Somebody's Knocking at My Door

by Francis Ray

  Her nervousness bothered him. She’d never been that way before. Then the reason hit him. His temper had frightened her the other night. He was his father’s son. His hands went into his pockets again. “I don’t want to bother you.”

  She smiled and it lit up her beautiful face. Maybe, just maybe he hadn’t ruined her life.

  “I can’t eat all this and I detest food going to waste.” Opening the po’ boy sandwich piled three inches high with fried shrimp, lettuce, tomatoes, and red onions, she placed half on each plate, then sat down. “Thanks for the ads, but it won’t do any good. Dr. Smithe, my ex-boss, called just before you came. He made it very clear that I was doing myself more harm by putting the museum down as my last place of employment.”

  He studied her. “What are you going to do?”

  “Find work,” she said with resolve.

  Taking a seat, he said grace. “You remind me of your mother.”

  “I do?” She paused with her sandwich in her hands. “How?

  “You’re both gracious women. She never made me feel as if I was intruding on your family holidays in her home.”

  Kristen heard the wistfulness in his voice. Another person trying to find where he belonged. “You weren’t. We were happy to have you. Adam Jr. loves his big brother. I didn’t think he’d ever get off that rocking horse you made him last Christmas.”

  A slow smile blossomed on Rafe’s handsome face. The day Adam Jr. was born, Lilly had called and told him his little brother wanted to see him and they expected him within the week. Lilly and Adam had always considered him Adam Jr.’s big brother. It was a position of responsibility he took pride in. Adam Jr. was the only one he ever let get close. “I’m making him a sleigh and a wooden train set for Christmas.”

  “Your work is beautiful.”

  Pleasure spread through him. “Thank you. I like working with my hands.” He placed his sandwich on the sunshine-yellow plate. “I know what it is to find enjoyment in what you do. I took that from you.”

  She folded her arms across her chest and stared across the small, round dining table at him. “Rafe, do you want us to be friends?”

  Uncertainty entered his eyes. “Y-yes.”

  “Then don’t ever let me hear you say that losing my job was your fault again.” Unfolding her arms, her voice gentled. “If you hadn’t helped me, I don’t know what I would have done. Maurice would have found a way to get back at me in any case. He told me so up front.”

  Rafe’s gaze went flat and hard. “I wish I had hit him harder.”

  Kristen laughed. “Exactly. I’m rid of Maurice. Poor Claudette is married to the scheming rat.”

  “You sound as if you feel sorry for her,” he said.

  “I do. She’s a gracious and wonderful lady.” Kristen picked up the box of fried noodles. “Sooner or later she’ll find out, and Maurice will get his. She’ll be hurt, but she’ll survive. Claudette is nobody’s pushover. At least not for long.”

  “You also have your mother’s toughness.” He bit into his sandwich.

  “I’m working on it.” Setting the noodles aside, she picked up the list Rafe had brought her and started going down the names. “I’ll have to broaden my range of employment places. I’d hoped to be able to stay in the art field and keep an eye out for possible acquisitions for the museum, but that’s impossible now.”

  He set his empty plate aside. “You still plan to help?”

  “It’s not the museum’s fault. Dr. Robertson had no other choice.”

  “You might still be able to help. There’s a listing for a gallery manager on the last page. Maybe the owner will take knowledge over an employer’s recommendation. It’s in a high-dollar area in the historic section of Royal Street.” Getting up, he shifted the papers to find the listing. “Here it is.”

  Her face lit up. “St. Clair Gallery. I know the owner, Jacques Broussard. He’s a wonderful man. You’re right, his gallery has the work of some of the best artists in the country.” She smiled up at Rafe. “I got the distinct impression at the last gala the museum gave during the Christmas holidays that he didn’t care for Dr. Smithe’s snobbish ways.”

  “In that case, looks like your luck has turned. You better jump on it and call tonight.” Rafe’s blunt-tipped finger poked the sheet of drafting paper in her hand. “It’s only a little after seven.”

  Kristen went to the phone and punched in the number. Closing her eyes, she crossed her fingers as the phone rang. After the third ring the answering machine picked up. Disappointed, she hung up. “Answering machine.”

  “Did the recording say what his hours were?” Rafe asked. “A lot of stores stay open late on Thursday. Plus it’s summer and the tourist season is in full swing. If he’s busy, maybe he let the machine pick up.”

  “You think?”

  “Grab your purse and let’s go find out.”

  Kristen ran to her bedroom closet for the black, double-breasted jacket that went with her pants, then draped an animal-print scarf under the collar. If Jacques was at the gallery, she wanted to look her best. The museum had hired her on the basis of her finishing with honors from Stanford in the top one percent of her graduating class. Her credentials were excellent.

  Rafe was right. She knew art. Checking her purse for her comb and lipstick, she hurried back out.

  “Ready.”

  “You look great. You always do,” he said, then briefly bent his head as if embarrassed by the admission.

  “Thank you.” She wondered if he knew how much she needed that boost.

  Opening the door, he stepped back. “Got your key?”

  “Yes.” She took a deep breath. “I’m ready.”

  He nodded. “I can see it in your eyes. You’re going to get this job.”

  She smiled up at him. “I’m certainly going to give it my best shot. Mr. Broussard won’t know what hit him.”

  six

  New Orleans hadn’t gotten the name The Big Easy for nothing. Summertime meant a sea of moving humanity in the French Quarter. People meandered down sidewalks, jaywalked across streets, laughing and having a good time, and more often than not sipping cool drinks of the alcoholic variety.

  No one seemed in a particular hurry to reach his or her destination. Street musicians and dancers happily entertained those passing by and those patiently standing in long lines to get into restaurants. Parking spaces were as scarce as an honest politician.

  Rafe had moved fifteen feet in ten minutes and didn’t hold out much hope of getting further. Tourists, the locals, and teenagers, out of school with nothing to do, swelled the number of people on the sidewalks and in the streets. “I’ll find a place to park and wait at Café Du Monde.”

  About to get out, Kristen’s hand stilled on the door handle. “I thought you were going to stay with me.”

  Rafe glanced down at his denim shirt and jeans. “Not dressed for it and it may take a while to find a place to park. You can’t take the chance and wait. Good luck.”

  Her big words came back to nip her on the backside. Kristen’s stomach rolled. She didn’t want to go in there by herself.

  “Just remember you’re your mother’s daughter and you’ll be fine.”

  The fear left as quickly as it had come. She smiled. “Mr. Broussard will be lucky to have me.”

  Rafe chuckled. “Get going before someone gets there ahead of you.”

  She hopped out of the truck, then waved as Rafe finally got the chance to go through the traffic light. Straightening her scarf, she hurried down the street, then turned onto the cobbled sidewalk of Royal Street. It was lined with art galleries, antique shops, and restaurants, many of which had been handed down from generation to generation and were registered with the historical society.

  The man she sought, Jacques Broussard, was an exception. He had purchased the gallery from the owner when none of his family wanted to run the business. Jacques might have the same problem. His only child and son, Damien, was a successful corporate lawyer. But for now,
Jacques was a vibrant part of the art scene in Orleans and well respected.

  Seeing a man come out of St. Clair Gallery, Kristen breathed a sigh of relief and quickened her strides. She threw a quick glance though the plate glass window at the spacious gallery as she passed, then entered.

  She spotted the owner immediately. Even from twenty feet away, she could tell the smile he usually wore was a bit strained. The reason was obvious. In the two years she’d been acquainted with Mr. Broussard, he’d always prided himself in the way he conducted his business. Customer service and satisfaction were of prime importance. With only him in the shop and five people milling about, he couldn’t do that.

  True, browsing in the varied shops in the Quarter was as much a part of the tourist attraction as strolling through Jackson Brewery. Owners usually left customers to browse freely, but obviously the people in the shop were serious.

  Excusing himself, Jacques left a young couple in front of a seascape by Kent, then hurried across the room to a man in front of a painting by Ralph Brown of three black children playing in the rain. The couple he’d just left frowned at him. The well-dressed, slender man in a tailored suit checked his watch. The fashionable woman by his side folded her arms across her chest. A black Prada bag hung from her shoulder.

  Kristen took her courage in her hand and seized the opportunity. Placing her purse in the seat behind the ornate desk near the entrance to the gallery, she approached the couple. “Hello, my name is Kristen. Can I be of service?”

  Relief swept across their faces. “Please. We know the price, but not very much about the artist.”

  “Were you interested in the painting as an investment or appreciation or both?” Kristen asked, trying to decide where to start.

  “Both,” the woman answered, glancing back at the forty-by-forty painting in a heavily carved and ornate gold frame. It portrayed a turbaned woman in African clothes walking down a dusty road with a small child a few steps behind.

  “A painting by Robert Goddins will appreciate in value and please the eye,” Kristen said, thanking God she was familiar with the work. “Goddins was born in Chicago and raised in Dallas by his widowed mother. He is self-taught. His paintings have hung in the Smithsonian and The Dallas Museum of Art. His works in many media include acrylic, pastel, and mixed media, as you see in this painting, Woman and Child.”

  “I don’t know,” the woman said, studying the painting from different angles.

  Kristen, who had never sold anything in her life, went on instinct. “If you want to keep looking, I think you should. A painting should draw you out of yourself and into it. Goddins’s paintings always make you think.”

  The woman smiled. “He does, doesn’t he?” She held out her hand. “Thank you.”

  The handshake was brief, but firm. “Please. Let me get you one of our cards.” Kristen turned and almost bumped into Jacques. “I—I…”

  Silently he handed her a business card. Taking it, she gave it to the woman because she had appeared the more interested of the two. “Please call if we can be of any further service, even if it is not about a painting from here. Art is to be appreciated wherever you find it.”

  “That’s the same way I feel. Thank you, Kristen.”

  Kristen waited until they left, then turned to try and explain to Mr. Broussard, but he had gone to assist another couple. The door opened and a woman came in. Deciding she had nothing to lose, Kristen went to help.

  Thirty minutes passed before the shop was clear. Kristen squared her shoulders as Jacques approached her. At least he was smiling.

  “Thank you, Kristen. I appreciate you pitching in,” Jacques said, still smiling as he folded his arms. “Now, is there something I can help you with?”

  “A job.”

  He frowned. His arms slowly dropped to his sides. “The gallery is open the same hours as the museum.”

  With an effort, she kept her face emotionless. “I no longer work for the museum.”

  He studied her for a long time, then refolded his arms across his chest. “You mind telling me why?”

  She’d expected the request, but she had one of her own. “On one condition. That the conversation goes no further.”

  He didn’t hesitate. “All right.”

  She didn’t hesitate, either. Jacques Broussard was highly respected in New Orleans. He might not have the money that Claudette Thibodeaux Laurent had, but his clout was just as formidable. “An individual unjustly accused me of trying to coerce him with sexual favors to help with a project for the museum. If I hadn’t resigned, certain individuals would have used their influence to see that private donations would be cut off from the museum.”

  “Only a handful of people have that kind of influence in this city,” he said, his eyes narrowed.

  “It wasn’t a bluff,” she told him, her anger escalating all over again. “You might as well know that although Dr. Smithe is unaware of the reason for my resignation, he refuses to give me a good recommendation for another job.”

  “He’s a snob. I wish Dr. Robertson hadn’t hired him,” Jacques said with obvious distaste. “Smithe’s displeasure is a point in your favor.”

  Her lips twitched. “Yes, sir.”

  “What did Dr. Robertson say?”

  Her chin lifted. “That he’d accept my resignation with regret.”

  Jacques nodded his balding head. “I admire Harold a great deal. He’s smart and he knows people. He’s worked thirty years to build the museum into what it is today.”

  “He’s a wonderful man.” The tension in her shoulders eased. “That’s why I resigned. I didn’t want the museum or him to suffer because of me.”

  “You have courage as well as intelligence and beauty,” Jacques said, studying her closely. “It would take a saint or a fool to resist. Since I know all the people powerful enough to exert such pressure on the museum, I’d have to say I’ve met more saints than fools, but I’d trust Harold with the key to Fort Knox. Can you start tomorrow?”

  “Yes!” she burst out, excitement flowing through her.

  Chuckling, he extended his hand. “You didn’t ask about salary, days off, benefits.”

  “You trusted me, I have to trust you,” she said.

  “Still,” he said, quoting a salary figure. “We open at ten sharp Monday through Saturday and close at five except on Thursday when we extend the time an hour. Sunday it’s one to five.” He smiled. “Or as you saw today, whenever the last customer leaves. Be here at nine in the morning and we can go over your duties.”

  “I’ll be here—and thanks, Mr. Broussard.”

  “Thank you. I need a manager who is knowledgeable, competent, and reliable. You’re the one helping me.”

  The door opened behind them. The couple she had helped earlier entered.

  “Kristen, we decided to get that painting.”

  She gasped, then faced Jacques with a wide grin. “They want to buy Woman and Child.”

  “Welcome aboard.”

  * * *

  Café Du Monde, the original French Market coffee stand, was famous for its café au lait, strong chicory coffee laced with thick cream, and beignets. The mouth-watering aromas filled the air. People were lined up to get inside the tented eatery. Despite being in New Orleans for years, Rafe had never developed a taste for the strong coffee. Instead he sipped his soft drink and kept an eye out for Kristen. The more time passed, the more anxious he became.

  What if she didn’t get the job? Then he saw Kristen and she was grinning. He stood without being aware of the smile on his face. Waving, she quickly weaved her way through the ever-present crowd and narrow spaces between the small tables. “I got the job,” she told him, her arms going around his neck.

  He stiffened before he could stop himself. He’d had the same reaction the first time she’d hugged him, but she’d been too upset to notice. This time she wasn’t.

  She froze, then slowly withdrew her arms from around his neck and stepped back. Her lower lip tucked between h
er teeth. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

  “You didn’t.” A half-lie was better than seeing the hurt expression on her face again and knowing he was the cause. “I didn’t want to get your suit dirty,” he continued, brushing at the faint traces of powdered sugar on his shirt from a beignet he’d eaten while waiting.

  Her smile returned. “Don’t worry about it. If it hadn’t been for you, I wouldn’t have this job.”

  He shook his head. “You’re the reason you got the job. It’s kind of noisy in here. Why don’t we leave and you can tell me all about it on the way to your place.” Lightly taking her arm, he left the restaurant, aware that he was lying again, even more aware that he was reverting to the same defensive mechanism he’d used as a teenager so people wouldn’t get too close. He felt just as lonely and ashamed now as he did then.

  * * *

  Kristen took to the managerial position at St. Clair’s like the proverbial duck to water. She loved art, and she quickly learned to relish the chance to share her feelings with people who came into the shop, whether they were browsing or seriously considering a purchase.

  In her job as the assistant to the curator at the museum, she’d often been stuck with paperwork, fund-raising, event planning or some other task that kept her off the floor where she could interact and mingle with the patrons. That was a thing of the past at St. Clair’s.

  Her antique Chippendale desk was positioned a few steps from the door. If she wasn’t with a customer, she was able to greet everyone who entered. She always did it with a friendly smile.

  “I’m delighted that I was wrong about you,” Jacques said with a good-natured laugh after closing the door for a customer.

  Since he was smiling, her hands continued to hover over the computer keyboard instead of clenching. “In what way?”

  “Selling Woman and Child could have been because the Franklins were ready to buy anyway.” He waved his hand toward the receipt book on the desk. “In this business it’s extremely important that the buyer has confidence that the seller knows what they’re talking about and believes in their integrity. You exemplify both.”