Chapter 11 Keller
ELEVEN
Keller
Krewe Dues: Membership in many New Orleans krewes requires substantial annual dues, which fund parade floats, throws, ball venues, and production costs.
These financial commitments reinforce exclusivity, ensuring that participation in elite Carnival organizations remains both selective and self-sustaining.
Quinn steps away from the crowd and heads toward a bench near the foundation building where she left her bag. She pauses with Nate long enough for him to nod and flash that easy, political grin before waving her off.
I stay where I am, hands in my pockets, and watch.
When she comes back, her bag slung over her shoulder, we fall into step without discussing it. The noise from the event fades behind us. Her shoulders loosen, and then mine follow. I leave my jacket open and let the evening air cut through the last of the heat.
For a few blocks we walk in comfortable silence. It's the kind that isn’t awkward, but isn’t settled yet either.
She exhales slowly. “I’m so happy Nate was able to secure the funds to buy this house for the offices, but I'm not going to lie. I hate these types of events.”
“Not a smile-for-the-camera-and-kiss-babies kind of girl?”
She gives me a side eye.
“Let's just say I'm not the politician in the family.”
“Well, you did great. You never would have known.”
She glances at me. “You saw me before the end?”
“As soon as I walked up.”
She studies me like she’s deciding whether to believe that. I let the corner of my mouth lift. “Speaking of the beginning, did you hear the hot mic moment before the speeches?”
She glances at me. “No. What happened?”
“Apparently the podium was live and one of the event coordinators didn’t realize.”
Her steps slow slightly. “Oh, my god. Please tell me he didn't say something embarrassing.”
“It wouldn't be a notable hot mic moment if he didn't. It was the guy with the red hair. He walked up to the stage, looked around and then said to whoever was standing there, very clearly, ‘If someone doesn’t move those goddamn flags in the next thirty seconds, I’m seriously going to lose my shit on every single one of you.’”
She stares at me for half a beat. “No.”
“Yep. Full volume. You know a yard full of veterans love to hear the flag and goddamned in the same sentence. There were a few audible gasps, but mostly giggles, so I think you're fine”
The laugh that comes out of her is immediate. She tips her head back before she can catch herself, the sound carrying into the warm air between us. She presses her lips together afterward, but the smile lingers, softening her whole face.
“Red hair? That's Mark,” she says. “He’s a bit dramatic.”
“He looked like he meant it.”
“He probably did. He treats those events like military operations.”
“I gathered that.”
She shakes her head, still smiling. “I cannot believe I missed that. I wonder if Nate heard it.”
“You were busy looking competent. And Nate wasn't out yet.”
She bumps her shoulder lightly against mine. “Looking competent and being competent are very different.’”
“You were busy being competent,” I correct.
The smile she gives me lingers longer this time, and there is nothing guarded about it.
“How long have you been involved with the charity? I know your grandfather started it before you were born, but when did you take it on?” I ask.
She considers that. “Since I was old enough to understand what it was. My grandfather started it when I was a kid. We used to help stuff envelopes for mailers.”
“Mailers,” I repeat, smiling. “That feels almost historical.”
She exhales a quiet laugh. “Fundraising letters. Before email campaigns.”
“I know. I was teasing you. I respect the long game. I write a check. You do the work.”
Her expression shifts at that. “It really matters to me. Not just the optics, but the actual work and the people we help. Most of these guys come home, and there’s nothing waiting for them. It's important to me that we fix that. We can't help everyone, but you know.”
I can tell how passionate she is about it as she keeps going on, which I let her do. I love watching her while she does.
She explains how they track outcomes, how they measure retention rates, and how they make sure the handoff from temporary housing to something stable actually happens. She talks about expanding partnerships with VA offices and following through beyond the initial placement.
Masquerade comes into view ahead, low light spilling from the windows onto the sidewalk. Music drifts out, some muted acoustic song I don't immediately recognize.
We reach the entrance, and I pull the door open. Quinn steps inside first, and I follow.
“What can I get for you?” the bartender asks as we step up to the bar.
I glance at Quinn and let her go first.
“I’ll have a Blue Moon, draft, please.”
“I’ll take a bourbon, neat.”
The bartender moves efficiently. Within seconds, two glasses are in front of us. Quinn wraps her fingers around the cold mug. I rest mine near the rim of the glass and wait.
“So,” she says, lifting the beer to her mouth. “I did some Googling after I left your loft last week.”
She does not ease into it. Her eyes stay on me over the rim of the glass as she takes a sip.
That explains the silence. I don't ask what she found. I let her finish, instead. Don't give away your hand until you have to.
“You told me you were in finance.”
There is no accusation in her tone, but there is precision. She cares about accuracy. I pick up my glass but don't drink yet. “I am.”
She tilts her head slightly. “That isn’t exactly how your name comes up.”
So she saw something. I consider how much to clarify without over-correcting.
I let that sit between us for a second. “What exactly came up?”
She does not look away. “I'm not playing this with you, Keller. You know what you do, and you know what you insinuated.”
Damn. She's calling me on my shit without flinching, and I realize I like that more than I should.
“Running private tables requires liquidity management, risk assessment, and reading financial statements. I vet players by net worth and cash flow. I work with money every day. That's finance.”
“That is not the same thing,” she says, though there is the hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth.
“It is adjacent, you can concede that. I will admit I didn't give you the full picture. That was intentional because discretion comes with the territory. It was about timing, not hiding. I would have told you.”
She studies me for a moment, weighing that. The look is familiar. She did the same thing the night we met, as if she were deciding whether I meet her internal standards.
“Fair enough,” she says finally. She takes another drink, slower this time.
I take a sip of the bourbon and let the warmth sit at the back of my throat. She's still here after her little research. That says something.
"Does what I do bother you?" I ask.
"I'm not sure. But it does bother me if I can't believe what you say."
“I am careful with information. That is part of how I operate. But if I tell you something, it will be accurate.”
She holds my gaze. “Accurate enough, you mean?”
“I am not in the business of half-truths. I am in the business of managing risk.”
There is a small shift in her expression at that. I think she finally hears the distinction.
“If you want specifics,” I add, “you can ask. I will answer. I don't lead with a full résumé when I meet someone for the first time. I guess I'm private like that.”
The bartender moves past us, wiping down the counter farther down the bar. Another acoustical version of a song comes on, one I recognize this time. It's "The Shape of You," by Ed Sheeran.
Quinn shifts on her stool, angling toward me more fully. "So how does someone end up running high-stakes poker tables? Just curious. That's an interesting career."
"My father started it years ago as a sort of pet project. He liked playing cards with his friends. It was never meant to be a business, necessarily. I took over when I was twenty-two and expanded it."
When I say “my father,” her fingers tighten slightly around her glass. It is subtle, but I catch it. She inhales through her nose before answering.
"Do you like it?"
"I do. I enjoy meeting people, reading people, and the elegance of the game. There's something about it that is very old-world, in a way."
She traces the condensation on the side of her mug, pushing water droplets to the bar.
"What about you?" I ask. "Did you always dream of auditing for the government?"
She pauses and then shifts in her seat. “Not exactly. But it suits me. I’m patient. I like going down rabbit holes and pulling at threads.”
“I can see that,” I say.
Her smile spreads slowly this time, unguarded.
“So you read people for a living,” she says. “And I look for inconsistencies for a living. That feels like a dangerous combination.”
“Or complimentary. Depends on how you look at it.”
She tilts her head. “I like that perspective. You're right.”
The bar thins gradually as we order our second drinks and easily banter. We laugh together a lot. She's funny, in a dry way, and I appreciate her sense of humor.
I smile to myself at the way she twirls a strand of hair beside her face from time-to-time. It doesn't seem like a nervous tic, more of a comfort thing.
She listens intently and asks questions that keep the conversation going.
A thin bracelet catches light on her left wrist. Sterling silver, worn smooth at the edges. Letters engraved along the flat surface are too small to read from where I sit.
"What's the inscription?" I ask.
She glances down at her wrist. Her thumb brushes the metal without thinking.
"My mother's name," she says. "Eleanor."
I nod. "It's pretty. It caught my eye."
"She wore it, and it became mine after she died. I've only taken it off a few times since I was fifteen."
The words land without drama. Her voice stays level, but something beneath it shifts. Not grief exactly. Something quieter.
I don't fill the space with apology or sympathy. Those words don't help. I know that much.
"My mother died when I was eleven," I say.
Quinn meets my eyes. She doesn't reach across the distance to touch my arm or offer comfort I didn't ask for.
"That's young," she says.
"Yeah. Sucks, right? We both lost our moms too young."
She nods once. Her fingers still rest against the bracelet.
I reach across the space between us and touch the bracelet. It wasn't planned, and definitely not something I would normally do. Almost like instinct.
She doesn't pull back, but I do. My hand returns to the bar after a few seconds. Her eyes stay on mine, and something shifts in her expression.
The bartender wipes down the counter near us, and it's clear they are nearing closing time. I look at my watch and realize we've been sitting here talking for almost three hours.
Quinn checks her phone briefly, then tucks it back into her bag.
"I should get going," she says.
I don't argue. I also don't move to leave yet.
"If I call you after this, are you going to shut me down again? Because I'd really like to see you again."
She pauses. Her hand rests on her bag strap. "Depends."
I hand the bartender my card and nod to him to run it.
"Oh, yeah? Then what do I have to do to make sure you don't?" I lean into her, resting my chin on my hand
A small smile touches her mouth. "I'll have to think about that one."
The bartender hands me the credit card slip. I pull it to me and add a hundred-dollar tip and sign.
She stands, and I follow. We walk toward the door together, the night wrapping around us as we step outside.
The air cools as we step outside. The humidity still clings, but the heat has dropped. Fewer people move along the street now. A couple walks past us heading in the opposite direction.
Quinn adjusts her bag on her shoulder as we walk back toward the new Southern Stars office. I walk closely enough to catch the faint scent of her perfume. Something subtle. Citrus, maybe, or bergamot.
"Seriously, I'd like to see you again," I start, breaking the silence.
"I handled that badly, shutting you down like that without explanation. I apologize. I'd like to see you, too."
I look at her and smile, grateful we were able to move past it.
"And if I dig up any other information you failed to share, I promise to ask you about it instead of assuming the worst."
"I can handle that. Anything specific in mind you'd like to do, or you want to play it by ear?"
After last time, it almost feels like I need to nail her down now before we go our separate ways and our mutual stubbornness creeps in.
We stop in front of Southern Stars. She considers the question. Her eyes move past me briefly, scanning the street, then return.
"How about Saturday morning? Do you run?"
"Not typically unless someone is chasing me. But I would with you, if it means I get to see you again."
"Nice one. I like Saturday morning runs in Audubon Park, especially in the spring. It's mostly quiet, almost magical."
"Sold. What time?"
"Seven."
Seven in the morning for a goddamned jog.
I should probably say no since I'm not a runner. I've never enjoyed it. But the idea of watching Quinn move through the park at sunrise, focused and athletic, makes it worth suffering through.
"I'll be there with running shoes on."
"Alrighty, then."
She steps back, creating the same kind of distance when she walked away from me at the foundation ceremony.
"Goodnight, Keller. I'm really glad you came to the ribbon cutting this afternoon."
"Me, too. Goodnight, Quinn."
She turns and walks down the sidewalk. I watch until she reaches her car, and I make sure she gets in safely. Once the headlights come on, I cross the street to mine.