The Lady of Royale Street

by Thea de Salle

  Oh Rain.

  Maybe this won’t be so bad. Maybe, just maybe, we can salvage a little fun after all.

  I hate everything.

  “It’s a grid. It’s left or right at the lights. This isn’t hard,” Alex said.

  Theresa threw her hands up in the air. “I’m reading directions off an app and you’re taking it personally that they’re wrong. I’ve never been to New Orleans before, you cock.”

  “Name calling will definitely get us there faster.”

  Theresa looked away from him to watch the scenery pass, the fingers of her right hand drumming against her knee. The drive hadn’t started off aggravating. In fact, it’d been rather nice getting to know each other. They compared his job as a hotel manager to her freelancing photojournalism career and deduced that they were absolutely nothing alike. They talked dating, or the lack thereof; he hadn’t been with anyone in almost a decade after a bad split in college, she’d dated here and there with little forward momentum after a bad split a year ago from her cheating ex-fiancé, Scott. They’d also commiserated about the challenges of a pious lifestyle in a world that had less and less room for piety. It’d all been going swimmingly, up to and even including the point when she realized that the giant of a man in the driver’s seat of the Porsche was, well, gorgeous.

  Very fit. Broad. Big shoulders. Big hands. A hawk nose and appealing blue eyes, the color closer to an icy blue than a royal or a navy. He had one of those tans that she envied, golden without a trillion freckles to make him look polka-dotted. That was her problem—she was so fair she burned at the slightest hint of sun. But not Alex.

  Fuck you, Alex.

  “What’s the next direction?” he demanded, wedged between a pickup truck and a Hostess truck with a cartoon spongy yellow cake smiling on the back.

  “Don’t know. Why don’t you ask Siri?”

  “You’re being childish.”

  “You bet!”

  They fell into a sullen silence, him gripping the steering wheel like he wanted to rip it off the dashboard, her narrowing her eyes to murderous slits. He took a turn and guided them onto a street she was fairly certain they’d been on three times already over the last fifteen minutes. Yes, they’d been there before. That woman with the pasties on her breasts was standing in front of the Jiggles Bar and Grill on the corner, right beside the Grab and Go frozen tequila stand.

  In five hundred feet, turn right, said the GPS, the voice crisp and very British.

  “Why would they have a Brit giving directions in New Orleans? No wonder we’re lost.”

  Theresa smirked. “Didn’t you grow up here? What’s your excuse? It’s a grid, after all.”

  Alex held his tongue, though his shoulders went stiffer, if that was even possible.

  All of a sudden, the GPS broke its pattern of abuse—which really, that’s what a GPS was doing when it kept giving the wrong directions over and over again—and instructed them to take a fast left. Alex jerked the Porsche out, narrowly avoiding a taxi as he pulled into the left lane to take the last-second turn.

  “There. Something that makes sense,” he griped.

  “Sure does.”

  Another long, awkward pause stretched between them.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “That wasn’t . . . it’s . . . I don’t like driving in New Orleans. The roads are narrow with short turns and I get . . .”

  “Dickish?” she offered, only somewhat helpfully.

  “Yes.”

  “Fine. I’m sorry I called you a cock.”

  Your destination is on the right, the voice on her phone said. Alex guided the car into a curbside parking spot, having no problem at all maneuvering between a too-close Volkswagen and a too-close Hyundai.

  “I’d never be able to do that,” she said, unfastening her seat belt. “I get too nervous.”

  “Live in the city long enough, you learn. You have to.”

  Alex turned off the car and sucked in a breath, his attention fixed on the dashboard. His hands returned to the steering wheel, knuckles white, like he hadn’t yet let go of the quasi-but-not-really-harrowing drive.

  He’s anxious.

  It hadn’t occurred to her during the ordeal that maybe his testiness was a stress reaction, but when she saw him wound up tighter than a clock spring, her annoyance fizzled.

  “You should have just told me,” she said, climbing from the car.

  “Told you what?”

  “That you weren’t comfortable driving.”

  “I’m fine,” he insisted, following her to the sidewalk. They were in the Garden District, the architecture adhering to a strict vintage aesthetic of French and Spanish influence. The trees were squared off behind wrought-iron railings. Scrollwork adornments flanked the front doors and glossy black paint shined on all the shutters. Potted flowers decorated every other stoop in the block of six or so businesses, while their glass window fronts had similarly styled gold script and whorls.

  “Yes, I’m sure you are, Hulk. Is your secret that you’re always mad?”

  He just rolled his eyes.

  She glanced down at the directions one last time. Darlene’s business, Weddin’ Kisses, Weddin’ Blisses, was No. 48. Theresa stared at the business name a moment and snickered. Alex swooped in to look at her phone to see what had amused her, which put him behind her, at her back, and warm.

  And big.

  His chin brushed her shoulder.

  “What?”

  “Oh. Nothing. Just the name of the . . . you know.” She couldn’t really articulate because she was all too aware of the crabby giant behind her, whose hand had just found the small of her back.

  He pointed up the stairs. “Up there.”

  “Aye.”

  “Aye?”

  “Scottish mum, remember?”

  He flashed her a smile, a dimple appearing in just one cheek, which was lopsided but also endearing. Sure, she’d wanted to kill him not five minutes ago, but after experiencing Sol in all his annoying glory at brunch, she was starting to think that was a shared DuMont trait for those unlucky enough to know them.

  They headed up the six steps and through the antique-style door with the frosted glass. The reception area held four overstuffed pink couches atop a pastel rug with a glass coffee table centered on the medallion. The walls were decorated with wedding portraits, the smiling faces of photographed couples selling potential clients on the happiest, most tulle-infested day of their lives.

  It looked so very appropriate for a wedding business, yet there were discordant notes, too, like the vase of wilted flowers on the receptionist’s desk and the scattered boxes half filled with office miscellanea. A dark-haired, light brown, scrawny woman with a brown hat crouched amid a pile of wedding invitations and party favors near the back, her lap covered in paperwork.

  “Hey, folks,” said the wedding troll. She wasn’t really a troll; in fact, she was cute with her heavy-lidded chocolate eyes and wide mouth, but the way she held court among the office stuff made Theresa think of Smaug and his gold.

  Alex motioned Theresa forward, encouraging her to do the talking, which was probably for the best, considering they had a fairer chance of leaving Weddin’ Kisses, Weddin’ Blisses without stab wounds that way.

  He’s not good with people.

  “Hello. This is somewhat awkward, but I’m Theresa Ivarson. My friend Arianna Barrington was one of Darlene’s clients.”

  “Ayeh.” The woman stood up, only to reveal herself thinner than Theresa first thought. “What happen’t was a damn shame. I’m Tara, Darlene’s secretary.”

  “Yes, hello, Tara. This is Alex DuMont, the groom’s brother.”

  “Hello,” Alex offered his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  “ ’Lo.” They shook, Alex’s enormous hand enveloping Tara’s small one.

  “So.”
Theresa leaned against the counter, her finger toying with a fallen, crumbling rose petal. “Your employer sold details of the wedding to a New York paper, I’ve heard. Which . . . not much to do about it now, of course, but I was hoping to get a copy of the file.”

  “Can’t. Was on her phone. Can check th’hard file, though.”

  “That’d be helpful, yes. Thank you.”

  “Course. I gots ta git it from th’back.”

  I have no idea what accent this is. Something Louisiana, maybe. Cajun? No, but there’s a hint of it.

  “Thank you,” Alex said.

  Tara nodded and disappeared around the corner.

  “I don’t r’member much ’bout the weddin’. Darlene talked some, but I’m not one fer gossip. Heard some talk ’bout a gardener an’ some sinnin’, but I kept m’ears closed. It’s fer th’Lord t’sort. I’m not int— Got it!”

  Tara reappeared with a battered manila folder with one paltry paper inside. “A’right, so she hired Dale, know ’at.”

  “Who’s Dale?”

  “M’coz. Lives out in th’sticks. Does shit—’scuse me, does business—with a chain saw.”

  What is she saying?

  “What’s a coz?”

  “M’cousin Dale,” Tara said, like this was the most obvious thing in the world. “I’ll get ya th’address. Also we gots some swans out back if ya gimme a tick.”

  “A tick?”

  “Yeh. Be right back.”

  “Wait, real swans?” Alex called after her. “And what about a chain saw?”

  “Yer funny, blondie.”

  Blondie?

  Alex and Theresa shared a look. Theresa mouthed chain saw. He shrugged, appearing as confused as she felt.

  Minutes later, Tara reappeared with a box that clinked alarmingly while she carried it. She dropped it onto the counter before once again returning to the back room. There was heaving, a clatter, and a squeal followed by a “dammit” and a mantra of shits that would have done Theresa’s brother proud. And he was in the navy.

  “Second box is heavy. Send th’big one,” Tara called out.

  Theresa eyed Alex. “I believe you’re the big one.”

  “I usually am.” He circled the desk and climbed over Tara’s boxes to venture out of sight. Theresa busied herself with the first box, opening it only to behold what looked like enormous egg crates holding the broken pieces of no less than thirty glass swans.

  “Tara? These are broken,” she called out.

  “Sounded it, yeh,” she responded. “Rattled somethin’ awful.”

  “Oh good. Do we know where she got them?”

  “Nope. Books don’t say.”

  That’s helpful.

  Alex came back with a second box in hand, sliding it onto the counter and gingerly opening it. Inside was a set of intact swans, each numbered, the glass at the swan necks and wing tips tinted a pastel shade different from the clear bodies. They were lovely when they were in one piece . . . except they had a second box of pieces, and that was less than fantastic.

  “Right. Here’s Dale’s address. Yer gonna need a fridge truck t’pick it up,” Tara said, reappearing from the back.

  Alex raised a brow. “Pick what up?”

  “Th’ice swan.”

  Oh right. The ice sculpture. Now the chain saw makes sense.

  Tara slid a paper Theresa’s way, three lines of hen scratch scrawled across the page with an address and a phone number. “Darlene never liked t’pay Dale fer delivery.” She rifled through a Rolodex and produced a business card. “Here’s th’truck company she used t’rent th’fridge truck. Can git good rates with ’em, though that’s prolly not a problem for Barringtons. I’ll look round t’see if I can git th’name’a th’glass swan folk. Darlene weren’t real good at paper trails an’ she changed her password on email so m’stuck.”

  “I see. Well, thank you for your help. We’ll . . . yes.”

  Theresa eyed the broken favors.

  Rain’s going to lose her mind.

  “Here, why don’t you write down your number, Theresa? Here’s mine.” Alex jotted down a number on his business card for The Dallas Diamond Hotel, indicating that Theresa should do the same. She did, underlining her number twice in hopes that Tara would attempt to reach her first in case Alex was suffering yet another case of insert-foot-in-mouth-and-swallow. “Call either of us if you find anything. Programs, place cards, favors. We’re trying to settle everything as efficiently as possible.” He handed the card to Tara, and the slight woman eyeballed it before tucking it into her jeans pocket as casual as could be.

  “Course. Welp, nice t’meetchya. Mayhap I’ll find somethin’ useful round here when I’m cleanin’ up. Talk soon, if so.”

  “Yes, thank you, Tara. Very much,” Alex said.

  “Yer welcome.”

  Theresa eyed Alex. He eyed her back.

  They walked to the Porsche with three hundred glass swans in various states of disrepair and a barely legible address.

  It’s fine.

  What could possibly go wrong?

  FIVE

  “ORIGAMI CRANES,” SOL said over the phone. “That was the original plan, but Darlene talked Rain into the swans. I can’t tell her the favors are broken or she’ll have a breakdown, but maybe if we can do the cranes, she’ll be placated? Hopefully?”

  “How does one find an origami crane maker in New Orleans?” Alex asked, the phone glued to his ear while he navigated the French Quarter’s streets. Theresa was contorted in her seat, leaning into the back to count how many broken swans they had inside box one. Which was fine and all, but if he stopped short she’d go face-first into a pile of broken glass, and he was fairly certain that would unpretty her.

  “I . . . hold on, Sol. Theresa, can you do that at the hotel?”

  “Sixty-six, sixty-seven . . .”

  “Can you put on your seat belt, please?” Alex demanded.

  “She’s so unruly,” Sol chortled over the phone.

  “Shut up, Sol. Theresa . . .”

  “Seventy-two and three. Seventy-three broken swans out of three hundred. We’d want a few extra to cover any more accidents.” She flopped back in her seat and stretched out as far as the narrow confines of the Porsche allowed.

  “Seat belt, please,” he repeated. Theresa gave him a look he’d come to know all too well over their short association, and yet she put on the belt all the same, her lips curling like she smelled something foul. “Thank you. So, origami swans. Where, Sol?”

  “Cranes. I haven’t the faintest idea. Maybe that’s why Darlene steered her away, but it’s another possibility, maybe? There’s about a week still. Ish. Close enough.” Sol paused, the good-natured veneer slipping for a second when he said, “Maybe I’ll buy three hundred iPhones and give those away as favors. They’re black. It’ll fit the color scheme.”

  He’s more upset than he’s letting on.

  “Let me handle it,” Alex said. “You take care of the venue.”

  “I’m trying. Three places today. All said no. If I have to accept the paparazzi with the original venue, I will, but I’m going to move heaven and earth to avoid it for her sake.”

  Alex sighed. “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you. I know I can be an irritating shit at times, but truly, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Alex hung up, sliding the phone into the pocket of his white button-down shirt.

  “Verdict?” Theresa asked.

  “The best idea he has is origami cranes. I have no idea who to call for that.”

  “I’ll look.” Theresa opened up Google on her phone and he tried to peek, but when she caught him looking, she flicked his nose. Not hard, but enough to get her point across. “Watch the road, Mr. Safety.”

  “I’m curious.”

 
; “I know. Don’t think I didn’t notice you snooping over my shoulder earlier.”

  “I’m . . . yes. I’m nosy. It’s a character flaw.”

  “A fairly benign one. Just don’t kill us over origami.” Theresa grinned and tapped at her phone. A video started, and a few seconds in, a male voiceover started explaining how to fold a perfectly square sheet of paper.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Origami in New Orleans brought up a sushi bar and nothing else, so I’m looking to see how hard it is. This tutorial says it’s low intermediate. Maybe we can do it.”

  “Us. Like, you and me folding paper.”

  “Yes.”

  Alex grimaced. “Folding paper into birds.”

  “Aye.”

  “ ‘Aye’ indeed. This has all the makings of a terrible idea.”

  “Don’t be negative,” she said. And he wasn’t trying to be negative, but the tutorial took upward of five minutes, and if they had to fold three hundred cranes, times five minutes, that was twenty-five hours of paper folding.

  Divided by two! So only twelve and a half hours of paper folding!

  “It doesn’t look too bad,” Theresa announced. “We’d just need paper. Is there a craft store around here somewhere?”

  “Well, yes, but . . . are you sure?”

  “Not even a little bit, but I’m willing to try.”

  It was a fair point. The likelihood of finding someone who could replace almost a hundred glass swans on short notice—especially numbered, limited-edition swans with a distinctive color scheme—was slim to none. If folding paper was the best alternative, and it’d make Rain happy, it was worth the try and almost-undoubted failure.

  Twenty minutes later, they were in a craft store looking at decorative paper in the scrapbook section. After a few minutes of poking around, Alex was pretty sure that hell would have a scrapbook section. The women in the aisle were pushy, and all too interested in the stickers, punch-out machines, stamp thingies, and doodads on the surrounding racks.

  I don’t even know what most of this stuff does.

  “If it’s black, white, or red, and it’s pretty, grab it,” Theresa said from the paper display, picking up twenty or so sheets and emptying a bin in the process.