Chapter Ten
“Damien? Damien, where are you?”
Hearing April’s voice grow closer with her approach, Damien pressed Send on the text message he’d just answered and quickly stuffed the phone in his pocket.
“Hey,” April said, walking into his home office. “I thought you were trying to hide from me.”
“Why would I do that?” Damien asked, strolling up to her and wrapping his arms around her waist.
She was dressed in the button-down shirt he’d worn last night, seeing as all she had was her ball gown. Damien would have been perfectly okay with her wearing nothing but the garter and stockings, but she’d nixed that idea.
They’d spent a lazy Sunday relaxing at his home, making love twice more, then feeding each other pad thai he’d had delivered from one of his favorite neighborhood restaurants.
Damien could have spent the rest of the day and night doing a repeat, but the plans he’d made a few minutes ago would put him in the romance hall of fame.
He caressed the small of her back with his thumbs and nuzzled the spot behind her ear. It was quickly becoming his favorite place on her body. Well, one of them, at least.
“Why don’t we drive over to your place so you can get dressed, then I have a surprise.”
She pulled away from him, her brow arched with interest.
“What kind of surprise?”
“Why do people always ask that? If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise.” He slapped her backside. “Just trust me on this.”
April had no other choice than to put on her ball gown from last night. It was out of place, even for a Sunday. They quickly drove over to her home in the Bywater, and thankfully found a parking spot just steps from the walkway leading up to her house.
She changed into a lilac sundress with spaghetti straps and a neckline that dipped slightly in the center, giving just a small glimpse of the tantalizing shadow between her breasts.
Damien had to fight to stick with the plans he’d made.
Right now, all he wanted to do was carry her to her bed and give a repeat performance of last night.
“Ready?” April asked.
Damien held in a sigh. “Yeah, I’m ready,” he said.
They headed up Esplanade Avenue. It wasn’t until they’d crossed Broad Street that April turned to him and asked, “Are you going back to the museum?”
Damien remained silent, but a smile edged up the side of his mouth.
“Damien?”
“Patience,” he answered.
Damien could tell when she finally caught on, just as he turned onto Friedrichs Avenue.
“You didn’t!” April gasped.
He turned to the parking area near the dock of the City Park gondola. “Last night you said you always wanted to take one,” he told her.
“How did you do this?” April asked. “I’ve read that the guy who operates the gondola is booked up months in advance.”
“I’m not revealing my secrets,” Damien said.
Besides, he’d rather keep her guessing than admit that it was luck, a last-minute cancellation and an extra hundred bucks that made this happen.
After parking, he rounded the car and opened her door for her. Holding out a hand, he said, “Your boat ride awaits.”
Less than five minutes into their ride, Damien decided that the gondola operator had not only earned the extra hundred bucks, but would get a hefty tip once the hour-long ride was over.
He’d made it so that Damien and April rode in style.
They gently sliced through the calm waters of the lagoon, with soft music playing through speakers hidden somewhere behind them in the long boat, and a bottle of champagne on ice for their enjoyment.
April snuggled up next to him, her head resting on his shoulder.
“This is perfect,” she said to him. “Better than Venice.”
“I wouldn’t say that.” Damien laughed. “Not that I’ve been before, but from everything I’ve seen in movies and pictures, Venice is one of the most romantic cities in the world.”
“So is New Orleans,” she countered. She scooted even closer, her back leaning against his chest. “Besides, it’s not the city that makes it romantic, it’s the company.” She looked up at him. “It’s still unbelievable to think that I’m here with you like this.”
“It’s not so hard for me to believe,” he said. “In fact, I don’t know of anything that could be more right than being here with you like this.” He nuzzled her neck. “I look forward to evenings like this for a long, long time to come.”
But as he thought about spending evenings like this with April for years to come, Damien couldn’t help but think about how it would affect them if he went through with Alexander Quarters. Would April finally come around, or would it drive a wedge between them?
Maybe there wouldn’t be anything to come between them.
Over the past few days, the more Damien thought about his project, the less his original vision appealed to him.
He’d be the first to admit that he was stubborn, but these past few weeks had gotten through even his stubborn head.
There was merit to everything April had said to him.
He could do more for the Ninth Ward by helping the people here with a place that would provide safe, affordable housing than something that would price them out.
Damien still wasn’t sure if this was exactly what he wanted to do. He’d already put so much into his plans, but with every passing day all he could think about was how much he would be hurting the people of the Ninth Ward instead of helping them.
And how much he didn’t want to disappoint the woman resting in his arms.
* * *
Damien stood just outside the dark cherrywood doors with matching gold-plated handles. He’d gotten the call from Michael Berger just after nine this morning, asking if he could meet with the McGowan Group at their offices to discuss Alexander Quarters.
The project had been on his mind all night.
After his gondola ride with April, followed by the most pleasurable thank-you he’d ever received in his life, Damien had arrived back at his house only to find that he was too wired to sleep.
Instead, he’d spent much of the night tweaking his original plans, working into the wee hours of the morning.
He’d come to the realization that what he’d envisioned for the Ninth Ward could still be achieved, and without the stain of gentrification blemishing his project.
It just took looking at it in a different way.
The blueprint of the building would stand as is, with a few adjustments to the scope in order to make up for the reduction in the cost of rent.
Brazilian cherrywood floors and a waterfall treatment in the lobby would have been nice, but they were not necessities.
It was those types of minor tweaks that would make a huge difference in cutting costs.
It was possible that he could still draw in some new people to the area, but that was no longer his main goal.
He didn’t want to price people out of the neighborhood.
He wanted to build a safe, aesthetically pleasing residential and retail building that could serve the people who’d lived in the Ninth Ward all their lives, and who were committed to making the neighborhood the best it could be.
The door opened and a woman dressed in a severe gray suit with curly black hair poked her head out and said, “Mr. Alexander, you may come in.”
Upon entering the room, Damien was surprised to discover that it wasn’t as enormous as he would have expected.
It was only medium-sized, with an eight-seater conference table done in a rich wood much like the door.
There was a stately secretary desk in the corner, and another table with a silver coffeepot and tea service.
“Damien,” Michael Berger called as he came into the office from a door on the opposite end. “Sorry we couldn’t meet in the conference room. It’s being used. My office will have to do.”
This was his office? Damn, talk about life goals.
“This is fine,” Damien said, as if he had meetings in offices the size of Alexander Properties’ entire suite everyday.
“Can I get you some coffee? Tea? Water?” Berger asked.
“Thanks. Black, one sugar,” Damien answered.
He actually made his own coffee? Nice.
Bringing the coffee to the conference table, he set a mug before Damien and took the seat kitty-corner to his.
“Langley will be in shortly,” the other man said.
“Really?” Damien said, nearly choking on the hot coffee he’d just sipped. Langley McGowan, the managing partner, was the only one of the foursome Damien had yet to meet.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about the project you want to do south of the industrial canal. In fact, I’ve had a team researching the area over the past few weeks. I think you may have something here—”
The door opened and Langley McGowan, with his distinguished beard and thick eyebrows, walked in.
Berger made introductions, and within minutes they were all settled and getting down to business.
“We’ve looked at the plans you sent, and honestly, I’m impressed and a little surprised that no one has thought of it sooner,” Berger said. “That area has been ripe for a comeback for years. But, for some reason, it’s been forgotten.”
“I understand that you’re a native of the Ninth Ward,” McGowan said.
“Yes,” Damien answered. “I grew up there.”
Wait? Was that pride he heard in his own voice?
Yes, it was.
Suddenly, Damien felt like a poseur. He hadn’t earned the right to take any pride in what the neighborhood had become. He’d purposely stayed away while others put in the hard work to make the Ninth Ward better.
He was going to change that. These past weeks with April had showed him just how much there was left to do, and how much of an impact he could make if he just stepped up and did some good in his old neighborhood.
“We think what you’ve come up with is great,” Berger said. “But after studying the landscape, my team has come up with something bigger and better.”
The man pressed a button and two panels on the left wall began to separate. Behind them, a projection screen appeared.
If this was the kind of setup Berger had in his office, Damien was happy he never got the chance to see the conference room. He’d probably choke on his envy.
Berger tapped a couple of keys on the laptop that had been sitting on the table, and a map of the Ninth Ward appeared. The streets that bordered the neighborhood were highlighted yellow and a smaller area was shaded in red.
“This is the location you’ve proposed for Alexander Quarters,” Berger said.
“However, after delving deeper, we’ve discovered that this area would be more advantageous.
” Another map was superimposed onto the first. “It is more heavily traveled, with easy access to the river and to the Bywater and Faubourg Marigny neighborhoods. We ran a couple of initial numbers with our developer and discovered that erecting a residential and retail center in this area will attract more than twice the amount of foot traffic, especially with the expansion of the Rampart streetcar line.”
As Damien studied the map, a sickening feeling settled in his gut.
“That area isn’t one hundred percent available,” he said. “There are already occupants there. The church, for instance.”
And A Fresh Start.
A cagey smile drew across Langley McGowan’s face.
“I’ve have it on good authority that Saint Katherine’s will soon merge with another parish. The archdiocese has discussed it for a number of years. They’ve decided it’s the best move for the church.”
Dammit. Damien couldn’t skirt around the issue any longer.
“There’s a community program that uses the building adjacent to the church,” Damien said. “I actually volunteer there. Their summer program is vital to the community.”
McGowan waved his hand as if it was an annoying fly instead of an essential part of so many kids’ lives.
“We’ll figure something out when it comes to the community program,” he said. “We’ll buy them a new building to hold their summer program, if that’s necessary.”
The offer made Damien feel marginally better, but he also knew it wouldn’t be as easy as just relocating A Fresh Start to another facility.
Those kids had worked hard to start up their café and the community garden. Just picking up and moving them somewhere else wouldn’t solve the problem. They would have to say goodbye to all the blood, sweat and tears they’d put into that place.
He thought about what April’s reaction to this news would be and the sick feeling in his stomach grew.
“Our data people have been running the numbers. Because so many people never returned following Hurricane Katrina, there is an impressive amount of space available.”
The enthusiasm in the other man’s voice scaled along Damien’s nerves like nails down a chalkboard. How could he be excited that so many people hadn’t been able to return after being forced out of their homes by Katrina’s floodwaters?
Yet, hadn’t Damien felt the same way? This entire time, his goal with Alexander Quarters had been, in part, to capitalize on the misfortune of those who’d been run out by Katrina.
And, instead of coming up with a solution to help bring them back home, he’d sought to develop something that would keep them out.
Damien felt so slimy that he suddenly felt the need to shower.
“This can turn out to be a very lucrative venture,” Langley McGowan said. “Thank you for bringing this area to our attention.”
Damien didn’t want the man’s thanks. He no longer wanted his help, either. He didn’t care how lucrative this venture could be. This was no longer about money.
It was amazing how quickly his perspective had changed.
If Michael Berger had come to him just a month ago with the ideas he’d just outlined, Damien would have jumped in with both feet.
But after witnessing all the hard work that had been poured into the various projects around the Ninth Ward, and seeing the pride with which the residents worked to resurrect the neighborhood from the ashes of Katrina, how could he go along with something like this?
His initial plans only pertained to a small portion of the Ninth Ward. What sat on the screen before him right then encompassed an area at least four times the size of what he’d first envisioned. He could not pretend to be okay with this.
But Damien also understood how these things worked. The McGowan Group didn’t need him to tell them when, what and how to conduct business. If he told them that he no longer thought it was a good idea to build in the Ninth Ward, they would simply go on without him. They didn’t need his permission.
The thought of the McGowan Group bulldozing their way over A Fresh Start was more than Damien could handle.
He had to figure out a way to make this right.