Chapter 15
Chapter
Fifteen
GRAMMERCY
The convent’s garden is hushed, the air thick with the scent of lilies and a hint of autumn, right around the corner. Iron lanterns flicker along the path, but they only seem to make the shadows beneath the ivy-covered walls even deeper.
It would be so easy to pull Elly into one and pick up where we left off before we were so rudely interrupted.
Christ, that kiss…
I can still taste her fire on my lips, and I’m never going to forget the look in her eyes when she pulled me down to her mouth. I’d bet my lucky skates that wasn’t just a show for a bunch of drunk frat boys.
But until I know for sure, until we talk this through, I have to keep my hands to myself.
Not easy, though.
Not even close.
All I want right now is another taste of my gorgeous, brave, smoking hot wife.
“Is this the way to the speakeasy?” Elly whispers as we wind past a weather-worn statue of Saint Cecilia, her hands folded over a stone violin toward the far corner of the garden, where an old crypt door is tucked beneath an archway, barely visible beneath the overgrown ivy.
“Or has this fake marriage all been an elaborate plan to lure me to your cult’s secret garden and offer me as a virgin sacrifice? ”
I glance over with a crooked smile. “Would’ve been one hell of a plan. But I’m not that smart, chère .”
“Sure, you are,” she says, her eyes flashing into mine, making me hope she’s still thinking about that kiss, too.
“Smart and charming and exactly the kind of bait a cult would use to lure unsuspecting women into their lair. But as much as I hate to foil your plan,” she offers in a husky whisper as I stop beside the crypt, “I’m not a virgin. ”
I bite my lip, doing my best not to think about Elly doing non-virginal things or how much I want to be the one doing them with her. “Is that right?”
She nods slowly, holding my gaze. “It is.”
“Now that you mention it, the fact that you have a little girl probably should have tipped me off,” I say, playing along.
She hums beneath her breath. “It really should have. Maybe you’re not that smart, after all.”
“But I’m still cute,” I say with a wink, the sound of her laughter making my entire body feel lighter.
“You are,” she agrees, leaning closer. “But you’re also keeping me in suspense. We’re going underground, aren’t we? It’s a secret underground club in secret catacombs beneath the convent, isn’t it?”
“Close, but this is New Orleans,” I remind her, reaching for a rusted iron ring embedded in the side of the crypt.
I tug, and with a groan of ancient hinges, a narrow door swings inward to reveal a second, much more modern door.
I punch in my code, and it opens with an efficient click onto a stone passageway lit by gas lamps set into the wall.
“If you want a lair, you build it up . The other stuff floods too much.”
“Oh my God, Grammercy, this is so cool,” she murmurs, stepping past me with an awed grin that makes me so glad she’s the woman I finally decided to share this with.
I knew Elly would get it. She loves this spooky, spunky, one-of-a-kind city as much as I do.
She spins back to me, giddy with excitement.
“Come on. I’m dying to see what’s next.”
She reaches for my hand, and I wrap my fingers tight around hers, holding on as I close the door behind us.
“The only thing that could make this cooler is if we were dressed in 1920s clothes,” she whispers.
“I like what you have on,” I say in the understatement of the year. “The back of that dress…”
She glances my way, a teasing note in her voice as she asks, “You mean the lack of back on this dress?”
“Yeah. That,” I say as the tunnel curves to the left, seamlessly flowing into a hidden stairwell that climbs sharply upward. “I like.”
“I’ll remember that,” she murmurs as the walls close in.
We make our way up steps worn smooth from generations of feet, where there isn’t room to walk side-by-side, but I’m not complaining about the chance to guide her ahead with a hand at the small of her back, right where the silky fabric of her dress becomes even silkier skin.
The feel of her bare skin beneath my fingers burns through me, making me thicker all over again.
As we rise, the sounds drift down—first the low hum of voices, then horns, and the gentle brush of snare drums. Elly glances back, wonder glowing on her face.
“How do you know about this place? Is it because you’re famous?
I’ve always been pretty sure being famous would be complicated and overrated, but maybe it’s not. ”
I laugh. “Nah, not fame. Just local boy stuff. My choir teacher in high school sent a few of us here once we turned eighteen. Told us if we ever wanted to understand jazz and blues, we needed to hear it where it lives. Not in a tourist trap on Bourbon, but here, where it’s still growing wild in a secret garden. ”
She sighs, blinking suddenly shining eyes. “Wow. That’s so beautiful. Thank you for bringing me.”
“Of course, chère ,” I say as we stop at the small landing at the top of the stairs, where a heavy wooden door mutes the music from inside. “Thanks for being the kind of person who understands why it’s special.”
Our eyes lock and hold as I reach past her for the door handle, and something passes between us, a silent acknowledgement that it’s almost time to address the elephant in the room. To get honest about that kiss and what it means for our “fake” marriage moving forward.
But not yet, not until we’re somewhere private.
I push open the door. Light and sound—feral jazz mixed with hushed conversation and the clink of glasses from the bar—spills in from the other side, making Elly gasp. I watch her as we step inside, loving the chance to see my favorite place in New Orleans again for the first time through her eyes.
The speakeasy is carved from a forgotten salon above the crypt, the ceiling high and arched, the plaster cracked with time and damp but still beautiful in a crumbling kind of way.
Candles glow on every surface, throwing shadows against the faded murals showing Mary kneeling by Jesus’s tomb and all the apostles gathered in a garden much like the one outside.
Small wooden tables are scattered around the low stage where the musicians play, surrounded by shadowed booths tucked into the alcoves and protected by thick velvet curtains that help muffle the sound reaching the outside world as well as any sounds being made at the private tables.
“Grammercy Graves.” The hostess—Nannette La Mieux, still holding court after thirty years—spots me, waving us over to the throne where she greets guests with a grin.
“Been too long, bébé . Good to see you. How you been keeping yourself? And how’s your mama?
Tell her we miss her face round here. That woman works too hard.
Gotta make time for play. And music. Always music. ”
“I agree, Nannette. Good to see you, too,” I say, leaning in to kiss both her soft, wrinkled cheeks. As I pull back, I add, “I’ve been good. Busy with the new team, but good.”
“You boys are doing better than good, I’d say.
That game last night…” She lets out a long appreciative sound.
“That was some standout hockey. And looks like you’re making time for other important things, as well.
” Glancing past me, she gives Elly a once-over, her dark eyes twinkling. “Who’s this lovely creature?”
“I’m Elly,” she says, reaching a hand past me. “So nice to meet you, Nannette.”
“Likewise,” she says with a mischievous smile, I understand as she adds, “Been waiting a long time for this boy to bring someone other than his mama in here. Members only get to share the Garden with two people, you know, baby girl. Two. That’s it.
For life.” She gloats for a moment. “Bet you’re feeling pretty special right now. ”
“I’ve felt pretty special since the moment I met him,” Elly says without missing a beat. “I wasn’t sure they made men like this in real life.”
Nannette lets out a low, appreciative sound.
“Ooh, girl, you know how it is. You know what you’ve found.
See that you don’t let him go ‘cause you’re too right.
Aren’t many fish like this one in the sea.
Now, a private booth, I think… Tonight is a night for celebration.
” She lifts two menus from the polished brass table beside her fancy chair, arching a brow my way.
“Would you like to look at these, or do you already know what you want? If you want to wait, that’s fine, but you know we don’t take orders unless we’re between sets. ”
“I’ll have a gin and tonic, please,” Elly says.
“Bourbon on the rocks,” I add, earning an approving nod from Nannette.
“Good. I like a couple who order sane, respectable drinks. Not some bougie mixed-up nonsense.” She rises, motioning for us to follow her. “I’ll get those sent over as soon as we get you to your table.”
Elly glances up at me as Nannette turns away, squeezing my hand.
I squeeze hers back, hoping she knows I’ve felt special since the moment I met her, too.
We follow Nannette’s slow, rocking gait across the room, past couples leaning close in the standing room only section, the tables at the back, where rheumy-eyed musicians nearing the end of their time in the garden soak up the set like a holy benediction, and members out with their friends for a one-of-a-kind night on the town.
Nannette finally stops beside a booth close to the stage, but tucked farther back than the rest. The one least likely to provide us with a view of anything but the musicians lost to the music…or anyone else a view of us .
Nannette winks at me as she leaves the menus on the table, but doesn’t speak. No one does this close to the stage, not until they’re inside their sound-dampening booth, anyway.
As we slide in, the small space forces us close, and I’m not complaining. Not for a fucking second. Close is where I’ve wanted to be since the second that kiss ended.
That kiss…