Page 58 of The Fake Husband Play
I laugh. “Nah, not fame. Just local boy stuff. My choir teacher in high school sent a few of us here once we turned eighteen. Told us if we ever wanted to understand jazz and blues, we needed to hear it where it lives. Not in a tourist trap on Bourbon, but here, where it’s still growing wild in a secret garden.”
She sighs, blinking suddenly shining eyes. “Wow. That’s so beautiful. Thank you for bringing me.”
“Of course,chère,” I say as we stop at the small landing at the top of the stairs, where a heavy wooden door mutes the music from inside. “Thanks for being the kind of person who understands why it’s special.”
Our eyes lock and hold as I reach past her for the door handle, and something passes between us, a silent acknowledgement that it’s almost time to address the elephant in the room. To get honest about that kiss and what it means for our “fake” marriage moving forward.
But not yet, not until we’re somewhere private.
I push open the door. Light and sound—feral jazz mixed with hushed conversation and the clink of glasses from the bar—spills in from the other side, making Elly gasp. I watch her as we step inside, loving the chance to see my favorite place in New Orleans again for the first time through her eyes.
The speakeasy is carved from a forgotten salon above the crypt, the ceiling high and arched, the plaster cracked with time and damp but still beautiful in acrumbling kind of way. Candles glow on every surface, throwing shadows against the faded murals showing Mary kneeling by Jesus’s tomb and all the apostles gathered in a garden much like the one outside.
Small wooden tables are scattered around the low stage where the musicians play, surrounded by shadowed booths tucked into the alcoves and protected by thick velvet curtains that help muffle the sound reaching the outside world as well as any sounds being made at the private tables.
“Grammercy Graves.” The hostess—Nannette La Mieux, still holding court after thirty years—spots me, waving us over to the throne where she greets guests with a grin. “Been too long,bébé. Good to see you. How you been keeping yourself? And how’s your mama? Tell her we miss her face round here. That woman works too hard. Gotta make time for play. And music. Always music.”
“I agree, Nannette. Good to see you, too,” I say, leaning in to kiss both her soft, wrinkled cheeks. As I pull back, I add, “I’ve been good. Busy with the new team, but good.”
“You boys are doing better than good, I’d say. That game last night…” She lets out a long appreciative sound. “That was some standout hockey. And looks like you’re making time for other important things, as well.” Glancing past me, she gives Elly a once-over, her dark eyes twinkling. “Who’s this lovely creature?”
“I’m Elly,” she says, reaching a hand past me. “So nice to meet you, Nannette.”
“Likewise,” she says with a mischievous smile, I understand as she adds, “Been waiting a long time for this boy to bring someone other than his mama in here.Members only get to share the Garden with two people, you know, baby girl. Two. That’s it. For life.” She gloats for a moment. “Bet you’re feeling pretty special right now.”
“I’ve felt pretty special since the moment I met him,” Elly says without missing a beat. “I wasn’t sure they made men like this in real life.”
Nannette lets out a low, appreciative sound. “Ooh, girl, you know how it is. You know what you’ve found. See that you don’t let him go ‘cause you’re too right. Aren’t many fish like this one in the sea. Now, a private booth, I think… Tonight is a night for celebration.” She lifts two menus from the polished brass table beside her fancy chair, arching a brow my way. “Would you like to look at these, or do you already know what you want? If you want to wait, that’s fine, but you know we don’t take orders unless we’re between sets.”
“I’ll have a gin and tonic, please,” Elly says.
“Bourbon on the rocks,” I add, earning an approving nod from Nannette.
“Good. I like a couple who order sane, respectable drinks. Not some bougie mixed-up nonsense.” She rises, motioning for us to follow her. “I’ll get those sent over as soon as we get you to your table.”
Elly glances up at me as Nannette turns away, squeezing my hand.
I squeeze hers back, hoping she knows I’ve felt special since the moment I met her, too.
We follow Nannette’s slow, rocking gait across the room, past couples leaning close in the standing room only section, the tables at the back, where rheumy-eyed musicians nearing the end of their time in the garden soak up the set like a holy benediction, and membersout with their friends for a one-of-a-kind night on the town.
Nannette finally stops beside a booth close to the stage, but tucked farther back than the rest. The one least likely to provide us with a view of anything but the musicians lost to the music…or anyone else a view ofus.
Nannette winks at me as she leaves the menus on the table, but doesn’t speak. No one does this close to the stage, not until they’re inside their sound-dampening booth, anyway.
As we slide in, the small space forces us close, and I’m not complaining. Not for a fucking second. Close is where I’ve wanted to be since the second that kiss ended.
That kiss…
As we sit in silence for the rest of the song, the need to know what she’s thinking, what she’sfeeling, builds until I have no choice but to say the words that have been running through my head since we left St. Charles Avenue.
Hell, since the moment the judge pronounced us man and wife.
“I think we should talk about where we go from here,chère,” I murmur. “What about you?”
She nods, her expression sobering. “Yeah, I think we should. What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking that faking it doesn’t seem to be working out for us. I don’t think we’re faking it people. Do you?”
