The man’s accent was Southern, but not from New Orleans. His skin was deeply tanned, making his teeth and broad smile sparkling white, like Cary Grant.
“Fine, thank you. Visiting New Orleans for the holiday, sir?” I asked.
“Is it that obvious?” said the man, grinning.
“I’m sorry, I just meant—”
“No apologies. You’re correct. I’m just down from Memphis for the Sugar Bowl.”
“Do you play?” asked Patrick, eyeing the man’s height and broad shoulders.
“I did. Wide receiver for Vanderbilt. I used to come here with the team, and we’d duke it out with Tulane. Always loved it. New Orleans was a great place to get in trouble, and I did my fair share, mind you.” He gave a knowing wink to Patrick. “Y’all in school at Tulane?” he asked.
“I just finished up at Loyola,” said Patrick.
“And you, pretty lady?” The gorgeous man looked at me.
College? Yes! I wanted to scream. I’d love to go to college. Instead I smiled and looked down.
“She’s trying to make up her mind,” said Patrick, jumping in. “You know the type, so smart, they’re all fighting over her.”
“Are you looking for anything in particular today?” I asked, changing the subject. I casually put two fingers on the counter, signaling to Patrick. It was one of the games we played, trying to guess what type of book the customer wanted. My two fingers told Patrick I was betting a dime that Mr. Memphis was interested in history. Patrick closed his left fist. That meant he wagered sports related.
“As a matter of fact, I am,” he replied, taking off his hat. His black hair glistened in the afternoon sun streaming through the front window. “Keats.”
“Poetry?” said Patrick.
“Ah, surprised, are you? Well, let’s not judge a book by its cover, now. Even football players like poetry,” he said.
“Of course they do,” I replied. “The poetry section is right this way.”
“I’ve got to run,” said Patrick. “Josie will take it from here. Keats is one of her favorites. Nice to meet you, sir.”
“Forrest Hearne,” said the gentleman, extending his hand to Patrick. “Nice to meet you, too.”
I led Mr. Hearne toward the back of the shop to the tall case of poetry books.
“They say Keats fell in love with his neighbor,” I told him over my shoulder.
“Yes, but I’ve read it was a tumultuous affair,” he said, challenging me. “Keats demanded that all of the letters between them be burned upon his death. So I guess we’ll never know the truth.”
I stopped at the stack with my back to Mr. Hearne and quickly scanned the alphabetized books for the letter K.
“Here we are, Keats.” I turned around. Mr. Hearne was quite close, staring at me.
“Do I . . . know you somehow?” he asked seriously. “There’s something about you that seems awfully familiar.”
I felt a trickle of sweat between my shoulder blades. “I don’t think so. I’ve never been to Tennessee.”
“But I’ve been to New Orleans, many times,” he said, adjusting the knot in his silk tie.
“I must have one of those familiar faces, I guess,” I said, stepping away from him and the bookshelf. “Just holler if you need anything else.”
I walked back to the counter, humming, aware of his gaze upon me as I slipped between the stacks. How could I be familiar to a former Vanderbilt football player from Tennessee who looked like a movie star and liked poetry? But his expression had been genuine, not like one of the sweet-talking men with bloodshot eyes that I saw at Willie’s when I cleaned in the mornings. Sometimes, if I arrived before six A.M., I’d pass a trick on the way out. Most men didn’t stay all night. Willie always said she wasn’t holding a slumber party unless they wanted to pay good and big for one. No, most men would leave with a grin after they’d done their business. The men who stayed the whole night had a lot of money, but also a lack of something else, like they had a hole in their soul too big to be patched. More often than not, they’d try to make conversation with me before they left in the morning. The conversation was awkward, guilt soaked, and generally included the standard line that I looked familiar. But the way Mr. Hearne asked felt sincere, like it puzzled him somehow.
He walked back to the counter carrying two books.
“Ah, yes, this is a nice choice,” I said, examining the volume of Keats he’d selected.
“For Marion, my wife,” he said.
“Oh, and David Copperfield too.”
“That’s for me. I must have ten copies by now.”
I smiled. “It’s my most favorite of all Dickens. It’s so inspiring, thinking that David Copperfield was based on Dickens’s own life, that someone could overcome that kind of suffering and poverty to finally achieve happiness.”
I had said too much. He was giving me the look. I hated the look. It was the “You’ve had it tough, huh, kid?” look. It made me feel pathetic.
Hearne spoke softly. “I know what you mean. I had kind of a Copperfield childhood myself.”
I stared at him, shocked that the sophisticated man in front of me could have ever known poverty or suffering. Had he really recast himself? My surprise registered with him.
He nodded. “Decisions, they shape our destiny.” Without opening the book, he began to recite from David Copperfield. “‘Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else . . .’”
I nodded and finished it with him. “‘These pages must show.’”
We stood, not knowing each other, but understanding each other completely. A car horn honked from the street, severing our stares.
I quickly finished the receipt total and turned the pad to him. “Shall I wrap them for you?”
“No, that’s not necessary.” He took out a money clip from his interior suit pocket. The man had what Willie called “a head of lettuce.” There were so many bills, they burst and flowered from the silver clip. I noticed his shiny Lord Elgin watch as he handed me a fifty-dollar bill.
“I’m sorry,” I breathed. “I’m afraid I don’t have change for something that large.”
“My fault. I forgot to get change at the hotel. Would you take a check?” he asked.
We didn’t accept checks, unless they came from customers with an account. We had had our share of rubber bouncers from stragglers in the Quarter. A sign in front of the register displayed our no-check policy. “Of course,” I told him. “A check is fine.”
He nodded in appreciation and took out his checkbook along with an elegant fountain pen. Forrest Hearne was in high cotton, to be sure.
“What is it that you do in Memphis?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
“I’m an architect and a developer,” he said. He signed his check and handed it to me, smiling. “I build things.”
I nodded.
He walked to the door, still staring at me with a quizzical expression. “Well, thank you for your help and the conversation. I sure do appreciate it.”
“My pleasure.”
“And good luck at college, whichever one you choose.” He opened the door to leave and stopped suddenly. “I almost forgot—Happy New Year,” he said, putting on his hat. “It’s gonna be a great one!”
“Happy New Year.” I smiled.
And then he was gone.
FIVE
I sat on my bed staring at the check.
Forrest L. Hearne, Jr.
73 East Parkway Avenue North, Memphis, Tennessee
Memphis Bank and Trust Co.
His words seemed to whisper back at me. Decisions, they shape our destiny.