Good Times

by Kate, Jiffy

  She’s here… in New Orleans.

  How?

  Why?

  My mind is spinning as my eyes drink her in. It’s been five years—five long damn years—since she walked away from me, never looking back.

  “Jette?” I ask, the nickname I gave her when we were teenagers slipping out of my mouth on a whisper.

  Recognition dawns on her and causes her to gasp as a checklist of emotions flashes across her face—shock, confusion, embarrassment—but she never once acknowledges me. She doesn’t even say my name.

  I’m not the masochistic kid I once was, so I don’t wait for her next move. If it’s anything like her last one, she’ll be gone without a trace… no forwarding address, no phone number… no email.

  Just fucking… gone.

  Quickly, I excuse myself and head back to my saxophone, the burn of Georgette’s abandonment from five years ago still stinging like it was yesterday. On autopilot, I look over my playlist, refusing to search the crowd for her—the last person I ever thought I’d see in New Orleans.

  I’m a professional and well-versed in picking up the pieces left behind by Georgette Taylor. As they say in the industry, the show must go on. But a few minutes into my set, I can’t help but notice her.

  Those blonde curls I’ve dreamt about for so long are hard to miss. And I catch sight of them just as she walks out the front door, not looking back.

  Chapter Two

  Georgette

  I’m not sure why I run, but I do, all the way to the hotel I’m currently staying at. As I approach the front door, a man dressed in a suit greets me with a tip of his head and a smile. “Good evening, Miss.”

  “Hi,” I breathe out, still panting from the unexpected physical exertion.

  “Are you here for a party?” he asks, holding the door open for me as I stand there with my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath, like a dimwit.

  In or out, Georgette, make up your mind.

  “Uh, no,” I reply, shaking my head as I walk past him into the lobby. I was at a party, a perfectly lovely party with delicious food and festive drinks and nice people… and Finley Lawson.

  Finley. Lawson.

  In New Orleans.

  How is that possible?

  Of all the places in all the world.

  “Spending New Year’s Eve alone?” he asks, a kind smile on his face.

  “Seems that way.” I shrug, trying to blow it off, but inside I’m still reeling. I should’ve stayed at Lagniappe, but there’s no going back now. Besides, what would I say?

  Sorry for running out on you… again?

  The doorman resumes his post but not before tipping his head once more, sending me on my way with a polite greeting. “Have a good evening.” That’s pretty much been my experience thus far in New Orleans—so many nice people.

  “You too,” I tell him, digging in my sparkly bag for my key card. “And Happy New Year.”

  “Yes, Happy New Year.”

  After a morning of flying, followed by a meeting with my new boss, and then an evening of meeting new people, I’m actually exhausted. So, it’s not a horrible thing to be back in my room before midnight. I’ll need the extra sleep to be ready for my first week on the job. According to Cami, I’ll be hitting the ground running.

  The gallery is newly opened. She’s been doing everything herself while searching for the right person to hand it all over to while she has her baby… me. I’m that person.

  Well, at least, she thinks I’m that person. I pray I’m that person. Up until now, I’ve held several positions at various galleries in New York, including my last job as an assistant buyer at Sotheby’s.

  But I’ve never managed an entire gallery. By myself.

  Cami knows that, though. I didn’t hold anything back from her in my multiple interviews. We spoke about everything from my education, which includes a degree in art management, to my internships. But what she seemed most interested in is my love of art.

  And that’s what I ended up loving the most about her… and 303 Royal Street.

  More than anything, I want to work with people who love art as much as I do. I want to be in a city that loves what I love, and that’s what made New Orleans feel like home the second I stepped out of the Uber and onto the sidewalk in front of the hotel that sits next door to the gallery.

  Everything about this city screams creativity wrapped in culture.

  Trevor, my boyfriend, said this was a step backward. I’ve been at Sotheby’s for the last two years, since I graduated from NYU. According to him, I should’ve stayed at Sotheby’s and worked my way up.

  But that’s Trevor, he’s ambitious and driven. Those are two of the qualities that drew me to him, that and his stunning smile and ash-blond hair. He was handsome and he filled a gaping hole at the time. When we first started dating, I didn’t even want a relationship, so we were friends, which is how my two most important relationships have started—friendships that turned into more. But unlike my feelings for Finley, which came fast and furious, my feelings for Trevor were slow and subtle. Eventually, he was what was comfortable. He made me feel like I had a place to call mine. In a huge city, like New York City, that says something.

  Staying at Sotheby’s and following Trevor’s advice was always a possibility. I could’ve done that. I probably would’ve been happy… or something close to it.

  But one lonely night, when Trevor was working late, which had become more of a norm than an occasional thing, I felt something call to me. It was like a wild echo on the wind, something that reached deep down into my soul.

  For the past couple of years, we’ve been at an impasse with our relationship. My job at Sotheby’s was growing stagnant. It felt like the world was turning around me and I was stuck in the middle, going nowhere.

  That night, I got to daydreaming, one search leading to another, and before I knew it, I was on a website with listings of job opportunities. As I narrowed down the search to art manager and director positions, 303 Royal Street Art Gallery was the first listing.

  Artist-owned and operated.

  New Orleans, French Quarter.

  Competitive salary.

  And there was a personal note from the owner.

  Hello,

  I’m Camille Benoit-Landry and I’ve been an artist since I was five. There’s a good chance my blood has been replaced with paint. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do, except for having a family. Which brings me to why I’m looking for a special person to help run my gallery. Just after the new year, I’ll be welcoming my third baby into the world, and my husband insists on me taking some time off. So, for a couple of months, I’ll be handing over the day-to-day duties of 303 Royal Street to someone else…

  The note itself was out of the ordinary. Typically, you wouldn’t get that much insider information about a job opening, which is what caught my interest and attention. The rest of Cami’s personal message went on to describe the dynamic of the gallery, which is still in the newborn stage itself. Everything she described spoke to my soul—open to local artists, flexible hours, collaborative opportunities. It sounded fresh and bursting with possibilities.

  Everything my life was not.

  Plus, she assured me that after she returns to work, she’ll want me to stay. With three children, a husband, and an art studio in the small town she lives in, there’s no way she can keep up with it all.

  My official title should actually be Camille Benoit-Landry’s right-hand woman, because I basically signed on to do anything she needs me to do. Just on my first day alone, I’ve been her stylist, confidant, and chauffeur.

  But one thing she didn’t mention is during my first twelve hours I’d come face to face with Finley Lawson… the boy I loved… the boy I left behind.

  I haven’t seen him in over five years, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about him. However, I wasn’t prepared for how my heart would feel when he called out my name…

  Jette.

  He’s the only
one who’s ever called me that.

  The only person who’s ever truly understood me.

  He holds so many of my firsts, so many of my memories.

  Seeing him tonight had my heart skipping into overdrive and my mind spinning.

  He’s so much the same, but also changed. No longer is he the boy I fell in love with—awkward and still finding himself. Now, he’s all man. The softer edges have been replaced with hard lines and well-defined features. But those mesmerizing gray eyes haven’t changed, they still pulled me in and made me forget to breathe.

  That’s why I had to run.

  I needed some space, some time to think.

  I have no doubt Finley and I will cross paths again; I feel it in my bones, but next time I see him, I’ll be more prepared. He won’t catch me off guard and push me off my feet with one word.

  As I let myself into my hotel, I kick off my black pumps and exhale. Leaning my back against the door, I allow the coolness to seep into my heated skin. My mind wants to chalk it up to the warmer weather or the run, but my heart knows the truth… it’s Finley.

  It’s always been Finley.

  Chapter Three

  Finley

  I’ve been looking for Georgette in every person I pass on the street.

  That’s not really a new thing. I’ve had her on my mind for the past five years. Any time I saw a petite frame with unruly blonde curls, I’d do a double-take, making sure it wasn’t her, but that was back in Dallas, somewhere I’d expect to see her.

  Not New Orleans.

  Never in a million years did I expect her to be in a dimly-lit restaurant in the heart of the French Quarter on a random New Year’s Eve. But there she was, looking as beautiful as ever, and as caught off guard as I was.

  She’s different, but the same. Her hair is shorter and more tamed, but there’s still a hint of the wild nature begging to be set free. That was always Jette in a nutshell.

  Her family has a lot of money and always expected her to fall in line—be the perfect daughter with perfect grades who chooses the perfect university and gets the perfect degree.

  They also wanted her to choose the perfect boyfriend, who in turn would become the perfect husband to complete their perfect family.

  That wasn’t me.

  Jette and I first met when I got into a magnet school for fine arts. Most of the students were from the neighborhood where I lived with my grandmother, Maggie, who worked for the Rhys-Jones family. But just because I lived in the same neighborhood as many of my classmates didn’t mean I fit in. It was obvious I wasn’t one of them.

  I didn’t dress like them.

  I didn’t talk like them.

  I didn’t go to Aspen for Christmas or the Hamptons for summer vacation like them.

  My parents didn’t work in one of the high-rise buildings downtown like theirs.

  And for some reason, Georgette saw past all of our differences, down to the core of who I was—a kid who loved music and art and just wanted to be better than the people who brought him into the world.

  Before my grandmother took me in, I didn’t know where my next meal was coming from or if I’d be sleeping in a bed or a cardboard box. Going to school on a regular basis was a foreign concept. But then my mother was arrested on drug charges, and for the first time in my life, they stuck. She went to jail and I went to Dallas.

  A few years later, I met Jette.

  She was my first true friend.

  My first girlfriend.

  My first date.

  My first kiss.

  My first… everything.

  She made me believe I was more than my upbringing—more than my past or where I came from. It didn’t matter that my mom was in prison and my dad didn’t know I existed. According to her, I could do anything I wanted, be anything I wanted, and have anything I wanted.

  I started to believe it.

  But then we graduated, and two months later she moved to New York. Since we were no longer in school, I had no way to contact her… no email, no phone… no Jette. She just left, taking with her the thing I wanted the most in this world—her.

  A piece of my heart followed her bouncing blonde curls and contagious personality all the way to New York. I can’t say I’ve really forgiven her for that. Typically, I’m a let-bygones-be-bygones kind of person, water under the bridge and all that, but when someone steals a piece of your heart, it’s hard to let that shit go.

  Sure, I’ve had relationships in the last five years, but nothing serious. It’s kind of hard to commit yourself to someone when they’re only getting half your heart.

  As I approach the corner I play at a few days a week, my eyes scan the sidewalk across the street, landing on the door to what I now know is Cami Benoit-Landry’s art gallery, 303 Royal Street, and also where that aforementioned missing piece of my heart now works.

  I can’t help the smile pulling at my lips as I set my saxophone case at my feet and start to set up. Scratching my head, I wonder about all the unanswered questions floating through my mind over the past few days:

  How long is she here for?

  What has she been up to for the last five years?

  Has she thought about me?

  Does she have someone… a boyfriend? Someone waiting for her back in New York?

  Did she use her last dime to fly halfway across the country to look for me only to catch a glimpse and realize she didn’t have a place there and nothing to offer, so she got back on that plane and flew back, resolved to be happy that I was happy?

  No, wait.

  I’m the one who saved up for months and flew across the country only to have my heart crushed.

  That was me.

  I did that.

  Needing a distraction from the incessant thoughts of Georgette, I quickly get to work setting up my amp and looper pedals. Basically, when I need to be, I’m a one-man-band. Sure, I like to play with other musicians, and nothing beats the feel and vibe of Good Times, the club I play at on the regular. But I enjoy this too, just me and my sax and the streets of New Orleans.

  Warming up, I play a few notes, letting them waft into the air and blend with the morning chill.

  For New Orleans, this is a cold morning. My weather app said we’d reach the mid-sixties today, but for now, it’s a balmy forty degrees and my cold hands take a little longer to limber up, so I take it easy, working my way through a few melodies I could play in my sleep.

  A little Ella Fitzgerald.

  A little Nat King Cole.

  And then, before I know it, I’m playing her song.

  Unforgettable.

  That’s truly what she is. I meant it the first time I ever played it for her and I mean it this morning, standing across the street from the art studio she now works at, in a new city, with years of history behind us and an uncertain future in front of us.

  Forever and a day, Georgette Taylor will always be the epitome of this song.

  Regardless of the city.

  Regardless of the state of our relationship, or lack thereof.

  The time for me to forget her passed a long damn time ago. Besides that, I don’t want to forget her. She’s part of me, who I am. And I’ll always be thankful for the years when she was often my only friend.

  When I see her wild blonde curls peek out the door of 303 Royal Street, I almost falter, missing a note, but then recover when I see her eyes roam the sidewalk before landing on me.

  Something tells me Jette hasn’t been able to forget me either.

  And for now, that’s enough.

  She stands at the door for the entire song. There is a moment, when she pushes more of her body out the door, I think she’s going to come across the street, but then, the song is over and she retreats back inside.

  Taking a moment to catch my breath and smile at a few people passing by on the sidewalk, one tossing a five into my open case, I let my eyes drift across to the closed door and wonder how long it would be before we’d come face to face again.

&nb
sp; I really hope it’s not five more years.

  Chapter Four

  Georgette

  I shouldn’t have opened the door, and I most certainly should not have stuck my head out for a better listen. But, dammit, he was playing our song—our freaking song—and I had no choice but to go toward the music.

  Like a moth to a flame.

  He knew what he was doing, too, the big jerk. He was baiting me, testing me, and I fell for it like it was my job. The only upside to our interaction, if you can even call it that, was his very brief almost slip-up. I’m sure no one else noticed how he missed a note, but I did. I know that song as well as he does and I’m sure he was mentally kicking himself something fierce. Meanwhile, I was able to revel in the fact that I’d made Finley Lawson falter, even after all these years.

  I didn’t gloat for long, though. The look he gave me, once I allowed myself to focus on his eyes, heated my body in ways I wasn’t prepared for. The blush on my cheeks was from allowing myself to be caught in his trap so easily, but the warmth I felt everywhere else—and I do mean everywhere—was a flashback I wasn’t expecting.

  Finley always had this effect on me, even if he was clueless to it, and today was no exception… on both accounts. So, I did what any respectable adult woman would do: I quickly stepped back inside the gallery and slammed the door, hiding out of Finley’s view.

  “Who are we hiding from?”

  Covering my mouth to stifle a scream, I whirl around to see an amused Cami standing so close I can’t believe I didn’t hear her, which makes my cheeks turn pink.

  Damn Finley and his saxophone, already wreaking havoc. Some things never change.

  “Sorry,” Cami says, holding her round belly while laughing at my expense. “I thought you heard me come in from the back.”

  Stepping away from the door, I try to play it off, but inwardly, my heart is still racing. “It’s fine… I thought I… uh, saw something.” Searching for a lie, I busy myself with a stack of papers—shuffling and tapping them on the desk.

  “Finley, perhaps?” Cami questions, lifting an eyebrow. “He’s out there a few days a week. I’ve been listening to him and his sax for a while now. Come to think of it, I’m really going to miss it when I take off to have the baby. Oh, you know what would be great?” she asks, but doesn’t give me time to get a word in. “A lullaby album. Can you even imagine? I wonder if he has anything recorded?”