Chapter 16 #2
“Oh my gosh!” I groan, standing and going to my bedroom to change into something fresh and clean. “I’m going out for a few hours. Try not to start a cult while I’m gone.”
“Haha, nice deflection.”
“I’ll see you after lunch. Don’t tell anyone about the baby… but let me know if it comes out.”
I seem to remember hearing somewhere that Knox Bradford can’t keep a secret. Lindsey only waves after me.
A few minutes later, I’m on the streetcar, leaning on an open window and watching the tourists lining up outside of famous restaurants along the route as the wind blows back my hair.
The streetcars are only a dollar twenty-five to ride, and they run all over the Central Business District and from the park all the way down to Canal Street.
It’s cooler this time of year, and the grimy smells that rise off the New Orleans pavements in the long, hot summer have dissipated. I’m still catching the faint scent of peppermint from my upper lip, and I remember the state I found him in when I arrived at his door last night.
It makes me laugh, and I take out my phone, sending a quick text.
Melody
How in the world did your dad find out about Stinkbalm? It’s truly a game changer.
I imagine he’s still at practice, and I toss the phone into my shoulder bag. The car stops on Canal Street, and I walk into the Quarter on Royal Street. Most people head immediately to Bourbon, but I’ve got something else in mind for today.
It’s a block in the direction of the river, and it’s where all of the galleries and jewelry stores and antique stores are located.
Royal is the same length as Bourbon, but a completely different vibe. It’s quieter. The tourists are dressed a little nicer, a little more like they’re having an elegant shopping day as opposed to a raucous day-into-night out on the town.
Stepping into an antiques store I’ve heard a lot about, I call Knox’s apartment to mind. I think about what I know he needs as well as what I know will make it feel homier.
A stained-glass Tiffany lamp is on a dresser. It’s actually black and gold with the leaded trim curling around the edges into small, interlocking fleur de lis. Lifting my phone, I take a quick picture and text it to him.
Melody
I think this would be a nice addition to your living room.
I hit send and continue down the row to see what else is hiding in this store. A heavy silver picture frame with an alligator along the bottom is a fun addition. Another frame with a heart and the word family on the side also goes into my basket.
He can order prints from his camera roll online, and the frames will be all ready and waiting to hold them. I put the two frames together and take another picture, sending it with a text.
Melody
Nothing says home like pictures of your loved ones.
Walking along, I stumble across a print of Lafitte’s blacksmith shop at night.
It’s distorted in an interesting way, with a streetlamp in the foreground and shining, wet pavements.
Figures that appear almost ghostly are in the shadows, and a cup of voodoo daiquiri, or purple drink, sits on a window ledge.
I take a photo of it as well. He told me his mother is from New Orleans, and she likes to make purple drink for special occasions.
I’m at the door when my phone screen lights up with a text.
K-Brad
Shopping without me? I thought we had a date.
Melody
I had some free time, so I decided to scout the area.
K-Brad
I like what you’ve found. Get them and take them back to my place. I’ll meet you there after practice.
My chest tightens, and I look around, unsure. I’m happy to get the items for him, but meeting him after practice feels dangerous. I can’t keep going down this path with him or I’ll lose all objectivity. Then what?
Another text vibrates my phone.
K-Brad
I know, you’re not my personal shopper.
I huff a laugh, composing a quick reply.
Melody
It’s not that. I just…
What? What are you doing, Melody? I don’t have to see Lindsey to feel her judging me.
K-Brad
Don’t want to get stuck with the bill? Here’s my credit card info. Charge it and show me tonight. You’re the expert, right?
I take his card information and store it on my phone. I’ll get these things for him, but I can’t stick around to help him decorate. It’s one thing to hate fuck. It’s a whole other thing to play house.
Several hours later, I’m walking to his apartment again, bags in my hands and feeling content. I do enjoy shopping for others, not just sexy football players with talented cocks.
Growing up in my mother’s antiques store, I had a front-row seat to customers breaking into tears when my mom found some long-lost family artifact or the missing piece to a cherished collection.
My uncle Spencer was her grumpy mentor, and when I got older, he taught me how to tell if items were real or fake. He showed me signatures to look for and various telltale details the true masters used.
I tagged along with them to events where they would meet the public and give appraisals on heirlooms or collections or items found in attics and garages. I would get as excited as the people waiting to hear my mom or Spencer’s final verdict.
I’m at Knox’s front door when I realize I haven’t met Stan the Man-ny yet, and he probably won’t let me in the building.
“Oh, well,” I sigh under my breath as I press all the buttons again.
Again, the buzzer sounds, unlocking the front door, and I enter, shaking my head. Knox is going to have to do something about his neighbor.
It’s not as easy to get into Knox’s apartment, however, with Stan on guard, which makes me feel a lot better. Not that I need to be worried about Knox’s security. He’s not my boyfriend.
I show him Knox’s credit card information and the picture we took last night in bed, that I also took to the Walgreen’s and made into a print, for Stan to relent and let me through the door.
“I’ll speak to Mr. Bradford about making a list of approved visitors,” he says, leading me into the kitchen, carrying Cricket on his hip. “It was my understanding this situation was top secret.”
“It is, I’m sorry.” I carry the bags as I follow, marveling at what a professional baby-handler looks like. “I wasn’t planning to be back today, but I had to drop off all this stuff.”
Cricket looks back at me, and she smiles, making a little squealing noise. Then she pats Stan’s arm and gives me her signature Ba!—still unclear what that means.
It makes me smile, and I shake my head at her, wrinkling my nose. She’s such a cutie.
Stan puts her in a round, plastic contraption with wheels and a seat suspended in the middle, and she takes off walking at top speed.
“Wow!” I step back, letting her pass. “Where did that come from?”
“Mr. Bradford’s cousin, I presume. I found the box leaning against the wall in the living room.”
“It smells so fresh in here!” I turn to him with wide eyes. “No Stinkbalm required.”
“Diaper Genie.” He points to a tall, plastic container shaped like a tube. “Wraps up the dirty diapers and seals in the odor.”
“I tell ya, Stan, whatever he’s paying you, you’re worth every penny.”
The manny lifts his chin, preening as he returns to the kitchen. “I’m preparing Miss Christine’s dinner. I assume you know your way around?”
“Oh, right.” I snap back to the bags in my hands. “I’ll just drop these off then I’ll be on my way. It’s really nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, Miss Dunne.”
I quickly go to Knox’s bedroom to deposit the picture frames. Hesitating, I decide to put the picture of the three of us in the one with the alligator. Turning it over, I’m thwarted by a plastic tab holding the back securely in place.
“Dangit,” I whisper, opening a drawer and looking for a knife or scissors to cut it.
Sliding my hand through sheets of paper, I hesitate when I see what looks like a story or a list written on one.
It’s a short column of words, and my eyes read them before I can help myself.
You upend me like a hurricane over the Gulf. like a riptide carrying me out to sea.
Like fourth and long, the whole stadium screaming my name.
I’m terrified because one mistake could cost everything.
But I could lose a game and survive.
Losing you, however…
However… full stop?
My heart melts at the beautiful words. Did he write this? I’m pretty sure he did, even if I don’t know his handwriting. Is it about me? It’s unfinished.
I’m tempted to slip it into my pocket and keep it forever. I don’t need an appraisal from my mom to know a poem by Knox Bradford will be very valuable in the coming years.
Because that’s all I care about. I’m not falling for him. I’m not hoping he wrote these words for me. Get out of my head, Fireside Ladies!
A Swiss army knife is hidden beneath the papers, and I use it to cut the tab off the frame. Then I quickly slip our picture into the back and place it on the dresser.
Staring at the image, my throat aches at the smiles on our faces, the warmth in his eyes. Cricket is blissfully sleeping. My chest tugs, but I force myself to grab the reins.
What am I doing? I’m losing all professional distance is what. I’m putting my picture in a frame for him. I’m reading his personal notes like a creepy stalker. Have I lost it? I turn the frame face down on his dresser and quickly leave the room.
“I’m leaving now,” I call to Stan. “No need to mention I was here. I’ll catch up later.”
Like Knox won’t notice I’ve been here. I left all his stuff in his bedroom.
My head’s a mess. I’m all mixed up, and I realize halfway down the elevator, I inadvertently stuffed that scrap of paper into my pocket.