Chapter 7
Chapter
Seven
“ P regaming dinner was a good idea,” said Tony after wiping his mouth with a napkin. “And I’m always up for oysters.” He apparently realized his unintended double entendre and, charmingly, blushed.
Laughing felt good. “You don’t have to be so kind about it. I was really?—”
“You were hungry and tired and probably footsore, and it was time to take a break. I’m glad we did.”
Flip had concocted that fiction to explain his response to Tony’s revelation. It wasn’t an absolute lie because, in fact, Flip hadn’t yet eaten that day—the note about the piano had disrupted his brunch plans—and they had walked a good bit by that point. But what had caused him to go pale and weak wasn’t a skipped meal; it was learning that everything Scratch had told him about Storyville was true. The implications of that terrified him.
Flip had looked so awful that Tony initially offered to call 911, and then suggested an alternative: calling a taxi to take Flip home. But dammit, Flip had truly been enjoying their time together and didn’t want it to end. So he’d suggested a snack instead, and now he’d pulled himself together enough to continue their tour. He’d process the whole Scratch thing later. Preferably in private.
As they ate, Tony asked questions about California, which he’d never visited, and then they’d swapped notes on some of their favorite books. It felt distinctly date-like, although neither of them acknowledged it. And Flip was too emotionally precarious at the moment to ask for clarity. Better just to let things flow.
After Flip had insisted on paying and they walked outside, Tony asked, “Are you sure you’re still up for more today? I’m really hoping you say yes buuuut I’ve been told I can be overly enthusiastic and I don’t want to overwhelm you.”
Seriously, if Flip looked up charming in the dictionary, he’d see this man’s picture. “I’m definitely up for it, if I haven’t scared you away with my fit of the vapors.”
Grinning, Tony fluttered his eyelashes and pressed a palm to his chest. Then he spoke in an exaggerated southern accent. “I declare, Mr. Devin, I do believe you’ve underestimated me.”
This time Flip’s near swoon had nothing to do with ghosts. Tony was just so…. God, Flip couldn’t re member ever losing his head so quickly over anyone. Slow down , he reminded himself. Proceed with caution.
They took a streetcar into the Garden District. The car was too crowded for Tony to point out any of the sights they passed, but that was okay because Flip had an excuse to stand very close to him. Close enough that sometimes the ride jostled them together, which Tony didn’t seem to mind either.
After disembarking, they walked a few blocks to Magazine Street, lined as far as Flip could see with shops, restaurants, and other businesses. As best as he could tell, the pedestrians seemed a nice mix of locals and tourists, and chain stores and franchises were sparse.
As Tony had promised, he led them into a resale clothing shop with a large selection and scanned the racks with what seemed like a practiced eye. “A few years ago I went through a phase where I wore a lot of vintage clothing. The kind of stuff I saw people wearing in old family photos. I figured it helped get me in the mood to… do history.”
“You don’t do it anymore?” Flip took in Tony’s jeans, blue-and-white paisley button-up shirt, and black leather jacket. He looked amazing, but not especially retro.
“It was an expensive habit. I still have a couple of old suits, though.”
The two of them had fun selecting items, modeling them, and critiquing each other’s choices. In the end, Tony got a tweed jacket that Flip privately thought made him look like a hot professor—and not at all like Ethan, thankfully. Flip settled on an old pair of Levi’s, a pair of gray pleated trousers that he might never wear but fit him well and made Tony wolf-whistle, and a pale-green polo shirt that Tony said brought out the color of his eyes.
“Will that tide you over until your suitcase arrives?”
“I’ve given up hope that I’ll see it again. But this is fine. I don’t need much stuff.” That wasn’t absolutely true. He still wanted the things he’d lost.
“Ah, a minimalist. I admire that. I collect stuff I don’t have room for.”
Flip suspected that it was highly interesting stuff. “When I was a kid, I bounced around a lot, so I got used to not accumulating. I do have a bunch of books in storage back in Berkeley, though.”
Tony’s eyes sparkled. “Want to visit a bookstore?”
“Always.”
They took a roundabout route so that Flip could goggle at the beautiful houses and Tony could talk about local architecture and some of the elite families who’d lived in this neighborhood. “A lot of authors have lived around here, or at least spent some time,” said Tony.
“Did you have relatives here?”
“Nah. Some of them weren’t white enough, and none of them were rich enough. As near as I can tell, my most recent wealthy ancestors died in the mid- nineteenth century. You’ve already seen their house, though, and it wasn’t here.” He gave a bright smile.
They ended up at the same bookshop Flip had already visited, but he was happy to go again. As he perused the section that showcased local authors, he heard Tony’s triumphant cry, several rows away. A moment later, Tony hurried toward him, holding a book aloft like a prize. “It’s yours!” he announced.
Flip hadn’t previously checked to see whether the store carried any of his titles, and although he tried to look cool, he was secretly thrilled that Tony had found one. “Oh that’s Ball and Chain .” Oh so nonchalant.
Tony examined the cover: a stylized depiction of, well, a ball and chain spread atop a bed. “What’s it about?”
Long ago, Flip had learned that there was no way to answer the question without making a book sound boring and stupid—or hopelessly confusing. But he did his best. “Um, redemption, I guess. The protagonist ends up in a bad marriage that harms him and his wife. And their kids, when they have them. He does some shitty things. So does she. They’re both really angry and hurt. But they gradually grow into better people and try to fix things.”
“Is it any good?” Tony asked teasingly.
“My biggest seller.” Then Flip admitted with slight awkwardness, “Won an award. Got me a three-book deal.”
Tony clutched it to his chest. “I’m buying it. You’ll sign it, right? ”
“Aw, man, you don’t have to?—”
“No force on earth could stop me from purchasing this book.”
Flip realized that they’d attracted the attention of several nearby shoppers, who now stared curiously. Tony noticed too. “This is Flip Devin. You should buy his books. I haven’t read them yet because I’ve just met him, but spending time with him is fantastic. And not just because he’s cute.”
As everyone laughed, Flip felt his face heat. The thing about being an author was that—unless you were huge like Stephen King—people rarely recognized you. There were some definite benefits to anonymity. He didn’t think he was the type who’d enjoy the attention of paparazzi. But it was also sort of nice to be briefly recognized, even if only by a handful of bookshop customers.
Tony took pity on him and lowered his voice. “Are you going to get a book too?”
“Can you recommend one on New Orleans history?”
“I think I can manage that.” Tony spent a few minutes peering at the shelves, his mouth pursed thoughtfully, as if this decision was important. Finally he nodded to himself and pulled out a specific volume. “A lot of these books are great. But you seemed pretty interested in Storyville, so you can start with this one.”
Flip took the book. “Does it talk about the musicians?”
“A little, yeah. And also the Black women who ran the houses—some of them got very rich—and the politicians who stuck their fingers into everything.”
What if the book mentioned a pianist named Scratch? Well, that would provide his final confirmation. “I’ll buy this one,” he announced.
Two other people obeyed Tony’s earlier command, each purchasing one of Flip’s books and asking him to sign. That left a couple of his books on the shelves—one copy each of two titles—and the salesperson had Flip sign those too. As Tony chatted with the other buyers, Flip inscribed the flyleaf of his book.
“Well, at least I’ve had some income today,” said Flip after he and Tony made their way outside. It had grown dark by then, and the city’s wildly uneven sidewalks made walking a little hazardous. They strolled slowly past a cemetery, pausing to peer through the locked gate, and then headed back to Magazine Street.
They paused at one point, Tony standing close. “You’ve been incredibly patient with my lectures today.”
“I love your lectures.” That was the absolute truth. Flip felt as if he could listen to Tony for years and never get tired of him.
“Yeah?” Shining eyes and a slightly cocked head.
“Yeah.”
For several moments they simply stood and stared at each other. Flip felt slightly fizzy, as if he were a little drunk on champagne, and he had to stuff his hands into his pockets to keep from touching.
Then Tony gave a small sigh. “How about something more substantial than those oysters? What food do you like?”
Flip would have happily consumed a bowl of swamp mud if that kept him in Tony’s company. “Take us somewhere you like.”
That earned a smile.
They ended up at an unpretentious café with a bright and airy interior and sat at one of the few unoccupied tables. Lively conversations filled the space, and servers rushed around with overflowing plates. A majority of the menu items were breaded and deep-fried, and Flip’s stomach grumbled at the delicious smells. “Everything looks amazing. How am I supposed to choose?”
“You can point at random. Nothing here’s gonna disappoint.” Tony briefly chewed his lip. “Hey, will it make you uncomfortable if I order a beer?”
“You noticed I abstained at the oyster place, huh?”
“Yeah, and you only wanted to peek inside the Carousel Bar. I’m perfectly fine with an iced tea.”
So Tony was considerate too. Seriously, the man was too perfect; he had to have a fatal flaw. “I appreciate you asking, but order whatever you like. I’m not really a drinker but it doesn’t bother me when other people imbibe.” Then, because he felt as if Tony’s thoughtfulness deserved an explanation, he added, “My parents were drunks and addicts. I’ve always figured it’s better if I sort of… avoid the first steps on that path.”
Tony regarded him closely, and maybe he would have said something except the waitress arrived. Like Flip, Tony ordered iced tea.
“You really didn’t have to do that,” said Flip after the waitress left.
“I wanted to. I’d rather be completely sober around you anyway. So I don’t miss a thing.”
Flip’s heart made a funny little bounce, and he realized he was giving a sappy smile. “Yeah?”
“I can’t remember when I’ve had a better day. You’re damn good company, Flip.”
“I’d say the same about you.”
Now they were both grinning at each other, and Flip decided this must be an official date, which made him feel giddy. His life may have taken a hard turn into the bizarre lately, but he really couldn’t complain about where he’d landed.
The waitress returned with their drinks, laughed—probably at them making googly eyes across the table—and took their orders. Flip actually did point at random. “Fried chicken’s gonna take a little longer to cook,” the waitress warned him. “You okay with that, honey?”
“I’m in no hurry.” He could sit here with Tony for the rest of the week, as far as he was concerned.
“So,” said Tony after a long swallow of tea, “ Ball and Chain . What inspired you to write it?”
“It’s not autobiographical, if you’re wondering. I’ve never been married, I’m not attracted to women, and I don’t have any kids. I guess there’s a little of my parents in that story, except neither of them made any attempt to fix things.”
“No redemption there, huh?”
“Not in this life. My father died years ago. Mom… dunno. Lost touch.” He didn’t feel a pang over it and doubted she did either.
“Do you want me to stop asking questions about your family?”
“No, it’s just….” How to explain this to a guy who’d traced his roots back two hundred years, whose literal life work involved studying aspects of his lineage? “I don’t have any other relatives, and it’s been a long time since my parents mattered to me. So you can ask, but there’s just not much to tell. I’d love to hear more about your folks, though.”
So Tony told him about his mother and father and siblings—he had three—and aunts and uncles and cousins. Flip would need a spreadsheet to keep track of it all, but that was fine. Tony did a beautiful job of making all of these people seem complex and interesting, as if they were characters in a really great book.
The food, when it eventually arrived, proved to be as wonderful as promised. Possibly the best fried chicken Flip had ever tasted, and the sides were good too: mac and cheese, green beans, and cornbread. But his companion remained the star of the show, handsome and funny and fascinating.
“Why New Orleans?” asked Tony, chasing red beans and rice with his spoon .
Why indeed. “Abbreviated version. I’ve wanted to be a writer since… forever. Got a degree in English, which meant I ended up with a string of jobs that barely paid the bills. I was working at a hotel in Napa when I met Ethan, a college prof who was up there for the weekend. Then a lot of things happened kinda fast: got an agent, sold a book, quit my job, moved in with Ethan in the Bay Area. Sold a couple more books. Then my writing slowed down, Ethan cheated, I packed up my shit, and I decided to give myself a writing residency here until my savings run out.”
Tony didn’t run away screaming, which was impressive. “Cheated.”
“He’s a bastard, but we weren’t good together anyway.” Fuck. He might as well hit Tony with the truth. “I’m not sure I’m good with anyone.”
“We’ve been pretty good today.”
“It’s been one day. I’d fuck things up eventually.”
Troy pointed his spoon at Flip. “This is presumptuous of me since we’ve just met. But in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not exactly known for keeping my mouth shut. My family’s nickname for me is Yak-Yak, and I sort of can’t believe I just admitted that, but there you go.”
“I like it,” said Flip, smiling despite the general seriousness of the conversation.
“There’s a lot of eccentricity in my family tree, in case you hadn’t noticed that either. We don’t always embrace one another’s weirdnesses, but at least we tolerate them. When my sister Nicole was eighteen and decided she was a vampire—too much Anne Rice or something, I don’t know—we humored her, even though it meant she refused to leave her room unless it was dark outside. When my cousin— Well, you get the idea.”
“She didn’t exsanguinate people, did she?”
Chuckling, Tony shook his head. “No, she just insisted on eating her meat really rare. She outgrew that phase. Nowadays she’s vegan. Anyway, my great-aunt Amelie claims to be a psychic, and—” He stopped because Flip was choking on a mouthful of green beans.
“Miss Amelie?” he managed when he could breathe again. “The one with the table on St. Philip Street?”
Tony looked pleased. “You know her?”
“Uh, yeah. I live across the street.”
He should tell Tony the whole tale, including the parts about Scratch. But he really, really didn’t want to.
For the moment, at least, Tony seemed more intrigued than anything. “Huh. Did she…? Well, let me explain why I brought her up to you. You know, she’s not even a Bergeron. She married into us, and either she was woo-woo before or the eccentricity is contagious. A few months ago, at Christmas dinner, I was kind of whining about not being able to find the right man to settle down with. She said that’s because there’s a particular someone I’m supposed to be with but he hasn’t arrived yet.” He said the next words in a passable imitation of her scratchy voice. “ He’s gonna think he’s lost everything, but he ain’t. Boy just needs to make enough room for you. You two got stories to tell . ”
“And you think she meant me? She wasn’t that specific.”
Tony just looked at him, eyebrows raised, until Flip conceded with a nod. “Okay, sounds like me,” he said. “But surely Miss Amelie isn’t omniscient. And fated mates? That’s a romance trope, not real life.”
“She meant fitted, not fated.” Tony illustrated this by interlocking his two index fingers. Then he ducked his head. “This is far too much to lay on a man who’s just met me. I’m sorry.”
Flip didn’t feel as if they’d just met. He’d been so comfortable with Tony that he’d let down his guard in a way he rarely did, even after weeks or months of knowing someone. He believed what Tony was telling him and, more than that, wanted to believe what Miss Amelie had predicted. Sharing stories with Tony Bergeron seemed like the most delightful future imaginable.
But almost everything that had happened since his arrival in New Orleans had been bizarrely surreal, and Tony—a really good person—didn’t deserve to be dragged into a swamp of weirdness.
“I’ve scared you off,” Tony said sadly.
“No. But… it’s complicated.”
That brought a deep sigh. “It always is.”
The waitress came by and was disappointed to see them drooping rather than flirting. She was even more disappointed when they said they’d pass on dessert. “You’re gonna want our bread pudding with rum sauce to go then, honey. If you don’t, you’ll be sad about it. ”
They already had enough sadness, so Flip gave in and ordered one for each of them.
Although they rode the streetcar back to the Quarter together, they didn’t say much. Tony looked unhappy, which made Flip feel bad, but he just couldn’t bring himself to talk about Miss Amelie’s predictions or about Scratch. He was too confused about it himself. And maybe it was just as well. Tony deserved someone a lot better than him—steadier, nicer, more connected. It was kinder to separate from him now, before things went any further. As it was, even the idea of not seeing Tony again made Flip ache.
“I don’t even know where you live,” said Flip as they began the trek toward St. Philip. “Is this out of your way?”
“I’ve got a place on Clouet Street in the Bywater. I’d pass by your apartment anyway. But if you want I can take a different route.”
He sounded forlorn, which broke Flip’s heart. “I’d like to walk with you.”
Tony rewarded him with a small smile.
Although Flip would have preferred to be unencumbered—they both carried various bags with clothing, books, and dessert—at least they didn’t have very far to go. Maybe a mile or so. And there was no point in remaining silent, so Flip asked some questions about things they passed, and Tony brightened as he got to explain.
Flip was genuinely sorry when they got to St. Philip .
“Ah,” said Tony, pointing. “Aunt Amelie’s usual spot.” She had packed up for the night, of course, and the street was deserted. “Look, don’t be scared by what she said. She doesn’t mean any harm by it.”
“I believe that.”
Tony scuffed his toe on the pavement. “I think that there are some places where the line between everyday and the uncanny has worn thin. The city of New Orleans is one of them. I dunno why—maybe it’s the river’s fault. Things that would be impossible in most places are possible here. Like old ladies who can see the future.”
And ghosts , Flip thought. He nodded. “If I stayed here long enough, maybe I’d get used to it. But I’m only here for a few months.”
Tony frowned, scuffed his toe again, and then squared his shoulders. “Well, if you decide you want more tour guidance, I’d like that. You know where to find me.” He pointed toward the Bergeron House.
“Thanks for that. And thanks for… everything.” Flip’s throat felt tight. He wanted to grab Tony’s hand, drag him up to his apartment and its enormous bed, and stay there together indefinitely.
“It was, quite literally, my pleasure.”
Flip didn’t move to open the door to his building, and Tony didn’t walk away. They stood there, a tableau under the flickering gaslight. Were there ghosts watching them? Flip couldn’t tell.
Finally Tony cleared his throat. “I’m going to go home and read your book. I hope you like the one I picked out for you.”
“Maybe it’ll give me some ideas for my next novel.”
“I like that,” said Tony thoughtfully. “We hear things about the big players, but there are so many others who are forgotten. I think that’s partly why I chose my career—to preserve their stories. Some of those people were my family, after all. The ones who owned the Bergeron House, the ones who were born enslaved but managed to buy their freedom, the ones who sold rice calas in the Quarter, the ones who played the piano in whorehouses.”
Flip felt as if someone had suddenly filled his spine with ice water. “Piano?” he croaked.
“Yeah. I had a great-great-great uncle who, according to family lore, was a pretty good player. In both senses of the word, actually. He apparently spent his free time hopping into bed with anyone—male or female—who’d have him. Which eventually got him murdered.”
Really, Flip didn’t have to ask. But he did anyway, barely able to hear his own voice over the rushing in his ears. “What was his name?”
Tony grinned. “Anthony—same as me. But he had a nickname. He performed as Scratch Bergeron.”