His suggestion she solicit investors for a percentage of ownership had sent her imagination into overdrive. Hannah knew for certain the bedroom suites on the second story would be used for guests, but then there was the question of the two guesthouses. She couldn’t use the guesthouses for guests, because the additional space would negate her operating an inn. Both guesthouses contained two bedroom suites, which would increase the number of rooms from nine to thirteen, and if she used them for guests, DuPont House would have to be listed as a hotel rather than an inn, which would require a license for a hotel.
She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel as she turned off onto a local road leading to the Bouie home. Their neighborhood had sustained substantial flooding, many of its residents leaving and not returning once rebuilding began. Hannah had sat in her Manhattan high-rise watching television footage of the devastation laying waste to her hometown. Once she began to cry, she found that she couldn’t stop. It wasn’t as much the loss of property that saddened her as the needless loss of life. The images of people on the rooftops of their homes and the corpses of human beings and animals floating in the water haunted her for weeks. Once she was able to get a flight, she returned to New Orleans, and when her cousins picked her up at the airport, once again she was overcome with a sadness that lingered for the duration of her stay.
However, unlike the phoenix, Louisianans didn’t rise from the ashes but from the floodwaters to reclaim their city and heritage, because while they were still recovering from Katrina, they were faced with another disaster. This time it was the result of the BP oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico where the impact hit the fishing industry the hardest.
She stared through the windshield, her gaze taking in the homes along both sides of the still unpaved road. Newer structures stood alongside older occupied homes and a few that were abandoned and slated for demolition. She’d come back to New Orleans many times since her marriage, but Hannah knew if she opened the inn, it would be her last move. The lease on her New York City apartment was scheduled to expire at the end of September and the timing could not have been more fortuitous.
Packing up everything in the two-bedroom apartment would be accomplished quickly, because she planned to donate all of the furniture and housewares to her favorite charity, one focusing on helping women with children transition out of shelters, and have only her clothes, books, and personal effects shipped to DuPont House.
Ideas as to how to utilize the guesthouses nagged at her relentlessly until she maneuvered into the driveway leading to the house where she and Daphne had spent countless hours listening to records on her stereo when they should have been studying. Daphne always lowered the volume because her father didn’t like her playing the “devil’s music” in his house. Even then, Hannah had thought it strange that Daphne never talked about boys she liked or who she’d thought cute, but she never questioned her. It wasn’t until years later that word circulated that Daphne was gay. The revelation never affected the way Hannah felt about the girl who’d befriended her when others in their school had shunned her. Coming to a complete stop, she cut off the engine and alighted from the SUV. She hadn’t taken more than three steps when a woman’s voice stopped her.
“They’re not home.”
Hannah stared at the tall woman who’d come down off the porch of the neighboring house. “Do you know when they’ll be back, Miss Addie?”
Adaline Jensen squinted over the half-glasses perched on the end of her nose. “Not until tomorrow. Aren’t you the judge’s gal?”
Hannah smiled, nodding. “I am.”
Miss Addie had earned a reputation as the unofficial neighborhood watch. All she had to do was hear a snippet of a situation and she made it her business to get the whole story. The tall woman with the catlike green and yellowish eyes in a complexion the color of aged parchment always frightened Hannah. Long-time residents whispered among themselves that Miss Addie was a direct descendant of Marie Laveau, also known as the voodoo queen of New Orleans.
Miss Addie patted the coronet of snow-white braids pinned neatly atop her head. “I really miss him. He was a good man and a fair judge, not like some of them now who want to lock up everyone for spitting on the road. Folks wanted him to run for mayor or governor, but he said he liked being a judge.”
Hannah smiled. “That’s Daddy. Can you tell Mrs. Bouie that Hannah came by and I’ll stop again at another time?”
“I sure will.” Addie took off her glasses. “I must say you look good, gal. Not like some women who ruin their bodies and faces with fake breasts and all that plastic surgery.”
“Thank you, Miss Addie.”
She got back into the car and backed out of the driveway. In the past she’d never exchanged a word with the former dressmaker who’d earned her living sewing for local celebrities. Daphne claimed Miss Addie never married because as a psychic she knew what men wanted from her before they opened their mouths. Someone had burglarized her home to steal the supposed stash of money she’d hidden away, but came away empty-handed. The burglar didn’t know that, after a few clients refused to pay her, the astute seamstress had her clients deposit money directly into her bank account before she would relinquish their finished garments.
Hannah drove back to the Garden District and was greeted by Smokey as soon as she walked through the door. “I’m glad to see you, too,” she crooned as he wound his way through and around her legs. Smokey followed her up the staircase as she walked into her bedroom and slipped out of the pale-blue cotton coatdress and navy-blue patent leather pumps. She still had plenty of time to eat a light lunch, shower, and change into dance attire before St. John arrived.
* * *
St. John downshifted, slowing and stopping in front of DuPont House to make certain the woman standing there was Hannah. Like a chameleon she’d changed again, this time into the quintessential Latin dancer, with a black spandex top with capped sleeves and an asymmetrical neckline. The bloodred ruffled skirt ending at the knees and riding low on her hips screamed sensuality. His eyes moved lower to her long bare legs and narrow feet in a pair of black ballet flats. He got out of the car and came around to open the passenger-side door.
“I almost didn’t recognize you,” he said, staring at her bare face. A lovely blush stained her cheeks, adding color to her fair complexion.
Ducking her head, Hannah slipped onto the seat. “I know I must look like a ghost without makeup,” she replied before he closed the door.
Waiting until he seated behind the wheel, St. John focused on her delicate profile. “You look lovely.” Hannah turned to look at him. He lifted his eyebrows questioningly. “You don’t think of yourself as lovely?” She compressed her lips and averted her eyes, staring at the tote on her lap. Where, he mused, was the confident woman who’d challenged him about the practice of plaçage? She had to know she was blessed with above average looks, and men were certain to give her a second look whenever she entered a room. He’d been no exception when he first noticed her at the reunion.
St. John started up the car, went through the gates of the DuPont House, and then turned off onto St. Charles Avenue and headed in the direction of the Lower Garden District. Although he’d never found himself attracted to blond women, there was something about Hannah that more than piqued his interest, and it wasn’t just her revelation that she was a descendant of a free woman of color.
“We’re here,” he stated, pulling into a space on the street behind the three-story building facing St. Charles Avenue. The short ride was accomplished in complete silence.
* * *
Hannah waited for St. John to come around and open her door, chiding herself for appearing gauche because he’d complimented her. She knew she had been at the top of her game when it came to her career, yet she lagged far behind with interpersonal relationships, which she attributed to being involved with only one man for more than half her life. She was engaged at seventeen, slept with Robert for the first time at eighteen, married him at twent
y-one, and gave birth to their son at twenty-two. She’d dedicated thirty-four of her fifty-eight years to one man, and now she found herself having to start over.
“Aren’t we going in?” she asked when St. John didn’t move.
Unbuckling his seat belt, St. John shifted to face her. “Not yet. The last class is still in session.” Resting his right arm over the back of her seat, he tugged playfully on the hair she had secured in an elastic band. “Are you uncomfortable being with me?”
Hannah went completely still. If she said no, then she would be lying. But on the other hand, if she told him the truth, then there was a possibility they wouldn’t continue to see each other—something she definitely didn’t want to happen.
“A little,” she admitted. “But it’s not what you think,” she added quickly.
He gave her a sidelong look. “And what am I thinking?”
“That you’re very well known in New Orleans and to be seen with me would generate gossip you don’t need.”
He gave her a long, penetrating stare and then burst out laughing. “It’s too late for that, Hannah.”
Her eyelids fluttered wildly. “Why would you say that?”
“After Matt Johnston apologized for manhandling you and then said he didn’t know you were my woman, tongues started wagging. While you were dancing in the other ballroom, several of our former classmates asked me if I was dating the judge’s daughter.”
Hannah held her breath for several seconds. “What did you say?”
A slow, sensual smile spread over his face, an expression she had come to look for because it made him appear both boyish and playful at the same time.
“I told them we were picking up where we’d left off while in school.”
Her eyes grew wide. “That’s not true, St. John! Both of us were seeing other people at the time.”
“I meant as friends, not lovers.”
Hannah scrunched up her nose. Awkward! St. John’s expression changed as he measured her with a steady appraising look. She returned the stare, studying his handsome face feature by feature. His golden-brown eyes darkened as he continued to stare at her. “What are you thinking about?” she asked as the silence inside the sports car swelled until it was deafening.
St. John blinked as if coming out of a trance. “Nothing.”
“We’re too old, at least I know I am, to play games, St. John. You just didn’t spend the past sixty seconds staring at me to say it’s nothing.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to tell me the truth. If you’ve changed your mind about being seen with me because it may cause a problem for you with other women, then just say so.”
His fingers curled around her neck, tightening slightly when she attempted to pull away. Hannah didn’t have time to react as he slanted his mouth over hers. The kiss lasted seconds but the throbbing in her lower lip continue after he’d pulled away.
“There are no other women, Hannah. Now close your mouth or I’ll be forced to kiss you again,” he teased. He threw back his head and let out a laugh that reverberated inside the car. A flush darkened Hannah’s face as she rolled her eyes at him. St. John caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. “It’s time we go in now before we’re arrested for public lewdness.”
“And if we are arrested I won’t be able to defend us, because I’m not licensed here.”
“I don’t think you’d have to worry about that. After all, you’re the daughter one of the most beloved jurists in Louisiana’s history.”
She frowned. “You’re the second person today who referred to me as the judge’s daughter.”
St. John also sobered. “Does that bother you?”
Hannah paused as she contemplated St. John’s query. It wasn’t as if she’d practiced law in New Orleans while her father was still alive, and even if she had, she knew she would always be compared to him. “Yes and no. Yes, it bothers me because I’d rather be known as Hannah DuPont rather than the judge’s girl. And no, because as a zealous advocate for prison reform, he believed in probation and community service as the deterrent to turning people into hardened criminals.”
“Have you thought maybe you’d do well to continue your father’s campaign for prison reform?”
She shook her head. “I’d never make it as a politician.”
“Why would say that?” St. John asked.
“I have no patience with what I call polit-tricks. I’d refuse to be bought by certain interest groups and I’d never make promises on something I know I wouldn’t be able to deliver. Politicians have to be willing to sell their souls for money and power. I’m sorry, but mine isn’t for sale.”
St. John winked at her. “Good for you.”
Reaching into the tote, Hannah handed him a folder. “I did promise to print out a copy of the DuPont family tree for you.”
“Hold onto it for me. I’ll look at it after we finish our lesson.”
Hannah and St. John were one of ten couples who’d signed up to take introductory tango. The dance studio, located on the first floor of the office building that had been the headquarters for cotton and sugar cane brokers until the turn of the twentieth century, was owned and operated by a husband-and-wife couple who’d won national and international ballroom dancing championships.
Madame Duarte, a tiny woman in her mid-forties with pale skin, penetrating dark eyes, and spiky black hair which made her complexion appear even whiter, had everyone introduce themselves, she greeting her former students with a barely perceptible nod, and the new ones with a smile.
“For those who are new to Duarte Studios, I’m going to warn you not to overdo it the first week. The barre is here for those who wish to stretch, which is something I recommended you always do before we begin any routine.” She paused. “And for you Adonises and ballerinas, please don’t spend all your time staring at yourselves in the mirrors.” Her remark elicited a smattering of laughter. “And I’d like to recommend you to wear your dance shoes only in the studio.” She pressed her palms together. “Are there any questions?”
A young woman with a long red braid raised her hand. “Aside from the lessons, will we be allowed to come in and practice?”
Madame Duarte nodded. “Yes. The studio is open on Sundays from noon to six, and that’s when you can come in and practice on your own. Mr. Duarte will put up the schedule as to which room you’ll gather for the tango. Right now you’ll be assigned to studio C, but that may change. I’m going to give everyone ten minutes to stretch and warm up before we begin.”
Hannah, still wearing her ballet flats, was transported back to a time when she’d been a serious dance student. She began stretching at the barre, and then graduated to demi and grand pliés. Holding on to the barre and facing the mirrored wall, she executed first, second, and third positions easily, recalling the time when she’d wanted to be a ballerina. All of her prior training returned as she went through dè-veloppés, and tendus. Her dream of a career in dance ended when she’d begun growing at an alarming rate at ten; by the time she celebrated her thirteenth birthday she stood five foot seven in her bare feet. She’d continued to grow throughout high school until she finally stopped at five-nine.
She glanced over at St. John as he executed pliés, admiring his slender physique in a black tee and a pair of slacks in a fabric that allowed him to move freely. She also noticed two women watching him when they should have been concentrating on their own warm-up routines.
Madame Duarte approached Hannah. “You’re not new to dance, are you?” she asked, meeting her eyes in the mirror.
Hannah held the demi-plié position. “I’m not new to ballet.” She quickly explained why she’d stopped dancing.
Vertical lines appeared between the teacher’s eyes. “That’s a pity because with your body and elegance, you would’ve made a magnificent ballerina.”
The warm-up period ended and Hannah exchanged her slippers for a pair of women’s closed-toe Latin ballroom dance shoes with a su
ede sole and two-and-three-quarter-inch heels. Madame Duarte waited until everyone had changed into their dance shoes, and then pounded a staff on the floor to get their attention.
“The most important aspect of the tango is the frame, or in laymen’s terms it is the way dancers hold their bodies with each other. If you want to remember the basic tango steps, then think of the acronym T-A-N-G-O. The T is slow, and so is A. N and G are quick steps and finally O is slow. O is the most sensual step because it is a slow dragging of the left foot toward the right.” She set the staff on the floor in front of the wall of mirrors. “Mr. Duarte and I will demonstrate. Remember, gentlemen, you are the lead and your partner is the follow.” Her husband, a slightly built man with a shaved head, moved with the fluidity of a dancer across the highly polished wood floor.
Hannah watched and listened intently as the couple executed a close dance position, his right hand on his wife’s left shoulder blade, and his left hand extended to the side while grasping her right. “The lead will look to his side toward the left and the follow toward the right with very straight spines. Ladies, you should have a slight tilt back to your partner’s head,” Madame Duarte instructed.
Hannah moved into St. John’s close embrace, curbing the urge to look at him to gauge his reaction. Her upper body was pressed intimately against his washboard-flat middle. Even when they’d danced together at the reunion, there had been a modicum of space between their bodies. Now she felt muscle and sinew from chest to thigh.
She followed St. John as they began with heel leads wherein the heel of the foot came down first and not the toe, and within seconds they were moving as if they were one rather than two people. Twenty minutes later Madame Duarte allowed for a five-minute break before demonstrating the second basic step. In between each of the five steps she allowed a break. Her staff kept time with the dancers gliding across the floor. Everything changed when she picked up a remote device and music filled the studio.
The Inheritance Page 11
