Chapter 3
Heavy rains continued throughout the day and into the next, forcing my boss to cancel my scheduled fieldwork to evaluate an old sugar plantation in Plaquemines Parish—which was probably a good thing, since I hadn’t figured out how I was supposed to get there.
By choice I didn’t own a car, mostly because I was a reluctant and newly relicensed driver, so when traveling to adjoining parishes—a requirement for my job—I was dependent on other drivers, usually Jolene.
Eventually I’d have to get a car, because being driven by Jolene was almost as nerve-racking as driving myself.
Although Jolene had gone to work she still hadn’t seemed herself. At least she hadn’t again mentioned giving the engagement party at her parents’ house in Mississippi. I hoped that meant that she’d decided against it, but I was too afraid to bring it up again.
When Cooper called I smiled dopily at my phone as I answered.
He didn’t waste any time before getting to the point of the call.
“Are you up to go look at some houses? I know our official house hunting isn’t supposed to start until tomorrow, but I figured with all this rain your Plaquemines Parish excursion would be postponed. ”
My smile broadened. “You remembered.” It was rare to find a man who not only listened to the minutiae of one’s life but also paid attention.
“I have a mother and a sister. I learned the hard way the consequences of not listening.”
His sister, Alston, was one of my best friends from Charleston, and I could only imagine the passive-aggressive punishments.
“Plus, I find your life interesting.”
“I was already going to say yes, Cooper. You didn’t have to sweeten the deal with flattery.”
He chuckled. “I’m serious. You’re a fascinating person. I’ve always thought that.”
I was glad he couldn’t see my flaming cheeks.
“Yes, well, we can at least go see the house on Esplanade, since JR Properties owns it and I have the keys. And since I’m leading the renovation, I’ll be able to give you a good idea of what it will look like when it’s all done.
Just let me know when you’d like to go, and I’ll be ready. ”
“I’m actually in your driveway. I was hoping you’d say yes.”
“Oh. Wow. I can be ready in five.”
“Perfect. I’ll meet you at your door with an umbrella.”
I ran to my room to grab my backpack, and then to the coat-tree in the living room for my ancient rain jacket, passing the large hall mirror on my way.
I stopped in horror at my reflection. I was wearing the usual fieldwork uniform of long-sleeved T-shirt and baggy jeans, ratty hair in a ponytail, and no makeup.
Before I’d met Jolene I would have kept going looking like this, but I couldn’t help but feel guilty at the thought of discarding all her tutelage—not to mention her oft-repeated adage “It’s always better to arrive late than to arrive ugly. ”
Muttering to myself, I ran to Jolene’s room, resisting the impulse to call her for guidance. I was a grown woman, and I had been practicing good grooming habits and makeup application under Jolene’s watchful eye for months now. Surely I was capable of making myself presentable in five minutes.
Twenty minutes later I was running down the stairs, sliding my hair tie over my high ponytail and ensuring that the lipstick I’d used to swipe my lips was tucked into the pocket of my dress—a pullover navy one I’d borrowed from Jolene’s closet.
It had a simple round neckline with no collar, zipper, or buttons—but it did have two deep pockets, which was the sole reason I’d selected it.
I left my backpack, instead choosing to bring the crossbody purse that had been made for me by Paige Mukowski, the young woman masquerading as Sunny Ryan.
Paige had disappeared on the same night her secret was discovered, but despite her duplicity, I firmly believed that she wasn’t a bad person.
I knew what it was like to be in the kind of situation in which no choice was a good one, and what lay behind doors A, B, and C was all equally terrible.
I also knew that Paige had never intended to hurt anyone.
She’d been raised in the foster care system and had wanted only to find a family to call her own—even if it belonged to someone else.
I jogged down the stairs, my feet buried in a borrowed pair of yellow patent leather rain boots.
I hoped that they would distract Cooper from noticing any of my hastily-applied-makeup errors and the amateur hairstyling attempt.
I was contemplating whether I should ask Jolene for a large Barbie head for Christmas when I opened the door to find Cooper waiting patiently under a large umbrella.
“Sorry it took me so long,” I said. “Saying good-bye to Mardi always takes a while.” That wasn’t a lie.
Cooper smiled, and something inside my chest squeezed. “It was worth the wait.” He placed his hand on the small of my back as he guided me toward his car, being careful not to let any rain hit me.
As he typed the address of the house on Esplanade into his GPS app, I said, “I should probably drive, since I know where we’re going, and you should be focusing on the neighborhood instead of the road.” I held my breath, hoping he’d say no.
“Thanks, but you can’t drive.” He started the engine, then pulled the car out onto the street.
“What? Have you been talking to Beau?” I couldn’t keep the indignation from my voice. “He’s the one who’s always forcing me to drive even though I’ve made it clear that I’m not—”
“No. It’s not that at all. It’s just that this is a rental, and only my name is on the agreement as an authorized driver.”
“Oh. Of course. It’s probably for the best anyway. With me behind the wheel I’m liable to kill us both, and then you’ll never get to see the house.”
Cooper didn’t smile, his grip on the steering wheel tightening as he focused on the road in front of him. “You shouldn’t say that.”
I looked at him, studying the odd set of his mouth. It was the sort of grimace one wore when delivering bad news. “I was only joking.”
“I know.” The swoosh-swoosh of the windshield wipers filled the silence, his grim expression giving me pinpricks of apprehension.
He looked at me, and I saw again the scar on his chin, something he hadn’t had when I’d known him in Charleston.
I touched it gently with my finger, and he turned his head away, his gaze focusing on the rain pelting the car’s hood. I dropped my hand.
“How did you get that? Shaving incident?” I’d wanted it to sound flippant, to lighten the suddenly serious mood, but when he looked at me again, his stricken expression told me that I shouldn’t have said anything at all.
“Bad traffic accident in LA,” he said, so quietly that I could barely hear it over the sound of the rain hammering the top of the car.
“Were you driving?” I wasn’t sure why I asked. Probably because my aversion to driving was due to an accident I’d caused while behind the wheel.
Yeah. I couldn’t hear the word, but he nodded his head once.
“Was anyone else hurt?”
He pretended he hadn’t heard me, and I was glad. I shouldn’t have asked him, as everything about his body language had told me to back off, but there was a mystery there and, as with my dad, it was against my nature to let a mystery go, no matter how much I knew I should.
Cooper swerved around a pothole on Carrollton before expertly maneuvering back into his lane. “Wow,” he said. “That was huge. Don’t they spend any money on road improvements here?”
“Not that I know of,” I said, realizing that the previous topic had been closed indefinitely.
“There’s a great Insta account devoted to the potholes and other hazards on New Orleans streets.
I’ll send you a link. It’s always good for a smile while you’re waiting on the side of the road for a tow truck. ”
He laughed. It sounded a little forced, but his expression had returned to normal.
We spent the rest of the short drive talking about his new job and his sister, Alston, who kept promising to come visit but hadn’t yet.
As he turned right on Esplanade I indicated how far down the avenue he needed to go, then pointed out the bright blue shotgun house with the Classical Revival architectural details I’d fallen in love with on my very first visit.
There was something special about an old house, its timeworn existence evidenced by its drooping eaves and peeling paint, its fading patina like an elderly woman’s old lipstick.
Cooper put the car in park, then unbuckled his seat belt before turning to face the avenue.
His gaze took in the street, including its wonky intersection with Bayou Road and the eclectic display of styles and color palettes of the houses that lined the avenue.
“I like this,” he said. “I like this a lot. It reminds me of Charleston. Old trees, incredible architecture…”
“Eyebrow-singeing heat in the summer, flying cockroaches…” I added.
He grinned. “Yeah. Just like home.”
I wasn’t a real estate agent, but my stepmother was, and she would be disappointed in me if I didn’t emphasize the selling points of the house’s location.
“This grand boulevard was the Spanish citizens’ response to St. Charles Avenue, which was the exclusive domain of the new Americans back in the day, which is why there’s this gorgeous neutral ground and old-growth oak trees.
You can tell just by the paint color choices that this isn’t the Garden District—or South of Broad,” I added, as a nod to his Charleston neighborhood.
“True.” He spun in a half circle to take in the neighboring houses, stopping to peer down the street. “What’s in that direction?”
“City Park. If you’re still a runner, it’s only about one and a half miles in that direction, and in the other direction there’s a straight shot to the US Mint building, which now houses the jazz museum.”