Page 18 of Nineteen Seventy-Six

Chelsea stopped abruptly in the soft mossy grass. She doubled over, laughing. “I thought you lost your sense of humor when you pissed out a daughter.”

“I’m not being funny! He’d rather his wife take a damn lover than touch her himself!”

Chelsea righted herself. Wiped her eyes, which was clearly for dramatic effect because they weren’t damp. “Wow. And you said thank you, right?”

Maureen chewed on her bottom lip. “Something like that.”

“Maureen.” Chelsea grabbed both her arms. “Don’t you understand? This is like… winning the Nobel Prize. Being an Olympian. Winning the lottery!”

“It’s really like none of those thin—”

“It’s as if a genie swooped down and offered you his greatest wish!”

“No, it’s not a bad thing,” Maureen agreed. “But where on earth am I going to find a lover? One who is handsome, discreet, available?”

“Sweetie. You’ve fucked half of New Orleans, and you’re afraid there’s not one man who will check those boxes?”

“I have not fucked half of New Orleans.”

Chelsea looked dubious. “I know we’re pretending you were a little 4-H queen who showed lambs instead of the wolf who stole the virginity of every last one of them, but Maureen. Come on. You know there’s hundreds of men who fit that description. And you have an in with a whole firm of lawyers who can ensure his discretion, should he decide to get mouthy in a bar or something.”

“I guess.”

Chelsea dropped her hands as her eyes filled with the start of an idea. “Maureen.” She socked Maureen in the arm. “I have just the guy for you!”

“Ow,” Maureen whined, rubbing her triceps. “Who?”

“He comes into Mason’s bar all the time.”

“Mason’s bar… you mean the one in the Irish Channel? You can’t be serious. I don’t want herpes!”

Chelsea pretended to wipe something from Maureen’s nose. “Careful. Your privilege is showing. For your information, there are plenty of amazing, hard-working men who come into Landry’s. But this guy isn’t one of them.”

“Huh?”

“His name is Soren. He’s a LaViolette, and I’m sure you know that name.”

“Rich, snobby assholes. Sure.”

“Hi, pot, meet kettle.”

Maureen rolled her eyes once more. “Anyway?”

“Soren LaViolette isn’t as important as some of his more prominent relatives. He’s not close enough to the line of descent for them to care what he does, so this fella is a poet. A poet, Maureen. Wears his hair shaggy, like Jim Morrison, drinks only absinthe, which we now have to stock just for him, and spends hours tapping his pen against his temple as he thinks up really deep and important words.”

“Are you sure he isn’t interested in men?”

“He spends more time watching women walk back and forth across the bar than he does writing the next Great American Poem, so yeah, I’m sure.”

“Soren,” Maureen said. It was an unusual name, but intriguing, in a way, inviting her to learn more. She couldn’t recite a single poem from memory, but a man who was concerned with creating passion on the page would surely be interested in creating it between the sheets. And Chelsea might believe he was an “unimportant” LaViolette, but, much like being a Deschanel, or a Fontenot, or a Broussard, anyone bearing that name had a responsibility to uphold the reputation. Even a Guidry. If there was anyone who’d be as concerned as Maureen with maintaining discretion, it would be someone in the same socio-economic circle.

“Soren,” Chelsea repeated. “But you can call him Hercules if you want. He’d probably like that shit.”

“Okay.” Maureen nodded. “Now what?”

“I’ll arrange a meeting. You update your diaphragm.”

Augustus’ chest hurt from holding his breath so much, and for so long. Elizabeth said nothing when he edged his way toward the exit, where the cars were parked. She spoke only through glances on the drive back to New Orleans, casting peripheral looks every few minutes, as if she had something she wanted to say, but was holding back.

---