by Kate, Jiffy
And I’m so glad I did.
If I had stayed in Dallas, I would’ve completely missed this opportunity to get to know this Jette—my old friend, all grown up.
We part ways with a promise of getting together soon to start our explorations. Jette also mentioned needing to find a more permanent place to live, so I’m going to help her do that too.
Even though she’s all grown up, it doesn’t mean she doesn’t need someone to look out for her. New Orleans is a great city, but all great cities have their downfalls. And like any city, there’s always someone trying to take advantage of an easy target.
Georgette Taylor might’ve lived in New York for the past five years, but she’s still the sheltered girl who grew up in one of the most affluent neighborhoods in Texas. With her blonde hair and blue eyes and bubbly personality, target could very well be her middle name.
After she leaves, I walk over to where CeCe is cleaning up after a recent rush of customers and grab a towel to help her.
“You don’t have to do that, you know,” she says while eyeing me over her shoulder.
“I know I don’t but I like feeling useful around here. It’s the least I can do to thank you for my low rent.”
CeCe chuckles as we make quick work of the tables. “I’m just thankful you’re here in New Orleans. Knowing you’re living in my old apartment is a bonus and gives me and Shep peace of mind.” It’s basically the same thing she tells me every time I bring up my cheap-ass rent. There’s not a place in the French Quarter, unless it’s a cardboard box, that would be cheaper.
“Now,” CeCe says, tossing her rag on the counter before turning toward me with her hands on her hips. “Enough small talk, give me all the dirt.”
I should’ve expected this.
Since marrying Shep, CeCe has quickly become like an older sister to me, taking me under her wing without a second thought. She’s also a nosy motherfucker, just like her husband.
“Come on, spill it!” I swear to God she stomps her foot and then points her finger at me. “And I’ll know if you’re lying.”
Laughing, I mimic her stance and answer, “What? I was having coffee with a friend.”
“Bullshit. Try again.”
I roll my eyes at CeCe, knowing it won’t do me any good to play games with her. “It’s not bullshit, she really is a friend. We were best friends in high school.”
“But not just friends,” she hedges. “There was more there.”
It’s not a question; it’s a statement. And it’s true. We were so much more.
“Yeah, but that was years ago,” I finally say, straightening a couple of chairs as I try to avoid CeCe’s stare and the growing ache in my chest.
“Doesn’t mean it can’t be more again,” CeCe says, making her way back around the counter. “Shep said you two were really close, like each other’s shadows. He also mentioned he thought he was going to have to stage an intervention when she left for New York.”
I sigh, glancing out the window. “It wasn’t my best moment.”
After a few seconds of silence, a new customer walks in and puts an end to our heart-to-heart.
“My only piece of advice is don’t have regrets,” CeCe says, lowering her voice. “She’s obviously back in your life for a reason, take advantage of the opportunity. If nothing else, get some closure, because you, Finley Lawson, deserve to be happy.”
“Thanks, CeCe.” I wrap my arm around her shoulder, hugging her to me, before kissing the top of her head. “I’m gonna go take a nap before my set tonight. I’ll see you later.”
“Bye, Finn. Let me know if you want to bring Georgette to dinner one night. I’ll need some advance notice so I can make sure Shep is on his best behavior.”
“Will do,” I reply, laughing as I make my way to my apartment upstairs.
Chapter Eight
Georgette
Walking into the gallery this morning, I feel like I’m bouncing on air. Since my talk with Finn yesterday, I feel lighter. I guess I didn’t realize how much the past was weighing me down. Clearing the air a bit with him was the best thing I’ve done in a while. It was a long time overdue, like five years overdue, and now that it’s over, I feel like I can breathe better. Regrets try to creep in when I think about being out of touch with Finley for so long and how things ended with us, but I push those thoughts out of my head. Finn said we should leave the past in the past and I couldn’t agree more.
We can’t go back.
But we can go forward.
And having Finley back in my life is exactly what I needed. I’ve missed him and his friendship so much. I actually woke up this morning and the first thought in my head was I wonder what Finely is doing today? We have plans to meet up tomorrow. It’s his day off and he’s going with me to look at a few apartments.
I can’t live at the hotel forever. It was fine for the first few weeks but I’m ready to have my own space and eventually, I’d like to get the rest of my belongings from New York, what little I have, and bring them here too.
That thought brings Trevor to mind and I glance down at my phone and the text message I sent him last night that he still hasn’t replied to.
What will he say to me wanting to move the rest of my things to New Orleans?
What would that mean for us?
Why hasn’t he texted me back?
As I flip on the lights, I glance around the space and inhale deeply.
God, I love this place.
The pristine white floors and equally white walls are the perfect backdrop for the colorful art we’re beginning to amass. There’s a new artist coming in today to show some samples and I have a good feeling about him. He’s a local and got his start painting in the Quarter, exactly what Cami is looking for.
Speaking of Cami, she was supposed to be here early this morning because she has a doctor’s appointment later today, but I haven’t seen her yet. Leaning over the desk, I check the message book and calendar to see if she left a note but there’s nothing new.
I grab my phone and send her a text to check on her. This pregnancy is getting down to the wire and apparently, she’s been having Braxton Hicks contractions for a while, which is why her husband, Deacon, is so worried about her all the time. Plus, I think he’s just really protective of her. It’s sweet. The couple times I’ve seen them together I do nothing but smile. But it also makes my heart ache.
I want what they have.
As I’m daydreaming about my future, my phone dings.
Cami: Sorry I’m a no call no show! Carter left his backpack at home and I had to go back and get it. Then my mother-in-law made me come in for cinnamon rolls when I dropped Cash off.
I laugh out loud. No one makes Cami do anything, except carbs.
She is weak to their demands.
Cami: Good news though, I’m bringing you one!
What I let out next is something between a moan and a groan. First, I’m sure the cinnamon roll is amazing. I’ve sampled Annie Landry’s cooking and it’s all been phenomenal. Her boys definitely got their food skills from her. Second, Cami is constantly leading me into the arms of the devil with her King Cakes and beignets, and now, cinnamon rolls.
If this baby doesn’t hurry up, I’m going to be living my best six-hundred-pound life.
An hour or so later, Cami arrives at the gallery, cinnamon rolls in hand.
“What’s on the agenda today?” she asks, flittering around the gallery like she’s not carrying a butterball turkey under her pretty pink dress.
“A meeting in ten minutes with the new artist you booked last week,” I tell her, glancing down at the calendar and then back up at her. When we hear the door chime, we both look over to see a man walking in with a large portfolio under his arm. “And that’s probably him.”
Of course, he’d be early, but Cami doesn’t miss a beat. She smoothes down her dress over her round belly and greets him midway across the gallery, introducing herself and then me.
After a great meeting,
where we end up accepting a small collection of his paintings on a trial basis, I call us in some lunch and then we spend the better part of the afternoon going over our plans for when Cami is out for maternity leave. It’s still a month away, but we have quite a bit to do before it gets here, namely finding someone to help out while she’s gone.
I’m more than capable of handling the gallery on my own, but there are times we need more than one person here. We have someone who comes in and packages up paintings once they sell, which is nice. Plus, there’s a cleaning service that comes in twice a week to dust and tidy up the place. But occasionally, we’ll have a meeting with an artist or buyer while the gallery is open, like today, and we need someone to man the desk and greet walk-ins.
Our location makes this gallery unique. If set in a city like New York, most of our clientele would be through appointments only, but in a city like New Orleans, you have so many people just wandering in off the street. It isn’t always a bad thing. Just last week, I sold a painting for five grand to a woman window shopping while her husband was in a meeting at the hotel next door.
It just adds to the uniqueness of 303 Royal and I love it. I love the environment. I love the challenges. I love the art. I love the city. Everything about this place makes my heart happy and that convinces me I did the right thing in taking this job.
“Let’s keep moving,” Cami says, gingerly taking a seat at the desk across from me. She’s been pacing and randomly adjusting things as we’ve been talking. According to the baby book she left on the desk last week, my guess is this is her version of nesting. “We still need to discuss tomorrow night.”
Tomorrow night is the King Cake Party, but since we didn’t have an official grand opening party, it’s playing many roles and I want to make sure it’s perfect, for Cami. She’s worked so hard on this gallery and she wants to have everyone together one last time before the baby comes, and I want that for her. I also want to prove I can handle things while she’s away.
We go over every fine detail of the evening. It’s going to be low-key, but I still want to make sure it goes off without a hitch. With all of the Landrys in attendance, it’s sure to be a fun time. Finley and Tucker are going to play to give us a nice soundtrack for the evening. We have at least a dozen King Cakes coming, and Micah offered to bring over plates, forks, and napkins from Lagniappe. CeCe is setting up a small coffee bar and Shaw O’Sullivan offered to serve a signature drink for the evening. Apparently, everyone is in the spirit these days. With Carnival in full swing, it’s a party twenty-four-seven.
“So, I think we’re set,” Cami says, closing her planner.
I double-check my list and nod. “I think so. I’ll give everyone a quick reminder email today and make sure no one needs me to do anything.”
“As long as everyone is here, it’ll be a success.” Cami sighs and closes her eyes as she places a hand on her belly.
“Are you okay?” I ask, reaching across the desk. “Is it a contraction?”
After a deep breath, she opens her eyes and smiles. “No, I’m good, but I have to run. My doctor’s appointment is in half an hour and Deacon is supposed to pick me up out front.”
“Okay, you go. I’ve got everything handled here.”
We have one more appointment on the books for this afternoon, a man and woman stopping in to look for a few new pieces of art for their house that’s being remodeled in the Garden District. That’s an area of New Orleans I still haven’t been to yet, but I’m hoping to visit soon.
As a matter of fact, one of the apartments on my list is there. But the three I want to check out tomorrow are closer to the gallery. I’m trying to think of ease in getting to work. My trust fund is available, and I could use it to buy a car or even a house, but I try not to use it unless I need to. It’s there and it’s mine, but I like fending for myself.
Trevor thinks it’s absurd. The topic of my trust fund has always been a sticky subject between him and me and I really can’t explain it, but I like making my own money and living within my means. It makes me feel self-sufficient, like a responsible adult.
However, I wouldn’t mind investing in a piece of property here if I found the right place. That seems like a good use of the money. Also, I have an in when it comes to property and investing with Shep and his best friend Maverick. They mostly buy and sell commercial property, but Shep gave me a couple of listings he thinks are a good deal and one of them isn’t far from where he and CeCe live.
Having them as neighbors would be amazing and it would make this new city feel even more like home.
“Are you sure you’re okay with me meeting Finley?” I ask, for the second time. Cami has seemed preoccupied all day, scurrying around the studio like a squirrel on crack…or a pregnant lady on carbs. She brought beignets today, fresh from Cafe du Monde.
“I’m sure. Go,” she demands, practically pushing me toward the front door. “I don’t want you to live out of a suitcase forever, it makes me nervous, like you’re not planning on staying. So the sooner you find a place, the better.”
Rolling my eyes, I laugh her off and head for the door.
Leaving, honestly, hasn’t crossed my mind since the second I stepped out of the cab and onto Royal Street.
“Call me if anything comes up or if you have any contractions. I won’t be far,” I tell her, shouldering my bag and reaching for the handle of the door, but before I can open it, Finley steps inside almost running right into me.
We both laugh and do an awkward half-hug. I’m not sure where the awkwardness stems from. Finley and I have always been good at being friends, but ever since our talk at Neutral Grounds, things have been good, but occasionally, well, awkward. It’s like we’re not quite sure how to navigate being just friends. Before, there were never any perimeters around our relationship.
We were just Finn and Jette.
“Ready?” he asks, glancing over my shoulder at Cami in a questioning motion.
Cami waves us both off. “Yes, she’s ready. And hello, Finley, can’t wait to hear you play tonight.” Walking up to him, she gives him a hug that holds zero awkwardness and plants a kiss on his cheek. “Although, you know you’re invited even if you don’t play, right? We don’t just love you for your saxophone. But my brother would be sorely disappointed if you didn’t come play with him. I’m pretty sure he’s been looking forward to it since New Year’s Eve.”
“Well, the feeling is mutual,” Finley says, rubbing the back of his neck like he always does when he’s uncomfortable under someone’s scrutiny or praise. “And thank you.”
“Of course,” Cami says. “You’re family, which means you’re stuck with us.”
Finley gives her a smile and then turns to me. “We better get going if we’re going to keep you from being homeless.”
“You make it sound like I’m going to be in a van down by the river,” I tease, elbowing him as I duck under his arm and out the door. “Except, I don’t even have a van, so it’d be more like a cardboard box.”
I hear Cami chuckle as the door closes behind us before she calls out, “Have fun, you two!”
Finley and I fall into step, periodically moving to the side as large groups pass by.
“So where are we headed first?” Finley asks, putting an arm out in front of me to block a couple of guys who aren’t paying attention. Already drunk from a stint on Bourbon Street, from the looks of it.
People in New Orleans take day drinking to an entirely new level.
“It’s a loft apartment,” I tell him, pulling out my phone and checking the address. “Just a couple more blocks up and then one over.”
A few minutes later, we’re making our way up a dank staircase and into an apartment the size of a closet. When the listing said loft, I think it actually meant studio and small, like smaller than most apartments in New York City. The location is great, definitely within walking distance to the gallery and only a short walk to Neutral Grounds and some of my other favorite places, but zero room. One
look from me and we’re back out the door and down the stairs.
“Next,” Finley says as we step back out onto the sidewalk, not even bothering to ask what I thought.
“What? You didn’t like that one?” I ask with a chuckle.
He scoffs, “You could hardly turn around. Besides, the stairwell is dark and I wouldn’t like knowing you had to walk up it every night to get home.”
Keeping my eyes trained ahead, I try not to let him see my smile. Finley’s protectiveness is always something that’s made my heart swell. It’s different from the stifling overprotectiveness of my father, which was often misplaced and never showed up when I needed it.
It’s even different from Trevor’s controlling nature, which I’ve always tolerated and chalked up to being his own unique way of caring.
But when Finley makes comments like that, I know it comes from a place of genuine concern. He’s not trying to box me in or exert control. He’s simply worried about my well-being.
It’s always made me feel cared for and loved, even.
When we go to turn the corner, I feel a hand touch my lower back and I practically lean into it before straightening, remembering who he is and what we are.
The gesture is so familiar and for a second it takes me back to when we were just Finn and Jette, two teenagers figuring out the world around us. I wouldn’t say we didn’t have any cares, because we did, Finley probably more than me, but we didn’t let them weigh us down.
I miss those days.
But unlike those days, I’m not Finley’s and he’s not mine.
And Trevor would have a lot to say about Finley placing his hand on my lower back.
Wouldn’t he?
Maybe my overactive brain is making more out of the gesture than necessary.
“How much further?” Finley asks, pulling me out of my thoughts and dropping his hand.
I try not to think about how I immediately miss his touch as I glance down at my phone and then back up to the street corner. “Two more blocks.”
