stranger more about his marriage than he’d ever discussed with his family.
What was it about her? Kind eyes? Easy smile?
“Hell if I know,” he muttered, walking around a small knot of people staring up at the back of St. Louis Cathedral. He turned right on St. Ann and headed away from the river and Jackson Square. In no hurry to go back to the office, he decided to drop in on the construction crew at his nearly completed café.
But thoughts of Holly kept nibbling at the edgesof his mind as he stepped off the curb and loped across the street. He paid no attention to the smattering of honking horns or the shouts of irate drivers. Instead he hurried his steps as he skirted the crowds wandering down Bourbon Street. He hardly glanced at the stores as he passed. No time to stop and have a beer, and since he lived here, he wasn’t interested in any of the proferred tacky souvenirs. He smiled, though, at the clusters of people wandering up and down the narrow street and sidewalks.
There had never really been a “season” for tourists in New Orleans, except for Mardi Gras, which would reach its climax in a few weeks. Generally speaking, there were always tourists wandering through the French Quarter and the Garden District. Craning their necks, snapping pictures…and, most importantly of all to the economy, spending money.
After Hurricane Katrina, the world had wondered if New Orleans would bounce back. If it could bounce back. But Parker had never doubted it. The old city seemed indestructible. Of course, heavy winds and rising waters and breaking levees could leave her wounded and just a little shattered.
But the heart and soul of the city would never be destroyed.
And, Parker thought with a jolt, he’d be openinghis own place in time for the height of this year’s Mardi Gras season. Most people thought Mardi Gras only referred to the free-for-all on Fat Tuesday, the day before Ash Wednesday. But ask any local and they’d be happy to tell you that Carnival lasted for weeks, with the celebrating heating up in the last two weeks, when the parades and parties kicked in. And this year, Parker would play a part in welcoming visitors, in making them feel like they belonged—if only for a day or two. He smiled to himself as he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and punched in a phone number.
“James Coffees,” the receptionist answered smoothly.
“Hi, Marge,” Parker said, watching the people stream past him. “Is my father in?”
“No, Parker. He and your mama went for an early lunch.”
He smiled to himself at the mental image of his parents. Still holding hands whenever they were together, still crazy about each other, his parents had set a high bar for marriage. He’d hoped to find that sort of happiness once. He’d married Frannie more or less as a business arrangement. But she’d been fun and flirty and he’d hoped that they would grow together and build a solid marriage. Then he’d discovered just how miserable a bad marriage could really be.
“You get everything all straightened out with the chef at the Hotel Marchand?”
Marge’s voice brought him back from idle speculation. Frowning, he said, “Tell my father I think it’s going to work out. I have a little more convincing to do, but,” he added, unwilling to accept defeat, “I think I can pull it off.”
“He’ll be pleased,” she said. “You coming back in now?”
“No. Got a few things to do yet. I’ll be an hour or so.”
“Take your time, Parker. I’ll give your daddy the message.”
He closed the phone, turned and headed toward the corner of Dauphine and St. Peter. Here the businesses were clustered together, crouched along sidewalks lined with potted flowers. Scrolled ironwork defined balconies on the second stories of the old buildings and brightly colored flowers spilled from boxes and twined along the rails. The blooms scented the cool afternoon air. Jazz drifted from a window and played lightly on a breeze
What was it about her? Kind eyes? Easy smile?
“Hell if I know,” he muttered, walking around a small knot of people staring up at the back of St. Louis Cathedral. He turned right on St. Ann and headed away from the river and Jackson Square. In no hurry to go back to the office, he decided to drop in on the construction crew at his nearly completed café.
But thoughts of Holly kept nibbling at the edgesof his mind as he stepped off the curb and loped across the street. He paid no attention to the smattering of honking horns or the shouts of irate drivers. Instead he hurried his steps as he skirted the crowds wandering down Bourbon Street. He hardly glanced at the stores as he passed. No time to stop and have a beer, and since he lived here, he wasn’t interested in any of the proferred tacky souvenirs. He smiled, though, at the clusters of people wandering up and down the narrow street and sidewalks.
There had never really been a “season” for tourists in New Orleans, except for Mardi Gras, which would reach its climax in a few weeks. Generally speaking, there were always tourists wandering through the French Quarter and the Garden District. Craning their necks, snapping pictures…and, most importantly of all to the economy, spending money.
After Hurricane Katrina, the world had wondered if New Orleans would bounce back. If it could bounce back. But Parker had never doubted it. The old city seemed indestructible. Of course, heavy winds and rising waters and breaking levees could leave her wounded and just a little shattered.
But the heart and soul of the city would never be destroyed.
And, Parker thought with a jolt, he’d be openinghis own place in time for the height of this year’s Mardi Gras season. Most people thought Mardi Gras only referred to the free-for-all on Fat Tuesday, the day before Ash Wednesday. But ask any local and they’d be happy to tell you that Carnival lasted for weeks, with the celebrating heating up in the last two weeks, when the parades and parties kicked in. And this year, Parker would play a part in welcoming visitors, in making them feel like they belonged—if only for a day or two. He smiled to himself as he pulled his cell phone from his pocket and punched in a phone number.
“James Coffees,” the receptionist answered smoothly.
“Hi, Marge,” Parker said, watching the people stream past him. “Is my father in?”
“No, Parker. He and your mama went for an early lunch.”
He smiled to himself at the mental image of his parents. Still holding hands whenever they were together, still crazy about each other, his parents had set a high bar for marriage. He’d hoped to find that sort of happiness once. He’d married Frannie more or less as a business arrangement. But she’d been fun and flirty and he’d hoped that they would grow together and build a solid marriage. Then he’d discovered just how miserable a bad marriage could really be.
“You get everything all straightened out with the chef at the Hotel Marchand?”
Marge’s voice brought him back from idle speculation. Frowning, he said, “Tell my father I think it’s going to work out. I have a little more convincing to do, but,” he added, unwilling to accept defeat, “I think I can pull it off.”
“He’ll be pleased,” she said. “You coming back in now?”
“No. Got a few things to do yet. I’ll be an hour or so.”
“Take your time, Parker. I’ll give your daddy the message.”
He closed the phone, turned and headed toward the corner of Dauphine and St. Peter. Here the businesses were clustered together, crouched along sidewalks lined with potted flowers. Scrolled ironwork defined balconies on the second stories of the old buildings and brightly colored flowers spilled from boxes and twined along the rails. The blooms scented the cool afternoon air. Jazz drifted from a window and played lightly on a breeze
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