I had always thought about how they might make a movie of my life, or at least, the life that I always dreamed of. The opening scene would be me finishing a shower in a fabulous bathroom covered in Mediterranean tiles, grabbing a fluffy white towel. As I stepped out of the shower I would be greeted by a gorgeous man — maybe George Clooney or Denzel Washington. Probably Denzel. He looks at me, takes the towel away, and the next scene we're waking up in the morning.
This was not quite that good a bathroom, but it was the closest I had ever been.
I even felt like a queen washing my hands. The towel was thick and soft. I fell back into the bed and it was like falling into clouds. I looked at the ceiling and thanked Theodore again.
Then I remembered the Vue, so I grabbed my purse and moved it down the street. As I walked back to Sweet Magnolia, I knew I was in exactly the right place.
6
It was completely dark by the time I started walking through the French Quarter, in search of dinner and adventure.
Although I hadn’t been terribly hungry when I left Sweet Magnolia, it didn’t take more than a few whiffs of Creole deliciousness emerging from the doors I passed to find an appetite. I looked at a bunch of menus and peeked inside a few places.
I had changed into my gray jeans that fit just right. On top was my favorite shirt, a scoop neck form fitting long sleeved blue t-shirt. There was a slight chill in the air after the sun had gone, so I wore a lightweight white jacket that I had picked up at a West Omaha Goodwill. Shelly had always said you should shop at the Goodwill stores in the neighborhoods where the rich women live, and she was right. I had freshened up my hair and touched up the little make-up I wore. I really did look good, and I felt great.
After turning several corners and wandering down a few streets, I found a place that looked perfect for my first night in New Orleans. It wasn’t very big, just a few tables and a long wooden bar. Very cozy. The menu at the door promised reasonable prices, and the scents coming onto the street promised something close to heaven.
I sat at the bar, about three stools down from a man and woman who were drinking wine. At the other end of the bar were two men, talking with the bartender as if they were all friends. The bartender looked annoyed that she would have to interrupt her conversation to take my order, but by the time she got to me she seemed friendlier. I asked for a menu and she handed me two: one for food, one for beer.
Usually I am just a plain beer kind of girl, but I decided that part of my adventure would be trying new things. I ordered a craft beer with a funny name and kept my fingers crossed that I would like it. Then I looked over the food menu. There were a bunch of items with names I'd not seen at the two Omaha steakhouses where Joe liked to eat.
I glanced at the guys and saw they were holding hands. They looked at me and I smiled at them, and then my beer appeared. I ordered jambalaya even though it was more expensive than some of the other dishes. Tonight was the first night of my new life, and I was going to splurge.
Somehow I had the idea that by sitting at the bar, somebody would come up to me and start talking. That didn’t happen, and I was a little disappointed. The straight couple at the end of the bar finished their wine and left, and the gay couple at the other end started looking at the menu. Nobody, nearly including the bartender, paid any attention to me at all.
But that was okay. The jambalaya was delicious and I entertained myself by watching the television over the bar. They had a news channel on, and I was happy to see that the weather forecast looked good for a few days. I watched the sports highlights, then the news came back.
I was surprised to see Christine Hamilton, my old classmate, on the national news. I read the closed captioning since the sound was low. She was still missing, but the anchor gave more details than I’d heard before. She had been working for the mob and given immunity by the U.S. Attorney in exchange for her testimony.
The bartender looked toward me to see if I wanted another beer. I did not, but couldn't hold back from saying, "Hey, I know this woman."
She looked up at the TV and turned up the volume, just in time to hear the anchor saying, "and then it got complicated."
Apparently the guy Christine had been working for was, among other things, some sort of financial middleman for major drug dealers, acting almost like their banker. Christine was his bookkeeper, and the news made it sound like maybe they were lovers. I remembered her having said that she was a bookkeeper when we talked at the class reunion. When I had asked her where she worked, simply to make conversation, she was pretty vague and said something about a guy who did business financing. She hadn't said anything about a boyfriend.
The anchor continued that the new president of Peru had been cracking down on the drug cartels there. He had gotten the U.S. government to freeze the bank accounts of cartel leaders, so Christine and her boss had become their only access to their money. A rift had developed between the drug cartel and their mob bankers, led by Christine's boss. Three mobsters had been killed in Kansas City, the anchor said, and I remembered having seen that on the news a few months ago.
A picture of her popped on the screen when the anchor said that the FBI was still looking for her.
The bartender looked at the picture and looked at me. She looked again.
"We look a lot alike," I said. "We went to school together."
"You could be her sister," she said. "Or you could be her."
It occurred to me that in a city like Omaha, if a bartender saw a person who looked like a wanted fugitive, she would probably call the police. But the bartender here couldn’t seem to care less. She gave me the check and turned her attention back to her friends.
As I left the restaurant I saw a large group of people standing across the street. There was a young woman holding a sign that announced "Ghost Tour," so I walked over. Turned out that they still had openings for the tour that was starting in a few minutes. The tickets were twenty dollars, but tonight I was splurging, so I bought one and waited with the crowd.
I tried talking with a couple of people, but no one seemed interested. Luckily, it wasn’t too long before our tour guide arrived, and at that point I stopped thinking about anyone else.
Mark, our guide, looked like he was Sam Elliott's younger brother, about my age. No moustache, and hair that was more dark brown than gray, but the same eyes that managed to be both soulful and piercing. His eyebrows were too thick, and that just made him sexier for some reason. Once I saw him I made sure I didn’t get peeled off to another guide.
He led us down Dauphine Street, and we would stop every so often to hear a story about a haunted house. It was interesting, but I thought more about how soft his hair looked, or what his mouth would taste like, or how his hands would feel. I had a few other thoughts as well.
He kept looking at me, and I hoped that he hadn't seen me staring. I smiled back, trying to be casual.
He seemed to like it, because he kept looking. I came up with a plan.
While he was working I was businesslike and didn't get too close, but as he finished up the tour at Jackson Square I put my plan into motion. He chatted with a few people as they tipped him. I waited until they had cleared out.
"I don't have much cash, but I do have plastic. Can I buy you a drink for your tip?" I asked him.
That was the first pickup line I had tried in a very long time, since before I met Joe. Ray had not required a pickup line—we had both been very clear about what we were looking for. So I was a little nervous when I spoke with Mark. But I was in New Orleans, after all, and maybe I let myself get carried away by the pheromones that were floating through the air.
He smiled, those soulful eyes looking very warm. "That would be great. There's a place a couple of blocks away where I know the bartender."
We walked off, and I put my hands in my pockets because I didn't know where else to put them. He did the same.
"What do you do when you're not giving tours?"
"I teach at a community col
lege."
"So you're a professor? I'm not sure I've ever met a professor before." I glanced sideways at him and caught him smiling and shaking his head just a little.
"No, not a professor. Just an instructor, and a part-time one at that. They cut back my hours last year. I love history, so I talked my way into this tour guide gig. That helps."
"I had two jobs, too." Then I stopped. I wasn't sure that I wanted to tell a college professor, or instructor, or whatever, that I answered phones and cleaned houses for a living. Luckily, we were passing a very loud bar, so we had to stop talking. That gave me the chance to change the subject away from me.
"Do you teach history at the college?"
"No, I'm a computer geek. I teach information technology."
"I'm impressed."
"You shouldn't be." He laughed. "It's just basic coding and some network stuff. I worked for a software company back in Ohio, but when I moved down here a few years ago it was the only job I could find." He paused a minute and then pointed to a door just ahead. "Here we are."
After having passed several bars where the average age of patrons looked to be about twenty-five, I felt more comfortable walking into this one. I was not the youngest person there, by far, but I also was not the oldest. The music matched the crowd, and the Eagles were singing "Hotel California." The building had a front window that could open, but tonight the air was cool enough that it was closed. A few people sat at wooden tables lined up against paneled walls that were covered with concert posters. The bartender greeted Mark as we slipped onto a couple of barstools. He ordered a gin and tonic and then looked at me. I nodded at him and he nodded to his friend, who moved down the old-fashioned mirror-backed bar to get our drinks.
"What brings you to New Orleans?" he asked, turning his head toward me.
"I've always wanted to come, and never had the chance to." That was all I planned to say, but he looked at me with those dreamboat eyes and waited. I was happy when the bartender brought our drinks, hoping the delay would cause Mark to start talking again, but it didn't. We both sipped our gin and tonics. He looked at my eyes like he was trying to understand me. I liked that. I also liked the feeling of good gin, not the cheap stuff, as it slid down my throat. After another sip I got the confidence to keep talking.
"I just got divorced. Then I inherited a little money and a car, so it seemed like a good time to hit the road."
"Where are you from?"
"Omaha. Where in Ohio are you from?"
"Columbus. I'm divorced, too. I have two kids in Ohio, both in college. How about you?"
"No kids." I looked at my drink, hoping the topic would go away. He seemed to read my mind and changed the subject.
"I came down to Mardi Gras ten years ago and stayed," he said.
"That must have been some Mardi Gras," I laughed. He joined me.
"Yeah, it was." Then he grew serious. "It was right at the end of my marriage." He took a drink.
"Hey, I'm sorry," I said. "Divorce is awful. I didn't mean to make fun."
"Don't worry, Tina." He looked into my eyes again. "It was a long time ago."
"But it still hurts," I offered.
He nodded and smiled sadly. "Not as much anymore. How about you? Yours is recent. How are you doing?"
By now the gin was loosening me up. "Fine. I mean, not fine, but fine." I shook my head as I laughed at myself. "It had been bad for a long time. I don't know why I didn't leave, but for whatever reason I couldn't. In the end he was the one who called it quits." I took a sip. "It's strange, feeling free again."
"And now you've got your whole life ahead of you." Mark raised his glass in a toast and finished the drink. I was nearly keeping up. He waved to the bartender for another round.
"I've got half a life ahead of me," I corrected him. "I don't think I'll live past a hundred."
He crinkled his eyes and tilted his head and looked like a slightly confused puppy. "That means more than half. What are you, late thirties?" I broke out laughing and held up both hands, fingers spread apart. He looked genuinely surprised.
"No way," he said. "You look ten years younger."
"Thank you," I said, shaking my head and hearing my mother's voice about being modest. "I don't think I look it, although I really do feel ten years younger than I did a year ago."
"You don't like compliments, do you?"
I shrugged, looked down, and rubbed one of my hands on top of the other one. My face felt warm, and not from the gin.
"Tina, you're beautiful. That's not a compliment. It's simply a fact." He picked up his fresh drink.
"Thank you," I repeated. "You're pretty good looking, yourself."
It was his turn to blush. He shook his head.
"Now who's bad at compliments?" I chuckled, which made him smile.
He looked at me like he wanted to ask me something, then turned to stare at his glass as if the lime held the answer to that question.
"You're traveling by yourself? Pretty gutsy." That's what he said, but I knew that's not what he wanted to ask.
"I don't think of it that way. I wanted to take a trip where I could have time to myself and do what I want to do."
He took a long sip and stared at me over the rim. A Tom Petty song ended. Barry White's baritone filled the room. The warmth from my cheeks had spread to the rest of my body. I couldn't take my eyes off him.
"So, Miss Tina, what is it that you want to do?"
To answer his question I moved my hand down the bar, touching his fingertips. Our hands rested there for a moment.
He swiveled me around toward him and put his hand on my knee, which was now touching his leg. I put my free hand on top of his. I could feel myself diving into his deep brown eyes.
"I don't want you to think that I do this all the time," he said.
"I don't, either," I said quickly. "I mean, there was one guy after my divorce, but that was..."
"I know. It was more like taking medicine to make the pain go away."
I squeezed his hand on my knee and nodded.
His warm eyes crinkled again and he smiled. "You are so beautiful," he repeated as his face moved toward me.
His kiss was both gentle and forceful. Soft lips, an insistent tongue, and his arms around me as we both slipped off the barstools to be closer together. His hand moved down my back, and I found mine doing the same to him.
He broke away and turned back toward the bar, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. The bartender was laughing at us. I wasn't sure where we were going, but it was clearly time to go.
“I invited you,” I protested. Mark waved my opposition away and handed his credit card to the bartender. He put his arm back around me and signed the receipt with his free hand.
Tina Turner was singing as we left. Mark's arm curved around my shoulder and I put my hand in his back pocket. I felt like a teenager.
A really, really horny teenager. A few doors down from the bar, I pulled him against a fence that was set back a bit from the sidewalk and started kissing him. That took him a little off guard, but he liked it. I could feel him hard against my leg, and that excited me even more.
"Can I ask you over for a nightcap?" I asked as I pulled my mouth away to catch a breath.
He gently pushed back some hair that had gotten stuck in the corner of my mouth. His soulful eyes said yes more forcefully than a word ever would. The intensity made me a little uncomfortable, and I was glad when he interrupted his stare by kissing me. We started walking again, his arm around me.
As we made our way along, I thought about everything that had needed to happen to get me to this exact moment. The divorce, losing my jobs, Theodore's will. It was strange to think that a year ago this situation would have been unimaginable. Now, here I was, walking through the French Quarter with a handsome man I had just met. The thought made me surprisingly happy.
It took us a while to get to Sweet Magnolia, because we occasionally stopped to neck. I had trouble finding the keycard in my bag, b
ut eventually got us into the courtyard; more necking, and then into my room.
He managed to embrace me, take off my jacket, and kiss me all at once. My skin tingled from the thrill of his touch and the excitement of romance in the Big Easy.
We undressed ourselves and each other in a frenzy. When every piece of clothing lay on the floor, I looked at him and nearly lost my breath. His chest was broader than it had looked under his shirt. His arms—and I am an arm person—were wide and muscled and just plain sexy. We stepped toward each other and he pulled me on top of him, onto the bed.
"Wow, Tina…." He said this a couple of times as he kissed me and rolled on top. "You are a fantasy," he whispered, his muscled arms holding his body above mine. I reached up and touched his bicep while he fumbled with the condom.
"The feeling is mutual," I whispered back. While I may have been his fantasy, the next hour proved that he was better than anything I had ever even let myself think about. He found places in me that no one had ever found.
As I cuddled into him afterward and felt his strong arms around me, I was without words.
"You are amazing," he said. I looked up at him and smiled. He kissed my forehead. I snuggled closer and breathed his muskiness, his sweat, his maleness. He pulled me a little tighter.
We lay that way for a long time. My body was still but my mind was flying, in that space between consciousness and sleep where random ideas pop into your brain. I thought about losing my job. I thought about Teresa's little green house. I thought about Harry Truman Reservoir. I thought about how unlikely it was that I was lying in a guesthouse in New Orleans with a stranger named Mark, having had the best sex of my life.
And then I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew there was light peeping around the blind and Mark was sitting on the bed.
"I need to get going," he said as he pulled on his pants. "I have a class this morning."
He didn't look quite as gorgeous as he had the night before, but he was still easy on the eyes. I smiled at him.
Passing Semis in the Rain: A Tina Johnson Adventure Page 3