The Inheritance

by Rochelle Alers

  She leaned over the table. “Just answer my question, St. John.”

  He sobered. “You could say I do.”

  His mocking tone irritated her. “Is that a yes?”

  “Yes it is, counselor.”

  “Please don’t call me that,” Hannah retorted. Leaning back in his chair, St. John gave her a long, penetrating look that added to her uneasiness. They’d studied together, were part of a team researching class projects, and not once had he hinted that he had the ability of total recall. Why, she wondered, had he downplayed his intelligence?

  “Aren’t you are an attorney?”

  “I am, but I’m not licensed here.” She wasn’t licensed to practice in Louisiana because it didn’t have an express reciprocity agreement with other states, but would provisionally admit certain lawyers from other jurisdictions under special criteria.

  “Where are you licensed?”

  “New York and California. New York has reciprocity with nearly thirty states, while California doesn’t, but does offer a shorter bar exam for attorneys in good standing, licensed in other states four years prior. I don’t want to change the subject, but why are you under the impression we’re going to see each other over the summer?”

  St. John put up a hand as the waiter approached their table. “Please give us a moment,” he said to the young man. He held up a finger. “Firstly it’s going to take more than one or two dinners to talk about what’s been going on in our lives since we graduated high school.” He held up another finger. “And secondly I’d like to ask you if you’d agree to be my dance partner for a three-week course.”

  Hannah blinked slowly. “Dance partner?”

  He smiled and lines fanned out around his luminous, gold-flecked eyes. “Yes. Every summer I take ballroom dancing lessons. I’ve learned the foxtrot, jive, and samba. This year I’m taking tango lessons, and if you’re not too busy I’d like you to partner up with me.”

  She was too startled by St. John’s suggestion to form an immediate reply. And now she knew what he meant when he said maybe she didn’t dance enough. Hannah wanted to reject his offer, but there was something about this more mature version of the man she’d met more than forty years ago that intrigued her. Although physically he hadn’t changed much, St. John had become someone who was more of a stranger than friend or ex-classmate.

  “With the exception of dancing at the reunion, I haven’t danced in years. I took ballet lessons from the age of five until thirteen, but that’s been it.”

  “It’s like riding a bike, Hannah. You may wobble a bit when you first get on, and then after a while you’re better than you ever could’ve imagined.”

  His explanation elicited a smile from her. “Ballet and pointe, yes. But I’m not as confident when it comes to dancing with a partner.”

  Reaching across the table, St. John rested his hand atop Hannah’s. “You did just fine when we danced together.”

  Hannah smiled. “That’s because you’re a strong lead. Do you mind if I think about it?”

  “Of course not.”

  “When do you need my answer?” she asked.

  “I’d like to have it sometime next week.”

  “How often do you practice?”

  “Three times a week for three weeks.”

  “I’ll let you know in plenty of time for you to get another partner if I decide not to take you up on your offer.” She still hadn’t heard from her former co-workers as to when they would come down, and Hannah didn’t want to commit to anything until then. She made a mental note to send Tonya a text message.

  St. John nodded. “Thank you.”

  He signaled the waiter, giving him their beverage order as Hannah focused on the menu. She’d spent less than an hour with St. John and she felt more relaxed with him than she had with any man since her late husband. Not once had he attempted to flirt or come on to her, and for that she was grateful. Never in her life had she had a male friend—someone to talk to when she needed advice to deal with the opposite sex.

  A satisfied smile feathered over her face as she peered up at St. John through a fringe of lashes. It had been years since she’d spent the summer in her hometown, and Hannah was looking forward to the next three months with the same excitement she felt when she’d received her acceptance letter from Vanderbilt. Enrolling in an out-of-state college had put some distance between her and her controlling mother, while setting the stage in her quest for independence.

  She stared at St. John staring back at her, and as if on cue they shared a smile.

  Chapter 8

  Hannah lost track of time as she and St. John discussed local and national politics, the environment, and the rebuilding still going on in New Orleans a decade after the devastation wrought from the aftermath of Katrina.

  St. John touched the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “Did you have a problem with flooding?” he asked her.

  “No. But we did have some wind damage. What about your home?”

  “We were fortunate because the Tremé neighborhood received minor to moderate flooding. Luckily, the water was not high enough to damage many of the old raised homes.”

  “Do you still own the house in Tremé?”

  St. John paused, seemingly deep in thought, before he said, “Lorna got the house as a part of the divorce settlement. She sold it last year to move in with her elderly aunt and uncle who’d raised her after her parents died in a car accident.”

  Hannah sensed a change in St. John’s mood when he mentioned his ex-wife. What, she wondered, had happened to end a marriage spanning three decades? Whenever Lorna accompanied him at a Jackson High home game, prom, or even at their twentieth reunion, they’d always appeared to be a loving couple.

  She forced a smile she didn’t quite feel, because she didn’t want anything to spoil the evening. She and St. John shared an appetizer of barbecue shrimp followed by entrées of broiled redfish with a rosemary and mustard crust and grilled rack of lamb. Instead of her usual white wine she ordered a hurricane. The very sweet concoction made with dark rum, passion fruit and other juices gave her instant buzz, and she chided herself for not waiting until after she’d consumed the appetizer.

  Picking up a cup of coffee liberally laced with chicory, Hannah took a sip while staring over the rim at St. John. “Have you ever thought about moving from New Orleans?”

  The St. John she’d come to know and like was back when he laughed softly. “Never,” he admitted. “I know it may sound clichéd, but I’d never leave, because my ancestors sacrificed too much for me to abandon the city you see today. My aunt was one of a few Baptistes who are still living in Louisiana, while the Toussaints have no intention of ever leaving New Orleans.”

  Resting her elbow on the table, Hannah cupped her chin on her hand. “You’re a Toussaint?”

  “Yes. My grandmother was a Toussaint.”

  Hannah digested this information. “By the way, are you related to Eustace Toussaint?”

  “Yes. He’s a cousin.”

  Her eyebrow shot up. “Really?”

  St. John gave her a smile usually reserved for children from their parents. “Really. Why does this surprise you?”

  “I thought with the last name McNair you didn’t have any Creole ancestry.”

  “My mother’s people are Baptiste and my father’s folks are Toussaints. My paternal grandmother was a Toussaint before she married James McNair.”

  Hannah was intrigued by this disclosure. “How far back do you trace your people?”

  “Archival records document the arrival of the first black Toussaint in the Louisiana Territory around 1811, just before Louisiana was granted statehood. The Baptistes came about ten years later.”

  Hannah grinned like a Cheshire cat. “The DuPonts have you beat by a decade.”

  St. John’s expression changed as if someone had pulled a shade down, successfully concealing his innermost thoughts. “The difference is the DuPonts didn’t arrive enslaved.”

  Lowering h
er arm, she sat straight. The muscles in her stomach knotted as she shot St. John a withering glare. “That may be true, but only because my ancestor’s mulatto mistress wouldn’t leave Haiti with their children unless he freed them. Yes, St. John,” she told him when he stared at her with an incredulous look on his face. “Don’t let what I look like fool you, because I’m a direct descendant of Etienne DuPont and Margit, who’d been an affranchise, and I’m willing to bet that if I were to take an ancestry DNA test, the findings would indicate European, Native American and African.” She told him about the documents she’d found and subsequently donated to the local historical society.

  Leaning back in his chair, St. John crossed his arms over his chest. The seconds ticked as he regarded Hannah with a gleam of interest in his eyes. “Should I also include some of your family members in my research?”

  “I’ll let you determine that if you’re willing to go through the archival records.”

  “So, you’re going to make me spend hours reading documents when you can tell me now about the DuPonts’ gens de couleur.”

  “Weren’t you the one who decided that we were going to hang out together over the summer?”

  St. John nodded. “I think I remember saying that.”

  Hannah narrowed her eyes. “You think? Don’t pretend you don’t remember, because you did admit that you have total recall.” She angled her head as a half-smile parted her lips. “However, I’m willing to compromise. Before donating my family’s diaries, journals, Bibles, and other business records, I created a family tree on my computer with names, dates of births and deaths of everyone sharing Etienne and Margit’s bloodline. I’ll print out a copy for you.”

  “Thank you very much.” St. John lowered his arms, his expression impassive. “Please answer one question for me, Hannah.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Do you always take off work for the summer?”

  “No.”

  She’d told LeAnn, Paige, her son and daughter-in-law, and only a few days ago Letitia that she was unemployed, and now St. John wanted to know why she was going to spend the next three months in New Orleans. His expression didn’t change when she revealed the details behind her former employer’s merger and downsizing half the bank’s staff.

  “Are you actively looking for another position?”

  “Why?”

  “I can put in a good word for you at the college if you’re willing to teach. We need someone for a course on law and government. You’d start as an assistant professor.”

  Hannah was momentarily speechless. She didn’t want to believe St. John was offering her a teaching position at his college. She didn’t want to teach. She wanted to be an innkeeper. “Thank you for offering, but I can’t see myself returning to the classroom or lecture hall.”

  “Does your aversion to teaching have anything to do with your mother?”

  She detected a hint of censure in his query and chided herself for telling him how Clarissa had coerced her into not following her career path. “No, it doesn’t. I had a lot of unresolved issues where it concerned my mother, but after spending more than a year on a therapist’s couch I’ve come to accept that if someone is unwilling or can’t change, then it’s incumbent on me to change. I loved my mother despite her being controlling and manipulative, because I realized she wanted the best for me, whether it was a career or marriage. She was raised to marry well, and she did when she married my father. Her focus wasn’t so much a career as it was being the perfect mother, wife, and hostess.”

  “Despite what you’ve revealed about your mother, I think you turned out okay. You have the career you always wanted, and you’re blessed to have had a good marriage which gave you your own family.”

  Hannah had no intention of correcting St. John about her having a good marriage. On the surface she’d believed she had a good marriage, unaware that her husband had had a number of affairs.

  “You’re right,” she drawled, then covered a yawn with her hand. Even if she didn’t love Robert when they first married, she’d grown to love him. They rarely argued when he was home on leave, he was a doting father, and he initiated the necessary steps to ensure her financial viability in the event of his death.

  “You’re not falling asleep on me, are you?” There was a hint of laughter in St. John’s tone.

  She liked the sound of St. John’s voice. It was deep, drawling, and seductive. “No. I’m just a little tipsy.”

  “You’re not much of a drinker, are you?”

  “No. Whenever the girls in my dorm went out partying, I was always the designated driver, because they could count on me to get them back to campus without wrapping the car around a pole. I’ve made it a practice to eat first if I’m going to have anything alcoholic.”

  St. John laughed again. “I’ll make certain to remember that whenever we go out for drinks. The kids at Howard always loaded up on something greasy before drinking. There was a little rib joint not far from campus, and on the weekend the line would be out the door and down the block. There were times when they’d run out of ribs because the neighborhood folks would get there before us and clean it out. Then one of the owners decided to open up a second spot around the corner, which made everyone happy.”

  “Did they offer sides?”

  “Yes. Potato salad, candied sweet potatoes, cole slaw, and the best damn green beans with white potatoes and smoked ham hocks I’ve ever eaten.”

  Hannah smiled. It had been years since she’d eaten Southern-style green beans. “I like living in New York, but the thing I miss most about New Orleans is the food.”

  “There’re a number of restaurants in Harlem and Brooklyn that serve southern cuisine.”

  “What do you know about Harlem and Brooklyn?”

  “I know enough about Harlem and Brooklyn neighborhoods not to get lost. Whenever I’m invited to lecture or teach a summer course at a New York college or university, I make it my business to familiarize myself with different neighborhoods.”

  “When was the last time you were in New York?” Hannah questioned.

  “Two years ago.”

  “If I’d known you were in town, we could’ve gotten together.”

  “Where do you live?” he asked.

  “I rent an apartment in the Financial District.”

  “Maybe the next time I’m in New York I’ll let you know.” St. John beckoned the waiter, requesting the check. “I’d planned for us to go to a jazz club in Tremé, but since you’re yawning I think we’ll call it a night.”

  Hannah yawned again. “I’m sorry if I ruined your—”

  “Don’t you dare apologize,” St. John said, interrupting her. “If you want, we can always go at another time.”

  She smiled. “I’d like that.”

  He settled the bill, and holding her hand with his firm grip, St. John led her to where he’d parked the car. The drive back to the Garden District was accomplished in complete silence, Hannah closing her eyes while sinking down into the supple leather seat. She couldn’t remember when she’d had a more enjoyable evening when sharing dinner with a man.

  She found it so easy to talk to St. John about things she never would’ve discussed with or revealed to another man. She was more than aware that her experience with the opposite sex was limited to Robert and the other men with whom she’d worked—almost all of whom had related to her on the professional level. Even the few dates she’d had with the lawyers at the Upper East Side firm were more businesslike than personal. It wasn’t until they took her home things changed. They wanted to come up to her apartment for a nightcap, and when she refused with the excuse that she had to get up early, or she’d lie and say she had out-of-town guests staying over, they quickly lost interest.

  Hannah opened her eyes. “I’d like to return the favor for a most enjoyable evening by inviting you to dinner next Sunday at my place. That is, if you don’t have anything planned.”

  St. John gave her quick glance before returni
ng his attention to the road. “What time should I come?”

  “How’s three o’clock?”

  He nodded. “Three’s good for me.”

  “Do you have any food allergies?”

  “No.” He paused. “Are you cooking?”

  Her jaw dropped slightly. “Of course I’m cooking. Did you think I’d order takeout?”

  A low chuckle filled the car. “I’ve known quite a few women who prefer takeout and reservations to preparing a home-cooked meal.”

  “Well, I’m not one of those women.” And she wasn’t. Not only did she know how to cook, but she also enjoyed cooking.

  A satisfied smile played at the corners of her mouth as she stared out the side window. All too soon the drive ended and she opened her wristlet and took out her cell phone. She tapped an app, and the gates swung open and St. John drove through.

  “Do you always keep the gates locked?” he asked, coming to a complete stop in front the house.

  “I lock them at night. I had closed-circuit cameras installed throughout the house several years ago, but that’s before the Garden District and French Quarter got their own private police.” Crime rates had escalated in New Orleans in the years following Hurricane Katrina and a local businessman, after having his 8,000-square-foot home burglarized, came up with a plan to protect a neighborhood less than one square mile containing the city’s most valuable real estate with his own high-tech police force.

  “You can’t be too careful,” St. John said, as he unbuckled his seat belt. He came around the car and opened her door. She placed her palm on his outstretched one, his fingers closing around her hand, as he eased her gently to her feet.

  Hannah climbed the porch steps, with him following. Lifting the door handle, she tapped in the code, deactivated the security system and opened the door. She turned around and found herself nearly face-to-face with St. John. He was close enough for her to feel his breath on her forehead.

  She stared at his throat. He’d removed his jacket and tie. Her eyes moved up to study his face, noting the nostrils of his straight nose flaring slightly as he exhaled an audible breath.