by Aidèe Jaimes
He adores his children. Our kids are the main topic of conversation. I now know that Sammy loves chocolate chip mint ice cream, just like he does, and she twirls her hair with her fingers when she puts herself to bed. His son, JB, is great at all things sport, and aspires to be a commentator on ESPN.
I on the other hand brag about how Mia knows her ABC’s and can write her name. She’s not vocally gifted when it comes to song, but she has an ear for music and I’ve even started her on piano lessons just to get her used to the sounds and notes.
We agree that Bo will come to my hotel and wait downstairs while I check in, then we will both walk to his place so that I can finally get a look at the apartments above Pirate’s Alley.
Maison Bordeaux is a very small, very cute, and very old guesthouse. The only indication that the white building is anything more than just someone’s residence, is the writing above the arched doorway that reads, Bordeaux Inn.
I’d seen it the last time Owen and I had been to the Quarter. Having stayed once at the Olivier House, I absolutely loved the experience of staying in an old mansion. I wanted to do it again, so I looked up old guesthouses online and recognized the place.
We walk in through a double door entrance, into a long wide hallway with black and white marble floor and high ceiling that leads to a lush courtyard. There are rooms to the left and right of the hall that I peek in as we walk past looking for an attendant.
To the left is the dining room, with a long glossy cherry table that could easily seat twenty. To the right is a seating room filled with antique chairs and velvet covered camelback loveseats and an old baby grand by the front window.
We move further down past a bathroom and the kitchen. In a room at the very end and to the right we spot an older woman sitting behind a massive wooden desk. She peeks up over small round glasses and smiles.
“You must be Mrs. Roberts,” she greets, standing and coming around to us. “And is this, Mr. Roberts?”
“Oh, no. Um, he’s just helping me with my luggage,” I lie. I can feel Bo beside me snickering.
“Very well, I was expectin’ you. You’re our last guest of the day. Welcome to Maison Bordeaux. My name is Wendy. I live here full time, and will do my very best to make your stay comfortable. If you’ll follow me.” Her accent is very thick, with her R’s almost nonexistent.
“I’ll wait here,” Bo says and sits on one of the long benches that line the Foyer.
I follow Wendy out the back doors and through the courtyard, up a set of stairs to my room on the second floor. On our way there, she gives me a quick history lesson on the house.
“My great-great-great grandfather, or is it great-great, I can never remember. Theo Bordeaux, was one of the first men of color to own property here. He bought this here place for his family. It never left our hands until sometime in the 1970s when my parents hit hard times and they lost the house. It then became a house of ill repute if you know what I mean.”
Oh goodness, the house really had been a brothel! If Bo were here to hear this!
“Well, I was born here, you see. I couldn’t let this happen. So, my husband and I saved our money and we came and bought the place. Had to kick the lot of them out!” she laughed. “Well, we cleaned it up and moved in, but we quickly found how expensive it is to keep a house of this size and age. So, right as we’re thinking of filin’ for bankruptcy, I think, let’s open it up for guests. And the rest is history.”
“Wow. I love old places. I’m so glad you were able to buy it back. Were you able to keep any of your grandfather’s, or great-great-great, grandfather’s original belongings?”
“Sadly not. But you know, I have these walls. That’s good enough for me!”
She opens a room and leaves me to explore on my own. I don’t spend too much time there because Bo is waiting downstairs and I’m anxious to get back to him. I drag my bags in and put them on the floor in front of the bed, then do a quick peek out the French doors that lead to a tiny white iron balcony.
The room is facing Conti Street, and I can easily see Bourbon Street as well. As a matter of fact, I can hear it even with the doors closed. What can you do? It’s the price you pay for staying in the French Quarter near its busiest street.
I use the bathroom and glance at my reflection in the mirror. Not too bad. After quickly brushing my teeth I race back down.
We make our way down Royal Street, heading towards Pirate’s Alley, walking side by side, not saying much. Then Bo looks at me and takes me by the hand, leading the way.
The heat of his skin on mine, his hand so large completely dwarfing mine, warms my entire being. It feels so comfortable, my hand fitting his perfectly. Like it belongs. I close my eyes to savor the feeling of it, and I instantly trip on the uneven sidewalk.
Bo catches me easily.
“You know better than to close your eyes in the Quarter, chère,” he says with amusement. I swear his accent is getting thicker by the minute.
We walk just a little further to a three-story building, freshly painted brick gleaming white.
“Here we are,” Bo says pulling out a small sheet of paper, I assume confirming the address. “Gotta go up to the third floor.”
I follow him up two flights of stairs. Bo searches through the outer pockets of his luggage, pulls out the key and lets us in.
At first I stand by the door feeling strange walking into someone else’s home, intruding on their privacy.
“Well come in, chère, I won’t bite. Not yet at least,” he jokes and I shake my head laughing. But I have to admit the thought of him biting me turns me on beyond belief. I glance at him. Is he going to bite me? Here? Now? Dear lord I feel a little gross from the travel, but if it comes down to it I will let him. He’s looking away, exploring the space himself, so I guess not.
I clear my throat and swallow down the heat, allowing myself to walk in and look around, the wide wooden planks gently squeaking beneath my feet.
“This place is amazing!”
“Yeah, it’s okay. Pretty old. I think Lionel said they used to be much larger apartments, but they were divided up. You can tell, see there where the molding doesn’t quite match?” He points up at a corner in the ceiling. “I bet that wall wasn’t originally there. The floor’s beautiful though, he refinished them himself,” he says kneeling down and running his fingers over the old grooves.
I remember his mom saying he got into the flooring business after he’d installed repurposed old wood planks from a boat for his house and loved the process so much. I can see that he really appreciates it. I watch him as his hands explore the wood in a sort of hypnotized state, imagining those hands doing the same to my skin.
“Beautiful,” I say referring to him. “Do you like old things?” I ask.
“I like old wood. The way I can change it, make it new again, giving it new life. But it still always keeps its integrity. The smell, the veins, everything that makes it unique. That doesn’t change.”
“Mmm. That’s how I feel about old buildings. I love the way they smell and feel.” I close my eyes, desperately trying to feel the past in the atmosphere. I’ve always done that in New Orleans. I swear you can feel it’s history on your skin, it’s ghosts.
The tiny one bedroom is clean and tidy. Uncluttered. The kitchen is simple, dated perhaps, with white appliances and laminate countertops. The furniture is mostly mission style, straight lines. There is a reddish-brown leather couch and loveseat in front of an old bricked off fireplace, both with wool plaid throws that make me itch just looking at them.
Behind the couch there is a long table with a large glass lamp and several pictures I stop to look at. I notice the same man in almost every photograph.
“Lionel?” I ask pointing to one of the frames.
“Yeah.” Bo walks over. “That’s him with his parents, him with his brother and sister. That’s actually a group of us on a trip to Costa Rica two years ago.”
I squint and see Bo in the background, so tan he was
almost unrecognizable.
“And that one is him and his new husband, Charles,” he says.
The question is out before I can stop it. “Are you bi?”
“I’ve never met a man I’m attracted to if that answers your question,” he replies easily, completely unfazed.
“I guess I’m asking if Lionel is an ex of yours.”
“No,” he laughs. “I met him years ago on a fishing trip to Virginia. We hit it off and became really good buddies. He’s been up to NC a few times and we’ve gone fishing, but this is actually my first time here.”
“Okay,” I smile. “It would be weird if you were staying at an ex’s house when you’re here to see me.”
“Yeah, I’m sure Charles wouldn’t be too excited about that either. Come on,” he says taking my hand once again and leading me out. “Let’s go get some food.”
I look back longingly at the little apartment, not sure if it’s the desire to live in a place like this one day, or that I wish we’d be making use of it right now.
“I love this place,” I say, dreamily looking at the buildings around us, with their iron balconies and plants and flowers of all colors cascading over the railings. We are sitting at a bar of a little café nestled in Pirate’s Alley. “It was a dream of mine to live here. Maybe somewhere like your friend’s apartment. I loved it!”
Bo frowns and looks towards the apartments above. “Really? Looked haunted to me.”
I look up, too. “You think? I think it just looks old. Haunted by memories perhaps. The stories these buildings would tell if they could talk.”
“Oh they’re haunted, all right.” The bartender, a beautiful blonde woman, places a vodka tonic in front of Bo and a Bay Breeze in front of me. “I know it for a fact. I love these by the way,” she nods to my drink.
“How’s that you know for a fact it’s haunted?” Bo asks.
“I live up there. That place right there,” she points up to a window at the building across from us. “But spook or no spook, I agree with you, there’s no place like New Orleans!”
“Well looks like you’re right below my buddy’s place,” Bo says.
“Are you staying at Lionel’s?”
“For a night.”
“Okay, yeah. He said someone would be staying there. Okay, well, I hope the chain rattling doesn’t keep you up all night!” she teases, pushing off the bar.
“Selena Dean!” someone to my right hollers and the bartender hoots back and leaves us to greet someone.
I turn to a slightly pale Bo. “So you’re only staying here tonight?” I ask.
“Um... my cousin Nate has a big thing tomorrow. Gonna go have some gator. My plan was to head up there first thing.”
“Oh.” I know I’d said only one night, but I don’t really like hearing that he is already planning to move on from it first thing tomorrow morning, like tonight never happened. “Is he having a big thing because you’re in town or because he’s got a gator?”
“He’s havin’ a big thing cause it’s a Saturday,” he says winking. “The gator was just a bonus. Yeah, every Saturday all the neighbors come over and cook and play music. They have a sort of makeshift band, I guess you can call it.”
“Sounds nice. Where is it?”
“He lives down about two hours from here, in Bayou Teche.”
“Oh yeah, I remember your mom telling me about family there. Did you spend a lot of time in the swamps?”
“Well, probably too much,” he chuckles. “All my summers growin’ up. Then as a teenager, me and Old Nate got into lots of trouble out there.”
“You, trouble? I don’t believe it,” I laugh.
“Well believe it. I’d run away every chance I got. Poor Momma had to drive out there, she hates the Bayou by the way. Hated the bugs, the swamp, the gators, the roads. It was too wild for her taste. Everything that I loved about it.”
“How old were you?”
“Ten, eleven. That phase lasted a few years unfortunately.”
I nearly choke on my drink. “Ten! How does a ten-year-old get there? I mean, it’s not like you could have taken a bike!”
“Bus, hitchhike. Luckily my uncle was always happy to have me there. There were long stretches of time where Momma’d just let me stay there, I think it wore her out to drag me back once a week.”
“So why’d you do it? Weren’t you happy at home?”
“I was. But then my dad died when I was eight and my mom was left with all the bills and no income. She had to take on two jobs. Even then it wasn’t so bad because she was all mine when she was home. Then she met Dan. Had Brynn. I felt like they took away what little I had.
“Dan tried desperately to be there for me, but I wouldn’t let him. So, I ran, maybe some of it was to ease my own ache, but probably a good bit to cause my momma pain. Not something I am proud of.”
“What turned it around? I mean, I can see you get along with Dan and you and your mom adore each other.”
“Like I said, it took a while. I was eighteen, livin’ in LaFayette. Me and Old Nate had taken a job with an oil company out there. They were starting us at thirty thousand a year with large bonuses. We thought we were gonna be rich. Then the minute we’re hired, we’re fired because they had budget cuts. We’d already spent all the money we thought we’d be makin’. So, Nate calls my uncle, who comes and gets him. But he turns to me, and says, ‘I came to get Nate cause it’s my fault he’s turned into an ass and it’s time I set him on the right path. You call your momma.’”
“What did she say when you called her?”
“I never called her, called Dan instead. He came and picked me up, then drove me straight to Jacksonville to join the Marines. I didn’t even question it. He’d tried talking to me about it before I just never listened. It was time for me to listen. Momma wasn’t too happy I tell you. She let him have it. But it was the best thing he knew to do for me.”
“How did that go? I mean, the military.”
“Well, they broke my sorry ass down and made me worth somethin’.”
“And your relationship with Dan now?”
Bo thinks before answering, taking a swig of his vodka tonic and setting it down before he speaks. “I loved my daddy. He was a good man who loved his family. He didn’t leave us by choice. But he did leave us. It took me some time to realize that even though my dad died, because of Dan I still have a father.”
I wanted to question him more about his father. How did he die? How old was he? What did he do? What kind of man was he?
But I remained quiet because I could hear the strain in his voice when he spoke, and the red that crept into his eyes as he kept tears at bay.
So instead I lift my glass to him, and say, “To your dad and your father, then. And the man they both helped you become.”
He smiles and clinks my glass, and we both down the contents. Of course, it takes me a few minutes, but I get it done.
“Where to now my friend? A tour of the Quarter?” I ask.
“You tell me, my lady. I’m all yours for the day.”
“So, Cristiana. That’s different, very beautiful,” Bo says. I smile at the compliment.
“Thanks. It’s actually Maria. Well, Maria Cristiana. Very Mexican. They called me Mari until I was about five years old. That’s when I put my small foot down and decided I wanted to be addressed by my middle name.”
“Maria is pretty, too. Mari,” he tries it out but can’t quite get the soft “r” and I giggle at his effort.
“It is, but it’s not unique. I mean, I am proud of my name and its tradition in my family. My great grandmother, my grandmother and my mother all were named Maria. Not to mention five of my cousins. I like it, it’s beautiful. Believe it or not I named my daughter that. Maria Miaella.” I giggle at the thought of it. I wanted to keep tradition. Maria for my mother, Miaella for Owen’s. “Anyway, I like Cristiana more. I haven’t met anyone with that name.”
“I haven’t either. Cristiana,” he says again. I love the
ways he says it, with a hint of a drawl.
“So Bo. That’s a beautiful name, too. Is it Beauregard?” I ask thinking of the old name.
“Well, actually it was supposed to be Beumont, dear lord my mother. But you know in those times, no one knew anything about drinkin’ and pregnancy. She’d gone out with her friends that night to celebrate before she couldn’t anymore because she’d have a baby then. So, they’d really gotten ripped when her water broke. I came so fast she didn’t have time to sober up, says it was probably because she was so relaxed I just popped out. When the nurse asked her what my name was, she couldn’t remember anything beyond Bo. My dad had no idea I’d been born until the next morning so he had no say. That is how I was named.”
Oh my! I can absolutely picture Mrs. Jensen having Bo and trying to remember his name. Too funny!
We’ve been walking around the Quarter for a couple of hours. Bo insisted I be the one to guide him, instead of the other way around. It’s a challenge to be the one to show a local around, though Bo swears he’s never been to half the places I’ve taken him.
We walk through the 1850 apartment and Muriel’s in Jackson Square, and while we are in the vicinity we light a prayer candle at the St. Louis Cathedral. Then we tour the Hermann-Grima House and Madame John’s and stop to quench our thirst at Lafitte’s bar.
“So have you been here?” I ask between sips of water. He’d raised a brow at my lack of alcoholic beverage, but there is no way I am going to end up with a hangover.
“I don’t remember, maybe. I was a drunk the few times I came to the Quarter,” he says with a grin.
“Weren’t you raised around here?” I ask a little confused.
“Metairie. Sort of. I told you I spent most of my time in Teche. I didn’t actually spend any time in the Quarter as a kid. My mom avoided it. Said there were too many unsavory types around. Guess at that time they did have issues keeping the vice under control. It wasn’t until I was a teenager and then Old Nate and I started sneaking out here. As you can imagine we were up to no good.”
