Page 18 of Man of His Dreams

“She meant fitted, not fated.” Tony illustrated this by interlocking his two index fingers. Then he ducked his head. “This is far too much to lay on a man who’s just met me. I’m sorry.”

Flip didn’t feel as if they’d just met. He’d been so comfortable with Tony that he’d let down his guard in a way he rarely did, even after weeks or months of knowing someone. He believed what Tony was telling him and, more than that, wanted to believe what Miss Amelie had predicted. Sharing stories with Tony Bergeron seemed like the most delightful future imaginable.

But almost everything that had happened since his arrival in New Orleans had been bizarrely surreal, and Tony—a really good person—didn’t deserve to be dragged into a swamp of weirdness.

“I’ve scared you off,” Tony said sadly.

“No. But… it’s complicated.”

That brought a deep sigh. “It always is.”

The waitress came by and was disappointed to see them drooping rather than flirting. She was even more disappointed when they said they’d pass on dessert. “You’re gonna want our bread pudding with rum sauce to go then, honey. If you don’t, you’ll be sad about it.”

They already had enough sadness, so Flip gave in and ordered one for each of them.

Although they rode the streetcar back to the Quarter together, they didn’t say much. Tony looked unhappy, which made Flip feel bad, but he just couldn’t bring himself to talk about Miss Amelie’s predictions or about Scratch. He was too confused about it himself. And maybe it was just as well. Tony deserved someone a lot better than him—steadier, nicer, more connected. It was kinder to separate from him now, before things went any further. As it was, even the idea of not seeing Tony again made Flip ache.

“I don’t even know where you live,” said Flip as they began the trek toward St. Philip. “Is this out of your way?”

“I’ve got a place on Clouet Street in the Bywater. I’d pass by your apartment anyway. But if you want I can take a different route.”

He sounded forlorn, which broke Flip’s heart. “I’d like to walk with you.”

Tony rewarded him with a small smile.

Although Flip would have preferred to be unencumbered—they both carried various bags with clothing, books, and dessert—at least they didn’t have very far to go. Maybe a mile or so. And there was no point in remaining silent, so Flip asked some questions about things they passed, and Tony brightened as he got to explain.

Flip was genuinely sorry when they got to St. Philip.

“Ah,” said Tony, pointing. “Aunt Amelie’s usual spot.” She had packed up for the night, of course, and the street was deserted. “Look, don’t be scared by what she said. She doesn’t mean any harm by it.”

“I believe that.”

Tony scuffed his toe on the pavement. “I think that there are some places where the line between everyday and the uncanny has worn thin. The city of New Orleans is one of them. I dunno why—maybe it’s the river’s fault. Things that would be impossible in most places are possible here. Like old ladies who can see the future.”

And ghosts, Flip thought. He nodded. “If I stayed here long enough, maybe I’d get used to it. But I’m only here for a few months.”

Tony frowned, scuffed his toe again, and then squared his shoulders. “Well, if you decide you want more tour guidance, I’d like that. You know where to find me.” He pointed toward the Bergeron House.

“Thanks for that. And thanks for… everything.” Flip’s throat felt tight. He wanted to grab Tony’s hand, drag him up to his apartment and its enormous bed, and stay there together indefinitely.

“It was, quite literally, my pleasure.”

Flip didn’t move to open the door to his building, and Tony didn’t walk away. They stood there, a tableau under the flickering gaslight. Were there ghosts watching them? Flip couldn’t tell.

Finally Tony cleared his throat. “I’m going to go home and read your book. I hope you like the one I picked out for you.”

“Maybe it’ll give me some ideas for my next novel.”

“I like that,” said Tony thoughtfully. “We hear things about the big players, but there are so many others who are forgotten. I think that’s partly why I chose my career—to preserve their stories. Some of those people were my family, after all. The ones who owned the Bergeron House, the ones who were born enslaved but managed to buy their freedom, the ones who sold rice calas in the Quarter, the ones who played the piano in whorehouses.”

Flip felt as if someone had suddenly filled his spine with ice water. “Piano?” he croaked.

“Yeah. I had a great-great-great uncle who, according to family lore, was a pretty good player. In both senses of the word, actually. He apparently spent his free time hopping into bed with anyone—male or female—who’d have him. Which eventually got him murdered.”

Really, Flip didn’t have to ask. But he did anyway, barely able to hear his own voice over the rushing in his ears. “What was his name?”

Tony grinned. “Anthony—same as me. But he had a nickname. He performed as Scratch Bergeron.”

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