Her hands came up to circle his wrists. “Are you asking me out on a date?”
“What if I am?”
Hannah stared at him through her lashes. “I thought you didn’t date women.”
He smiled. “I don’t. But in your case I’m going to make an exception.”
The gray lashes shadowing her cheeks flew up. “Lucky me,” she drawled. “I haven’t dated in a while, so in your case, I’m the one who’s going to make an exception. And yes, I’ll go out with you.”
“Did anyone ever tell you that you have a wicked tongue?”
She flashed a sexy moue. “No. You’re the first.”
St. John pressed his lips against hers. “I’m going to have to do something about that tongue,” he whispered.
Her lips parted under his. “What do you propose?”
A low chuckle rumbled in his chest. “I’ll think of something.” Suddenly he went completely still. “Is that your stomach making noises?”
“Guilty as charged.”
St. John released her. “Don’t you eat?”
“I do,” Hannah insisted, “but I didn’t want to eat too much before our dance lesson.”
“I have some melon in the fridge you can have now if you’re really hungry.”
She slipped off the stool. “I’m not that hungry. Do you mind showing me your home?”
St. John wanted to tell Hannah she could see his home at another time, because he planned to invite her back each time they returned from the dance studio. Lessons were scheduled three times each week for three weeks, which meant he would get to see more of her than he could ever have anticipated.
“We’ll begin with upstairs and work our way down.”
* * *
Hannah followed St. John up the staircase to bedrooms with French doors leading to the veranda. Two of the bedrooms, overlooking the front, claimed en suite baths and two smaller bedrooms overlooked the rear and a flower garden that reminded her of Frances Hodgson Burnett’s classic fairy tale The Secret Garden. Wrought-iron grates cradled stacks of wood in the bedrooms’ working fireplaces.
All of the furnishings were meticulously selected in keeping with the region and climate. Yards of diaphanous white fabric billowed from the many narrow open windows, pooling on the floor like mounds of frothy cream. She was particularly drawn to the window seats covered in fabrics matching or contrasting with the bed dressings. Mahogany plank floors were covered with priceless hand-knotted imported Turkish rugs. It was obvious St. John’s aunt had taken particular care in restoring the farmhouse to its original beauty.
“Did your aunt live here alone?” she asked St. John as they descended the rear staircase.
“Yes. She never took up with anyone after her common-law husband died. When I asked her why she bought a house with so many rooms, she said she was used to living in a grand house, and she’d feel claustrophobic in anything smaller.”
“Are the furnishings antiques or reproductions?” Hannah asked, because every stick of furniture in DuPont had been appraised and catalogued as antiques. If and when she turned her residence into a business, she knew had to secure valuable items that could arbitrarily find their way into a guest’s luggage.
“They’re all reproductions. Why do you ask?”
“I was just thinking about the furnishings in my home.” She paused. “I’m contemplating turning DuPont into an inn.”
St. John stopped at the bottom of the staircase, turning and staring directly at her. “How long have you thought about it?”
“Almost a year. When I came down last Christmas, I discussed it with my cousins, and even though they don’t want to be involved in running an inn, they said to go for it.”
His eyebrows lifted questioningly. “You plan to run an inn from New York?”
“That’s not possible. Even if my position hadn’t been downsized, I eventually would’ve had to resign. I just didn’t think it would come this soon.”
“So, the prodigal daughter has decided to leave the Big Apple for the Big Easy,” he teased, grinning. Hannah landed a soft punch to his shoulder, wincing when her hand met solid muscle. “That serves you right for resorting to violence,” St. John chided as he picked her up, swung her around, and then set her on her feet. “I like the idea of you going into business for yourself.”
“You do?”
“Of course. Homes the size of DuPont House are dinosaurs. Unless you have a large or extended family living there, it becomes a money pit where you’re spending tons of money just for the upkeep.”
“As soon as the permits and license are approved I plan to meet with an engineer to inspect and sign off on the occupancy, and then an architectural historian and/or interior designer to authenticate the furnishings and to update my homeowner’s policy from their last appraisal.”
Reaching for her hand, St. John tucked it into the bend of his elbow. “It looks as if you’ve taken care of everything to become Nawlins’s latest innkeeper.”
A slight frown furrowed her smooth forehead as she followed St. John into the sunroom. “Not everything. I have two guesthouses on the property, and I’m not certain whether I want to use them for live-in employee housing or have them torn down.”
“Can’t you use them for an overflow of guests?” St. John asked.
“No.” Hannah told him she was limited to nine rooms, and if she were to include the guesthouses, then she would have to start the permit process over because DuPont House would be deemed a hotel.
“A couple of years ago I stayed at an inn on the east end of Long Island, and they didn’t serve meals in the main house but had turned guest and carriage houses into restaurants where guests of the inn were given priority over the general public.”
That’s it! St. John had solved her dilemma. “You’re a genius, St. John.”
He looked at her, totally surprised. “I am?”
“Of course you are. You’ve just given me the answer to what I can do with the guesthouses.” Cameron had suggested she solicit investors and Hannah knew exactly who she was going to approach with the possibility of investing in her future business enterprise.
“So, you’re going to convert them into restaurants?”
“What do you think of me operating one to offer brunch for guests and the other as a supper club with live music for the general public?”
St. John winked at Hannah. “You’re the genius. Once you get an idea you really run with it, don’t you?”
She felt a warm glow flow through her with his compliment. “I never would’ve thought of it if you hadn’t mentioned it.”
“Yeah, you would,” he countered, pulling her close and resting his chin on her head. “Hannah DuPont, innkeeper. Who would’ve thought it all those years ago when those mean girls tried to get the better of you that you would come out victorious?”
Burying her face against his warm throat, she inhaled the lingering scent of soap on his skin. She wanted to tell St. John it wasn’t about payback or retaliation. It was more about her coming home and into her own. Perhaps if she hadn’t seen the gut-wrenching photographs of burnt and tortured bodies hanging from trees she wouldn’t be who she was now. There was no doubt she would’ve met and married Robert Lowell; however, she was certain her path would not have crossed with St. John McNair’s.
And now that she looked back to the sleepover that changed her life, she didn’t regret it had happened, because it proved she was blessed with the same grit that Margit used to manipulate the father of her children to grant not only them but all future generations of DuPonts of color emancipation.
Reluctantly she eased out of St. John’s embrace, still feeling his warmth and strength. He’d talked about taking care of her, and in that instant she decided that was exactly what she was going to let him do. Exhaling an inaudible sigh, she glanced around the sunroom. It was an oasis of light and color with a trio of dark-green rattan loungers covered in canary-yellow cushions. A number of massive potted planters at opposite ends
of the structure, overflowing with ferns and cacti, brought the outdoors inside. A wooden table hewn from a single tree trunk seated six, and a rattan sectional grouping provided seating for an additional six persons, and a flat-screen television and audio components set the stage for relaxed entertaining.
“How often do you entertain outdoors?” she asked, peering through the glass at the pergola covered with English ivy and pink climbing roses growing in wild abandon.
St. John moved behind her, his moist breath feathering over an ear. “It depends on the weather. I usually extend an invitation to my staff and faculty during Christmas and at the end of the school term. It’s my turn to host my family’s reunion this year, and next month the house, patio, and garden will be will be filled with Toussaints and Baptistes from toddlers to boomers.”
Hannah thought about her own family, which had steadily decreased over the years. It had been her father who had kept the DuPonts together, but after he died she lost contact with many of them. And not making New Orleans her primary residence for more than three decades made their connection even more fragile. Except for an occasional exchange of Christmas cards, she wouldn’t have known where they were or if they were dead or alive.
“How often do the DuPonts get together for reunions?” St. John asked, seemingly reading her mind.
“Not often enough. I have some distant cousins scattered around the state, but unfortunately I’ve never met them.”
“Maybe now that you’re back you’ll try to connect with them.”
She wanted to tell St. John that tracing her family roots wasn’t a priority. Opening the inn topped her wish list. “Speaking of family, I still have to give you the printout of my family tree.” Hannah returned to living room, where she’d left the tote on the floor next to an armchair, then retraced her steps and handed him the folder.
St. John set the folder on the edge of a corner table with a vase of dried hydrangeas. “I’ll look at it later. Right now I have to finish making the slaw, broil the fish, and then we’ll eat.”
Chapter 11
Hannah closed her eyes as St. John pressed a light kiss to her forehead. Not only was he an accomplished cook but he’d also been the consummate host. He’d kept her laughing recalling the eccentricities of several teachers: two teachers who wore the same suit for the duration of the school year and another who favored white bucks because he’d once belonged to Pat Boone’s fan club. After dinner she’d offered to help him clean up, but he quickly ushered her out of the house to his car, saying he had everything under control.
“Good night,” he whispered in her ear, after driving her home.
“Good night, and thank you again for a wonderful evening.”
He kissed her again, this time on her cheek. “That goes both ways, Hannah.”
She stood there watching as he returned to his car and drove away, the gates protecting the property closing and locking automatically once she tapped the icon on her cell. The warm, fuzzy feeling she’d experienced when spending the afternoon and evening with St. John continued as she checked on Smokey. Hannah tried to spend time with the kitten to avoid it becoming bored and engaging in destructive behavior. Retrieving the teaser cat wand with a feather attachment, she flicked the toy over and over until Smokey tired and retreated to the mudroom to lap up mouthfuls of water.
After placing clean litter in the litter robot, Hannah extinguished overhead lights, leaving on table lamps in the parlor and entryway. Despite the high-tech security system and neighborhood watch, she didn’t like plunging the house into complete darkness. She climbed the staircase and tried imagining guests doing the same as they were escorted to their bedroom suites. She was still in a quandary whether to install an elevator to offset having to climb the eighteen stairs between the first and second floors.
When she’d told Cameron she wanted to convert DuPont House into an inn, what had initially been a whim became now more of a reality once he promised to use his influence to fast-track the approval for the permits. St. John’s mention of taking his meals in the carriage house when staying at a Long Island inn had sparked another idea as to how she could use the two structures that were once used to accommodate an overflow of guests whenever her parents hosted Thanksgiving and Christmas family dinners, charity functions, or political fund-raisers. She couldn’t wait for her former co-workers to arrive so she could talk to Tonya about the possibility of her investing in the DuPont Inn as the owner of a brasserie and/or supper club.
Hannah went through her nightly routine of brushing her teeth and washing her face. She slathered a light layer of moisturizer over her face and neck, and then pulled on a nightgown. Soaking in the Jacuzzi, followed by a stint in the steam room, had eased the tight muscles in her calves. Smiling, she got into bed and reached for the stack of mail on the bedside table. Becoming St. John’s dance partner definitely had its perks; his in-home spa among them. Not only did she enjoy being in his home but she also enjoyed the man. It was as if they’d picked up where they’d left off so many years ago, and it was comforting to know they were still friends.
She sorted through several envelopes, some of which had been forwarded from New York, finding most of it to be junk mail and magazines. There had been a time when she’d become a magazine junkie, subscribing to publications featuring fashion, beauty, travel, and entertainment. Reading the periodicals had become her guilty pleasure before realizing as a newlywed she was bored and lonely. Her newly commissioned officer husband was halfway around the world in the South China Sea, while she passed the time reading magazines, cleaning their spotless apartment, and watching daytime and nighttime soap operas whenever she wasn’t hovering over the bathroom commode losing the contents of her stomach.
Two months after exchanging vows she discovered she was pregnant, despite Robert using protection. She’d just begun her second trimester when her husband returned home to the news he was going to be a father. Robert’s response wasn’t what Hannah had expected: He didn’t demonstrate the excitement she would have expected from him. It was naïveté on her part when she suspected he was shocked that they would become parents that quickly; because they’d talked about waiting two years.
Unbeknownst to her, the first fissure in her marriage appeared after Robert confessed to his mother-in-law his son was undeniably a Lowell because he’d inherited their dark hair, eyes, and features. Hannah, shocked into silence, was unable to wrap her head around the notion that her husband had believed her unfaithful. Years later she was shocked again once she discovered he’d been the serial adulterer.
Opening a circular from an upscale department store, she found two postcards from her cousins:
She picked up the other card with a glossy photograph of the Danube River:
Hannah smiled. It was obvious the retired schoolteachers were enjoying themselves. She flipped through the circular, placing it on the table along with the cards, and then perused the cover of New York Magazine. She’d flipped open to an article that caught her attention when her cell rang.
Hannah picked it up, smiling when St. John’s name and number appeared on the screen. “This is Hannah.”
“Hi, sweetheart. I’m sorry to be calling so late—”
“It’s not late, St. John,” she said, interrupting him, and wondering if he knew it was the second time he’d called her sweetheart.
“What time do you usually go to bed?” he asked.
“Now that I’m among the ranks of the unemployed, I don’t have a designated bedtime, even though I usually get up early to run with Letitia Parker.”
“I think I heard someone mention that she’d come back to New Orleans. I always thought she should’ve become a jazz rather than a country singer. But I didn’t call you to talk about Letitia. I just got a group text from Madame Duarte that the studio will be closed until further notice.”
“What happened?”
“There was an electrical fire in a second floor office, and even though the fire department put
it out quickly, the building sustained some water damage. She has to wait for an insurance adjuster to assess the damage to the studio before repairs can begin. She’s given all her students the option of having their money refunded or waiting until she can reschedule classes. What do you want to do?”
Hannah wanted to tell him it wasn’t her decision to make. After all, he’d paid for the course. “What you want?” she said, repeating his question.
“I’d like to continue, but I don’t know what you’ve planned for the summer, so it would be presumptuous of me to re-register without first checking with you.”
“Re-register, St. John.”
There came a pause. “I was hoping you’d say that.” He paused again. “Are we still on for Friday?”
She smiled. “But of course.”
His soft laugh caressed her ear through the earpiece. “I’ll let you get back to whatever you were doing and I’ll pick you up Friday at nine.”
“I’ll be ready.”
Hannah ended the call and set the phone on the table. She’d been looking forward to dancing with St. John only because it took up the hours that she probably would have spent either in the parlor watching talk shows or reading with Smokey sleeping next to her on the porch rocker.
It’d been years since she hadn’t had anything to do. After earning a degree in education, she taught at the base school for two years after Wyatt entered kindergarten. And knowing her heart wasn’t in it, she resigned and began studying for the LSAT. Whenever she sat down with her son at the kitchen table to do homework or study, they’d become students together as well as mother and son. And once she received the letter indicating she’d passed the test for admission to law school, her outlook on life changed dramatically. Her father sent her a card congratulating her along with a check for the first year’s tuition.
The Inheritance Page 13
