“They can come, too,” he said, cutting her off. “The more the merrier. If this is their first time coming to Nawlins, then ‘Laissez les bon temps rouler!’”
She flashed a sexy moue. “Don’t be surprised if they let the good times roll Big Apple style.”
St. John shook his head. “There’s no comparison, sweetheart. If New York is the city that never sleeps, then New Orleans is the city with a nonstop party. Food, music, and drink are the heart and soul of our illustrious city.”
“Don’t you mean infamous,” Hannah teased.
He nodded, smiling. “Au dit.”
Hannah opened a drawer under the cooking island. “I need you to tutor me in French because I’m really rusty when it comes to speaking it.”
“You understood au dit?”
“Yes. It means ditto, or the same. I understand the language, read it, but I hesitate speaking it.”
St. John watched Hannah slip on a white bibbed apron. “You’re probably thinking in English. The instant someone speaks to me in French or Creole, I automatically think in that language, which makes it easier for me to respond.”
“Where did you learn to speak Creole?”
“The Toussaints were brought here from Saint-Domingue and some of them spoke French, their own patois, and English. When they didn’t want folks to know what they were talking about, they’d lapse into Creole. The ones who speak only Creole understand French but are unwilling to speak it.”
“Will they be at your family reunion?”
“Yes. Do you need help with anything?” he asked as she opened the refrigerator and removed a baking sheet with squares of dough.
“You can carve the turkey once it’s done. Thankfully, I have everything under control.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“I’m going to bake the shortcakes and let them cool before filling them with strawberries and cream. Meanwhile, I plan for us to start with stuffed mushrooms as an appetizer. Dinner will include Caesar salad; broiled asparagus with garlic, shaved parmesan, and olive oil; turkey, and potato salad.” She reached in the drawer again, handing him an apron.
“You’re quite the little chef.”
Hannah gave him a facetious smile. “And you thought I couldn’t cook.”
St. John slipped on the apron, looping the ties around his waist. “I must admit I was skeptical.”
“Why?”
He lifted his shoulders. “I don’t know. I suppose it’s because you grew up with household help that I figured you wouldn’t be that proficient in the kitchen.”
“And I never thought you’d be that narrow-minded,” Hannah chided.
“Come on, sweetheart, you know I’m not that far from the truth. You were dropped off and picked up from school by your father’s chauffeur. A maid always greeted visitors at the door, and don’t forget you were introduced to polite society at a debutante ball.”
“That has nothing to do with who I am.”
St. John saw spots of color dot Hannah’s cheeks. It was apparent he’d insulted her, and that was something he didn’t want to do. “You’re right. You’re the antithesis of your privileged upbringing.”
“Maybe it’s because I know who I really am. I’m certain you’re familiar with the expression ‘vous ne pouvez pas savoir où vous allez si vous ne savez pas où vous venez de.’ ”
St. John gave her long, penetrating look, and then nodded. He’d given countless lectures, reminding his students that in order to know where they were going they had to know where they’ve come from. “Just who are you?”
Hannah turned on the lower oven, and then tapped the panel to program the temperature. “Have you ever heard of Madame Mignon Chartres?”
St. John had read about Madame Chartres, who ran the most popular sporting house in Storyville before legalized vice was abolished in 1917. “Yes. What about her?”
“Madame Chartres was my maternal grandmother.”
St. John looked at Hannah as if she’d just taken leave of her senses. “No!”
She smiled. “Yes. Mignon was the mistress of a very wealthy banker whose wife was unable to have children, so he paid Mignon to give him a child, and in return he set her up in business. Mignon became pregnant, and after giving birth to a daughter, she handed the baby over to her benefactor, who recorded the infant’s birth as his and his wife’s. That daughter was my mother. She lived in a grand house overlooking Bayou St. John for the first ten years of her life, until her father sold it and moved his family to a townhouse on Esplanade Avenue. My mother did everything she could to overcome the stigma of being the biological daughter of a prostitute, but there were times when I realized she tried too hard.”
“How did she find out that her mother was Mignon?”
“Her adoptive mother was a very bitter woman who taunted Clarissa every day of her life that she was going to turn out like Mignon Chartres. After she married Lester DuPont, Clarissa turned her back on the woman who’d raised her, refusing to see her as she lay dying from tuberculosis. However, she did attend her funeral, and there was talk that she spat on her grave.”
“Where was your grandfather during this time?”
“He died from a ruptured appendix several months after moving his family into the townhouse. My uncle handled the estate, giving his sister-in-law a monthly allowance to run her household until her death. My mother as the sole heir inherited everything, which made her quite well off. The only thing she craved was respectability, and she got that as a DuPont.” A wry smile twisted Hannah’s mouth. “Now you know the whole sordid story about who I am and where I came from. Do you still want to have a relationship with a prostitute’s granddaughter?”
Closing the distance between them, St. John pulled Hannah close until their bodies were molded from chest to thigh. “What did I tell you about self-deprecation?”
Tilting her chin, she looked up at him. “I do remember you mentioning that. In fact, I remember a lot of things whenever I’m with you.”
He studied her face, noticing a sprinkling of freckles over her nose and cheeks that hadn’t been there before. “Like what?”
Hannah blinked once. “Like how long it’s been since I’ve enjoyed being with a man.”
St. John buried his face in her hair. They were close, close enough for him to feel the runaway beating of her heart against his chest. “What else, sweetheart?”
“How long it’s been since I’ve shared a bed with a man.”
He closed his eyes. “Is that really what you want?”
“Yes.” The single word was a whisper.
St. John wanted to confess to Hannah that it had been a long time since he’d slept in the same bed with a woman, only to get up and leave once their lovemaking ended. Not once had he ever spent an entire night with any of the women with whom he’d had sex.
He knew what he was going to say would change them forever. Sleeping with Hannah would differ from sleeping with the other women because they would go to bed together and wake up together. “Do you have a carrier for Smokey?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Pack up everything you need for him and yourself for a couple of days, because the McNair B and B is now open for business.”
“Are you certain you want a cat in your house?”
St. John kissed Hannah’s forehead, then nuzzled her ear. “We dudes have to bond if I’m going to hang out with his auntie. I’m certain after a few beers we’ll have a real bromance.”
Hannah landed a soft punch to his shoulder. “You will not turn my cousins’ cat into a drunk.”
“One of my cousins had a pork rind-eating cat that used to knock over beer cans and lap up the residue. He was so tanked that he couldn’t move, even if you threatened to step on him.”
“That’s cruel and inhumane.”
“No, it wasn’t. He was meaner than a junkyard dog when sober. That damn cat would spring from the floor and go for your face if you attempted to make eye contact with him.”
“Yep.”
“You’re incorrigible. I can leave Smokey here unless you really want to bring him, because he has an automatic feeder, watering system, and self-cleaning litter box.”
“Hot damn! Mr. Smokey is definitely living the high life.” St. John kissed Hannah again, this time on the mouth. “Bring him.”
Hannah disentangled herself from his arms. “I have to put the mushrooms in the oven or we’ll be eating the appetizer along with dinner.”
“Are you certain I can’t help you with something?”
“You can take out the pitcher of punch I have in the fridge and pour us a couple of glasses.” She placed the baking sheet with the stuffed mushrooms on a shelf in the oven with the shortcakes.
St. John opened the refrigerator and found the glass pitcher, covered with clear plastic wrap, filled with orange, lemon, cherries, and lime slices in a sparkling amber liquid. His gaze lingered on a glass bowl of potato salad and another bowl with shredded romaine.
“Is this rum punch?”
Hannah filled two double old-fashioned glasses with ice. “It’s a combination of rum punch and sangria, and because we’re going to have prosecco with dinner, I decided to go light on the rum and red wine.”
“Who taught you to cook?”
“My mother, my daddy’s mother, and a friend’s mother, who will remain nameless, because she secretly gave me her award-winning recipes for seafood gumbo, red beans and rice, and jambalaya.”
“Is yours as good as hers?”
“It’s good, but my jambalaya is missing lagniappe.”
“Are you certain?” Hannah nodded. “Why don’t you prepare it and let me judge.”
“You’ll probably be biased because you wouldn’t want to hurt my feelings.”
St. John filled the glasses with punch. “I promise to tell the truth, the whole truth—”
“I get the picture,” she said, laughing.
He handed Hannah a glass. “What are we toasting this time?”
Hannah touched her glass to his. “The McNair B and B.”
Throwing back his head, St. John let out an unrestrained peal of laughter. He could always count on Hannah to make him laugh—something he hadn’t done often enough. “The McNair B and B,” he repeated, and then took a sip of the sparkling rum punch, his eyebrows lifting when he detected cherry cola on his tongue. “This is really good.” He took a long swallow. “In fact, it’s excellent.”
“I can’t take credit for the recipe. I saw it in a cooking magazine and decided to make it because it reminds me of sangria.”
Ten minutes later, Hannah removed the shortcakes and placed them on a wire rack to cool, and then removed the mushrooms. She placed them on a plate along with two forks. She claimed she didn’t have lagniappe, or something extra, but the deliciousness of her stuffed mushrooms exceeded any St. John had ever eaten. The piquant spices were the perfect complement to the sweet tartness of the punch.
“Damn! These are incredible. How did you make them?”
“I stuffed the mushroom caps with minced parsley, garlic, tasso, lemon juice, and pepper sauce. I used panko instead of using soda crackers or bread crumbs for the topping. ”
St. John shook his head in amazement. “I think it’s the ham that gives it a smoky taste.” He pointed to the four remaining mushrooms. “You better eat one before I inhale them all.”
Hannah patted his arm. “I’m only going to eat two, so you’re welcome to the rest.”
St. John knew why Hannah didn’t want to eat too much; she wanted to save room for the expertly seasoned, fork-tender turkey, scrumptious potato and Caesar salads, and delicious asparagus. He’d thought himself an above-average cook, but she was exceptional. “You missed your calling.”
“Why would you say that?” Hannah asked.
“You should’ve become a chef.”
Hannah dabbed her mouth with the napkin. “I never would’ve made it because I couldn’t see myself standing over a hot stove cooking dish after dish on demand. I defrosted and brined the turkey a couple of days ago, and I made the potato salad and mushrooms yesterday. This morning I made the shortcake dough, mixed the strawberries, put together the punch, seasoned the asparagus, and made the dressing for the salad.”
Propping an elbow on the table, St. John rested his fist against his cheek. It was apparent she’d planned the dinner well. “What exactly did you do at the investment bank?”
She paused for several seconds. “I was responsible for international contracts. Most of the clients were from outside the United States, so I had to spend a lot of time researching their banking laws.”
“Do you miss it?”
Her lids lowered as she stared up at him from under her lashes. “No. Initially I was a little upset because the layoff was so unexpected. But now that I look back, I know they did me a favor. Although I’d filed for the license and permits to turn this place into an inn, I probably wouldn’t have actually become an innkeeper until I retired at sixty-seven. And I don’t know if I’d want to start a new venture at that age.” She pushed back her chair, coming to her feet. “Please don’t get up. I’m going to put on a pot of coffee and make the strawberry shortcakes.”
St. John also stood up. “I’m going to clear the table and put some of the food away.”
“Leave the china, crystal, and silver on the countertop next to the sink. They don’t go in the dishwasher.”
Reaching for the apron he’d thrown over a stool, St. John slipped it on again. “I’ll wash them.”
“You don’t have to,” Hannah said in protest.
“Why not? You cooked, so I’ll help clean up.”
* * *
Hannah decided not to argue with St. John and spoil what had become a most enjoyable encounter. Dinner was leisurely; it was if she and St. John were in no hurry for it to end. She’d silently applauded herself that each dish had come out better than she’d expected.
She stole a sidelong glance at the man standing at the sink washing and rinsing dishes before placing them on a rack to dry, marveling that he appeared so comfortable, and then she remembered he’d told her how he’d helped his arthritic grandmother in the kitchen.
Not only had she been given a second chance at romance, but it was with a man with whom she never would have believed it would happen when they were classmates. Hannah wondered whether, if they hadn’t been involved with other people, would they have become romantically involved, married, and had children together? Her life would have been vastly different; instead of moving from base to base, she would have returned from college to marry and live in New Orleans; and her husband would have come home every night, leaving him little or no time to cheat on her.
She tried to suppress a giggle when she tried imagining her mother’s reaction if she’d revealed that she’d fallen in love with St. John and planned to marry him. Clarissa probably would have thrown a hissy fit, while her father would have quietly encouraged her to follow her heart.
“What’s so funny?” St. John asked.
“I was thinking about my mother.”
“What about her?”
“How she would’ve reacted if I’d come home and told her I was in love with you and we were planning to marry.”
Resting a hip against the countertop, St. John dried his hands on a towel. “How would she have reacted?” he questioned after a pregnant silence.
Hannah smiled. “There’s no doubt she would’ve played the quintessential Southern belle. She’d faint dead away, and then she would have taken to her bed and not left it until she became a grandmother.”
He gave her a questioning look. “Becoming a grandmother was that important to her?”
“It was all she ever talked about. That’s why she couldn’t wait for me to get married. When I look back, I have to admit she was an incredible grandmother.”
St. John moved behind Hannah, r
esting his hands on her shoulders. “I’m certain if we had married, we would’ve had a couple of kids who would make us grandparents.”
Hannah closed her eyes as he pressed his chest against her back. “Our grandbabies would’ve been spoiled rotten.”
“And I’m certain you would’ve been the guilty one when it came to spoiling them.”
She felt a warmth in her chest, her nipples tightening with a rising passion she’d long forgotten. A slight gasp escaped her parted lips when she felt his growing erection against her buttocks. Her breathing quickened as she bit down on her lip to keep from moaning from the pleasurable throbbing settling between her thighs. Hannah feared climaxing as orgasmic tremors flooded her whole being.
St. John was there, and then he wasn’t as he released her; she felt his loss almost immediately. She felt as if she’d been taken to the heights of ecstasy but then let down when he pulled out. And the degree to which she’d responded to his touch, his erection, stunned Hannah, while a part of her reveled in the fact she was able to physically arouse him as he did her.
“Let’s make a pledge.”
His quiet voice broke into her thoughts. “About what?”
“Let’s not talk about our past, because we can’t change it.”
Hannah nodded. She realized she did spend too much time dwelling on and talking about her past, and it was time she let it go. Because she trusted him, she’d revealed things to St. John she’d never have told another person outside her family.
“You’re right.” Picking up a fork, she cut a piece of the shortcake, extending it to St. John. “Have a taste.” His expression said it all. He liked it. She cut a piece for herself, popping it into her mouth. The natural sweetness of the berries and buttery taste of shortcake created an explosion of flavor on her tongue and palate.
St. John took the fork, breaking off another piece, and fed it to Hannah before repeating the action with himself. Within minutes the shortcake was gone, and they stared at each other. “All gone,” he drawled, grinning from ear-to-ear.
Hannah’s smile matched his. “Should I make another one?”
The Inheritance Page 21
