Bri’s brows pinched together, but she couldn’t stop the upward swing of her hand as it came to rest lightly on her lips. She shouldn’t think of kissing Carter when she thought of Hammond House, but she did. The warring emotions of pleasure and concern created a mix inside her stomach that left her nauseated.
“Let’s look at their prices online.” She couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it until now. Perhaps her clients wouldn’t be able to afford Hammond House. Perhaps she’d been worried about the competition for nothing.
She squeezed in behind the computer with Yasmine, and they pulled up the Hammond House website. It screamed fancy! with its steel gray and classic ivory color scheme. The photos of the lobby lived up to the luxury. The guest room pictures too. Hammond House presented itself with extreme professionalism, certainly not the small-town charm of most mansion houses.
Some of the unrest in Bri’s throat dried up. Obviously, Hammond House would attract a different kind of clientele. Sure enough, by the time Yasmine clicked on BOOK A ROOM and the prices came up, Bri’s worries had fled.
“They’re twice as much,” Yasmine said, her voice filled with awe. “Can they charge that much?”
“They can charge whatever they want.”
“Will people pay it?”
Bri glanced out the window, barely able to make out the hulking shape of Hammond House through the foliage of her gardens. She remembered the grandeur of the Garden Room, her imagination soaring through what the other rooms held.
“Yes, I think they will.” She cleared her throat and stepped away from the counter. “It’s fine, Yasmine. We serve a different population. Our families would never pay that much. Can you imagine the Roswells with their triplets paying that?” Bri laughed, and it only sounded semi-forced.
“There’s something for everyone, I guess.” Yasmine reached for the phone as it rang, and Bri headed back into the office to see if Amanda had emailed back. Of course she hadn’t; only ten minutes had passed.
Bri turned her chair toward the window and peeked through the slats in the blinds. Beyond the mansion’s gardens, she could see the top of Hammond House and nothing more. Irritation warmed her face and she let the blinds fall closed.
A lawn mower started near the back of the house, and Bri got out her company checkbook to pay the landscapers. That done, and with the grass being trimmed to absolute perfection, Bri stopped in the kitchen to check with her chef on supply levels and guest satisfaction. Breakfast had ended an hour ago, and Scott now had his hands elbow-deep in cornmeal.
“How are things going?” Bri asked.
“Went through four loaves of that lemon poppy seed bread this morning,” he said with a smirk. “I told you it would be popular.”
“I never doubted you.”
He scoffed, their friendly banter the most familiar part of her week. “I didn’t. What’s on the menu tonight?”
“Saturday night. Fish fry,” he said. “All seven guests said they’d be here for it.” He lifted his hands out of the cornbread mixture. “I think I’ll make two extra loaves for tonight. If Nate has leftovers, I’ll fry slices for breakfast.”
Bri nodded, collected the clipboard from the pantry, and proceeded to take inventory. She placed shopping orders on Mondays—the slowest day of the week—and though she was a day early in her prep work, she needed something to keep herself from taking a leisurely stroll down the boardwalk and stopping in front of Hammond House.
“Order an extra bag of potatoes, would you?” Scott called. “Nate said he ran out last night and had to send Quin to the grocer.”
“Do you have enough for tonight?”
Scott nodded toward two twenty-pound sacks at the far end of the prep station. “Yeah. Sunday is seafood night, so there’s no potatoes on the menu. We’ll use all of those tonight, though.”
Bri changed a number on her order sheet. “Got it.”
With that done, her email sent, the landscaping finished, her guests and employees happy, Bri returned to her office to retrieve her phone. Carter had said “the boss” was coming into town that morning and he’d have to reschedule their breakfast date.
Heat licked up her chest as she re-read the word “date.” At least she hadn’t imagined the fireworks that had crackled between them last night. Even if that kiss was just for the camera. An act. Not real. She’d called last night to apologize, to say she normally didn’t kiss complete strangers who’d caught her trespassing.
Her curiosity ran rampant at what “the boss” would look like, but instead of strolling casually down the beach with a pair of binoculars, she firmly planted herself in front of her computer and opened an Internet browser. A quick search later, and she was ready to type the name of Carter’s mother into a grave indexing site. But he hadn’t texted it to her. She wasn’t sure why she cared, but something pulled at her. Something that had started out as a string, but now felt more like a rope.
She typed in her own mother’s name, though Bri already knew she was buried next to her husband in Cypress Grove Cemetery. A firefighter, Bri’s father had purchased a family plot in the “fireman’s cemetery” the day after he joined the department as a young recruit.
Sadness hit her as her mother’s grave marker came up on the screen. Bri reached out and touched the monitor like she could trace the letters on the stone. They’d been gone for so long, and still Bri missed them. She wondered what advice her mother would give her now, about Hammond House, about Carter, about running this B&B. Every time something pivotal happened, or something Bri was unsure of, she wished for a mother to talk to. Nana used to be that person, but her age had deteriorated her wit, her drive, her expertise.
Bri closed the browser and stood. She headed for the front door, calling to Yasmine that she’d bring back lunch. Her feet turned toward Hammond House, and Bri let them go through the gardens toward that parking lot. The wind coming off the Gulf blustered at tree branches and her skirt, and she put one hand on her thigh to keep it from blowing up too high.
She’d just passed the driveway to Hammond House when she caught sight of Carter’s car zooming down the road. She stopped walking and turned around as he pulled in, noting the older gentleman riding in the passenger seat. Maybe fifty-five, Bri stared at “the boss” she hoped wouldn’t put her out of business.
Hurrying now, lest she revert back to her snooping ways, Bri continued to the deli at the end of the street. After picking up enough to feed herself, Yasmine, and Scott, she crossed the street to the beach before walking back.
Something in the swell of the water, the rise and fall of the wind, told her everything was perfect. This moment. Her business. Her life. Something else in the air spoke of change, and hard times ahead, and never getting too comfortable.
Or maybe she was remembering one of Nana’s old adages. When you’re comfortable is when you’ll be tried the most.
Bri could do without having to replace toilets, but otherwise she did feel comfortable in running Abbington House. As she crossed in front of her new competition, though, she found that sliver of unease cutting through her core. She dismissed it and returned to her B&B to pass out the po’ boys and potato salad she’d bought.
She texted Carter again: What’s your mother’s name?
This time he came back with: Felicia.
As Bri bit into her roast beef and lettuce, she hoped finding his mother’s grave didn’t cause quite as much emotional upheaval for him as seeing her mother’s did to her.
Chapter Six:
After Carter endured lunch with his father, after he’d relented and texted Bri his mother’s name, after a very lengthy discussion on what the grand opening ceremony would detail, he finally dropped his dad off at a nearby hotel and pulled into his own driveway to the northeast of the French Quarter. He’d chosen the neighborhood for its quiet charm and close proximity to the heart of what made New Orleans so special. Plus, it was rumored that his mother had lived in The Marginy neighborhood, though he hadn’t had ti
me to find anyone who might have known her.
Tomorrow, the paper would run its exclusive on the newest B&B in New Orleans. He’d finalized his quote that afternoon, while at the same time his stomach had torn itself to shreds as he thought of Bri searching for a Felicia Carter throughout the New Orleans’ cemeteries.
At least he hadn’t lied. His mother’s name was Felicia. Now, as he poured himself a glass of sweet tea—a Southern delicacy he found he liked more than he should—the excuse sounded exactly like what it was: a lame attempt to make himself feel better about concealing his identity.
He turned on the TV to drown his thoughts. He couldn’t stand being alone with himself, but he certainly didn’t want to spend another minute with his father and his endless suggestions for what Carter should’ve, could’ve done at Hammond House. And he suspected that being with Bri right now would only cause him to lie some more.
His phone chirped, but he leaned his head against the back of the couch and closed his eyes. What would happen when he told Bri the truth? How bad could it be?
Worse, he knew, if he let the charade go on much longer. Or if she read about it in the paper. Steel formed in his gut. Why did he care so much? He’d known her for just over twenty-four hours, and they didn’t have to be friends to own businesses next door to each other.
But every time Carter relived the feel of her body beneath his hand, every time he closed his eyes and heard her delicious voice, every time he allowed himself to fall back into that kiss….
He stood and collected his phone from the kitchen counter. Bri had texted.
No hits on Felicia Carter today, but I only looked at a couple of cemeteries. Did you know there are over 15 cemeteries in the city? I bet you did.
No, Carter hadn’t known how many cemeteries existed in New Orleans. What he did know was the smile that had grown on his face had everything to do with the woman who’d texted.
You tricked me into long hours of Internet research, somehow knowing I thought there were only a handful of places to look.
Carter started thumbing out a response, but Bri apparently had appendages that moved at the speed of light.
I should know better, being a New Orleans resident, but come on! Cities of the Dead? I had no idea!
I did not trick you. You volunteered. Carter let his fingers fly as he typed, And you should be looking for a Felicia Hammond. He stared at the words, wondering if he could just send them and tell her that way. With his sweet tea boiling through his innards, he hit the send button. He drew a deep drag of air and closed his eyes until his phone chimed again.
We can take tours of several of them. Do you want to go with me? I’ve never been on a cemetery tour and I live here!
#ridiculoustruths
Carter had his own ridiculous truth, and it wasn’t about a cemetery. He held his phone with a pythonic grip, waiting for her reply to his last message.
Felicia Hammond? Is Hammond House named after your mother?
Carter exhaled, wondering when she’d ask why his mother had the same last name as the B&B he was supposedly only representing legally.
But his phone stayed silent, not another question in sight. For how fast Bri could type, that said more than a rapid-fire burst of incoming texts. He needed a few more days to figure out an explanation without making Bri keep at a fruitless search.
Yes, and yes, he typed as he exhaled. When can we go on a tour? Hammond House opens on Friday night.
She said tours operated year round, then began questioning him about the grand opening. Relief rushed through Carter with the topic change. Somehow, when she asked, Carter felt no roar of apprehension, no overwhelming annoyance. She asked because she cared, not because she needed to judge his plans worthy or unworthy.
Carter texted with Bri late into the night, running his phone battery to dead twice over. As he finally said good-night, he realized that Bri Arnold might be the only person who really knew him. He’d told her things he didn’t tell anyone. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe because she didn’t really know who he was. He didn’t have the famous Hammond name to live up to, and therefore, who and what he was, was already good enough.
The idea swam through him as he neared unconsciousness. Maybe he’d never tell her who he really was. Maybe that was the way he could keep her in his life.
The next morning, he ate breakfast with his father at a café in the French Quarter. They were meeting with the event coordinator at ten, and his father would be on a plane by three p.m. Carter had downed four painkillers as he’d left his house in anticipation of spending the day with his yelling father, but the edge had barely been taken the ache behind his eyes. At least his leg felt nearly normal.
Lamar, the event goddess of New Orleans, had brought her drawings, her samples, and her nails as long as the Nile. She laid everything in front of his father and proceeded to detail the most elaborate event the city would have this year.
Carter didn’t care about the grand opening. He had bookings, and a staff, and all he needed to do to open was turn a key. He never understood the huge parties his father threw, but they apparently came with the territory, so he’d hired Lamar and financed the “party to end all parties.”
His mind wandered to Bri, and what she might be doing on this late-May Sunday morning. He wanted to see her again, and he pressed the volume button on his phone to make it go off, as if he’d received a text.
He glanced at his phone at the same time he stood. “Excuse me, I need to make a call.” He spoke in a grave tone, as if whoever had just “texted” needed his utmost attention at this very moment. He took several steps away and dialed Bri.
She answered on the third ring, her voice the tiniest bit breathless.
“Hey, did I catch you at a bad time?” he asked.
“No, no,” she said quickly. “Just a little Sunday morning cleaning.” Something crashed in the background and scuffling came through the line.
“I can call back later.”
“It’s fine.” A door slammed, and Carter suspected she’d just locked herself in her office. “What’s up?”
Carter cleared his throat. “I was hoping to take you to dinner tonight.”
“Will your boss be gone?”
“Yes, he’s leaving this afternoon.”
“Party planned?”
“As much as I need to do.”
“Ah, so you’re using me to occupy your spare time.” A giggle accompanied the statement, and all the tightness in Carter’s stomach swooshed away.
“Totally using you.”
“Well, it so happens that I always take Sunday afternoon off. So I guess I’ll have a few free hours.”
“Perfect.” Carter grinned before remembering he was pretending to take a very serious business call. “Should I come pick you up?”
“You’d better, Mister Carter.”
“Where should we go?”
She sighed in an exaggerated way, and he imagined her creamy shoulders dropping under the weight of the sound. “Do I have to plan everything?”
He chuckled at her mock annoyance. “Hey, you’re the local.”
“There you go again. Using me for my knowledge.”
“If I remember right, you didn’t even know you could take a cemetery tour, so….”
“I’m going to hang up now,” Bri said. “Seven o’clock. Don’t even think about being late.”
Carter full-out laughed as she disconnected the call, wondering why she hadn’t been snatched up by one of New Orleans’ bachelors. Wes’s face ran through his mind, and Carter realized it wasn’t for lack of trying.
Carter straightened his tie and returned to the metal table where Lamar had a swatch of fabric, the vibrant blue of a peacock’s feather, laid over his father’s empty plate as she gushed to him about the details.
By seven o’clock, Carter felt stretched thin. He still wore his designer suit, but he’d swapped out his gray business tie for a tangerine-and-teal striped one that he hoped said “fun, flirty, kis
s-me-on-the beach” instead of “boring lawyer who lies about who he really is.”
He’d taken two steps around the huge mansion house her nana lived in when the front door opened. “Carter, over here,” Bri called.
He changed directions and joined her on the huge wraparound porch. “I’m not late.”
She laughed. “No, you’re not.” She stepped back through the doorway. “Come on in. Nana wants to meet you.”
Carter stuck his hands in his pockets so he wouldn’t reach for Bri as he passed. The grandeur of the mansion house stole his breath, the way the banister swept the eye toward the second story, the rich fabrics on both the floor and the walls. “Wow, this place is beautiful.”
“You’ll have to say that louder if you want the brownie points.”
He turned to find Bri seated on a pink loveseat in the front room. An old woman with hair the color of snow sat in an armchair that seemed to swallow her whole.
“Hello, Nana.” He crossed the room and leaned down to give her a proper Southern kiss on each cheek. “This house is magnificent. Have you lived here your whole life?”
Her grip on his hand was firm, and he spotted a spark in her pale blue eyes. “I have,” she said, her shoulders lifting the slightest bit.
“Nana’s parents started the B&B on the beach,” Bri explained. “Then they bought this place, and she was born here.” She beamed at Nana, and Carter saw and felt the love she had for her grandmother.
“This is that Carter fellow?” Nana squinted at him.
Bri nodded and smiled, throwing her gaze to the spot next to her on the loveseat. Carter joined her, again fisting his hands in his pockets so he wouldn’t casually lay one arm over her shoulders or take her hand in his, though he itched to do so. They’d gone to one jazz festival together. Sure, it had ended in a kiss that set his pulse pounding every time he thought about it. And yes, they’d texted for hours last night. That didn’t mean he knew everything about Bri Arnold he needed to know, didn’t mean they had a future together, didn’t allow him to touch her whenever he wanted.