Page 16 of Love Me Tomorrow

After one last critical side-eye of my outfit, Dad drags open his desk drawer and hauls out a folder that must be as thick as my forearm. It lands heavily on the desk. Licking one finger, he flicks it open and begins shuffling through the stack of papers.

“New project?” I ask, already preparing myself for another talk about the possible Miami expansion. When Edgar RoseIVgets something in his head, he can’t let it go.At any and all costs, too.“I thought we talked about waiting until the Bourbon Street job was done?”

He leans over the files, his T-shirt stark white against the caramel of his skin. I’m nearly a spitting image of him, from my black eyes to my thick, wavy hair that usually puffs out like a triangle around my head instead of curling beautifully like my sister’s. Hence, the professional blowouts. It’s my one luxury. My favorite luxury.

Amelie takes after our mom: bronze skin, warm brown eyes, and a round face that is smiling more often than not. When she was a kid, she used to plant her tiny hands on my cheeks and stare at me, as though wondering how the Rose blood could run through us both, even though we barely look alike.

Both sides of my family have been in New Orleans for centuries. The Roses were free people of color, back in a time when slavery still ravaged this country. The DuPonts, my mother’s ancestors, were Spanish politicians who arrived in the eighteenth century and married the local French noblewomen.

As a girl learning about pirates like Jean Lafitte and emperors like Napoleon Bonaparte, I found the history of my home all too fascinating. Instead of shelves topped off with cookbooks, mine were burdened with the past of New Orleans, stuffed with so many books about my Creole ancestry and the women who ruled this city, oftentimes better than the men, and how food tangled people together, no matter the color of their skin.

As a thirty-five-year-old woman, however, I’m fully aware that my dad is driven by his own personal need to see ERRG succeed, almost to a fault. He’s determined to prove to the world that the Roses belong front and center in those same history books that I once devoured nightly—instead of being shoved aside into the margins the way Edgar RoseIwas, as were his son and grandson. Until the last generation or so, my family’s accomplishments have barely registered as a footnote.

Sometimes I can’t help but wonder when my dad will think he’s made it. And then I remember all the holidays and summers I spent sweating my butt off in our various restaurants, instead of doing traditional familyactivities like the other kids my age, and I know that “making it” doesn’t belong in Edgar RoseIV’svocabulary. For as long as there’s room to grow, we’ll always be hustling for more recognition, more success, moreeverything.

Dad looks up now, his midnight eyes twinkling with the sort of anticipation I’ve come to dread.

“Whatever it is,” I mutter, holding up my hands, “stop thinking about it. You’ve got that look in your eye again.”

“I don’t have a look.”

“You absolutely do.” I point at his face, twirling my finger in the air. “See, that? That smile? That means you’re about to put me to work and I’ll be lucky to come up for air.”

The twinkle dims and the frown returns with alarming quickness. “Success is only halted by—”

“The lazy,” I finish for him, having heard his life motto on repeat since birth. “I know. But when I talked to Mom last night, she mentioned that you haven’t been feeling well. We both think maybe you could do with a break. What do you think—a week? Two? Some much-needed R&R and no crazy scheming.”

“I want to build a hotel.”

I choke on nothing but air.

Not that Dad seems all too concerned with me nearly dying. He only slaps a hand down on one of those precious pieces of paper he’s got there, before spinning it around and using the flat of his palm to push it in my direction.

“A hotel,” he repeats, nodding enthusiastically. “You were right about it not being the right time for a Miami expansion. They don’t know us there and it would be an uphill battle from the start, but this. . .” He points to the paper sitting in front of me like a ticking time bomb. “Nowthisis an expansion that we can make happen,cherie.”

A . . .hotel? Has he not heard a word that I’ve said about not concocting any more crazy schemes? How much clearer can I be? And, seriously, how can he even be thinkingabout a project of this scale when, just seven months ago, he nearly ruinedeverything?

“Pops, Mom said—”

“Your mother worries too much.” He waves a hand in the air, all bah-humbug dismissiveness, then leans back in his desk chair. Like a kid, he spins it around so he can stare out the massive window that overlooks Lafayette Square and the marble Court of Appeals building beyond the green space. Hands on the chair’s leather armrests, he casts me a quick, searching glance over his shoulder. “I feel fine.”

“You looktired.”

Dad stands, propping one shoulder against the glass-paned window. “And you, Savannah, are the new Vice President of ERRG.”

My back snaps straight at the excited tinge in his deep voice. Something about the way he’s looking at me right now . . . I don’t like it and I certainly don’t trust it. Though if I’m being honest, the whole trust factor with my dad has been iffy for months now. I love him—would do just about anything to make sure he’s happy—but the trust? That line has totally been crossed. Stiffly, I say, “I didn’t ask for the promotion.”

“Not all we receive in life are things we’ve asked for,cherie. I didn’t ask to be good at making food when your Uncle Bernard can’t even cook eggs without scorching the pan. But I am good, and my brother isn’t, and this hotel—this is how we bring more to the game here in N’Orleans. Can’t you see?”

All I see is a sixty-eight-year-old man practically rubbing his hands together, he’s so damn eager for world domination.

Uncomfortable with the turn of conversation, I shift in the chair, uncrossing my legs and leaning forward to plant my hands on my thighs. “I think opening a hotel falls under crazy schemes.”

“Is it crazy?” Hands perched on the back of his cushioned, black chair, he drops down to his elbows and interlaces his fingers before him. “Or is it genius?”

I think of the amount of work it takes to sustain fourteen restaurants across the country. Even before the VP announcement, I’ve always played a fundamental role in managing each establishment as ERRG’s General Manager. I put out fires and start some of my own, and it’s beenyearssince I’ve stepped away fully from the company.

Even in Europe—hell, even while filmingPut A Ring On It—I had my laptop with me at all times and my cell phone tucked away for emergencies. Because not even the chance to fall in love meant that I could quietly reassign my responsibilities to someone else for the matter of months that I was gone.

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