Page 83 of She's Like the Wind
His parents hugged me, even before Gage could introduce us.
“Oh, my goodness, you’re even more beautiful than he described,” his mother exclaimed, pulling me into a hug before Gage could get a single word out. She smelled like orange blossoms and wore dark red lipstick with the kind of confidence I envied. “I’ve been dying to meet you.”
“Naomi”—Gage slipped a hand to the small of my back—“this is my mother, Della Walker.”
She held my hands like she already knew me.
Then his dad stepped in and hugged me too, gruff, no-nonsense, warm. “I’m this moron’s father. You can call me Lou.”
“He embarrasses me sometimes with how he goes around praising me,” Gage deadpanned.
They were a striking pair—like a couple from a faded photograph you’d find inan old frame at an antique store, taken as they danced to Otis Redding in the kitchen.
We ordered a bottle of Italian wine, which flowed as easy as the conversation.
Della was a retired nurse who volunteered with the New Orleans Historic Preservation Society. His father was a retired carpenter who had apparently taught Gage everything he knew about construction and the history of New Orleans.
While we were eating our entrées and were already on a second bottle of wine—the Walkers liked their food and drink—Della leaned in. “So, Gage tells us you own a lingerie shop?”
“Aire Noire on Royal.” I felt a blush creep up my neck. I wasn’t embarrassed about my store, but these were Gage’s parents, and I sold crotchless teddies for the love of everything holy.
“Oh, I love that name,” Della gushed. “It sounds like something secret and decadent.”
Lou raised a brow. “Gage said you had a thing at the Marigny Opera House.”
I glanced at Gage, surprised. “You told them?”
He shrugged.
Della grinned. “He may not say much, but when he does, it’s usually about you. Or buildings. Sometimes both.”
Lou sipped some wine, and there was something wistful in his expression. “That Opera House, though…. Gage, remember how you and I snuck in once when it was still just a wreck of a place. He was sixteen, swore he could restore it if someone gave him a week and a sledgehammer.”
“He’s been like that since he could hold a hammer,” Della added. “You should’ve seen the time he tried to build a stool out of popsicle sticks.”
“Hey—” Gage warned, laughing, but she kept going.
Della ignored her son’s consternation. “He hot-glued the entire thing together, then stuck it in the garage tocure overnightlike it was concrete.”
Lou chuckled. “Then turned on a space heater, putting that damn glued up stool too close to it. Nearly set the whole garage on fire.”
“Oh no.” I laughed.
This was a side of Gage I hadn’t seen before: the son.
Della winked. “We’ve got plenty more stories where that came from.”
Gage let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “Mama, she finally agreed to a date, don’t make her run for the hills, yeah?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I teased. “I think it makes you more…attractive.”
They asked about my work, how I sourced my inventory, and how hard it was to run a business in a city where the weather, the foot traffic,andthe plumbing could all turn on you in a second.
Gage didn’t say much.
He sat beside me with one hand on the table and the other on my thigh.
He watched me the way a man watches the horizon—like something he’s been waiting for had finally come into view.
