The two sat on a brand-new rattan couch, eating peanut butter cookies. Her mom had made a batch as a house-warming present, and Madison offered to deliver them, eager to check out George’s new house. He’d bought the place right next door to Claire’s in-laws; the previous owners were going through a bitter divorce. Word around town was that Mr. Allen found Mrs. Allen between the sheets with the gardener—which explained all the destroyed flower beds around the property. Flowers aside, the property was huge and beautiful.
“Do you want something to drink?” George asked.
Madison perked up; a guy like George probably had a fully stocked home bar. At the very least, he had to have something better than the Southern Comfort and Mountain Dew that she and Cash usually went for. “Sure!”
He stood and headed inside. “Milk?”
She deflated. “Oh, um, no I’m good.”
He came back out with two large glasses of it anyway. “You can’t have cookies without milk—it’s criminal.”
Madison raised a brow. Being a grown man who preferred milk to booze was what was criminal. She put her feet up on the large metal table. “How do you like living here?”
“So far so good,” he said, staring distractedly at her shoes on the table.
Was this guy for real? She immediately took them off.
He relaxed and leaned back into the couch. “The potholes in the driveway are going to be the death of my car and it looks like I’m in the market for a new gardener, but other than that, I like it.”
“Still loving the smell?” she asked with a wink.
George grinned. “Can’t get enough of it.”
A gust of cool wind blew off of the lake, sending Madison’s long hair flying. As she pushed it out of her face, their eyes locked. She was surprised again by how very green his were, like freshly mown grass on a hot summer day. He flinched nervously and looked away.
“How’s your dad doing?” He’d asked that every time they’d talked over the past two weeks—a couple of calls where Madison didn’t know what to say (she usually only texted with guys) and the afternoon he’d let her test-drive the Porsche. She cringed every time he asked her about her dad, though. As thoughtful as it was, it just made her sad.
“About the same as the last time you asked,” she remarked, leaning her head back on the white cushion. “Honestly, I don’t really want to talk about it, okay? I just feel like that’s all anyone asks me, and the answer is never good.” Talking about it wouldn’t change the situation, so what was the point?
“I understand,” he said, awkwardly patting her knee. “So . . . I went to go look at pools yesterday. I think I’m gonna get one.”
“Oh, great,” she said. “I’m probably going to need a new place to swim.” She gestured to the house next door, a sour feeling in her stomach. “I doubt I’ll get invited there anymore. Claire hasn’t talked to me in two weeks.”
George’s brow furrowed. “What happened?”
“I told her something about her husband, and she refuses to believe it. She has her head in the sand about her marriage. She can be so naive sometimes.” Though she was trying to sound casual, it stung that Claire didn’t listen to her. Did her cousin really think so little of her?
“Family drama’s the worst, ain’t it?” George stared out over his lawn, his gaze settling on a copse of cypress trees that divided his property from the Thibodeauxs’. “I’m actually dealing with some of my own.”
Madison glanced sideways at George, taking in his neatly pressed khakis and the striped dress shirt that he’d buttoned up to the very top. The chairs on his porch were arranged at perfect right angles to the couch, and he’d put his glass of milk on a coaster. It was hard to imagine something out of place in George’s orderly existence. “Oh yeah?”
“My brother and sister stopped talking to me when I took over my dad’s company.” He frowned. “He left me in charge of it when he passed away, and they’ve never forgiven me. It’s been a whole year and not a word. . . .”
“Damn, I’m sorry to hear that.” This two-week silence was the longest Madison and Claire had gone without talking, and her stomach sunk at the idea of it stretching into next year.
“What’s funny is they got the better end of the deal anyway—a huge payout without having to do any work.” He let out an ironic laugh. “I’m left with insane hours and the weight of an entire company on my shoulders.”
“But you love your job, right?”
He looked out toward the lake, squinting in the afternoon sun. “Love is a strong word.”
“Well, it has to be better than scrubbing mildew off of shower walls.” Madison put her hand on her heart. “I win this pity party, hands down.”
George raised his glass. “To us,” he said. “The pathetic duo.”
“I can definitely drink to that,” Madison said, raising her glass. She winced. “But not with this, because frankly, I find milk disgusting.”
He laughed and put his head in his hands. “This is why I don’t ever have company.”
“Because people are afraid you’ll force-feed them milk?” She cocked her head to the side.
“Something like that,” he said, standing up and smoothing his pants. “What do you want—for real?”
“Let me see what you have.” She got up and walked to the kitchen with him. Beautiful mahogany cabinets lined the walls and a marble-topped island stood in the center of the room. An oversize stainless steel refrigerator was covered in postcards from all over the world: Bangkok, Berlin, Paris, London, New York City, Moscow, Athens, Dubai, Marrakech.
She stared at a picture of Ben Big at night. “Have you been to all of these places?”
“Yeah,” he said, walking over to her.
A whisper of jealousy stole through her. She plucked a scene of a market in Venice and flipped it over. It was stamped but blank, as if he’d mailed the postcard to himself. It was sad to think that he’d traveled all over the world and hadn’t had someone to share it with. “Which place did you like the most?”
George pointed to one showing a crowded street lined with buildings and long balconies. BOURBON STREET was spelled out in green, purple, and gold letters on the bottom of the image. “Hands down my favorite place in the world,” he said.
“I’ve never been,” Madison confessed, turning to him. “I even joined this stupid club my senior year because they had a field trip there. I had to sell about a hundred candy bars to all of my friends. But then Hurricane Sebastian hit, and the club donated the money to the victims instead.”
He leaned against the counter. “Well, that was nice of y’all.”
“I guess. . . .” Madison trailed off, thinking of all the people who’d lost their homes and belongings. Her home hadn’t been damaged by a hurricane, but she couldn’t help but worry that her family’s existence teetered precariously on the edge. “Honestly, though, and I know how selfish this sounds, but I was bummed that I didn’t get to go.”
George’s eyes widened, and for a moment Madison thought he was going to scold her, but then he walked over to the other side of the fridge and pulled a piece of parchment paper out from under a magnet.
“What’s this?” she said as he handed it to her. She read the words out loud:
Krewe of Celio Mardi Gras Ball
Saturday, the Eleventh of February
At Half Past Seven in the Evening
Archer Ballroom, New Orleans
He smiled. “Wanna go with me?”