The Lady of Royale Street

by Thea de Salle

  “I . . .” He wanted the perfect pithy one-liner to shut his brother up, but he had nothing, because Sol had nailed it on the head. Alex was willing to go against the Church’s fundamental wishes for this woman, not just once, but over and over again. Hell, his wrists still ached from where she’d handcuffed him not four hours ago. He’d liked it. Loved it. Was eager to see where their next sordid adventure took them.

  Which probably should lend me far more pause than it does.

  I’ll talk to the priest tomorrow.

  He sipped from his water, kept his eyes fixed on his plate, and when the rehearsal dinner started in earnest, he smiled for Theresa’s camera, because that’s what he’d signed up to do.

  The evening was a whirlwind of speeches, toasts, and standing in configurations that were fairly obvious but had to be just so anyway. At nine thirty, Rain declared she was satisfied with their practice run and they were free to go, and everyone scattered to the wind. Alex and Theresa drove back to the hotel with her hand atop his on the stick shift, and once they were back at The Seaside, they escaped to his suite to spend the night together. It was a thousand kisses, a thousand touches, a few moments of sublime reverence followed by deep, dreamless sleep. When Theresa’s phone alarm went off at eight o’clock the next morning to tell her it was time to go out with Rain and Dora for trial runs with the hairdresser, Alex had tried to haul her back into bed. She’d playfully escaped, showered, and dressed, only parting after another series of heated kisses.

  She’s walking, talking temptation.

  I kind of like temptation.

  That might be a problem.

  Those were his last thoughts before he rolled over and went back to sleep. Alex DuMont, the man who got up before sunrise every day to go to the gym for an hour and a half allowed himself another two more hours, because he was on vacation, damn it.

  As soon as he set foot in the foyer at eleven, Sol sent for him, asking him and Cylan to head to Maddy’s ship to oversee the ballroom setup—Sol was handling a “tuxedo emergency,” whatever that meant. A half hour later, Alex found himself placing the very crystal swans he loathed atop more than two hundred place settings, positioning the swans perfectly on folded napkins above scalloped plates with platinum edging. The linens were in place and resplendent, the colors icy blue, white, and silver with black accents. The stage settings were ready for their musical guests. The acoustics passed all their tests. Even the ice swan was in the freezer and ready for the next day’s nuptials.

  Everything was perfect.

  Or, well, almost everything. The tiger roaming the deck was less than ideal. Capulet cast Alex a crabby look as her keeper leash-walked her through the ship.

  Darren calls her the Murder Kitten. I wonder why.

  At two, Alex and Cylan parted ways, with Cylan going back to the hotel to work, Alex escaping to the French Quarter to get himself a proper muffuletta for lunch. Nowhere else made them right, he mused, sitting on a park bench overlooking the Mississippi River. He relished every bite, not even minding the afternoon sun beating down on his scalp. He threw away his garbage and sauntered over to the cathedral for his afternoon devotions. Alex was stalwart when it came to his Saturday rituals. Making confession and attending Mass made him feel better, like he could somehow get clean despite the soil in the world. Theresa certainly didn’t make him feel dirty, but she did . . . well, she did complicate things. Premarital sex was explicitly off-limits, and yet what they shared felt pure. Right. Almost necessary at times.

  How was that possible, when others would call it a sin?

  It was a question for men holier than himself.

  Saint Louis’s was a beautiful building with a clean white facade, the roof’s three black steeples tall enough they almost touched the clouds. Lush greenery lined the walkway, the trees kept trim to never impede anyone’s—namely the tourists walking Jackson Square—long-distance appreciation of its grandeur. The double doors were propped open in invitation despite the air-conditioning, and Alex crossed the threshold feeling very much like he was coming home. This had been the church of his youth. Midnight Christmas Masses. Easter services. Sunday school. It’d seen births and deaths and everything in between. He liked his parish in Dallas plenty, but there was something sacred about Saint Louis’s.

  It was quiet inside, the pews mostly empty save for a few devotees who prayed with their heads bowed, their rosaries clenched in their fists. The occasional wind from outside made the flags hanging from the second-story balconies stir. The vaulted ceiling was covered with colorful murals, and along the back wall, above the sanctuary, were three of the church’s beautiful stained-glass windows. It smelled of incense and lemony wood polish and someone’s floral perfume. Alex dipped his fingers in the shell-shaped font held by a stone angel and genuflected as he crossed himself, sliding into the backmost pew. A glance told him the confessional was occupied, so he waited his turn, his hands folded primly in his lap.

  It should have been a calming thing, knowing he was about to unburden himself of sin, but he had some concerns. The quiet moment before one talked to the priest was the perfect time to examine one’s conscience, and his conscience was rather uncooperative regarding the woman he’d been sleeping with over the last week. There should have been shame or regret. Except there was none. Alex furrowed his brow; someone so dedicated to the Catholic faith should have been at least a little contrite for sex outside of marriage.

  Nope.

  That was a big fucking problem, if what he wanted was absolution. Unease settled in, and with it doubt. With the doubt came irritation, which could easily turn to anger if he indulged it.

  Yes, that’s it, Alex. Piggyback one sin on top of that other sin you’re not sure you regret committing, you moron.

  By the time the confessional emptied, he was grinding his jaw. It would have been ideal for someone else to go before him, granting Alex a few minutes to collect himself, but no, he wasn’t that lucky. He headed in, trying to fit his very big body into a very small space. His brain leaped to how he felt in the hell-spawned Porsche parked outside, and he frowned. Grousing—even silently to himself—while in a confessional was wrong. He breathed in deep through his nose and exhaled through his mouth.

  Patience, he chided himself. He pulled the door closed behind him and tried to find peace in the familiar rattle and the promise of imminent spiritual relief.

  He dropped to the kneeler just as the window slid open with a low wooden rasp. There was soft light through a screen and the vague shape of his confessor. Alex crossed himself and said what he’d said a thousand times before.

  Only slightly differently this time.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been eleven days since my last confession. And I need help. There’s a woman,” he said simply.

  “Speak, my son.”

  Alex took a deep breath and let it spill. It flowed like water: the lustful thoughts, the lustier fights, the over-the-top anger, and the multiple transgressions of virtue. That was when the problem arose. Or, well, not the problem, but when he arose. When one was trying to relay one’s last week of ecstatic sex, even using the nicest terms possible because one was a respectful person, one remembered things. One ruminated, perhaps, too long on certain details of those things.

  And those certain details might give one a very awkward boner in the confessional.

  It hit Alex like a brick; there he was, in God’s holy house, talking to one of God’s celibate, holy champions, and he had an erection. The shame that he wasn’t sure he could manufacture for his “communion-like” dalliances with Theresa hit all at once and in full force.

  I’m talking to a priest and my dick is hard.

  Oh sweet Jesus.

  I can’t even . . .

  “She could be the one for me,” he spat almost desperately. “We could have something wonderful and sacred—a union under God. We’re
both Catholic; we hold many of the same beliefs. But I worry we’re traveling a sinful path. Does this jeopardize us or our souls? I want . . . guidance, I suppose. I want to know how to reconcile my fear and doubt with my hope for something more,” he finished.

  I hate this.

  I hate feeling like this.

  I hate my dick.

  I hate everything.

  The priest paused a long while before speaking. “It’s good that you seek the will of God in your life, as well we all should; it isn’t easy to do. A woman sent your way according to God’s plan is a blessing, but I wonder perhaps, would she resolve to remain chaste with you if you asked? And if the answer is no, what kind of helpmate would she be in the years down the line?”

  Alex’s stomach dropped.

  I wanted easy forgiveness, but I don’t come here for self-indulgence. I’m here to make an act of contrition.

  The priest continued. “Godly relationships are built on a foundation of mutual respect. You could be underestimating not only your own capacity for self-control, but hers, too. There could be peace for you both in mutual chastity. It is worth discussing with her, I would think, especially as you clearly worry for her soul, too.”

  If we’re to be together, her soul would be my responsibility and caring for her means caring for her soul, too.

  “I’d hate to lose her over it, is all,” Alex said quietly. “I like her very much. I don’t want her to see this as a rejection.”

  “But it is not rejection, is it? It’s a dialogue. Your fears are understandable, but I gently remind you that the biggest sin anyone can commit is not trusting in God enough. Do you trust him to give you what you need?”

  “Of course I do, Father. He always gives me what I need.”

  “Good, then I advise talking to your young lady. I would also advise taking time to do a thorough examination of conscience if you aren’t prepared to make a perfect act of contrition at this time. Remember that God forgives all for the truly penitent.”

  “For the truly penitent.”

  The question is, am I truly penitent?

  TWENTY-SIX

  “TALLER,” DORA SAID, peering at her reflection in the salon mirror.

  The young woman working on her, who couldn’t have been more than nineteen or twenty, looked suitably terrified as she used her comb to raise Dora’s bangs another inch. Dora offered a tight, approving smile. “Better. I’m a southern woman. I like grits, country music, and big hair, in that order.”

  “That just makes you sensible, sugar, not southern,” the hairdresser working on Theresa said. Her name was Kelly. She was a tall, thin woman in her fifties wearing a bouffant she’d teased sky high. At first, Theresa feared she’d come out of Kelly’s chair looking like a castoff from Edward Scissorhands, but Kelly knew her stuff. Her own hair, sixties housewife. Theresa’s hair, fairy princess with the sides pulled up into pretty combs that would, tomorrow at the wedding, be decorated with flowers. The red ends had been baked in rollers awhile, then thumbed through for perfect curls and sprayed into place with shellac.

  Rain, meanwhile, was doing a killer Marie Antoinette impression with her piles upon piles of golden curls tucked in behind a very sparkly and very real gemmed tiara, the center stone a Ceylon sapphire the size of Theresa’s eye. Sol had bought it along with Rain’s engagement ring, Rain said, which meant it was probably worth an easy six figures and would spend the rest of its postwedding existence behind lock and key.

  Theresa’s family hadn’t been poor by any stretch of the imagination, but they had been middle class with all the requisite middle-class financial struggles, and the idea of being so frivolous with money made her flinch.

  That’s, like, five or six cars.

  At least.

  “I’m so excited,” Rain said, her chair whirling around until she faced Theresa. The short, heavyset hairdresser working on her kept pinning more and more hair into place. “Sol said Maddy’s boat is beautiful. I’m a little upset I was too busy to check it out in person, but I trust Sol, and Cylan promised pictures later. Oh, Sol also texted to let me know he’s sending Alex to help out with setup, too, if you were looking for him.”

  Theresa’s cheeks flushed. “Oh. I’m not, but thank you.”

  “Is he good in bed? I bet he is,” Dora chimed in. “He’s got that look all the uptight ones have—all rigid and proper until he pounds you through the mattress. I’d go there, if I wasn’t with Kell.”

  “I . . .” Theresa stared at her.

  Rain did, too, but then she started laughing. “Dora!”

  “What? I tell it like it is!”

  “Yes, you do, and I love you for it.” Rain did a big kissy-face thing, and Dora snorted. Theresa tried not to melt in mortification. Apparently, despite Theresa and Alex trying to be as discreet as possible, they hadn’t been discreet enough. Rain never would have betrayed her trust, but it wasn’t exactly hard to piece together, either.

  We show up places together. Even the places we don’t have to go to together we do. He’s been leaving my room in the mornings.

  Dora must have clued in to Theresa’s embarrassment, because she said, “Don’t worry so much about what everyone else thinks. Life’s too short for that shit.”

  Rain agreed. “She’s right, you know. It’s no one’s business, even if we tease you about it. And who knows? Maybe it’ll turn into something more. Look at me, for goodness’ sake! My whirlwind affair is working out just fine. I’ve got the husband, the family to look forward to.” She paused, checking to see if anyone read too much into that, but seeing pleasant obliviousness on the faces of Dora and the salon staff, she continued. “All I’m saying is this could be everything you ever wanted and more. Enjoy yourself.”

  “Amen,” Dora echoed.

  Theresa smiled at them, but she didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Kelly whirled her around and demanded feedback on the artful coif. Dora and Rain were similarly attacked by their stylists. The bridal party sang the salon’s hair prowess before being whisked over into the clutches of the awaiting makeup artists. A woman named Mandy with the longest acrylic nails in the world worked on Theresa. Theresa had never been so terrified of fingers in her life; they swooped at her eyes, all crimson and pointy at the ends, and yet somehow, an hour later, she emerged from her chair not only unscathed, but with perfect winged eyeliner.

  Mandy’s a pretty great makeup artist.

  For a vulture.

  “Look at us,” Rain said, grinning into the mirror. Rain was all peaches and cream, like a round-faced Cinderella. The artist had gone mauves for Dora, which was a far cry from Dora’s usual bold colors, but the softer shades highlighted exactly how pretty she was with her high cheekbones, narrow nose, and killer brows. And for Theresa, they’d gone classic beauty with the dramatic liner and bloodred lips, not doing much beyond that because, per the woman working on her, “You’re one of those natural beauties we all hate.”

  Thanks? I think?

  “We’re all dolled up with no place to go.” Rain patted her hair and pursed her lips in the mirror. It was grade-A duck face and she looked adorable.

  “Let’s go to Popeyes,” Dora said with a smirk.

  Rain looked at her, looked down at her stomach, and then over at Theresa. “Okay, I really want Popeyes now,” she said. “Like, I won’t say I’d cut a bitch for it, buuuuut . . .”

  “You’d be tempted to?” Theresa grinned. “Do you think that’s such a good idea with your zillion-dollar tiara on?”

  Rain plucked it from her head and shoved it back into its velvet box. From there it was put into a lockbox, and from there, it would be handed off to Vaughan, who’d accompanied them as security. He wasn’t doing much securing at the moment, invested as he was in trying to score the receptionist’s number, but everyone kept assuring Theresa he was fantastic at his job, so who was she to judge?

 
; Rain grabbed Theresa’s hand and pulled her through the salon, seemingly intent on dragging Theresa all the way to the BMW and the awaiting Lorelai if need be. “Let’s go, Vaughan,” she called behind her. “The chicken sandwich waits for no man.”

  All she wanted to do was to pluck the last bobby pin from her head and shower. That was it, but apparently Kelly, the hairstylist, had an evil plan that included hiding as many bobby pins as possible in one head of hair. She wasn’t the only one afflicted, either; just as she’d pulled the zillionth pin from her crown, her phone had buzzed with Rain whining about a similarly afflicted metal head.

  Do you want me to come help? Theresa texted her.

  No Sols doing it. Just wanted to bitch LOL

  Theresa smiled and went back to dismantling the world’s prettiest disaster. By the time she was through, it was almost five, and she popped back into the shower to hose off excessive amounts of cosmetics and hair products. It seemed like all she’d done since coming to New Orleans was hop from one body of water to another, but that was what you got when you were in swampy humidity all day and spent a good quarter of your time fucking.

  YOLO?

  She was getting dressed in a pair of khakis and a silk tank top when her phone buzzed again. She expected it to be Rain with an update on Hairpocalypse, but no, it was Alex letting her know he was back.

  Can I come up? Just got back from Mass. I’d like to talk.

  Sure, she replied.

  She very rarely missed Mass herself, but she could justify it this one week. She’d confess it the next week and be extra diligent about future Masses. Alex wasn’t quite so willing to skirt the rules, which was fine—to each his own—but the fact that he said he wanted to talk, which was rarely if ever a good sign for any relationship, and that he was saying it immediately post-Mass put her on edge.