The Inheritance

by Rochelle Alers

“No problem,” St. John acknowledged. Because Red was born with bright-red hair that had darkened to copper as he grew older, most folks had forgotten his parents had named him Jamal. He was rarely seen without a baseball cap—the exception being when he attended church services—whether in or outdoors. Much to his chagrin, Jamal had passed along his fair complexion, red hair, and freckles to his son, whom everyone called RJ or Red Junior. Whether Red or his government name Jamal, St. John wouldn’t let anyone but Red cut his hair.

  “How’s life been treating you, young man?” Johnnie asked St. John.

  “Life’s good, Mr. Simmons.”

  “You keeping company with anyone nowadays?”

  “No, I’m not,” he answered truthfully.

  St. John realized old habits or sayings were slow to die. Instead of asking whether he was seeing or dating anyone it was keeping company, a phrase he’d heard his grandparents use once he entered adolescence. He hadn’t been able to answer in the affirmative until at fifteen when introduced to Lorna Frazier. It was as if he’d been struck by a lightning bolt. She was as beautiful as she was overtly chaste. Everything about her from her demure smile to her furtive glances sent his raging adolescent libido into overdrive. The first and only time he’d attempted to get her to sleep with him, she stated she was saving herself for marriage.

  They’d dated throughout high school and college, St. John keeping his promise that they would not sleep together until they were husband and wife. It wasn’t until their wedding night he discovered his wife’s aversion to intimacy; it took thirty years of marriage for her to develop enough strength to tell him of the trauma that had held her captive and a prisoner of her own fears.

  “If that’s the case, then I want to hook you up with my grandbaby girl.” A pregnant silence descended on the shop following Johnnie’s suggestion.

  “Why would he want to meet your granddaughter?” called out one of the men playing checkers. “Everyone knows she done had so many husbands and kids that she can’t even remember their names.”

  Johnnie stood up, glaring. “You ain’t got no call to talk about her like that.”

  Larry shook his head. “You men know I don’t tolerate talk like that in here. If you can’t be respectable, then find another shop.”

  St. John silently applauded Larry for defusing what could’ve become an uncomfortable situation. He didn’t want to date Johnnie’s grandbaby girl even if he’d found himself attracted to her. She was too young and her life was filled with drama—something he sought to avoid at all costs. He planned to enjoy his summer vacation and was looking forward to having dinner with Hannah later that evening.

  Red beckoned him. “Professor, I’ll take you now.”

  He stood up and sat in the barber’s chair, staring at his reflection in the wall of mirrors as Red covered his neck with a strip before covering his shoulders with a cape. “You can take off the goatee.” The year before, he’d grown a beard over the summer, and then replaced it with a goatee at the beginning of the fall term.

  “How about the hair?” Red asked.

  “Take a little bit off the top and sides.” He’d had Red shave his entire head once and regretted it. A bald pate, although convenient, forced him to wear a hat during the summer months to protect his scalp from the sun.

  Fifty minutes later, St. John paid for the haircut and hot-towel shave and gave Red a generous tip for his meticulous work. He was always awed by the barber’s ability to glide the straight razor over his face and neck without cutting him. Glancing at his watch, he realized he a little more than an hour to shower, dress, and drive from his house in Marigny to arrive at Hannah’s at seven.

  * * *

  St. John downshifted, slowing and stopping at the ornamental wrought-iron gate protecting DuPont House from outsiders. Lowering the driver’s-side window, he leaned over and pressed the callbox button. The gates opened, smoothly, silently, and he drove slowly up the tree-lined drive to the front of the historic structure. He stared through the windshield at Hannah as she walked off the porch. He cut off the engine, slipped out of the classic two-seater Jaguar, and opened the passenger-side door.

  “You look stunning,” he said, pressing his cheek to hers, while inhaling her perfume. Hannah’s lids slipped down over her eyes, the gesture so wholly demure he couldn’t pull his gaze away from her delicate features.

  “Thank you.”

  St. John hadn’t lied. She’d paired an olive-green silk blouse with an aubergine linen pencil skirt with a slit running from knee to mid-thigh. Strappy black patent leather wedges matched the wide belt around her slender waist and her wristlet.

  Why hadn’t he noticed the throaty timbre of Hannah’s voice before? He wondered if she was aware of how sensuous her voice sounded. And St. John had to ask himself whether he was seeing Hannah in a whole new light because both were at different phases in their lives. Twenty years before, they were both married, and he never would’ve asked her out to dinner—even as friends. He waited for her to get into the low-slung vehicle, settle into the leather seat and fasten the seat belt. All of her movements were executed with the grace of a professional dancer.

  Rounding the sports car, he got in behind the wheel and started up the engine. Shifting into gear, he executed a U-turn and drove off the property, the gates automatically closing after the tires passed over a metal plate.

  Hannah stared at St. John’s distinctive profile, committing it to memory. He’d shaved off the goatee, and she didn’t know whether she liked seeing him with or without the facial hair. With the exception of his gray hair, nothing had changed. He was still a tall, incredibly handsome man with a perfectly proportioned physique.

  Everything about St. John reminded her why he’d been her lover in the erotic dream. He was so inherently male to what made her female—something she hadn’t been aware of so many years before. She wanted to forget his pronouncement he didn’t date, because tonight she was going to pretend they were. She pulled her gaze away from the pale blue shirt, with French cuffs and monogrammed silver cufflinks, tucked into the waistband of a pair of gray slacks.

  “Shame on you, St. John,” Hannah chided softly, staring out the windshield.

  He took his eyes off the road for a second to glance at her. “For what?”

  “For asking me if I’d sell Daddy’s car when you have this beauty.” The forest green convertible sports car with a tan leather interior, matching soft top, and cherrywood dash was in mint condition.

  St. John smiled. “I just happen to like vintage cars.”

  Her smile matched his. “How old is it?”

  “It’s a 1953 Jaguar XK 120. And before you ask, I didn’t buy it.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “I inherited it from an aunt who’d become placée to a wealthy man who’d owned a fleet of fishing boats in Houma. They couldn’t marry and they never had any children, and when he died in 1965, he willed her everything. Some of his relatives challenged the will, but in the end it was upheld. She sold the fleet to a consortium of fishermen, sold her home, and moved back to Marigny and bought a Creole cottage. She died two years ago at eighty-six, and in her will she gave me the house and this car.”

  She’d read about Loving v. Virginia in law school. Before it was argued before the country’s highest court, it was a crime for whites and non-whites to marry in fifteen states, including Louisiana. “He died two years too early, because in 1967 the Supreme Court struck down miscegenation laws.”

  St. John’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “You’re right. Despite New Orleans having a sizeable population of gens de couleur libres going back to the late eighteenth-century and even before the Emancipation Proclamation, white men were notorious for attending octoroon and quadroon balls to perpetuate the system of plaçage.”

  “It sounds so hypocritical.”

  “What does?”

  “Women of color could be consorts, bear children, yet they couldn’t become the wives of their preda
tors.”

  St. John gave her a sidelong glance. “You think of these men as predators rather than their saviors or protectors?”

  “Please tell me you’re playing the devil’s advocate,” Hannah said, a hint of annoyance creeping into her voice.

  “I am,” he admitted. “If a wealthy white Creole had a relationship with a female slave and she bore him a child or children, they were sometimes emancipated along with their mixed-race children, who became the nucleus for the gens de couleur libres. Some viewed it as the easiest route for freedom for an enslaved woman and her children.”

  “That’s so duplicitous, St. John. Marriage between the races was forbidden, yet interracial sex was condoned. And there’s no way as a mother I’d parade my daughter like a show pony among a group of men so she could become placée to someone who couldn’t marry her.”

  “That’s because we don’t live in the eighteenth, nineteenth, or early twentieth centuries and you’re not the mother of a “mulatto,” “quadroon,” or “octoroon” daughter. Those are words and practices we cringe at now, but it was part of New Orleans history—unsettling though it was.”

  Silence filled the car; the only audible sound was that of the slip-slap of tires on the roadway. Hannah inhaled an audible breath in an attempt to control her rising temper. “I find it a little concerning that you don’t see anything wrong with the system of plaçage.”

  Downshifting into first gear, and then into neutral, St. John stopped at a red light. “I’m a historian, Hannah, and I’ve accepted what has happened in our country’s history, while praying many of the crimes against certain races and against women will never be repeated. Last year I began researching gens de couleur libres for a book on the comprehensive history of New Orleans and I’ve uncovered facts—”

  “You’re writing a book,” she interrupted. The query was a statement.

  St. John nodded. “The idea came to me when I reread my unpublished doctoral dissertation.”

  “How long do you project the research will take?”

  “I haven’t given myself a deadline.”

  “Can you tell me what you’ve uncovered?”

  “I’ll have to show you. Even if it takes another ten years to complete the research, I don’t intend to begin writing until after I retire.”

  Hannah met his eyes when he turned to look at her. “Did you ever think you’d be talking about retirement forty years ago?”

  The light changed and St. John headed for the French Quarter. “No. The day we graduated the only thing I thought about was going to Howard University.”

  “Did you like Howard?”

  He smiled. “I loved it and I loved living in D.C. I spent most of my downtime exploring the city and taking photographs and interviewing people for research papers. How about you? Did you like Vanderbilt?”

  “Yes, because I really liked the whole college experience. I wanted to major in pre-law, but caved when my mother insisted I become a teacher. She believed it was a more genteel profession for a woman.”

  “But you are a lawyer.”

  “Now I am. But that became a reality only after I was married and a mother.” Hannah told St. John about living on base, and her inability to bond with the other officers’ wives, so she decided to pursue her dream to become an attorney.

  “Good for you. Our mothers were from a generation where they didn’t have nor were offered the opportunities women have today.”

  “You’re right . . .” Her words trailed off when Hannah noticed St. John had turned onto Rue Conti. “How did you know?”

  “Know what?”

  “That Broussard’s is one of my favorite restaurants.”

  St. John maneuvered into a parking space close to the restaurant. “I didn’t know, but it happens to be a favorite of mine also.”

  Hannah experienced a shiver of excitement, recalling the first time her parents had taken her to the iconic restaurant for her sixteenth birthday. It had been one of the highlights of her childhood when her father gave her a strand of Tahitian pearls and matching earrings. Years later, she had the baubles appraised for insurance purposes and was completely stunned by their value.

  St. John assisted her from the car and then slipped into the suit jacket he’d left behind the seats. She stiffened slightly when his hand rested at the small of her back as they neared the entrance to Broussard’s. Relaxing against his fingers, Hannah resisted the urge to move closer to his length. His firm and impersonal touch elicited a longing to relive the closeness when they’d danced together.

  She knew for certain she wasn’t a horny middle-aged woman looking for sex as much as she was a woman who’d resigned herself to becoming a social recluse. She spoke to Wyatt or Karen every week, visited with them and her grandchildren several weeks during the summer, and returned to New Orleans to share Thanksgiving and Christmas with Paige and LeAnn. Her position in Wakefield Hamilton’s legal division provided her with a workplace setting in which she didn’t have to combine business with pleasure.

  And after Robert passed away, she had no qualms about dining out, attending a play, concert, or even a sporting event unaccompanied. There were a few incidents when men attempted to garner her attention, but once she exhibited indifference, they turned their interest elsewhere. She went through dark moods when she’d experienced a decrease of sexual and personal confidence, while a lingering rage had taken her several years to overcome, all of which added to her subjective feeling that her life partner had violated a rule they’d established before marrying. Robert had promised to be faithful to her because he saw the pain his mother had endured because of his father’s adultery.

  St. John’s hand moved from her back to her waist, his fingers moving up to her rib cage. Unconsciously Hannah leaned into him, and the instant she walked through the doors at Broussard’s Restaurant and Courtyard with St. John McNair, Hannah knew she’d turned a corner to repair the psychological damage she’d brought on herself because her expectations in marriage were not met.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I made a reservation for us to dine in the courtyard.”

  St. John’s voice penetrated her thoughts. She smiled at him. “Not at all. The few times I ate here, the courtyard was off-limits because of a private party or wedding.”

  The maître d’ greeted St. John by name and they were led to a table for two in the garden courtyard of the historic landmark with its French-inspired décor. Everything about the outdoor space was conducive to romantic dining. Hannah stared her dining partner across the small expanse of the table, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

  * * *

  St. John pretended interest in the menu rather than stare at Hannah. High school students had referred to her as the ice princess or Miss Southern Belle, and there were occasions when he’d agreed with them. In all the years they shared the same classes or studied together, she rarely exhibited anything other than a calm demeanor. He knew she’d been taunted by fellow students because she was viewed as a spoiled rich girl who’d been driven to school by her family’s chauffeur, and not once had she retaliated or felt the need explain why she’d transferred from one of New Orleans’ most elite private all-girls institutions to a public school. One hundred percent of the girls who graduated from the McGehee School attended college.

  However, when he witnessed her passionate outburst about the once acceptable tradition of plaçage, she’d appeared anything but cold. And St. John wondered if a few of her male ancestors had engaged in the practice or if she identified with the women who were trained and manipulated by their mothers from a very early age to accept their future plight as a placée. Had Hannah’s mother been like the mothers of beautiful mixed-race daughters when she put so much pressure on her not to go into law that she caved and majored in education? And had Hannah harbored resentment that she’d been forced to marry in order gain independence from a controlling and overbearing mother?

  Whenever he thought of family pressure, St. John recalled ho
w his aunt and music teacher had defied her parents when she decided to shack up with a man with whom she’d fallen in love and was legally forbidden to marry. Monique Baptiste had endured years of alienation from her devoutly Catholic family, it only ending after her lover died.

  His mother had been the exception. Elsie Baptiste-McNair worshipped Monique and made it a practice to drive him and his sister down to Houma to spend several weeks of the summer with her. The year he celebrated his thirteenth birthday, he joined the crew of a fishing boat for the first time, experiencing twin emotions of fear and exhilaration. Once he overcame his fear of drowning, he went out with the crew every summer until the year he entered college.

  “Are you angry with me, St. John?”

  His head popped up, and he stared at Hannah, attempting read her impassive expression. “No. Why would you ask me that?”

  A slight flush suffused her face. “You’re studying that menu as if you’ve never seen it before, and I thought you were angry with me because I called men who take advantage of women predators.”

  A glint of amusement flickered in St. John’s eyes. “Are you a man-hater, Hannah?” His question caught her completely off guard; a slight gasp escaped her parted lips.

  “No! Of course not. Why would you ask me that?”

  “I just need to know where we stand if we’re going to hang out together this summer.”

  Hannah stared at him, shock freezing her features. “Did we agree to see each other over the summer?”

  St. John nodded. “I remember you saying, ‘I’ll call to invite you to come out to DuPont House so we can catch up on what has been going on in our lives over the past two decades. ’ You also said, ‘I’ll give you an update about my experience as a big city corporate attorney while you can tell me about your students at Barden College.’ And I did promise to show you my research on gens de couleur libres.”

  Shock after shock assailed Hannah, making it impossible for her to draw a normal breath. He’d repeated her exact words verbatim. “Do you have eidetic memory?”

  Throwing back his head, St. John laughed. “Why do you make it sound as if I’m carrying a deadly communicable disease?”