The Inheritance

by Rochelle Alers

  My word! she thought. Why did his voice have to be that resonant? It was a rich, velvety baritone.

  Gage rested a hand on St. John’s pale-gray linen suit jacket. “Follow me. I had the boss reserve a table for you and your lady not far from the stage.”

  She followed Gage and St. John to a table where they had an unobstructed view of the stage. Gage removed the “Reserved” sign from the table for two and walked away as St. John pulled out a chair for her.

  Hannah had come to accept the epithet St. John’s lady. She’d been given a second chance at finding companionship, and she knew if she did sleep with St. John it would be a no-strings-attached relationship. She wasn’t looking for marriage and it was apparent neither was he. She met St. John’s smile across the table with one of her own.

  “The house band is really good.” She recognized New Orleans’s native Dr. John’s classic hit “Right Time, Right Place.”

  “You’re right. They have a phenomenal horn section.”

  Hannah perused her menu. Jazzes offered a variety of shellfish appetizers along with frog’s legs persillés, chicken livers with bacon and pepper jelly, and creole-Italian pot stickers. “Everything looks good.”

  “Everything is good,” St. John confirmed.

  “What do you recommend?” she asked,

  “I’m partial to the chicken livers and oysters Rockefeller.”

  She nodded. “I think I’m going to order the pot stickers and shrimp with the red and white rémoulade sauce.”

  “The cover price includes a complimentary drink,” St. John informed her. “The drink menu is on the back.”

  Hannah looked at him through her lashes. The last time she shared a drink with St. John he’d cancelled their coming to Jazzes because she couldn’t keep her eyes open. “I’m definitely not going to order another hurricane,” she said teasingly. “And don’t you dare say anything,” she warned as he chuckled softly.

  “Why don’t you order a virgin hurricane?”

  She scrunched up her nose. “That would be the same as drinking fruit punch.”

  “Speaking of punch. The bartender happens to make an incredible Jamaican rum punch. It’s made with dark rum instead of dark and light rums for the hurricane.”

  Her expression brightened. “Okay. You can order it for me. But I’m going to warn you that if it has me mumbling and stumbling, then I’m not going to be responsible for any risqué behavior.”

  St. John winked at her. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll take you home and put you to bed before you embarrass yourself.” He signaled for the waiter, giving him their order and the tickets for their drinks.

  * * *

  The house band took a break before the first contenders took the stage and prerecorded music blared from powerful speakers set up around the one-story building. A young woman approached the table with their drinks, setting them down on coasters with the club’s logo.

  St. John tipped her, then raised his glass of Sazerac. “To the most beautiful woman in the room.”

  Hannah rolled her eyes. “What did I say about you going to hell in a handbasket? Quit lying, St. John.”

  “You don’t believe you’re beautiful?”

  “It’s not about what I look like.”

  “Then what is it, Hannah? Aren’t you used to men complimenting you on your looks?”

  She stared at the table. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  She glanced up, giving him a steady look. “I told you before that I don’t have a lot of experience with men.”

  “I’m not talking about sleeping with them. I’m certain even when you were married men tried hitting on you. And what about when you went out socially? You have to have met men when hanging out with your girlfriends.”

  “I don’t . . . I don’t have what you would call close girlfriends. I’ve sort of bonded with three women I used to work with. They’re coming down before the end of the month.”

  “Sort of bonded?” St. John listened intently as Hannah revealed how she and three of her former coworkers commiserated at her home with mimosas and Bellinis. “It sounds as if you and your friends didn’t seem too broken up about being downsized.”

  “That’s because after a while we all realized Wakefield Hamilton was just a slight bump on the road for us to get where we should be.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know why you’re so self-deprecating, Hannah, when you really have it together. You’re smart, beautiful, and you’re a lot stronger than you believe. There’re times when you’re so confident that I’m in awe and a little intimidated. Then you tell me I’m going to hell in a handbasket when I tell you something you’re not willing to accept. And where’s the fire I witnessed when you just about cussed me out when I told you I couldn’t study with you because I was on deadline to put out the school newspaper.”

  Hannah took a sip of her drink, staring at him over the rim. “Do you have to remind me of that?”

  “Yes, I do,” St. John countered. “Because all the pent-up rage you’d held in when you should’ve confronted the girls who bullied you was transferred to me.” Reaching across the table, he held her hand, tightening his grip when she attempted to pull away. “I know what you went through in high school, and if you hadn’t been as strong as you are, you never would’ve made it through. There were times when I wanted to shake the living shit out of you and tell you to fight back, but I didn’t and couldn’t.

  “I’m eight years older than my sister and I’d always looked out for her, but there came a time when I wasn’t there for her, so she knew she had to stand up for herself. She’d call me crying because there was a girl in the neighborhood that used to take Alicia’s money. Even though my mother warned us about fighting, I told Alicia the next time the girl approached her she should uppercut her in the nose, and then stand her ground if she came back at her. And if her brother got into it, then I’d drive from D.C. to New Orleans to kick his ass.”

  “Did she hit the girl?”

  St. John smiled. “No. My father heard from someone on the block that this girl was extorting money from younger kids. He approached the girl’s father and threatened to arrest her as a juvenile offender if she continued. Dad had earned the reputation as a no-nonsense, take-no-prisoners cop and Mr. Landry promised he would take care of it. My sister went on to become an intelligence analyst for the FBI, and her former tormenter is now a resident at a women’s prison where she’s serving a life sentence for murder.”

  Hannah’s eyes were large as silver dollars as she stared at St. John. “I’m glad it ended without you getting involved, but I still can’t imagine you fighting.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’ve always been so genteel.”

  “Everyone has a dark side. I try not to let folks see it.”

  She nodded. “You’re right. I’ve been known to drop F-bombs and four-letter words when I get pissed off.”

  St. John touched his glass to hers. “There you go. Now, what do we toast to?”

  Hannah raised her glass, smiling. “I toast the DuPonts, Baptistes, and Toussaints for making us who we are today. Badasses!”

  Pressing his fist to his mouth, he closed his eyes. “What in the world have I turned you into?”

  Setting down her glass, she flexed her arms. “I am woman. Hear me roar.”

  This was a side of Hannah St. John had never witnessed, and much to his chagrin he liked seeing her that way. He’d spent more than half his life with a timid woman whose childhood fears held her captive because she’d blamed herself for the deaths of her parents and younger brothers; it wasn’t until she finally found the strength to break free and stand on her own that she was able to talk about it. And looking back, he knew he never would have married Lorna if he’d known what she’d had to go through, because he always wanted children; they’d talked about starting a family and she’d been in agreement, but that was before they exchanged vows.

  St. John shook his head as if to clear
his mind of the painful memories of a time when he should have enjoyed his marriage without having to seek out other women to satisfy the primal human need for sexual fulfillment. His gaze shifted from Hannah to Gage as he approached their table.

  “Kezen, I have to ask you something, and if you don’t want to do it, then just say so.”

  “What is it, Gage?”

  “Our vocalist just told me the keyboard player is in the restroom throwing up, so would you be willing to sit in with us for a couple of numbers when I don’t have a horn solo?” he asked in French.

  He gave his younger cousin a long, penetrating stare, wanting to tell him he’d come to Jazzes to enjoy Hannah’s company, not play with the band. As a professional musician, Gage alternated playing piano and trumpet for the band, and the year before he’d asked him to sit in for the musician for six weeks after the man had nearly cut off the tip of his finger chopping onions.

  “I’d love to hear you play,” Hannah interjected, earning a frown from him.

  Gage’s eyes sparkled like semi-precious gems. “You heard the beautiful lady in red. She wants to hear you play.”

  “Je ne comprends pas English,” St. John said.

  “If you do understand English, then why don’t you give your kezen an answer,” Hannah drawled.

  Gage hunkered down beside Hannah. “Parlez-vous français?”

  “Not as well as I should,” she admitted.

  “I’m going to warn you that if you’re going to hang out with my family, then you’d better brush up on your French. The older folks speak only French to the young kids, and by the time they enter school they’re completely fluent in both English and French.”

  St. John’s gaze shifted from Hannah to Gage as waves of annoyance washed over him. He’d invited Hannah to accompany him to Jazzes not for her to hear him play piano; that was something they could do at another time. Even later that evening if she agreed to come home with him.

  And Gage was truly annoying him the way he was staring at Hannah. Then suddenly it hit St. John. He was jealous, jealous that his cousin had turned on his legendary charm most women were hopeless to resist. He knew jealousy meant his feelings for Hannah went beyond friendship. Yes, he liked her and was amenable to them to becoming friends with benefits. However, he wasn’t looking for a declaration of love from her. Both had been married to their respective spouses far too long to expect a lifetime commitment.

  “I’ll play two sets and not one more.” The warning was cold, exacting.

  Gage rose, smiling. “Merci.” He inclined his head to Hannah. “I hope I’ll get to see you again.”

  Hannah stared up at him through her lashes. “But of course.”

  St. John’s expression was a mask of stone. Either Hannah was the consummate actress or an expert liar when she’d admitted she hadn’t had a lot of experience with the opposite sex, because the look she gave Gage was one of an accomplished modern-day courtesan.

  He studied her under lowered lids, wondering if she was aware of her powers of seduction: her demure smiles, the way she’d look up at him from beneath lowered lids, and her formerly waiflike body to which motherhood and age had added womanly curves in all the right places and best displayed in whatever she chose to wear.

  A hint of a smile parted Hannah’s lips. “Gage is very charming.”

  St. John’s expression did not change. “Most women think so.”

  Her smile vanished quickly, replaced with a frown. “I’m not most women, St. John, because I’m not remotely interested in him. He’s much too young for me and—”

  “And what?” he asked when she didn’t complete her statement.

  “I like you too much to even consider getting involved with another man.”

  The sweep hand on his watch made a full revolution before he said, “And I you with other women.” The admission flowed off his tongue, and St. John realized he’d broken his own rule. He’d promised they would see each other over the summer but hadn’t been planning for anything beyond that time.

  He stared over her head at the black-and-white photographs of blues and jazz greats lining the wall. Although he’d vowed not to become emotionally involved with Hannah, he was forced to acknowledge he needed to connect with a woman for more than sex; that he only drove to Baton Rouge a couple of times a month because he craved female physical contact when he could have stayed home and masturbated.

  St. John realized Hannah represented more than sex. She was someone with whom he could talk, laugh, dance, and share his dreams. Little had he known when they were assigned as lab partners in biology it would lead to a friendship spanning four decades.

  Chapter 14

  Hannah knew New Orleans was lauded for its food, music, and renowned cocktails, but this was the first time she had experienced all three in one place. The tapas or small plates were phenomenal, the rum punch the best she’d ever tasted, and the talent of the amateur performers had left her in awe.

  Cocktail napkins were filled with notes she’d jotted down about each act. The notetaking was essential when it came to hiring a band for the supper club. In Hannah’s mind it was no longer if she opened the supper club, but when.

  “Which one do you like best?” St. John asked when she set down the pen.

  “Which do you think?” she countered.

  A knowing smile deepened the lines fanning out around his eyes as he reached into his suit jacket’s breast pocket and took out a pen. “I’m going to write down the names of the groups in order on a napkin, and then we’ll compare notes.”

  Hannah stared at St. John’s hand with long, slender fingers, marveling how he was the epitome of masculine grace and refinement. When he’d admitted to having a dark side, she remembered his cold warning to Matt to take his hands off her, and then there was the threat of confronting the brother of the girl who’d been harassing his sister. Although not as powerfully built as Eustace, St. John was undeniably physically fit, and she had no doubt even at his age he would prove formidable in a physical confrontation. The heavy bag and boxing gloves in his home gym bore the evidence of continual use.

  She perused the notes on the four napkins. Reaching for her pen, she wrote the bands in order of which she liked best and least. “My number one pick is the band with the singer whose style is similar to Sade Abu. My second choice is the band with the saxophonist who plays incredibly like Nelson Rangell. I happen to like saxophones,” she added when St. John gave her an incredulous look. “I’m conflicted about number three because I love the guy’s voice. He sounds like someone who’s popular now but I can’t recall his name. I think of him as a throwback to the records Daddy played.” She frowned. “My mother hated when Daddy played blues and R and B in the house, saying that type of music belonged in a juke joint. Grand-mère had to remind her daughter-in-law that gospel, blues, jazz, and R and B came out of the South, and if she wanted to hear opera, then she should move to Europe.”

  Smiling, St. John said, “Are you thinking of Anthony Hamilton?”

  She stared at him, complete surprise freezing her features. “How did you know it was him?”

  “It was a lucky guess.”

  “Yeah, right,” she drawled. “I’m willing to bet you have him on your playlist.”

  “I have a lot of songs on my playlist. You’ve named three, so who’s your last pick?”

  Hannah glanced at the napkin. “I’d have to say the group playing the funk jump blues.” Waves of shock rolled over her when St. John pushed his napkin across the table and she saw what he’d written down. His selections had matched hers. “How did you know?” It was the second time within minutes she’d asked him the same question.

  “I watched your face to see your reaction to each act.”

  “So now you think you know me that well?”

  St. John winked at her. “Well enough, sweetheart. The minute you took out that pen and started writing, I knew you were thinking of hiring a live act for your supper club.”

  She nodd
ed. “You’re right about that. I don’t want to pull in a young crowd; there’s enough places in the French Quarter and on Bourbon Street to eat, drink, and listen to jazz.”

  “What type of clientele do you want to attract?”

  “I’d like a forty-something and older clientele.”

  Resting an elbow on the table, he leaned forward. “I don’t think you’ll have a problem attracting them, because your inn guests will probably be around that age and would prefer checking into a place where they sleep eat, drink, and listen to live music without calling a taxi or getting into their cars.”

  “Remember, they can do that in certain hotels,” Hannah reminded St. John.

  “True, but staying at a hotel is less intimate than sleeping in a historic house in an equally historic neighborhood. There were times when I was a kid and my dad and I would drive past a house and I’d wonder who lived there and what it looked like inside.”

  Her expression brightened. “That reminds me that I’ve never given you a tour of DuPont House.”

  “Do you still have live-in help?”

  Hannah was slightly taken aback by St. John’s question because it was something she would have never anticipating his asking. “No. Why?”

  “When I used to come to your house for our study sessions, a maid always opened the door for me.”

  “As you like to say, that was another time. DuPont House always had live-in help from the time it was built and continued until my father passed away. The terms in my father’s will provided generously for long-time employees, and because I was living in New York at the time there was no need to employ them any longer. A few months later I convinced my cousins to move in and that’s when I contracted with a cleaning service to come in twice a month for a thorough cleaning, while the family-owned landscaping company who’d maintained the grounds and gardens since I was a girl still come every week during the summer months and twice a month during the other seasons.”

  “Do you plan to hire resident employees once the inn is up and running?”

  “No. If I’m going to live on the premises, I don’t want the employees to have access to the entire house. All of the rooms on the second floor will be set aside for guests, and the employees will have a designated area for them on the first floor. I’ll also show you the proposed floor plan for the inn.”