The Inheritance

by Rochelle Alers

  “How about after we leave here? You can give me the tour and show me the plans.”

  “Okay.” Hannah realized St. John would be the only one, with the exception of her family, who would see what she’d envisioned as her plan to preserve DuPont House for the next generation. Once she revealed her plan to convert the mansion into a business to her son, Wyatt surprised her when he said it was something he could see himself doing once he retired. Knowing another generation of DuPonts would live at the house was comforting because she didn’t want groups or a family of strangers living in the historic house once she, LeAnn, and Paige were gone.

  A waiter came over to the table. “St. John, you’re wanted onstage.”

  Rising to stand, St. John loosened his tie, and then took off his jacket, handing it to Hannah. “I’ll be right back.”

  She stared at his slender physique as he mounted the steps to the stage and sat on the piano bench. The label on the pale-gray linen jacket indicated it hadn’t come off a department store rack, but had been expressly tailored for him.

  The house band had returned. Her gaze shifted to St. John as he studied a page of sheet music at the same time he rolled back his shirt cuffs. He’d played piano for the high school’s jazz band, and while she’d taken piano and dance lessons, she’d never been able to master playing the more advanced compositions. The music teacher had her practice over and over, and after a while he gave up.

  Gage, dressed entirely in black, moved closer to the mic stand. “You good folks know that on Fridays we take requests from the floor, and tonight we’re going to feature a couple of selections from Chris Botti’s Night Sessions and after that for those who want something a little more upbeat, we’re going to entertain you with music from the Soul Rebels.”

  Thunderous applause went up from the assembly, Hannah included. The New Orleans–based brass ensemble was a favorite of her cousins who saw them perform at Brad Pitt’s Night to Make It Right Foundation charity event hosted by Ellen DeGeneres to raise money to build homes for victims of Hurricane Katrina. Paige had sent her one of their CDs, and after listening to it, Hannah immediately downloaded several others into her smart phone. The horns and percussion elicited a funky party-like mood that never failed to have her dancing around the apartment, followed by the yearning to return to her roots to see them live at Les Bon Temps Roulé, a bar where they still played whenever they weren’t touring.

  There were so many things she missed about New Orleans: starting the day with coffee and beignets at Café du Monde, riding the St. Charles Avenue streetcar, taking the steamboat Natchez dinner cruise, strolling Bourbon Street with its string of bars offering lethal concoctions, topless dancers, drag shows, and visiting Frenchmen Street for eardrum-blasting music. And whenever she saw footage of Mardi Gras celebrations, Hannah would immediately turn off the television because homesickness would sweep over her so strongly it was palpable. That was when she wanted to pack up everything and return home to a city with a history as diverse as its people.

  Inhaling, she held her breath, and then let it out in an inaudible exhalation. She didn’t know why it had taken her forty years to come to the realization that she should never have left. Even as a newlywed she didn’t have to follow Robert from base to base. They could have purchased a house in New Orleans where their son could connect with the DuPonts and the Lowells instead of waiting for funerals to meet relatives who were no more than strangers.

  The house lights dimmed, leaving the stage lit as two backup singers and Gage moved closer to their respective microphones. Within seconds the building was filled with the sensually sultry haunting sounds of Latin rhythms, Gage’s trumpet, and one of the female vocalists crooning about how all would envy an older man and his beautiful young wife.

  Hannah watched St. John. He was playing without reading the sheet music; she wondered if he’d given it a cursory glance and then memorized each note. She smiled. The man with whom she’d found herself enthralled was truly incredible, something she’d only glimpsed when they were in school together. As promised, he played two sets and then left the stage as another trumpeter, percussionist, and sousaphonist joined the band.

  St. John returned to the table, leaning over and brushing a light kiss over her mouth. “You were wonderful,” she whispered.

  He pulled his chair close to hers, smiling. “It did feel nice to perform in public again.”

  Looping an arm around his neck, Hannah rested her head on his shoulder, her nose nuzzling his ear. She closed her eyes, seemingly sinking into his strength, and marveling she felt so safe and comfortable with St. John, something she’d never experienced with Robert.

  She didn’t know why she continually compared St. John to her late husband; a man who, when she thought back, was more stranger than husband and partner; a man whom she’d come to know only during the last two years of his life. Although they did not share a bedroom, she and Robert had become a couple for the first time in their lives. Unfortunately, it had come too late for Hannah, because though she did love her husband, she couldn’t trust him. And for her, trust was the bedrock on which any relationship was based.

  “Are you ready to join the band?” she teased St. John.

  “No way. I can’t see myself spending the summer rehearsing for hours, playing at night until the sun comes up, and then sleeping away the morning and getting up in the afternoon. I like music, but not enough to want a career as a musician.”

  All conversations stopped when the band launched into an upbeat sound that blended funk with jazz. Hannah’s foot kept time with the driving rhythms, knowing if given the opportunity she would get up and dance.

  It was close to midnight when St. John whispered he was ready to leave. She’d wanted to tell him she’d been ready leave after the amateur hour concluded. Although videotaping was prohibited, she’d wanted to film the performers so she could view them again at another time. Hannah knew she would have to return to Jazzes on subsequent Friday nights before she could determine which ones she would audition, and because of her limited musical knowledge, she would solicit St. John and now Gage’s input as to the finalists.

  * * *

  Hannah opened the front door and quickly deactivated the security system. Smokey sat at the door to greet them. “Hey, big boy.” She stared over her shoulder at St. John. “Come in.”

  “Are you certain your attack cat isn’t going to jump me?”

  She took off her shoes, leaving them on a mat near the table, and then removed the pins from her hair, releasing a profusion of silver blond waves that fell around her face and neck. She dropped the pins in a crystal bowl with car fobs and keys.

  “Very funny. I overheard you earlier tonight talking smack to him just before I walked into the parlor.”

  St. John also removed his shoes, placing them next to Hannah’s. “That’s because he was giving me the stink-eye.”

  Reaching for his hand, Hannah led him across the great room to the staircase. “He must sense that you’re a male, and because of that he has to protect me.”

  “Who’s going to protect me from you?” he asked her in a tone so soft she had to strain her ears to hear.

  Hannah stopped on the first step and stared at St. John. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

  St. John’s lids lowered, hiding his innermost thoughts from her. “But I do,” he said after a comfortable pause, “because it wasn’t my intent to like you as much as I do. When I saw you at the reunion, I knew something had changed between us. I knew you were a widow, and because you’d come unescorted, I was hoping you weren’t involved with a man. I wanted us to pick up where we left off in high school.”

  “But we were friends in high school,” she reminded him.

  “And that’s all I wanted from you. Friendship, Hannah. But somehow things changed, and now I want more.”

  Hannah cradled his face in her hands, feeling the slight stubble of an emerging beard against her palms. “Things didn’t change, St. John. We ch
anged. We’re not who we were in high school. Both of us have loved, and those we loved are now lost to us. We’re now given a second chance, if not to love again, then to enjoy each other. We have memories spanning forty years, and there is the possibility that we can make new memories for the next forty.”

  A slow smile crinkled the skin around St. John’s eyes. “If that’s the case, then we’ll probably be wearing adult diapers, putting our teeth in a jar at night, and waking up each morning marveling that we’re still alive.”

  Hannah smiled when she had a mental image of them holding on to each other for support when walking. “Speak for yourself, St. John. At ninety-eight I’m willing to bet I’ll still be jumping your bones.”

  “We don’t have to wait until we’re ninety-eight for you to jump my bones.”

  His eyes darkened, his stare hot enough to melt the clothes off her body. Hannah wondered if she’d ventured too far out into dangerous waters and whether she would be able to return safely. “What are you implying?”

  St. John’s hands went around her waist, pulling her close. “After you take me on a tour of the house and while I look over the plans for the inn, I want you to take care of Smokey, and then pack an overnight bag. We’re going to spend the night at my place, where we can begin practicing, so after forty years we’ll know if we got it right.”

  Hannah wanted to tell him that she was just joking about jumping his bones, because although she’d found herself physically attracted to St. John, she still wasn’t ready to engage in an intimate relationship with him. And due to her age and limited experience with the opposite sex, she still harbored a hang-up about not knowing if she could please her partner.

  “By that time I don’t think I’ll be able to open my legs wide enough for you to poke me,” she teased.

  “Then I’ll just have to take you doggy style. I’ll break you down like a shotgun and poke you from the back.”

  Pressing her mouth to his, Hannah pulled his lower lip between her teeth. “You are so nasty.”

  St. John’s hands moved lower to her hips, pulling her against his groin. “There’s nothing wrong with being nasty every once in a while.” He patted her bottom. “I’m ready whenever you are to begin the tour.”

  * * *

  St. John saw firsthand the magnificence of the rooms in the historic mansion with its original furnishings dating back to the mid to late eighteenth century. The addition of modern conveniences like plumbing, heating, and electricity did not alter the beauty and charm of a structure erected in a time in American history when cotton, sugar, and slaves brought untold wealth to those whose livelihoods depended on these commodities. Hannah boasted that chairs, tables, and beds had been transported from Etienne’s plantation home in Saint-Domingue to New Orleans once the construction of DuPont House was completed.

  “I noticed on the family tree that Etienne and Margit had one son and three daughters. Why did he commission a house this large to be built when they would’ve been more than comfortable in one half the size?”

  Hannah lifted her shoulders. “I really don’t know. I suppose he was planning for them to have a lot more children, as people did in those days. His son René, who’d been educated in France, married the daughter of a wealthy French merchant and together they had thirteen children, so at one time they were able to occupy all the bedrooms on this floor. Once the boys reached their teens, they were permitted to sleep downstairs.”

  “What about the girls?”

  “They weren’t allowed in the company of men unless chaperoned by their father, brothers, or other male relatives. They were quick to protect the virtues of the DuPont women while they were running amuck procreating with either slave or free women of color.”

  St. John had begun gleaning research on gen de couleur libres from public records, old newspapers, reference departments in local libraries, and out-of-print books, yet knew the most factual would come from family archival material, and from someone like Hannah who was well versed in her family’s history.

  “I’m going to have to replace the wallpaper, repair the rugs, and redo the floors,” Hannah stated offhandedly. “Then of course there’s painting to be done inside and out. I had the windows replaced three years ago, so that’s one project I can cross off my list.”

  St. John curved an arm around her waist. “This place looks good compared to some of the old houses I’ve been in. And many of the bedrooms don’t have en suite baths, which is not the case with this house.”

  “The one thing I detested when living in a dorm on campus was the communal bathrooms. It wasn’t until my last year that I lived in off-campus housing where I didn’t have to share a bathroom. Folks talk about boys being slobs, but the habits of some girls are so nauseating that it would turn your stomach to see what they leave around.”

  “I think I get the picture,” St. John said.

  “We’ll take the back stairs down to the first floor. I was thinking about putting in an elevator, but that’s something I have to discuss with the engineer.”

  “Why would you need an elevator with a two-story house?”

  She gave him a sidelong glance. “What if someone can’t walk the stairs or they’re in a wheelchair?”

  He lifted his eyebrows. “True. Where would you install it?”

  “There’s a dumbwaiter in an area between the kitchen and what we used as a ballroom that was sealed up years ago. It could be reopened and expanded to accommodate an elevator.”

  St. John did not want to envision what it would take to convert his home into a B & B. Waiting for approval after filing for the license and permits would test the limits of his patience, and he didn’t want to sleep under the same roof as strangers, something that would occur for Hannah once DuPont Inn opened for business. He didn’t want to alarm Hannah as to the possibility of the theft of priceless artifacts once her guests checked out. Secreting hotel towels in one’s luggage was a minor offense when compared to walking off with a pair of circa eighteenth century sterling candlesticks. She didn’t want resident employees, which, as a woman living in a house filled with strangers, left her vulnerable: What about her guests? How was she to know if someone with less than good intentions had checked in and might cause her bodily harm or put her life in danger?

  He had asked Hannah, “Who’s going to protect me from you?” when he should have asked who was going to protect her. He’d promised to take care of her whenever they were together, and only now had the glibly spoken vow become even more concrete. It was one thing for her to establish a business enterprise to sustain her for her own future and the potential future generations of DuPonts, but to risk her well-being was something St. John couldn’t fathom.

  Walking alongside of her down a narrow hallway, St. John stopped at the entrance to a kitchen larger than some of the sharecropper shacks built along the roads in the cotton-growing region of the state. The kitchen was a blend of ultramodern gourmet and farmhouse country. Stainless-steel double ovens, dishwashers and microwaves, a cooking island with a commercial stovetop and grill, and a French-door refrigerator were totally incongruent with the coffered ceiling, terracotta floor, brick walls, and a massive brick wood-burning fireplace. Granite countertops, a breakfast bar, and three stainless steel sinks provided a professional chef with everything he or she would need to cater a lavish dinner for the host’s guests.

  “You must do some serious cooking in here.”

  “Not as much as I should,” Hannah said, beckoning him to come in. “There was a time when my grandmother lived with us and we had large family celebrations during the holidays. But that’s before I had the kitchen remodeled.”

  St. John walked over to the round bleached pine and oak table with seating for six, running his fingertips over the smooth surface. “What made you decide to remodel it when the other rooms in the house remain untouched?”

  “Convenience,” she said in a quiet voice. “The gas burner needed replacement parts that were obsolete, and the plumbing w
as constantly being repaired.”

  “You did all of this even though you didn’t live here?”

  Hannah stared down at her bare feet for several seconds. “I knew someday that I’d come back, even though it came sooner than later.”

  Crossing his arms over his chest, St. John stared at the hair framing her face, a face that had changed for the better. It was fuller, her jawline more defined, and her eyes seemed more alive than when she was a girl. Then, he’d always glimpsed sadness even when she smiled; he knew she’d been ridiculed by those who were quite vocal because they thought of her as a poor little rich girl, but somehow she’d become the consummate actress who appeared unaffected by their taunts. Her attitude communicated that as a DuPont, she was above them, and therefore whatever they said was of no consequence. The ice princess had turned into an ice queen with just enough fire for him to see her in a whole new light.

  “When I come for Sunday dinner, will we eat here or in the dining room?”

  “We can eat anywhere you want. Weather permitting, we can even eat outdoors.”

  His gaze shifted to the table and then an alcove that doubled as an in-home office. A computer sat on a built-in desk along with a printer; cookbooks and magazines lined a hutch with a diffuser and jars of scented candles.

  “I think I’d like to eat in here.” St. John walked over to the expanse of windows. It was too dark to see outside.

  “In the daytime you can see the guesthouses from here. And just beyond them are the gardens with the koi pond.” He smiled. She’d read his mind.

  Hannah made her way over to the desk. “I did promise to show you the tentative renderings. Now that I’m planning to use the guesthouses, the architect will have to revise them.”

  St. John watched as she retrieved a leather tube, removed the rolled-up plans, and spread them out on the table, using the candle jars to keep them from rolling up again. She stood close, close enough for their shoulders to touch and close enough for him to detect the flowery scent from her shampoo. There was a time when he’d thought of Hannah as benign because he knew there wouldn’t or couldn’t be anything remotely romantic between them. That was then and this was now.