“For a living?” I snicker a little. “I don’t do anything for a living. I was born into this money.”
“Silver spoon and all that?”
“Yep.”
“Well, that must’ve been nice.”
“To tell you the truth, I don’t even know the difference. It sounds bad, I get it. But I just… am who I am. This life is all I know.”
“That’s fair, though. My life is the only one I know as well.”
“I’m sure yours is far more interesting.”
“I doubt that.” She chuckles. “I’m not the one who needs to make sure her new friend isn’t here to kill me. I’m just a girl who came up from nothing and didn’t do anything special at all to get to this place right here.”
“I’d like to know about it, anyway.”
“Didn’t your app fill you in?”
“I didn’t look that deep. Just checked your picture and known associations. I’d rather learn about you the old-fashioned way, if you don’t mind.”
She pauses our banter to smile at me. “Mr. Boucher?”
“Miss DeCoudreau?”
“Am I gonna regret this night?”
I take a moment to extrapolate out a relationship with this woman. I picture her with McKay and me. Dining out in New Orleans. Dancing, maybe. We buy a little house here. A weekend thing. Or hell, a whole-week thing, if we want. We take trips. Boat trips. Plane trips. We see things, and meet new people, and create a whole new life from this one night. That’s the good parts. Every new thing has good parts. But coming up behind the new thing is the old thing. I don’t take the time to imagine that part of this fantasy. It’s dark and, anyway, I can almost justify it. Every new thing has an end and almost all endings are dark when you really take the time to look at them.
“Yeah,” I tell her truthfully. “I think you’re gonna regret this night.”
She laughs. “You’re not much of a salesman, are you?”
“Nah. I’m really not. I’m too tired to lie.”
Her eyes, which were dancing and bright just a moment before, go soft and a little bit lazy. “But then the next question is… is it a good kind of regret? Or a bad one?”
I take another moment. Because her question is a good one. “You mean, are all the problems that come from knowing a man like me worth it? Would you do it all again?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
“I would like to say I’m worth it, but I’m just not sure. Him though?” I nod towards the bedroom. “McKay? You will never regret knowing McKay.”
“He keeps you honest?”
“Oh”—I laugh this word out—“he keeps me honest all right.”
“OK. Here’s my next question.”
“Shoot.”
“Do you want me to leave?”
I shake my head. “Not even a little bit.”
She shrugs her shoulders and smiles. “Then it’s settled. We are going to be friends, Mr. Boucher. Despite your dire warnings and flashing red lights. Now, where should we start?”
“The obvious and mundane, I suppose. Where did you grow up?”
“Right here in New Orleans. In the French Quarter. My gra-mere had a seamstress shop—”
“Wait a minute. Miss Perrine’s Hats and Things?”
This delights her. She shows me a brand-new smile and a whole new laugh. “Yes! How do you know that?”
“I grew up around the block from there.”
She points a finger at me. “Holy shit. I know you too! You’re Boucher Manor!”
I show her a brand-new grin of my own and shrug with my hands. “That’s me.”
“Well.” She sighs. “This is the most unexpected thing of the night. When I say I know you, I mean I really do know you.”
I shoot her a look of, That’s doubtful.
“No. Listen. Think back now, OK?”
“OK. I’m thinkin’.”
“It was about—” She pauses to conjure up the memory. And her face scrunches up in the most adorable way as she does this. “Oh. Twenty years ago, at least.” Then her whole body goes a little bit soft. She kinda melts a little. Then she glances in the direction of the bedroom. “Wow. And you were with him, weren’t you?”
I don’t know what to say. But I’m thoroughly enchanted with where this is going.
“Yes. It was him,” she continues. “The both of you. He grew up there in that old mansion too, didn’t he?”
I nod. “Since he was nine.”
“Well, you two were about twelve, maybe? I was eight. My cousin was a bus boy at a bistro that went out of business so long ago, I don’t even recall the name. Some drunk tourists were giving him shit in the alley. I had come by with his dinner, since he hated the restaurant food. They were pushing him around. Maybe they were gonna beat him up. But then two little white boys appeared out of nowhere and they did all this… I don’t know. Karate shit, or whatever. And those tourists ran away from that alley with black eyes and broken noses.”