“No you’re not,” he said, suddenly rising and clapping like a sergeant. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go! Shower, dress, I’ll start the truck.”
I leapt to my feet, seeing stars in my peripheral vision. The fastest shower on earth was followed by frantic dressing, and Jesse was on the porch by the time I threw my wet hair into a low ponytail. We were quietly distracted as he made his way across the city to the Garden District, taking a detour down Frenchmen. It felt weird to just pass by the restaurant, my neck craning to catch sight of people, my people.
The Café was in its mid-Sunday slump. I saw Maureen’s arm sweeping a table clean. Claire had the day off, too, so she’d be at Will’s, maybe watching TV, maybe reading, hopefully not sad and hopefully on the mend. She’d made the difficult decision to skip summer school, preferring instead to split her time between working at the Café Rose and Cassie’s. She loved helping with the prep, Dell regularly commenting that she was naturally gifted in the kitchen. Will was adamant, though. As long as she wanted to live with him, she had to go back in September to some kind of school. I would never tell Will it was actually Jesse who suggested that Claire enroll at the Culinary School of the Arts. He had even offered to write her a letter of recommendation. When I mentioned it to Claire as an option, her face lit up. She squeezed me breathless, and for a brief moment I could see what she must have looked like as a child—happy, unburdened, her future wide open before her.
By now, I thought, resting my head against the window of Jesse’s truck, Will would be upstairs, running through the menu with the wait staff, replacing the plastic liquor decanter tops that would have soaked overnight. That was about the only business disagreement we’d had in five months, Will being baffled as to why you’d take all the decanters off at night to reseal all the bottles.
“So they don’t gum up,” I said. “So fruit flies don’t get in the booze.”
“Every bar I’ve ever been in my whole life leaves the plastic spouts screwed on.”
“Oh? Which ones? So I can remind myself never to go there.”
He gave in. We gelled at work, Will taking on parts of running a restaurant I didn’t love (marketing, operations, scheduling), leaving me the parts I loved (accounting, customer service, menu planning). And because of our split duties, we really hadn’t spent much time alone. Our interactions often involved a brief schedule handoff, or a meeting in the hallway to finalize a shopping list or one in the kitchen to give a quick verdict over a simmering pot of something amazing Dell was cooking up.
Then yesterday, something weird happened. Will emerged from the staff dressing room having freshly showered. He was on days. I was on the floor that night. But showering at work was something he had never done, even during the messiest renovation days. Dell and I were in the kitchen, perched on stools, flipping through a spice catalogue for fish rub recipes. Normally clad in dark chinos and a plain blue or white dress shirt, this time Will was in all black: black button-down dress shirt with French cuffs, black flat-front slacks and a new pair of black suede shoes. He smelled so good and looked so damn sexy he took my breath away.
To camouflage my reaction, I gave him a pursed, thin-lipped smile, and with as much flatness as I could muster said, “That’s a nicely made shirt.”
“Thanks,” he said, smoothing it down. “It cost enough. By the way, Dell, that seafood gumbo is outstanding. They’re in for a real treat tonight.”
“Thank you muchly,” Dell answered, waving over her shoulder.
Will headed out the back door without saying good-bye and my heart plummeted. He probably had a date. I hadn’t asked. I didn’t want to know. But I knew. He had a date. Or a lover already. The promise of sex was all over him.
But what business was it of mine? None. After all, at that moment, my own lover was driving me to a place where people gather to plan sex fantasies with the same commitment and concentration countries put into hosting the Olympics. Jesse took St. Charles Avenue to Third, instead of the usual route along Magazine Street, something I didn’t notice until I saw the clanging streetcars rolling over the high grass along the boulevard. I had a postcard of an old streetcar pinned to my fridge. I bought it the day Scott and I moved here, now almost a decade ago. Had I really lived in New Orleans that long? I thought owning a business would make me feel more rooted, but there were times I still felt like a tourist in this city.
We pulled up to the Mansion.
“Have fun today at Sex Club,” Jesse said, pulling me in for a kiss. “Call you later.”
“Okay.”
That feeling of nostalgia followed me up to the Mansion’s front portico. How much had changed since I first came through this gate! Back then I had been so scared, shy, completely unsure of myself. Why had I felt discarded? It wasn’t only because I didn’t have a man in my life. It went deeper than that. I had separated from myself and seemed to be running on a different set of rails than the rest of the world. Today, life wasn’t easy or always happy, but it was full and it had purpose.
I pushed the wide doors open just as Angela was exiting the powder room and crossing the checkered-tile foyer, dressed casually in a T-shirt, jeans and pumps.
“Hey, Cassie,” she said, kissing me on both cheeks. Sometimes I forgot how tall she was until I was standing right next to her. “Been meaning to come to the restaurant. How’s it going?”
“Good. We’re having a busy spring. Makes me wish we had a patio.”
“They’re overrated. You know how hot the city gets in summer. Everyone wants the AC.”
“I guess you’re right. But we are thinking of clearing out the bar area and maybe putting a band there. So…?”
“Yes. I’ll do it. And I know a great accompanist who plays on this little portable keyboard, so we wouldn’t take up too much room.”
I was pleased. Will and I had had Angela on our wish list for possible performers. I hadn’t been sure she’d deign to sing at our little joint.
“Everything good with you and Jesse?” she asked.
It was common knowledge that we were an item of sorts without being an item at all. Still, I wasn’t sure how to reply.
“Jesse’s good. He’s fun.”
“So I hear,” Angela said as she walked ahead of me through the dining room’s double doors.
Ouch.