The Inheritance

by Rochelle Alers

  “I thought you would’ve had enough of the military after all these years,” she teased.

  Daphne ran a hand over her short graying twists. “It’s in the blood, Hannah. Even though I’m now a civilian, I’m still addicted to all things military and that’s why I recently accepted a position at the Pentagon. You should know what I’m talking about because you married a lifer.”

  “You’re right,” Hannah confirmed. “Robert claimed he had sea water instead of blood running through his veins. It was Robert who loved it, while I was quite content to live a normal life without moving from base to base. Not to change the subject, but how are your folks?”

  “Mama finally hung up her apron, and my daddy has been diagnosed with dementia.”

  “How often do you get to see them?”

  “Not too often,” Daphne admitted. “Most in my family don’t approve of my gay lifestyle. I had a real dustup with my holier-than-thou brother when he said I was going to burn in hell for fornicating with a woman. That’s when I had to remind him that real men don’t go around making babies with different women, and then not take care of them.”

  Unconsciously, Hannah’s brow furrowed. “Deliver us from judgmental hypocrites.”

  Daphne lowered her eyes, staring at the toes of her low-heeled pumps. “That’s one of reasons I decided to retire from active duty after thirty-five years. I got tired of people looking at me sideways because they never saw me with a man. The other is I’d met someone before the ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ rule came into effect. We now share a house in Georgetown with two spoiled Jack Russell terriers.” She waved her hand. “Enough talk about me. Please answer one question for me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “When did you hook up with St. John? My sister told me he was the talk of the town once the news got out that he and his wife split up. She said it was hilarious when women started buzzing around him like flies on a meat skin.”

  Hannah schooled her expression not to reveal what she was feeling at that moment. It was annoyance. Just because people witnessed St. John’s arm around her waist, they believed them a couple. “St. John and I are friends.”

  Daphne gave her an incredulous stare. “If you say so,” she countered with a sly grin. She hugged Hannah again. “I better get back to my table before my partner sends out a search party for me.”

  “I’m going to be here for the summer, so I’ll have time to stop in and see your mother.”

  “I’m certain she’d love that.”

  Moments after Daphne left, Hannah dusted her face with a small, silver-plated retractable brush filled with loose powder matching her skin tone and reapplied her lipstick. She’d just completed touching up her makeup when the door opened and several women filed in.

  “Nice dress, Hannah,” Casey Reynolds crooned flippantly without breaking stride.

  Hannah flashed a facetious smile. “Thank you, Casey.”

  They swept past her and went into stalls. Back in the day, they had collectively sought to establish the trend for what they deemed fashionable for girls. One month it would be a headband, and then another it would either be shoes, scarves, or even makeup.

  Hannah had grown up with her paternal grandmother preaching that DuPont women were leaders, not followers—something she’d come to believe and practice. She returned to the ballroom, sitting in the chair St. John had pulled out for her. She felt the buildup of heat in her face when he lingered over her longer than necessary. The warmth of his body, the sensual scent of his cologne, and the light touch of his hands resting on her shoulders stirred something within her she hadn’t felt in years: passion.

  Peering up over her shoulder, she gave him an open smile. Daphne’s accusation that she and St. John were somehow romantically connected forced her to think maybe others saw what she couldn’t see or didn’t want to acknowledge.

  Did she want more from St. John than just friendship? What was there about him that reminded her she was a woman who’d denied her femininity for more years than she could remember?

  Her right hand covered his resting on her shoulder; she enjoyed the warmth of his fingers against her skin under the lacy fabric. She lowered her eyes seconds after he returned her smile. Hannah stared at the tablecloth, not seeing the seemingly hypnotized stares of those at the table watching the silent interplay between her and St. John.

  Something clicked in her mind. She’d come back to New Orleans for the reunion and to map out her future, and nowhere in her plans did it include her becoming involved with a man. Not even one as seemingly perfect as St. John McNair. He definitely was a trifecta: looks, brains, and an innate sensual charm that had her seeing him in a whole new light. If she had a list of criteria for a man with whom she’d want a relationship, then her former classmate would pass with flying colors.

  Hannah chided herself for even thinking along those lines. She’d been celibate for ten years and widowed for eight. Perhaps she was getting ahead of herself. She had no way of knowing if she was even St. John’s type.

  Reaching for her glass, she took a sip of wine, willing her mind blank. She’d come to the reunion to reconnect with former classmates and have fun. And it had been a very long time since she’d experienced anything that resembled fun. Hell’s bells, Hannah thought. She was fast approaching sixty and if she didn’t have fun now, then she doubted if she ever would.

  She went completely still when St. John sat next to her, his shoulder pressing against hers. They shared another smile, this one more intimate than the other; a vaguely sensuous light passed between them, while everything within her seemed to be pregnant with waiting for something so foreign it was frightening. Somehow she managed to glance away and the spell was broken, offering a respite from a physical longing she’d never experienced in her life. Not even with her late husband.

  Chapter 5

  The hotel chef had prepared a gastronomical feast beginning with gumbos, bisques, and soups flavored with spices that tantalized the most discerning palate. Entrées included crawfish and shrimp and etouffée, pannéed pork chops with fennel Creole sauce, and strip sirloin steak Bordelaise, along with the ubiquitous side dishes of red beans and rice, dirty rice, and broiled asparagus parmigiana. Dinner ended with desserts ranging from pumpkin and pecan bread pudding, bourbon whiskey sauce bread pudding, crème caramel and crème brûlée with chicory-laced coffee.

  Everyone, including Hannah, was more than ready to dance off the calories they’d consumed over the past two hours as the wait staff cleared away the remnants of dinner.

  She slipped on her mask. The Bee Gees singing “Jive Talking” boomed from speakers in the adjoining ballroom as hotel staff pushed back the partition dividing the two rooms.

  “Do you intend to dance?” Hannah asked St. John when he hadn’t put on his mask.

  He shook his head. “Not tonight.” He extended his hand. “But I will hold your purse.” A smile flitted across his handsome features. “Go and enjoy yourself. I’ll be right here when you come back.”

  She handed him the tiny bag, hiding her disappointment behind her mask. “Thank you.” She’d hoped to share at least one dance with him.

  Hannah did not lack for dancing partners as she found herself caught up in the frivolity, losing track of time, and the number of line dances she recalled and a few she learned for the first time.

  There came a lull when the DJ’s voice came through the powerful speakers. “I’m going to slow it down a bit because I got a few requests for an album which has stood the test of time. Ladies and gentlemen, here’s Fleetwood Mac’s “Rumours.”

  Hannah sang along with the assembly, recalling all the lyrics from the 1977 Grammy Award winner for album of the year. Classic tunes recorded by the Rolling Stones, Donna Summer, the Commodores, and Queen continued nonstop. A slight aching in her knees and tightness in her calves reminded Hannah that dancing in stilettos hadn’t been the wisest choice. Some women had shed their heels, preferring to dance barefoot.

&n
bsp; Knowing when enough was enough, she took off her mask. She found St. John where she’d left him, sitting at their assigned table talking with a group of men. Five pairs of eyes were trained on her when he stood with her approach.

  “I’m leaving now,” she said in a quiet voice.

  Reaching for her hand, St. John threaded their fingers. “You owe me one dance.”

  A slight frown creased her forehead. “For what?” she asked.

  “For minding your purse,” St. John explained, patting his jacket pocket for emphasis.

  Hannah wanted to tell him that she’d had enough dancing for one night, but he took her silence for acquiescence, leading her back into the other ballroom. The upbeat music had segued to romantic ballads.

  He turned to face her, bringing them inches apart. “May I have this dance, Miss DuPont?” he whispered in her ear.

  Hannah held her breath. St. John was close, too close. She was forced to exhale when struggling to breathe. “Yes.” The single word was barely a whisper.

  She saw the amused gleam in his eyes as his right arm went around her waist. His left hand closed over her right at the same time her left hand rested on his shoulder. She felt the whisper of his breath when he pressed his mouth to her hair, a shudder of awareness eddying through her, which she was certain he felt when his breathing deepened. What was it about him that had her trembling like a virgin about to embark on her first sexual encounter?

  They’d become one, her body fitting perfectly into the contours of St. John’s like puzzle pieces. She turned her head, so caught up in her own emotions that she hadn’t realized her mouth was only inches from his. Hannah attempted to read his impassive expression, but nothing in his features indicated anything more than indifference.

  “Weekend in New England” by Barry Manilow ended, and she attempted to extricate herself from St. John’s embrace. She didn’t trust herself to remain in his arms, for she was unable to disguise her body’s reaction when dancing with a man who aroused a passion she refused to acknowledge.

  “Thank you, St. John. Good night.”

  Reaching into his jacket pocket, St. John handed her the tiny purse. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  She flashed a sexy moue. “I don’t think that’s necessary. I don’t believe I’ll get lost between here and the parking lot.”

  “I’ll still walk you,” he insisted, taking her hand and escorting her out the ballroom.

  Hannah ignored the stares as she and St. John strolled across the hotel lobby. She’d gotten over Daphne’s remark about them hooking up together, and those seeing them leave would probably add to the speculation that she and St. John were sleeping together. She had matured enough to accept that people were going to think whatever they wanted and any protest would probably prove futile.

  The night had been one of enlightenment for her. It was as if she’d suddenly come into her own. She was a middle-aged, independent, unencumbered woman in control of her life and her future. She didn’t have a husband, dependent children, debt, nor an employer to which she had to answer. How many people, she thought, were that fortunate? And reuniting with St. John and her unexpected response to him was a reminder that she was a woman—one who’d denied her femininity for far too long.

  St. John waited with her in the warm, humid night as the valet brought her car around. He slipped the valet a bill, and then held the door open to the sedan as she slid in behind the wheel.

  His eyebrows lifted questioningly as he closed the door. “Have you ever considered selling the judge’s car?”

  After he’d won the election to sit on the bench in the criminal court, those who knew Lester DuPont simply referred to him as “the judge.” “No. Daddy would turn over in his grave if someone other than a DuPont owned his chariot. But I don’t think he’d mind if someone other than a DuPont drove it.”

  Angling his head, St. John leaned down, smiling at her through the open window. “Is that a hint or a tease?”

  Hannah stared at the attractive lines fanning out around St. John’s eyes. The color of his eyes always reminded her of cognac. “It’s definitely a hint. When we get together I’ll let you drive it.”

  Hunkering lower, he kissed her hair. “I’m looking forward to it. Now get home safely.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled. “You get home safely, too.”

  St. John winked at her. “Thank you.”

  She drove away from the hotel, taking furtive glances in the rearview mirror until St. John’s image faded when she turned a corner and headed in the direction of the Garden District. Hannah noted the time and temperature on a lighted sign outside a local bank. It was exactly twelve midnight and seventy-six degrees. If she’d been Cinderella, then the Mercedes would have turned into a pumpkin, her dress would be nothing more than rags, and the glass slipper would have also disappeared.

  She wiggled her toes in the stilettos, knowing if she removed her shoes she would be forced to walk barefoot from the garage into the house. Never had she danced so much, not even at prom or her wedding reception. A sad smile settled into her features when she remembered the good times she’d shared with Robert. He’d become her knight in shining armor, rescuing her from an overbearing, critical mother who couldn’t be appeased or satisfied despite a lifestyle that had given her everything she’d always wanted.

  Hannah had promised herself as a young girl that she wouldn’t grow up into a replica of her mother, who’d found fault and complained about everyone. The exception had been Robert Lowell, and Hannah knew it had everything to do with his family lineage and his role as a midshipman at the United States Naval Academy. Impressed with all things military, Clarissa’s great-grandfather several generations removed had attended the U.S. Military Academy at West Point, graduating in the same class as Robert E. Lee. Like Lee, Clarissa’s great-grandfather had also joined the Confederate Army during the Civil War with the rank of major general.

  Clarissa was happiest when in the presence of the Lowells, and when it came time for her to host a gathering at DuPont House, she planned it with the meticulousness of a White House state dinner. Hannah was impressed with Robert when first meeting him. She’d just celebrated her sixteenth birthday, and he was a first-year midshipman at the academy. She’d laughed at him when he recited the academy’s Honor Concept with the seriousness of someone delivering a eulogy. Much to her surprise he also laughed, remarking he’d memorized the concept when he still hadn’t memorized his Social Security number.

  The more they saw each other, the more she liked him, because with Robert she could be herself and not someone Clarissa wanted her to be. He was her first serious boyfriend and with time had become her first and only lover. During her marriage she’d fantasized how it would be to make love with another man but she had never acted on it. Not even after she’d discovered her husband’s infidelity. And it wasn’t for the first time that she chided herself for not being more like LeAnn and Paige, who had openly admitted they’d had a number of lovers.

  Hannah shook her head as if to banish all notions of sleeping with a man. Not when she was about to embark on a project that was certain to leave her with little or no time for an affair or a relationship. The ideas tumbled over themselves in her mind as she mentally outlined what she had to do convert DuPont House from a private residence to an inn. All of the upstairs bedrooms would have to be fitted for card-keys instead of door locks. The parlor would become the front desk for guests checking in or out. The space that had been designated a ballroom would serve as a gathering place for guests to enjoy evening cordials, confections, and sweets.

  Inasmuch as Hannah wanted to be like her unconventional, somewhat rebellious first cousins, she realized she was more of a traditionalist like her parents rather than a baby boomer. She didn’t mind change, but not at the expense of throwing away or ignoring what had come before it. Even with the advent of email and social media, which made it so convenient to connect and interact within nanoseconds, she still liked penning Christma
s cards and thank-you notes.

  A feeling of calm washed over her as she drove slowly along streets she could navigate as if on remote control. She’d returned to New Orleans last Christmas, and every time she left to go back to New York, Hannah felt as if she’d left piece of herself in her place of birth. She experienced an indescribable longing that had her wondering why she continued to live in a city where she felt she never really belonged. Although she had grown fond of her adopted city, it wasn’t enough for her to want to spend the rest of her life there.

  She accelerated onto St. Charles Avenue toward the Garden District, bounded by Carondelet, Magazine, Josephine, and Delachaise Streets, and located in a National Historic Landmark District. Her familial home sat in a neighborhood with one of the best-preserved collections of historic mansions in the South. Despite experiencing some wind damage from Hurricane Katrina, the property had escaped extensive flooding because the area was on higher ground.

  Hannah drove past the Louise S. McGehee School, the private all-girls’ school that she’d attended from kindergarten through junior high. Within months of going into the eighth grade she told her parents she wanted to attend a public high school. It was the first time she challenged her mother, and in the end it was her father who eventually overruled Clarissa. No one was more shocked than Hannah. Lester had allowed his wife to run the household and make decisions, while his focus was law and playing golf at the private, member-owned Metairie Country Club.

  Hannah had no way of knowing that she would be faced with resentment rather than acceptance at Jackson Memorial High—especially from the girls. Some insulted her to her face with acerbic remarks that her kind wasn’t wanted and that she should stay with the other snobby rich bitches at McGehee. Hannah sat alone during lunch for two months until Daphne asked if she could share the table. The single incident broke the ice because Daphne was not only one of the more popular girls at Jackson, but also one of the brightest.