“This is Hannah.”
* * *
St. John smiled. “And this is St. John,” he teased.
“How are you?”
“Wonderful.” St. John hadn’t lied to her. It was his last day of work for the next three months and he’d committed to joining several of his former classmates for an upcoming poker game. “How are you?” he asked, repeating her query.
“I’m good now that I’ve recovered from the masquerade ball. The pain in my legs and knees was a constant reminder that I’m too old to go clubbing.”
Swiveling in the chair, he stared out the window at the campus’s professionally manicured lawn. He hadn’t danced with any of the unescorted women, but the highlight of the night was when he and Hannah danced to Barry Manilow’s “Weekend in New England.” Her height made her the perfect dance partner.
“That’s probably because you don’t dance enough.”
“And you do?” Hannah asked.
“Probably more than you,” he said cryptically.
“I assume this call means you’re off for the summer?”
St. John noticed she hadn’t replied to his comment about dancing. “You assume correctly.”
“When do you want to come over?” she asked.
“Would you mind if we put that off for another time?”
“No. Why?”
“I’d like to take you to dinner, and if you’re not ready to go home, then we can go to a little out-of-the way club to listen to jazz.”
“That sounds nice,” Hannah said after a noticeable pause.
His eyebrows lifted questioningly. “Is that a yes or a no, Hannah?”
“It’s a yes.”
“Do you have a favorite restaurant?”
She paused again. “Surprise me.”
A smile lifted the corners of St. John’s mouth. He liked a woman willing to be spontaneous. “Okay, I will. How does this weekend look?”
“I don’t have anything scheduled.”
“Good. Then I’ll pick you up Friday around seven.”
“I’ll be here.”
St. John rang off and continued to stare out the window. He didn’t think of sharing dinner with Hannah as a date but rather as former classmates reminiscing about old times.
* * *
Hannah gripped the cell phone long after St. John ended the call. The book which she’d read many times over the years lay open on her lap. He’d promised to call her and now that he had, the unwelcomed feelings of uneasiness were back. She still hadn’t identified why she was drawn to him when he hadn’t said or done anything to indicate he was remotely interested in her other than because they were former classmates.
Maybe, she mused, she’d been without male companionship for much too long. She’d mentally divorced Robert once he revealed his infidelity, and even after he died she still kept all men at a distance, and the two men she’d dated while employed at the law firm quickly lost interest in her.
Hannah had labeled herself emotionless because something in her brain hadn’t allowed her to feel passion—until now. The night before she’d had an erotic dream wherein multiple climaxes left her trembling and burying her face in her pillow to keep from screaming from the passionate aftermath. When fully awake, Hannah realized the man in her dream making exquisite love to her was St. John McNair.
Questions had bombarded her as she lay staring up at the sheer material draping the bed, trying to sort out why St. John had been the lover in her dream when she never thought of him in that way. She’d voted for him as best-looking and best-dressed in their graduating class, and even if she hadn’t been dating Robert and St. John hadn’t been with Lorna, Hannah would not have dated him. Why now, she asked herself. Why now at fifty-eight when she wouldn’t have considered it forty years before?
Because you really didn’t know what you wanted at eighteen, a silent voice reminded Hannah. And she hadn’t. It was at her mother’s insistence that she dated and married Robert. Clarissa, the quintessential social climber, claimed she always wanted the best for her children, and if that meant marrying up, then it was by any means necessary. Even when she told Clarissa about Robert cheating on her, her mother said that’s what some men do. When she asked if Lester cheated on her, Clarissa had suddenly become mute, leading Hannah to believe that her father also hadn’t been faithful.
Hannah liked to believe she was a modern woman, having grown up when women were sexually liberated, yet something wouldn’t allow her to tolerate a man cheating on his wife. When she’d broached the subject with Paige and LeAnn, both were of the mind that she had two options: leave Robert or forgive him. Hannah couldn’t do either. She couldn’t forgive Robert but she couldn’t leave him when the attack had weakened his heart, resulting in him resigning his commission, and leaving him a shell of his former self.
She closed her eyes again. Sitting on the porch ruminating about her past didn’t lend itself to finding something to wear. It had been years since she’d readied herself for a date with a man, especially one as charismatic as St. John. She opened her eyes and closed the leather-bound French-language version of Alexandre Dumas’s Count of Monte Cristo. Reading French came much easier for Hannah than her attempts to speak the language.
She went into the house and locked the door, and set the book on the entryway table with a trio of vases filled with freshly cut flowers. The spring flowers were in full bloom, and she had gone into the garden earlier that morning to pick lily-of-the-valley with their delicate bell-shaped white flowers, lovely mauve-pink anemone, and pink-and-white alchemilla, better known as lady’s mantle. There had been a time when DuPont House was filled with flowers year-round, and it would be again once the inn was operational.
Three days after she’d returned, she made a phone call requesting the status of her license and permits, identifying herself as Hannah DuPont and hoping the name held more clout in New Orleans than Lowell. The clerk apologized profusely, and then launched into a pre-rehearsed dialogue about a backlog in applications because of the revitalization still going on in the city after the devastation left by Hurricane Katrina. The woman recommended she call again in another month.
Perhaps she was in denial, but Hannah wanted to thank those at Wakefield Hamilton Investment for laying her off, because she was finding it easier to negotiate and implement her plans while in New Orleans rather than from New York. Still, she prayed she’d be able to secure the permits and license required for the house, which would be designated as a small hotel having up to nine sleeping rooms, each having a private bathroom, before the end of the summer. The next step would be securing the services of an engineer to inspect and sign off on the occupancy, and then an architectural historian and/or interior designer to authenticate the furnishings.
She climbed the staircase to her bedroom and opened the door to an armoire. The upside of having two residences meant she did not have to transport her clothes from one city to the other.
It took her less than fifteen minutes to select an outfit for Friday’s dinner date. It was what she thought of as casual chic: appropriate for fine dining and casual enough to attend an out-of-the way music venue in neighborhoods boasting a marriage of cultures that made the city a vibrant melting pot to eat, drink, and listen to jazz.
Her steps were light as she descended the staircase and walked into the kitchen. It was one of the nicest rooms in the entire house. The coffered ceiling, terracotta flooring, brick walls, and massive brick fireplace, remnants of a bygone era, added character to the space where countless family meals had been prepared for centuries.
State-of-the art stainless-steel appliances had replaced the wood-burning stove and icebox, and the large vent over the eight-burner range eliminated the lingering odors of cooked foods. Large tins of rice, flour, and grits lined an entire shelf in the expansive pantry. Other shelves were filled with canned fruits and vegetables; there was also a freezer chest stocked with packaged, labeled, and dated meat, fish, and poultry. An outdoor kitchen
was used whenever it got too hot to cook indoors during the summer months. Aside from dairy and perishables, Hannah had enough food on hand to last her throughout the summer.
Opening the refrigerator, she took out the ingredients she needed to put together a New Orleans-style Cobb salad. The salad would differ from the classic Cobb because the chicken breast would be grilled with blackening seasoning, giving it a bit more bite.
The callbox chimed, and Hannah pushed the button on the monitor set on a small, round table in an alcove. Leticia’s face appeared on the screen. “Come on in. The gate is unlocked and the front door is open,” she said into the speaker. She’d left the gate open because the cleaning service was expected to arrive within the hour.
She walked out of the kitchen and through the dining and living rooms and the entryway. Hannah opened the front door and waited for Letitia to make her way up the path to the house. “What the . . .” she said under her breath when she saw what her friend cradled to her chest. “Where are you going with that cat?”
“It’s a kitten,” Letitia corrected. “I’m promised Paige and LeAnn that I would give them one of Queenie’s kittens once they were weaned. Smokey is trained to the litter box and he’s had all of his shots.”
Hannah’s mouth opened and closed several times before she said, “LeAnn and Paige aren’t here. In fact, they won’t be back until the beginning of September.”
“Didn’t you say you’re going to be here throughout the summer?”
She didn’t want to believe her cousins had gone away and not told her about their decision to adopt a cat. She couldn’t remember the last time there had been a cat, or even a dog, in the house. Hannah combed her fingers through the hair held off her face with an elastic band. Well, she thought, it could’ve been worse. At least cats were more independent than dogs.
“Yes, I did say that,” she admitted. “I guess I’ll have to cat-sit until they get back. The cleaning service is expected to arrive a little later, so you’re going to have to hold onto him for a little longer. I’ll also need to pick up food, a litter box, and a scratching post for Mr. Smokey, because I don’t want him scratching up the furniture.” The kitten was beautiful with a sooty blue-gray coat and gold eyes. Reaching out, she stroked the kitten behind the ears and was rewarded with a soft meow and an outstretched paw.
“He likes you,” Letitia said proudly.
Bending over, Hannah touched her nose to Smokey’s. “That’s because he knows I’m a sucker for cats and dogs.”
“This is Queenie’s last litter and your Smokey is one of only two kittens to survive.”
She stroked him again and wanted to tell Letitia that he wasn’t her Smokey. As the foster parent, she would take care of the kitten until her cousins returned from their overseas travels.
“He’s coming to the right house, because there’s no doubt he’s going to be spoiled rotten.”
Letitia dropped a kiss on the kitten’s head. “Call me when you want me to bring him back.”
* * *
Four hours later Hannah maneuvered into a parking space in the shopping mall with a pet supermarket. She walked in, slightly overwhelmed by the different brands of food for dogs, cats, and birds. There was an entire section dedicated to fish and reptiles. Strolling up and down aisles in the cat section, she read the labels on dry and canned food as if shopping for her own groceries, finally deciding on a dry food boasting natural ingredients. In addition to the food, an automatic self-cleaning litter box, and a cat tree scratching post with a dangling pompom, she also purchased a carrier, window cat perch, and two beds: one a cozy cave in which he could hide and a deep bed to cuddle. She spent an inordinate length of time staring at a programmable pet feeder and an automatic watering system, then decided to add both to the ever-expanding list of items in the shopping cart along with cleanup products and odor removers. Her eyebrows lifted slightly when clerk totaled her purchase at the checkout counter.
“New cat?” the young woman asked as Hannah removed a credit card from her bag.
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Whenever someone buys a complete layette for a dog or cat, I assume they’re a new pet parent.”
“Bingo,” Hannah said under her breath. Even though Letitia said Smokey had gotten his shots, she planned to have the feline neutered and microchipped. There were enough missing and feral cats in New Orleans without Smokey adding to the statistics.
Hannah returned home and set up Smokey’s litter box, programmed the water and food feeder, and positioned the scratching post in an area of the laundry room. She attached the perch to the windowsill in the sun-filled parlor and put the cat cave in the corner. She placed the remaining bed in her bedroom because she didn’t want to exile the cat to a particular part of the house, because cats were known to retaliate in ways she did not want to imagine. After binge-watching My Cat from Hell she saw firsthand the havoc rained on cat owners by their out-of-control pets.
Hannah called Letitia to inform her Smokey could move in, and twenty minutes after he explored what would become his new home, he settled down into the cozy cave and went to sleep. Satisfied that DuPont House’s resident feline had accepted his unfamiliar surroundings, Hannah settled down on the rocker on the back porch with a tall glass of sweet tea. The sun was setting and dusk descended over the countryside like someone pulling down a diaphanous shade, leaving only pinpoints of lights coming through the near-transparent fabric. It was her favorite time of the day, a time when activity slowed in preparation for total relaxation and sleep. The exception was the French Quarter, which never went to sleep, much like New York City’s Times Square.
Fireflies lit up the dusk like twinkling stars. Hannah smiled, recalling the time when she caught fireflies and put them in a jar, watching them struggle to escape and then releasing them before they died. A mosquito settled on her arm and she knew it was time to retreat inside before they feasted on her exposed skin.
Smokey sat in the kitchen staring at her with his brilliant gold eyes. He came over to her, brushing against her bare legs. Bending over, Hannah picked him up. “I know you miss your mother. But I promise you’re going to love living here. I’m going to spoil you, and Paige and LeAnn will also take turns spoiling you.” She continued to talk to the kitten as if he were a little child, asking him if he’d eaten. Setting the kitten on its feet, she followed him to the mudroom, watching and smiling when Smokey ate some of the kibbles in the food dish and then drank from the automatic water fountain.
Smokey became her shadow, following her everywhere, and when she finally went upstairs to shower, he lay on the bathroom tiles watching her. Hannah put him in his bed, and then she slipped into her own bed. She flicked off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness. The plaintive meowing filled the room, then after a while it ended. Like a baby, the kitten had probably cried itself to sleep.
Hannah didn’t mind carrying or cuddling a cat or dog, but drew the line when it came to letting them sleep on her bed. That was where she differed from her daughter-in-law. Karen let her dogs and cats sleep with her sons, and occasionally the animals would accidently soil the bedding. Karen, the daughter of a veterinarian, had grown up with a menagerie that included horses, cats, dogs, rabbits, snakes, turtles, frogs, and a variety of birds and didn’t mind cleaning up after them.
Hannah missed her grandsons and had hoped to take them to Colonial Williamsburg, Busch Gardens, and Water Country USA. Now she didn’t know when that would happen. She’d projected it would take at least a year before the inn was fully operational, which meant she didn’t know when she would have time to take them away.
Chapter 7
St. John walked into Slappy’s Barbershop, nodding to the men sitting in chairs having their hair cut. Those waiting to be serviced focused their attention on the trio of muted wall-mounted televisions tuned to sports channels. Another four, seated at card tables in the rear of the barbershop, were engaged in games of dominos and checkers.
The ninety-year-old, family-owned and -operated business built its reputation on hiring only licensed barbers with the ability to easily adapt to changing hairstyles and trends. Slappy’s was renowned in the early l950s when the Reynards hired the first female barber in Faubourg Tremé to cut black men’s hair.
St. John had gone to the same barbershop to have his hair cut for fifty-six years. His father took him to Slappy’s for his first haircut at two, and instead of crying like many kids when hearing the buzzing sound from the clippers, he was transfixed by clumps of hair falling on the cape around his shoulders.
Larry Reynard gave St. John a mock salute. “Whatcha having, Professor?” Third-generation owner, Larry shifted on the chair in the reception area, staring at the appointment schedule on the laptop.
St. John had accepted the sobriquet once the locals discovered he taught college courses. “A haircut and shave.” He sat on a black leather loveseat next to Johnnie Simmons, a lifelong resident of Faubourg Tremé.
Larry motioned to a barber who’d just finished applying an astringent to his customer’s nape. “Red, please take care of the Professor next. He has an appointment.”
St. John knew not to walk into Slappy’s without first making an appointment. The few times he’d neglected to call, his wait time had been close to two hours. The shop had undergone major changes over the years, the latest following Hurricane Katrina. Larry and his brothers moved into a nearby church offering free cuts and shaves to displaced residents, reopening five months later and setting up a computerized system for appointments and customer reward points to earn free shaves and haircuts.
“Hang tight, Professor, I’ll be with you directly,” Red said, smiling.
The Inheritance Page 7
