“I love it. Grace in the face of life’s challenges. It’s great marketing,” he says, at last stabbing the bitter green salad he ordered for us both.
I smile demurely and follow suit, hoping to get us off the topic of my occupation and onto his. “Do you go back to Paris often?”
“Not as often as I’d like. My father likes me to stay here and look after our interests.”
“Of which you have many?” I smile, hoping I’m not being rude. “I mean, to keep you here so long.”
“Hmm.” Freddie continues eating, clearly bored with the subject. “Our shipping business is strong and well-established. There’s really no need to fuss about it. I’m looking for something new…”
His eyes land on mine as the salad plates are removed. I think about Roland’s reasons for pushing me toward Freddie as the servers place a gorgeous arrangement of roast beef with dark gravy and something smooth and white with a little sprig of green in front of us. The luscious scent makes my mouth water, and again I fight back a squeal of delight. I can’t remember the last time I had red meat.
“Well, this looks acceptable.” Freddie picks up his silver knife and fork and slices into it. I do the same, but he’s talking again. I don’t want to stuff my face while he’s staring at me. Still, I manage to get a piece of roast in my mouth, and I almost swoon at the flavor.
Freddie doesn’t seem to notice. “We were doing fine with the usual New Orleans souvenirs, spices and such. Then we added coffee and it simply exploded.”
He slices another piece of roast as I study the fluffy white side dish.
“The potatoes are amazing, aren’t they?” he says, with a twinkle in his eye. My eyebrows rise. Potatoes? I would never have guessed…
“How they get them so smooth is a closely guarded secret,” he adds as if reading my mind.
“You enjoy fine dining.”
“It’s true. I have Epicurean tastes.”
Freddie leans back in his seat, placing the white cloth napkin beside his plate. I do the same, although I’m miserable at all the meat left on my plate. I wonder if he’d notice if I slid it into my handbag…
“Do you feel up for a stroll?”
“Of course!”
He stands and takes several bills from his pocket. He places them on the table as he takes my arm, and I feel pretty confident new shoes would not be an issue for Freddie Lovel.
Back on the street, my hand is in the crook of his arm as we walk, surveying the galleries and storefronts along Royal. It’s warm in the sun, but with the humidity low, it’s bearable. All of the blooms are gone, but dark-green ivy climbs healthy and bright up the sides of buildings and over the wrought iron trim.
A fountain trickles softly in a passing courtyard. It reminds me of my first adventure with Mark to the secret poboy shop, and my stomach cramps. It’s only been a day, and I miss him so much. I hate all of this. Where is he?
We pass a shop with a large painting of the Seine in the window, and Freddie stops.
“How I long to be home again,” he says.
“Back in Paris?”
“The cuisine here is… well, it’s quite good.” He covers my hand with his, glancing up at the sky. “It’s just so miserably hot all the time.”
I smooth my hair off my face. “I’m in the theater most days. I guess I’m use to it.”
He nods and looks ahead. “The truth is if it weren’t for you, I’d most likely melt into a puddle of ennui.”
I have no idea what that means, and it never occurred to me that Freddie would be so anxious to go home. “I’d love to see Paris.”
“Oh, darling, you would love it.” Freddie’s eyes take on an expression I usually see after my performances. “It’s so beautiful with the flowers and the cafés along the Rive Gauche. Our home is in the seventh arrondissement, which is the best place to live.”
“It sounds amazing.”
“Would you ever consider going?” His eyebrows rise.
I bite my lip and we resume our stroll. “I’ve never been outside New Orleans, but I’ve always wanted to travel. With the right person.”
Freddie’s chest rises. “There are places I could show you that would take your breath away. From Montmartre you can see the entire city spread out below, with its tiny streets. And the shopping on the Champs-élysées is incomparable.”
“I don’t know where I’d stay, and I have my little… sister Molly to consider.”
“My sister has a large townhouse. I’m sure she would love to have a celebrity guest.”
“I’m not a celebrity.”
He smiles and pats my hand. “You might not be one yet, but you have the potential.”
My brow furrows and I look up at him. “I’m basically one step above a stripper. Wouldn’t she find that… problematic?”
“Of course not. Last year’s number one song was recorded by a former stripper. One could even argue that Playboy spread made Marilyn Monroe a star.”
For a moment my old promise to Molly about what our future might look like feels so close. The limos and the little dog.
“It sounds like a beautiful dream.” We walk a moment in silence before I speak again. “Will you return to Paris soon?”
Freddie stops walking and looks deep into my eyes. “Would you care?”
I choose my words carefully. “I’ve looked forward to your visits. I imagine I would miss them… more than I can know now, standing here, holding your arm. But what could you possibly get out of it?”
I really want to know.
His eyes are warm and he covers my hand with his. “Paris is a much smaller market than America. I’d be honored to be the man who shared your talent with the world. And maybe, one day, you might think of me as more than a friend?”
We’re back at the theater, and I think about his words. “I imagine anything is possible.”
15
“The universe loves a stubborn heart.”
Mark
I missed the finale.
After dropping that asshole off at a small apartment building on Piedmont, I turned the car around and headed straight back south. But after driving all night, I only made it to Union City before I had to pull into a cheap motel and crash for a few hours. I set my alarm for plenty of time, but a fucking traffic jam in Mississippi cost me two more hours.
I’m tired and aching and worried about Lara when I finally pull into the dark parking lot. Keys in hand, I dash up the back steps headed straight for the dressing rooms, not worrying about who sees me.
I’m pulled up short when I see fucking Freddie again at her door, again with a fucking toddler-sized bunch of red roses, leaning in as if he’s ready to kiss my girl. The drop-kick to the chest comes when I hear his words.
“May I kiss you?” He leans closer.
I have to smother the No! rising in my throat when Lara’s eyes meet mine briefly. They narrow and she closes them as she lifts her chin.
He kisses her.
He fucking… I have to turn into the empty dressing room and go to the opposite wall, planting my fists against the wood paneling.
I’m tired. I’m exhausted from the drive, and I don’t know what the fuck is happening right now. My throat is tight, and it takes all my waning willpower not to charge out there, grab that guy by the neck and throw him out the back door.