in worrying about how I look now; he’s already seen me.
“I have to wear a uniform too,” he says, as if wanting to make me feel better.
I glance back over his suit. The fitted pants stretch over his muscular thighs as he walks. Don’t
look there, you idiot! I turn back to the path that leads from the house toward the apartment. “For your job?”
“Law school.”
So he is a lot older.
“I’m a junior,” I say, as if to emphasize that I’m on my way out of high school. “I’m looking at colleges.”
“That’s exciting,” he says, and I’m surprised to find that he doesn’t sound like he’s patronizing me. “Your parents mentioned something about grad school too.”
“Jeez, would they let me get into college first? They’re already pushing me to go Ivy, Wellesley probably.”
The right side of his mouth hitches up, like my answer pleases him somehow—either that or it annoys him. I can’t tell.
“You should,” he says. “Not everyone gets that option.”
We stop in front of the apartment and I turn back to face the house, trying to see our back yard through a stranger’s eyes. It’s green, lush, and overgrown. My mom spends Saturdays gardening, a hobby she used to make me suffer through right along with her until I accidently watered her rosebushes with some herbicide instead of fertilizer. Now we both agree she’s better off solo.
Beside the gardens, there’s a pool with blue and white striped lounge chairs lining one side. On weekends, Rose and I live there, reading until my mom insists we have to come inside for dinner.
“That’s the garden and the pool, obviously,” I say, waving in front of us before moving my hand to the other side of the back yard. “And there’s a grill and outdoor kitchen over there. My parents probably wouldn’t care if you used it, as long as you cleaned up afterward. Good luck trying to figure it out though. I tried to use it once to roast hot dogs and nearly singed my eyebrows off.”
He smiles then we turn for the apartment and step inside. My dad owns an architectural design firm that specializes in restoring old homes around the Garden District. For years, my parents talked about fixing this guest house up and renting it out to a Tulane or Loyola student, and last year, they finally did it. It’s small, more of a studio than anything else. There’s a bedroom combined with a living room, a bathroom, and some space he could turn into a makeshift kitchen if he wanted to. I turn to Beau, expecting him to complain that it’s not big enough.