Flashing a polite smile, a liveried doorman held the door for her. “Good evening, ma’am. The class reunion is in the Lafayette Ballroom.”
She entered the ballroom, stopping at the reception table and coming face-to-face with her high school nemesis. Julie Anderson lowered her eyes, and then handed her a Mardi Gras feather mask, colorful beads, and a badge attached to a lanyard. “You’re assigned to table five. You’ll be required to wear the mask during the ball. I’m so glad you could make it, Hannah.”
Hannah smiled, the gesture not reaching her eyes. “I’m glad I made it, too,” she drawled facetiously.
Julie had made it known she didn’t like her because she’d transferred from a private all-girls school to the public high school, believing snobby rich girls should stay in their place. Picking up her name tag, Hannah slipped the lanyard and beads around her neck.
Hannah had forgiven Julie for her adolescent behavior but doubted whether she would ever forget her cruel remarks. She didn’t have many close friends in high school; the exception were a few with whom she’d shared AP courses. They usually alternated studying at one another’s homes, and every other month they’d meet at a small restaurant in the French Quarter that had become a hangout for students from several nearby schools.
Her smile was still in place when she walked into the gaily decorated ballroom featuring a Mardi Gras theme. Their twentieth reunion had been held on a riverboat replete with gambling tables, dancehall girls, costumed lawmen, and piano players.
An ear-piercing shriek stopped Hannah midstride. Turning on her heel, she stared at one of her former classmates hanging onto St. John McNair’s neck. She shook her head in amazement. Time had been more than kind to St. John, with his handsome features in a tawny-brown complexion. Cropped silvered hair, a neatly barbered matching goatee and a tall, slender physique made him as strikingly gorgeous now as he’d been in his youth. Her eyes moved slowly over the tailored navy-blue blazer, buttoned-down white shirt, black and royal blue–striped tie, and sharply creased taupe slacks falling at the correct break over a pair of cognac-hued wingtips.
St. John, pronounced SIN-jun, like the character in Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre, had been voted best-dressed and best-looking boy in their graduating class because of his impeccable sense of style and uncanny resemblance to the late singer-songwriter Marvin Gaye. A number of girls admitted to having a crush on him, knowing he was off-limits. At the time he was dating and eventually married a girl who’d attended a parochial school in another parish.
* * *
St. John McNair forcibly removed the arms from around his neck. It was apparent Eileen Miller didn’t know her own strength. “It’s good seeing you again, Eileen.”
Eileen couldn’t stop blushing as she picked up a name badge from the stack on the table. “I’m sorry about attacking you, but I can’t believe it’s been twenty years since we last saw one another. Stan and I moved to Orlando after the last reunion and we only come back to New Orleans for family get-togethers,” she continued without taking a breath. She handed him his name badge and a mask. “By the way, you’re seated at table five.”
St. John took the badge, pinning it on his lapel. His gaze swept over the assembly in the ballroom. There had been two hundred fifty-seven students in his graduating class, and it appeared that many of them and their spouses were in attendance. Dozens of tables covered with white tablecloths were festooned with blue and black helium-filled balloons. Bartenders at opposite facing bars were doing a brisk business. The DJ was spinning popular tunes from their era, and the sound of Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” blared from powerful speakers positioned around the ballroom.
A slideshow of photos was displayed on several large screens set up around the room. A few he’d seen before, while many had been unearthed from the school’s archives depicting them as far back as freshmen, sophomores, and juniors. St. John groaned inwardly when seeing himself as a freshman with a mouth filled with metal. It’d taken two years before the braces were finally removed, resulting in a set of straight, white teeth.
He’d mentally debated whether to attend this reunion, but then changed his mind when recalling the number of his classmates who’d passed away. He believed they were gone much too soon, which made him more than aware of his own mortality, and he knew if he didn’t attend this gathering, he would have to wait another decade for the fiftieth.
Waiters, carrying trays of hors d’oeuvres and champagne, strolled around the ballroom. A waiter stopped in front of him and he took a flute of champagne and remoulade-covered shrimp skewered on a toothpick. He took a sip of the champagne, and then popped the shrimp into his mouth, finding both excellent. It was apparent the committee had listened to the feedback gleaned from the survey of their prior reunion. Their twentieth had been held on a luxurious riverboat; unfortunately, the food choices at the buffet dinner were never able to match the elegance of the venue.
St. John froze when inhaling the scent of a perfume he’d attributed to only one girl at their high school. “Hannah DuPont?” he whispered.
Turning slowly, he stared mutely at Hannah, unable to believe her transformation. Smoky eyeshadow illuminated large green eyes framed by long, charcoal-gray lashes that seemed to not to look at but go through him. Lushness had replaced the youthful waiflike appearance that had been so apparent when he last saw her twenty years before. Enthralled by her mature attractiveness, St. John couldn’t pull his gaze away the curves outlined in the body-hugging lace dress.
Vermilion colored lips parted in a sensual moue as Hannah extended her hand. “Either you’re a warlock, or you have eyes in the back of your head.”
Ignoring the proffered slender hand, he leaned in and kissed her scented cheek. “I knew it was you even before I turned around,” he said in her ear.
“How so?” she whispered against his smooth cheek.
“You were the only girl at school who wore that particular perfume.” Most girls had chosen Avon or drugstore fragrances, while Hannah preferred the iconic French perfume.
Easing back, she gave him a direct stare. The three-inch heels put her head close to his height of six foot, two inches. “You remembered my perfume?”
He nodded. “There are very few things I don’t remember.”
St. John wanted to say there were very few things he did not remember about the tall, willowy, natural blonde. He’d found her different from the other girls: It was her poise and sophistication that had set her apart. She hadn’t been one of the more popular female students, seemingly preferring to blend in rather than stand out. However, she’d excelled as an above average student, graduating in the top ten percent in their class.
They’d partnered in biology and chemistry labs and shared history and French classes. She didn’t go out with any of the boys at their school, making her a subject of gossip as to whether she preferred a same-sex relationship. The gossipers were silenced when she attended prom with a naval officer as her escort.
“Where’s Lorna?”
Her question shattered his reverie. “We’re no longer together.”
“Did she . . . is she—”
“She’s alive,” he interrupted. “We divorced five years ago.” The pronouncement was cold as his marriage had been.
Hannah’s eyelids fluttered. “I’m so sorry. Everyone knew how much you loved her.”
St. John didn’t want to talk about his failed marriage. He’d tried to make a go of it, but after three decades of living a lie in a childless union, he was relieved when it finally ended. They’d just celebrated their thirtieth wedding anniversary when Lorna suddenly announced she wanted out, and the instant he signed the divorce papers making it final, he realized both had wasted too many years in wedlock that had been doomed from the very beginning.
“I read about you losing your husband.” As soon as the words were out, St. John stared intently at Hannah as she pressed her lips together, wondering if she, too, had had a less than happy marriage.
> “Thankfully, it was quick.”
“How long do you plan to stay in New Orleans?” he asked, deftly changing the topic because their conversation was becoming much too personal.
She paused for several seconds. “I’m not sure. I’m not working this summer, so I know for certain I’ll be here until Labor Day.” Opening her beaded evening purse, Hannah took out her cell phone, handing it to him. “Why don’t you program your number and I’ll call to invite you to come out to DuPont House so we can catch up on what’s been going on in our lives. I’ll give you an update about my experience as big city corporate attorney while you can tell me about your students at Barden College.”
He took the phone, then reached inside his breast pocket and handed her his. “You do the same. I still have two more weeks at the college before I’m off for the summer, so once I’m free I will call you.” St. John entered his cell and home numbers into Hannah’s cell’s directory and then gave it back to her. He noticed she’d waved away the waiter with flutes of champagne. Cupping her elbow, he steered her toward the bar. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Yes, please. I’ll have white wine.”
“Don’t you dare give me any money,” St. John warned when she opened her purse again.
Hannah smiled. “Okay, but your drink is on me. It’s the least I can do for someone who tutored me in history.”
“That’s not happening, Hannah,” St. John countered. “I’m not paying for your drink just so you can reciprocate.” A beat passed, and then she nodded.
His aunt had accused him of being a throwback to another generation, because his mother had raised him with her own set of values. Elsie McNair lectured him constantly about using women, whether for sex or monetary gain. She insisted he stand whenever a woman entered or left a room, hold her chair until she was seated, and open doors for her. He’d grown up watching his father do these things for his mother and despite women declaring they were liberated, for St. John old habits were slow to die.
Resting a hand at the small of her back, he led Hannah to one of the two bars. The bartenders were, pouring, shaking and blending drinks for those calling out drink orders. Hannah moved closer to his side, his arm circling her slender waist. She was right about his tutoring her in a subject that had become his livelihood. He’d always loved geography and American history, selecting the latter as his college major; he taught high school and college-level courses, and now headed the history department at Barden College, a small, prestigious private college with a strong concentration in history, political science, and governmental studies.
The bartender gestured to St. John. “Dr. McNair, what can I get you and your lady?”
He and Hannah exchanged a look, his gaze shifting to the jeweled hairpins holding the platinum twist in place behind her left ear. It was apparent the bartender believed they were a couple. “I’ll have a Sazerac and my lady wants a white wine.”
Sazerac had become the official cocktail of New Orleans and this past year he’d grown quite fond of the concoction of rye whiskey, Peychaud’s bitters, and sugar served in a rock glass rinsed with absinthe.
“You know the bartender, Dr. McNair?” Hannah whispered.
“He’s one of my former students.”
“Why did he refer to me as your lady?”
“I suppose he just assumed you’re my lady.”
“He has to have a reason for assuming, St. John.”
“I’m usually not seen out and about with a beautiful woman on my arm.” Her lids slipped down over her eyes, and St. John found himself mesmerized by the demure gesture. This was the Hannah he remembered: shy and innocently bashful.
“You don’t date?” she asked, seemingly having recovered from his flattering remark.
Smiling, he angled his head. “No, I don’t date.” He was truthful when he said he didn’t see women in the traditional sense. Several times a month he spent the weekend with a forty-something Baton Rouge divorcée. She’d made it known the third time they went out together she didn’t want a relationship. What she wanted was sex without any emotional involvement. It had taken St. John a while to agree to her arrangement but he did because he enjoyed her easygoing personality.
Hannah appeared satisfied with his explanation that he didn’t date when she said, “You must run into a lot of your students whenever you’re out and about.”
St. John nodded. “I do. I know I’m getting a little long in the tooth whenever former students tell me their children are now high schoolers.”
“How long do you plan to teach?”
“I’ll probably put down my red pencil in another ten years. As chair of the history department, I teach two advanced courses.”
She froze. “When were you appointed? And why didn’t I read about it in the newsletter?”
He took the wineglass, handing it to Hannah. “That’s because I didn’t report it.” The bartender set his glass on the bar and St. John reached into the pocket of his slacks and left a bill on the bar. “Keep the change.” The bartender rang up the sale, dropping the remaining bills in the tip jar. Picking up his glass, he touched it to Hannah’s. “Here’s to a wonderful fortieth, and hopefully new beginnings.”
“To new beginnings,” she repeated, smiling at him over the rim of her wineglass. Their eyes met as she took a sip.
St. John’s free hand rested at her waist as they headed for their table. They were greeted by former classmates who’d also come unaccompanied. Hugs, handshakes, and rough embraces were exchanged as everyone began talking at once.
* * *
Matt Johnston tossed back his drink and set it on the table without taking his eyes off Hannah. His staring made her feel uncomfortable. Matt had set the school record for more quarterback sacks in a single season, which still remained unbroken. Homecoming king and nicknamed the Red Dragon because of his long, bright red-orange hair, Matt had been an outstanding athlete.
A lopsided grin tugged at his slack mouth. “For an ice princess you sure turned into one fine-ass woman, Hannah DuPont,” he drawled, reaching out and gripping her shoulders.
Hannah forced a smile she didn’t feel. His fingers tightened, biting into her flesh as he attempted to kiss her, she turning her face at the last possible moment. “You’re hurting me, Matt. Please let me go.”
“You heard her,” St. John said, as Matt continued to hold onto Hannah. “Take your hands off her.”
Matt dropped his hands and looked at St. John. “I’m sorry, man. I didn’t know Hannah was your woman,” he shouted loudly enough to garner the attention of those at nearby tables.
Hannah wanted to tell everyone St. John wasn’t her man nor she his woman, although she was more than grateful he’d intervened. She handed him her wineglass. “I’m going to the ladies’ room.”
She felt sorry for Matt, who’d been a local hero, first-round draft pick by the New Orleans Saints, and a role model for young boys looking for a career as a professional athlete. Unfortunately, a high-profile sex scandal and an addiction to drugs and alcohol brought his professional career to an abrupt halt before he’d celebrated his thirtieth birthday.
Hannah remembered that when she’d greeted Matt in the hall during a change of classes or at the restaurant that had become a hangout for students, and not once had he ever smiled, spoke, or acknowledged her with a cursory glance. The flashy defensive end garnered more than his share of female attention, bragging incessantly about his sexual conquests, while rumors were swirling that he’d slept with every girl on the cheerleading team. Even if Matt had come on to her, Hannah would have rejected him, because she was dating a navy midshipman.
She was sixteen when she met Robert for the first time. Their fathers had been college frat brothers, and when the DuPonts and Lowells attended the same fund-raiser, Hannah basked in the attention of the handsome midshipman who’d appeared as taken with her as she was with him. Whenever possible they were inseparable, which pleased her mother, because for Clarissa an alliance w
ith the Lowells was akin to marrying European royalty. Her mother got her wish when a month following Robert’s graduation he presented Hannah with his grandmother’s engagement ring.
Pushing open the restroom door, Hannah came face-to-face with a woman she hadn’t seen since their high school commencement. Hannah and Daphne Bouie fell into each other’s arms, giggling like young schoolgirls.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” she said to the career army officer. Daphne earned the distinction of joining the second class to accept women at the U.S. Military Academy at West Point, and over the years rose to the rank of a two-star general.
Daphne’s teeth shone whitely in a flawless mahogany-brown complexion. “Once the army pulls you in, they don’t let you go.”
Hannah stared at the woman who’d been the first to befriend her when she transferred from McGehee to Jackson Memorial. Daphne was one of six children in her family. Her father was a pastor at a small church and her mother was a caterer. Whenever she visited the Bouie home, Hannah found herself in the kitchen watching Mrs. Bouie prepare meals, which she invariably attempted to duplicate. Although palatable, they never matched or exceeded Daphne’s mother’s scrumptious dishes. Then one day Mrs. Bouie handed her an envelope with the proviso she never tell anyone about its contents.
Nearly overcome with curiosity, Hannah rushed home, locked herself in her bedroom, and opened the envelope to find recipes for Daphne’s mother’s prize-winning jambalaya, red beans and rice, and seafood gumbo. Even after more than forty years, she had never told anyone about the recipes for traditional New Orleans dishes that had been passed down through several generations of Bouie women.
The Inheritance Page 4
