The Lady of Royale Street

by Thea de Salle

  “No! No hard feelings, it was amazing. Truly.” He grabbed his clothes from the back of the desk chair and paused, eyeing the bathroom. “I should shower. We can’t do this again.”

  He blurted out the last bit, cringing like he expected her to shout at him, like she wouldn’t understand that being a Catholic could be hard.

  I’ve walked the walk, buddy. I get it.

  She smiled, not because she was pleased with the situation, but because she was fairly certain he needed the encouragement more than she needed to be placated because they couldn’t fuck again. “I’m fine, Alex. Go shower. We’ll head down to breakfast and get back to The Seaside. I can drive if you want.”

  He nodded, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. “Thank you for understanding. Again. It was phenomenal, but I . . . well. Thank you.” And with that he disappeared into the bathroom to scrub what he undoubtedly considered “taint” from his skin. That was his burden to carry, though, not hers, and she set about gathering her things so she could take her turn in the bathroom. Twenty minutes later, she stood beneath the hot blasting water, trying hard not to think about how good she’d felt the night before, with his hands on her, his mouth on her, with him inside her.

  It was fantastic.

  Be grateful for the one night and move on.

  She got dressed and did what she could for her teeth and hair. It wasn’t much, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Alex was dropping money on the pillows for housekeeping when she returned to the bedroom. She started for the door but then her phone rang. She didn’t recognize the number on the display, though she did recognize the area code as New Orleans, and she picked it up, expecting it to be Sol or Rain or someone from the wedding contingent reporting in on one screwed-up thing or another.

  Instead it was the wedding troll, Tara.

  “Heya. S’Tara from Weddin’ Kisses. Heard from th’swan folk. Gots ’nother box here. Hunnert swans ready ta go.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Yer ears broke? Gots a hunnert swans, number’t an’ everythin’. Got ’em delivered this mornin.”

  No, my ears aren’t broken. I don’t speak . . . whatever it is you’re speaking.

  “Oh.”

  “Darlene musta ordered ’em afore she kicked off, Lord rest her soul. Can y’get ’em by three? Gots a hair appointment.”

  Stunned, Theresa covered the receiver of her smartphone and turned to look at Alex. Seeing her expression, he started toward her like he wanted to help, but she put up a hand to cut him off at the pass. “It’s Tara from the wedding planner’s office. A hundred numbered swans just showed up. Can we pick them up by three?”

  He ran his hand down his face and hung his head. She almost cry-laughed.

  The Great Swarovski Hunt was utterly pointless.

  “Oh, an’ don’t ferget ta call m’coz Dale ’bout yer ice statue. Said he had some fresh deer that needed ta git gutted fer jerky but Darlene won’t never let him butcher when the weddin’ blocks were in th’freezer. He’s antsy.”

  No, I suppose she wouldn’t have wanted that. Because dead deer in your swan ice statue on your wedding day is unappealing.

  What was Darlene thinking?

  “Will we get back to her before three?” Theresa asked Alex again. He nodded and sighed, turning his head toward the boxes of Swarovski and scowling.

  The returns will suck to do . . .

  Another thing that’s not my problem.

  “We’ll be there, Tara. Thank you again.”

  “Course. See ya soon,” she said before the line went dead.

  Theresa slid the phone into her purse, grabbed the luggage cart, and pulled it toward the door without another word.

  The ride was tense and quiet and it had nothing to do with anger. They were both tired, frustrated about the swans, and wrestling with their feelings. At least, she assumed they were—she certainly was. It’d been a year since she’d trusted anyone enough to take them to her bed, and he’d flat-out said it’d been a decade for him. So why had they picked each other, beyond the obvious physical attraction? There were oodles of attractive people in the world.

  Parsing it was complicated, especially considering Alex was cranky and at times abrupt. He reacted first and apologized later, when the damage was done. He didn’t seem to have much of a sense of humor. He was regimented in a way that would have done an army general proud. And yet when he smiled, it was an earned smile—she felt good seeing it, knowing it was a rare treasure. He was smart. He was humble enough to admit when he’d been wrong, and when he wasn’t under tremendous strain, he was incredibly considerate.

  And he’s bloody gorgeous.

  We were talking about “beyond the physical,” Theresa.

  She dared to steal a peek at him. He was looking out the passenger window of the Porsche, his brow crinkled, eyes narrowed because the noon sun was punishing. Beyond complaining that their breakfast pancakes had come from a conveyer belt machine in the Holiday Inn Express and that robot pancakes were sent by Satan himself to plague humankind, he hadn’t spoken in a long while. Every few minutes, he’d sigh or rub his temple, and she knew without him saying so that he was struggling with what they’d done the night before.

  He needs something.

  Help. He needs help.

  She scanned the road ahead of them. It was a long, flat stretch containing nothing of interest other than a bridge over still blue water and McDonald’s golden arches in the distance. No restaurants. No malls for retail therapy. No parks for a little R and R.

  There’s a bridge.

  She got an idea. She drove into the breakdown lane. Alex peered at her, confused, as she slowed the car to a stop, a steady stream of traffic whizzing by them at far too many miles per hour.

  “Something wrong? Do you need me to take over driving?” he asked.

  “Nope. Come on out.” She didn’t explain herself as she watched her rearview for a break in the traffic. As soon as she was reasonably sure no one would turn her into road pizza, she ducked out and circled around the back of the car to Alex’s side, pulling open his car door and waiting for him to follow her.

  “Theresa, is everything all right?”

  “It will be.”

  He unfurled from the car, casting a few furtive glances at the speeding cars and trucks blowing by. Theresa wedged herself between him and the Porsche, bending over and fussing with one of the plastic bags full of Swarovski swans in the back.

  “What are you doing?”

  She pulled out two boxes, one for him, one for her, and proceeded to unpack the swans from their nest of protective material.

  “Therapy,” she said.

  “Therapy?”

  She ripped away the extra cardboard, peanuts, and bubble wrap until a perfect glass swan rested in her palm, its beak gold and black, the tips of its wings dusted with gray. She handed it to him before promptly dismantling the second box to produce a second, equally beautiful swan.

  “I still don’t understand,” he said.

  She grinned at him and walked to the edge of the bridge. She looked from him to the swan and then out at the water, and then, as hard as she could, she threw the stupid thing into the lake.

  “Fuck you, swan!” she yelled before waving two big middle fingers at the rippling plop in the middle of the water.

  “I . . . but . . .” He walked up beside her, incredulous, his swan still in hand. “Why?”

  “Because fuck swans, that’s why.”

  He stared at her like she’d lost her mind. His big fingers curled around the swan and he pulled it to his chest, cradling it. He was frowning, his shoulders were tense. He sucked in a deep breath and slowly started shaking his head.

  Don’t you dare scold me, big man. Don’t you dare.

  But, instead of castigating her, he lifted the crystal bi
rd until it was nose level, blinked at it, and then pulled his arm back and flung. The bird flew long and far, way beyond her own swan, and made a much bigger splash. She let out a whoop and wildly applauded such an athletic, artful display. He still looked bewildered, but when he sunk his hands into his pockets, watching the disturbance he’d made in the pond surface dissipate, he found a faint smile.

  “You know,” he said, his tongue sliding over his upper lip. “At a hundred and seventy dollars, that is some bargain therapy.”

  ELEVEN

  ALEX WALKED BACK into The Seaside from the hotel’s attached garage, a death grip on the box with the replacement swans. Tara had packed them up before they’d arrived at the wedding shop, which he promptly made her unpack so he could examine the goods. She grumbled about it, but he and Theresa had gone to hell and back because of them. There was no way he’d accept a faulty second delivery if he could help it.

  Lucky for everyone involved, the swans were in perfect shape.

  He walked down the carpeted hallway, Theresa by his side. The Swarovski swans were still in the Porsche and would remain there until Sol or someone on his payroll returned them to the proper jewelry stores. Alex was willing to do a lot for his brother, but not that.

  Never that.

  I’d rather take a stick in the eye. Or throw the rest of the swans off that bridge back in Lake Charles.

  He reached The Seaside’s front foyer and immediately wished he hadn’t; everything was in disarray. Sol barely spared Alex a nod as he paced in front of the glass elevator, a cell phone attached to his ear, his voice rising as he argued with some hapless stranger about a last-minute reception hall reservation. Rain was on the second story of the hotel, and through the glass railing, Alex could see her chasing an escaped corgi puppy. Her annoyed screeches were some parts dying cat, some parts enraged hen, and all parts ear piercing. Cylan appeared to be doing all the actual running of the hotel, including advising Dora that her glower had made a six-foot-tall football player cry and could she try to smile when she checked in their guests.

  Her response, of course, was to glower more.

  This is madness. How does anything get done around here?

  He was suddenly very proud of how smoothly The Diamond ran.

  Fingers brushed his elbow. He glanced over and found himself admiring Theresa’s lovely profile with a lovely smile and a lovelier halo of wavy red hair. His breath caught in his throat at the memory of how all that hair looked laid out on the pillow beneath her head, when her body was pressed against his after they . . .

  Stop. Stop. Stop.

  Just stop.

  He ground his jaw, his grip on the box tightening.

  “Going up to check on Rain. She sounds like she’s about to go full nuclear,” Theresa said, a tired smile playing around her mouth. “After that, a shower, a change of clothes, and we go collect the ice sculpture?”

  “I’ve got it.” His voice was clipped and hard enough that she gave him the side-eye.

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. I’ve got it. I don’t need you.”

  Wait, I didn’t mean . . .

  He realized his error too late. She flinched and jerked her gaze away, her smile turning into a strained grimace. “You made that abundantly clear earlier. Excuse me.”

  She left his side, her head held high as she climbed the curving stairs to the second floor, looking dignified and aloof and very much like a queen ascending to her throne.

  A queen I just pissed off. Which is how heads end up on platters.

  “Theresa,” he called at her back, but she didn’t turn around, which he couldn’t blame her for. He’d upset her, again, even if he hadn’t meant to. It was just so damned hard to be normal when she stood close by. Her moans still echoed in his ears. His fingertips remembered the softness of her skin. Hell, he could smell her, and not in the hotel shampoo kind of way, but how she’d smelled when she was hot and wet for him.

  I have to apologize. Not now, but later, when she’s less mad and I’m less apt to fuck it up because I’m embarrassed.

  He stomped off toward Sol’s office, swans delicately jangling inside their foam peanut prisons with each of his steps. Despite his upset, he was gentle when he placed the box in the corner of the room on top of a filing cabinet. Somehow Sol had made it from the front room where he’d been pacing like a caged lion in pinstripes and into his office without Alex noticing. Alex had been distracted by Theresa, yes, but he hadn’t been that distracted, had he?

  And when did Sol start wearing cardigans?

  And glasses?

  Oh. Wait.

  Alex raked his hands through his hair. “Nash. When did you get in?”

  Nash smiled, not the big, pearly shark grin of his twin, but something far warmer. “A few hours ago with Mama. How are you, Alex?”

  Batshit crazy because of a girl, but thanks for asking.

  “Fine,” he said.

  Nash and Sol were identical: square jaws, high cheekbones, green eyes, patrician noses, and platinum hair. They had the same height, the same build. Where they differed was in every other possible way. Nash was brilliant but socially inept. Sol wasn’t stupid, but he wasn’t Nash-smart by any stretch. He could, however, talk his way out of pretty much any situation without difficulty. Where Nash preferred a quiet life of tea and books, Sol wasn’t happy unless he was mired in chaos. Nash had never had a long-term relationship that Alex could recall, while Sol was rarely, if ever, alone.

  Nash was opera and scholarly travel and classical music.

  Sol was parties and flashy cars and Fioravanti suits.

  And I’m Dockers and protein shakes and teaching Sunday school.

  The three of us are so mismatched.

  Nash adjusted the spectacles on his nose and pointed at the laptop before him. “I’ve figured it out.”

  “What?”

  “What you were doing wrong.”

  Alex had no idea what he was talking about, so he waited for Nash to fill in the blanks because that’s how Nash operated—you got nonsense to start, but he brought illumination a thought or two later if you were patient enough to wait it out. “You weren’t folding your creases hard enough.”

  Folding my cre—

  Nash picked up an origami crane from . . . somewhere. The ether. Maybe he had a stash of them behind Sol’s desk. “Here and here. You almost had it. A fold or two more and you would have been spot-on.”

  “We’ve moved on from the cranes, Nash. We got glass swans.”

  Nash smiled. “Oh well. For next time, then.”

  “The next time I have to fold six billion origami cranes for a last-minute wedding frenzy?”

  “Yes! Exactly.”

  Alex stared at Nash. Nash blinked at him owlishly, his smile never wavering.

  “It’s good to see you,” Alex said, tired. “How’s Chicago?”

  “Experiencing a cold front at the moment. It’s good to be here. Are you all right?” Nash motioned at Alex’s pants. “There’s lint on your trousers. And you’re wrinkled. You’re never either of those things.”

  No, he supposed he wasn’t, and he turned back for the office door. “It was a long night. I need a shower and to change. And then I have to drive off to the sticks to pick up an ice sculpture from some backwoods chain saw artist or the world will end.”

  “Fascinating. I wrote a paper on ancient sculpture, you know. Would you like company?”

  Nash’s eyebrows sat high on his brow in excitement. He looked so earnest, so eager to accompany him, that Alex shrugged and sighed. “Sure, Nash. Whatever you’d like. It’s good to see you.”

  “It’s good to see you, too, brother!”

  “And what’s fascinating is that Giambologna made more bozzetto—those are the clay proofs before a sculptor works in bronze or marble—than any other sculptor of his day. H
e was heavily inspired by Michelangelo, and that showed in his Greco-Roman style. His work often captured violent movement, which is interesting considering he became the Medicis’ court sculptor.”

  Alex pulled on his sunglasses so he could block out the late-afternoon sun. He was back in the tuna can of a Porsche and on the highway, the Swarovski swans unloaded an hour earlier by a griping, irritated Cylan.

  “I’m an accountant, not your errand boy,” he’d shouted at Sol.

  “I’ll give you an errand boy bonus next holiday!” Sol jabbed back.

  Which is how the first bag of Swarovski swans got dropped in the hall, half of them breaking, and ensuring Sol would lose a few thousand dollars of his money.

  Lesson learned: don’t fuck with Cylan.

  “We’re picking up an ice truck, Nash, and then we’re picking up a swan from a guy who wants to put dead deer in his freezer,” Alex said to his brother. “I sincerely doubt there was a bozzetto involved. This isn’t exactly fine art.”

  “Oh, I disagree. All art is fine art, if the artist is good enough.” Nash tittered and looked out the window, smiling at the passing scenery, his bow tie askew. Alex wanted to reach over and straighten it, but that was patronizing, and Nash was actually a few years his senior. That wasn’t always evident; Nash wasn’t immature, but he was elsewhere a lot of the time, his mind flitting from one subject to another and rarely keeping him tethered to the same plane of existence as everyone else. He managed to hold it together when it came to work, the Chicago hotel flourishing under his hand, but when he didn’t have to be present, he was instead pursuing his bevy of academic interests.

  Unfortunately, Alex wasn’t much interested in the history of Bologna the Sculptor—Jean Boulogne—in his current mood.

  “You’re upset,” Nash said, not turning his head to look at him. “Can I help?”

  “Not really. I don’t think.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Had it been Sol asking, Alex would have done anything to avoid talking about Theresa. Sol was too wont to prod and poke and make fun of what he deemed Alex’s stodginess. What Sol didn’t understand—or, more appropriately, didn’t respect—was that Alex’s restraint came from the tenets of his faith, and that wasn’t something he took lightly. Sol’s jokes got under Alex’s skin every time, without exception.