We both look around and sniff the air. The closer I get to the plastic dress bag, the more potent the smell becomes. Mom and I check the bag, and sure enough, the scent is coming from the plastic. Very carefully, we pull the plastic bag up over the dress. It’s a gorgeous deep purple with a beaded sweetheart neckline and a fitted bodice that closely resembles a corset. I love the color and the fine details. As usual, Mom did good.
Attached through the hollow center of a bead is a small safety pin with a note card hanging from it. The cream-colored card features a handwritten message in thick black marker that reads WELCOME HOME, LULU. The corner of the card has a drop of something on it that, upon inspection, appears to be the cause of the smell. I carefully detach the note card from the dress, thankful there’s no damage, and show it to Mom. Her brows draw together, and she nods. I throw the note card into the trashcan underneath the sink and use the room spray stored beside it to lessen the stench.
“Mom, where’d the dress come from?”
She pauses her inspection of the dress as she smooths it out to ensure it’s not wrinkled.
“Lucy’s, of course,” she says. “I’ll ask them about the note card and the smell. We’re going to have to get this dry cleaned before you can have it fitted check for damage. Oh well, at least I ordered early enough if we need to replace it.”
“Thanks.” I take the dress from the counter top and walk back toward the foyer and turn down the front hall to my bedroom. I hang the dress in the left side of my walk-in and try to focus on anything but that strange note and the disgusting smell of the gasoline. Lucy probably left the note, but I don’t know how she would know to call me Lulu. Only Jameson uses that nickname. It seems out of character and a little strange considering she and I barely know one another aside from the occasional ball gown that I need. Lucy’s a professional and wouldn’t touch one of her expensive gowns if she had gasoline on her hands.
“Get a grip, Mel,” I mutter and survey my bedroom and the just-delivered boxes that litter the space. I’m letting my imagination run away with itself, and that’s never a good thing.
Chapter 13
Melanie
Jameson’s text had said, SORRY, LULU. CAN’T.
“I’m walking here!” I shout over my shoulder, throwing my hands up in the air. The red-white-and-blue taxi cab picks up speed and flies around the corner just as I make it up onto the sidewalk. As strange as it may sound, this is something I desperately missed while I was in college. Sure, New Orleans has rude drivers. They even have overzealous cabbies. What they don’t have is the maddening hustle and bustle of thousands of cabs snaking through ridiculous, terrifyingly fast stop-and-go traffic, all with a daredevil disregard for their vehicles. It’s just one of those things I don’t think New Yorkers really appreciate until they’ve left.
It should have said, SORRY. DON’T WANT TO.
I’m half a block away for my first house watch volunteer shift of the summer. I had been prepared to start job hunting upon graduating, but then I realized I could do more good filling volunteer positions than I would as a poorly paid intern at a magazine or a newspaper when I don’t really need the money—at least not the kind of money those types of jobs provides. Dad could have hooked me up with the kind of internship that most undergrads would kill for, but that’s not really my thing. Dad’s the media mogul in the family, not me. It wasn’t until last summer that my goals really came fully into focus. When I left high school, I’d been so sure that I wanted to follow Dad’s footsteps and work in communications, but a few years in New Orleans changed that. I did my fair share of volunteering at a local women and children’s shelter, and after a while I realized I want to help people in bad situations.
Mine read, IT’S OK.
I even added a smiley face at the end.
Like it would help me feel less pathetic.
My bags were already packed, and I’d been to the spa for some routine maintenance.
It didn’t matter.
Helping people—that’s what I’m going to be doing at the firehouse. The more efficiently the house watch desk is run, the less the firefighters have to worry about. It’s a small but important part of the running of the house. I remind myself about all of this as I open the front door to the lobby and meet Royal’s eyes as she sits behind the desk. She’s got her long brown hair pulled back in a braid that trails down her back and a navy scoop-neck house tee with PROBY written in black marker above the department logo.