Page 76 of She's Like the Wind
I was hanging lingerie back where they belonged from the fitting room when I heard the bell above the door chime.
He looked like a denim-clad hallucination bringing with him the smell of Verti Mart muffalettas, a brown paper bag, and two iced coffees.
“Lunch,” he announced like he did it all the time, like this wasn’t the first time I was seeing him since last week at the trunk show.
I blinked at him, stunned. “What is that?”
“What do you think?”
I made a face. “I can smell a muffaletta from miles away.”
“I was meeting with the new owner of the LaLaurie Mansion, and since Verti Mart was right there, I thought I’d bring you lunch.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. That was top-shelf Quarter gossip and the son of a bitch knew it. “Who bought it?”
“If you have lunch with me, I’ll tell you everything.” He lifted the paper bag, jiggled it.
I made a show of it, but I couldn’t deny it was exciting to have him here with lunch. He was making an effort, andI appreciated that. I wasn’t going to fall into bed with him, but I didn’t mind sharing a meal.
We sat in the little nook I’d set up by the boudoir—a velvet bench, two mismatched chairs, and a tray table I usually used for wine tastings and holiday events. He unwrapped the sandwiches while I tried not to stare at his tattooed forearms or the way his shirt clung to his chest like it knew I’d missed it.
“So, who’s the new owner?” I asked after I swallowed the first bite of the excellent sandwich.
Gage smirked. “Some out-of-town developer with too much money and a taste for drama. Wants to turn it into a boutique hotel. Real hush-hush right now.”
“Boutique hotel? The mansion?”
“Makes sense. It’s too big for a family, and it’ll bring in the tourists.”
“No kidding.”
Built in the 1830s, all gray stone and haunted elegance, the LaLaurie Mansion sat heavy on the corner of Royal and Governor Nicholls streets. The stories of Madame Delphine LaLaurie’s cruelty, the attic, the screams, the fire had been made memorial by tour guides and a season of the showAmerican Horror Story. Even the most skeptical New Orleanian hesitated under its shadow at night.
Nicholas Cage, the actor, bought the place as if it were a Gothic souvenir in 2007 and then promptly lost it to foreclosure. Some said it was the ghosts. Others said it was the curse of owning the mansion. Either way, it made the LaLaurie house even more infamous.
“So,you’llbe converting it into a hotel?”
Gage drank some coffee. “Ifthey get all the approvals. Bigif,as you know, with the preservation codes tighter than corsets. But if they get it and they still want me to do it? Yeah, that would be a blast.”
“And your crew will be okay working on the most haunted mansion in the Quarter?” I teased.
He chuckled. “Delphi is going to lose his damn mind.”
“Well, if there were a Super Bowl for haunted renovation, the LaLaurie job would win it,” I declared.
Gage grinned, and I realized how easy it was to be with him, to just slide into conversation like we used to.
“If I got the job, I’ll take care of the haints, even the restless ones.” He picked up a slice of olive that had fallen onto the wax paper from his sandwich and popped it into his mouth.
“How’s the Creole townhouse project going?” I was always curious about his work and he of mine. It also seemed like a safe topic.
He gave me the highlights. “Well, we did have a minor incident with a bird that flew through the stained-glass window mid-demo—somebody got spooked, something fell…we saved the stained glass, thank God, but lost an afternoon’s work.”
I told him about how the delays from France, where I sourced a part of my stock, were a headache—and lamented how the summer was hurting business like every other business owner in the Quarter.
After we finished eating, he helped clean up.
“Thank you for lunch,” I said almost shyly.
