The Beau & the Belle
Page 23
My cheeks grow hot and I press my palms to them, trying to ease whatever sensation is building inside me. My mom asks me if I’m going through early menopause, and I threaten to have her put in a nursing home.
“I mean, I think the whole use-it-or-lose-it hypothesis is scientifically proven,” Rose points out. “You might actually be drying up.”
I ignore her, all the while trying to convince myself to forget about Beau. I repeat the same mantra I’ve used ever since I first moved away to Connecticut for boarding school. At this point, the words have branded my soul: It was just a few months. I hardly knew him. And then I add something new: I hardly knew myself! I mean, I thought Evanescence would be around forever, along with Justin Timberlake’s tight frosted curls! Such rationalizations don’t matter though. They’re futile at best, delusional at worst, because over the last 10 years, I’ve replayed every one of our encounters in my mind a hundred times, spinning each one into fantasies and dreams so much that I can’t even remember what was real and what I’ve fabricated.
Did he really teach me to dance in here, late at night with the setting sun seeping in between the trees?
Have I ever had a romantic experience as an adult that has even come close to that? One time for my birthday, Clark bought me a couple’s massage. It was a nice thought until he tapped out three minutes in for being too ticklish. For the remainder of my massage, I could hear him arguing for a partial refund in the lobby.
I turn toward the refrigerator to get some tea and my gaze sweeps past the window above the sink toward the house across the street. I shiver. It hasn’t changed at all in the years I’ve been gone. Beautiful. Stately. Everything a home in the Garden District should be: Italianate, two-storied with white columns, dark shutters, ornate woodwork, and lush gardens. Heavy oak trees shade the property and when I take a hesitant step closer to the sink, I finally notice the proud sign hanging on the scrolling cast-iron fence: SOLD.
ANGEL OF INVESTMENT
Homegrown hero speeds hurricane recovery
FOR TOURISTS AMBLING through the vibrant French Quarter today, it’s hard to remember the devastation wrought by Hurricane Audrey. This is thanks to the many first responders, charitable organizations, and everyday people who have lent hands on the road to New Orleans’ recovery. But, as local business owners look back on the tenth anniversary of the costliest natural disaster in American history, many say they owe their redemption specifically to one young entrepreneur.
“My doors would not be open today without Beau Fortier,” said Joel Milne, the owner and operator of Lafayette’s, a restaurant that’s been a fixture in the area for years. “It’s as simple as that.”
Beau Fortier, 35, is the co-founder and CEO of Crescent Capital, a New Orleans-based investment company. In addition to traditional venture capital and angel investing, Fortier’s firm specializes in what he likes to call “resurrection capital”.
“The vast majority of bankruptcy filings after Audrey hit were businesses that were thriving before the storm,” explained Fortier from his spacious corner office overlooking the French Quarter. “They were healthy companies that just needed a hand to get back on their feet, but the big banks had written the whole city off.”
Fortier claims that this national reluctance to reinvest in the city unnecessarily exacerbated the growing unemployment and homelessness crises. He felt a deep kinship with those distressed by the circumstances, a bond that goes back generations to the city’s antebellum history.
His great-great-great-grandfather, William Fortier, an inventor and industrialist, moved to New Orleans from France in the first half of the 19th century. In the French fashion, he eschewed slave ownership, opting to build his great wealth through innovation and resourcefulness rather than forced labor. William’s rich legacy, including a grand estate in the Garden District, was lost to future generations of Fortiers when his descendants fell on hard times in the 1960s. Growing up poor in the shadow of his ancestors’ highs and lows, Beau felt duty-bound to take a chance on a shaky post-hurricane economy.
“We don’t lend money with the goal of bleeding people with interest payments,” he said, pointing to a wall of over 100 company names and logos. “In exchange for capital, we actually take a stake in each business. From breweries to boutique hotels, we’re personally invested in the fabric of the city.”
This wasn’t always Fortier’s goal. When Hurricane Audrey wreaked havoc on New Orleans, Fortier was in his final year at Tulane Law. Due to extensive damage, students were transferred to the University of Texas at Austin. It was there that he was first introduced to Russell Hancock, the other co-founder and COO of Crescent Capital. The son of real estate mogul Paul Hancock, Russell provided the initial funds needed to put their plan into action.
“At the time, I had every intention of starting out on my own,” Fortier explained. “But it made sense to partner with Russell. Together, we’ve hustled for the last decade, and now Crescent Capital is the leading venture capital firm in Louisiana.”
I stop reading there, mostly because it’s a lie—Russ hasn’t hustled a day in his life—but also because I’ve already read the rest. The damn newspaper article is everywhere. I had 10 copies sent to my home, and another half-dozen sat piled on my desk the day it was released. People are excited about it. They think it’s a good thing that my dedication to the city is starting to get broad recognition, but the spotlight isn’t a place I’m accustomed to. Though it’s good for my firm, it’s slightly unsettling to get into a random Uber and find a photo of myself blown up to epic proportions on the front page of the Times-Picayune.
“Is this yours?” I ask, holding up the newspaper.
My driver shakes his head. “Some lady had it earlier, raved about the blowhard on the cover.” His gaze shifts to my face and he narrows his eyes. “He kinda looks like you.”
I cast the paper aside. “Don’t know him.”
He grunts. “I didn’t either until earlier this week. You turn on the news and that’s all they want to talk about. Some guy named Forty who invested a bunch of money after Audrey. Big deal—I’m not gonna suck some banker’s dick just because he found some new way to get rich.”
“You don’t have to suck anybody’s dick you don’t want to.” I chuckle.
“I’m just saying, what’s the big deal? Not like he went out on a limb or anything. Rich guys like him—”
“He wasn’t rich.”
His eyes meet mine in the mirror again. “What?”
“You said ‘rich guys like him’—he wasn’t wealthy back then. That’s why it’s a good story.”
He scoffs like that annoys him and then his eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror again. “You sure you don’t know him? You could be his twin.”
“Positive. Here is fine,” I say, gesturing to the sidewalk as we stop at a red light.
“But the entrance is around the corner,” he says, hesitant to end the trip early and reduce his fare. “Traffic is just backed up for some red carpet event or something up ahead.”
Which is the exact reason I insist he drops me right here. I step out before leaning in and tipping him with a crisp $100 bill.
“Consider this the blowhard’s latest investment—no fellatio required,” I quip, closing the door. I set off toward the ball, brushing off my tuxedo jacket, which fits like a second skin. I remember going with my mom to pick out my first one, seven or eight years ago. I needed it for an event, and I’d only ever rented the cheap ones. She dragged me to Nordstrom and had a tailor measure every nook and cranny. When that tuxedo was delivered, I left the rack behind forever.
I pull a thin black mask from my pocket and tie it around my head before turning the corner. It conceals my identity just enough that when I pass behind the red carpet, no one tries to stop me for a quick photo. After the hectic, media-filled week I’ve had, I appreciate the brief bout of anonymity.
The ball is being held at Muriel’s Jackson Square, an upscale restaurant in the heart of the French Quarter. I’ve eaten here enough times to know it like the back of my hand.
“I mean, I think the whole use-it-or-lose-it hypothesis is scientifically proven,” Rose points out. “You might actually be drying up.”
I ignore her, all the while trying to convince myself to forget about Beau. I repeat the same mantra I’ve used ever since I first moved away to Connecticut for boarding school. At this point, the words have branded my soul: It was just a few months. I hardly knew him. And then I add something new: I hardly knew myself! I mean, I thought Evanescence would be around forever, along with Justin Timberlake’s tight frosted curls! Such rationalizations don’t matter though. They’re futile at best, delusional at worst, because over the last 10 years, I’ve replayed every one of our encounters in my mind a hundred times, spinning each one into fantasies and dreams so much that I can’t even remember what was real and what I’ve fabricated.
Did he really teach me to dance in here, late at night with the setting sun seeping in between the trees?
Have I ever had a romantic experience as an adult that has even come close to that? One time for my birthday, Clark bought me a couple’s massage. It was a nice thought until he tapped out three minutes in for being too ticklish. For the remainder of my massage, I could hear him arguing for a partial refund in the lobby.
I turn toward the refrigerator to get some tea and my gaze sweeps past the window above the sink toward the house across the street. I shiver. It hasn’t changed at all in the years I’ve been gone. Beautiful. Stately. Everything a home in the Garden District should be: Italianate, two-storied with white columns, dark shutters, ornate woodwork, and lush gardens. Heavy oak trees shade the property and when I take a hesitant step closer to the sink, I finally notice the proud sign hanging on the scrolling cast-iron fence: SOLD.
ANGEL OF INVESTMENT
Homegrown hero speeds hurricane recovery
FOR TOURISTS AMBLING through the vibrant French Quarter today, it’s hard to remember the devastation wrought by Hurricane Audrey. This is thanks to the many first responders, charitable organizations, and everyday people who have lent hands on the road to New Orleans’ recovery. But, as local business owners look back on the tenth anniversary of the costliest natural disaster in American history, many say they owe their redemption specifically to one young entrepreneur.
“My doors would not be open today without Beau Fortier,” said Joel Milne, the owner and operator of Lafayette’s, a restaurant that’s been a fixture in the area for years. “It’s as simple as that.”
Beau Fortier, 35, is the co-founder and CEO of Crescent Capital, a New Orleans-based investment company. In addition to traditional venture capital and angel investing, Fortier’s firm specializes in what he likes to call “resurrection capital”.
“The vast majority of bankruptcy filings after Audrey hit were businesses that were thriving before the storm,” explained Fortier from his spacious corner office overlooking the French Quarter. “They were healthy companies that just needed a hand to get back on their feet, but the big banks had written the whole city off.”
Fortier claims that this national reluctance to reinvest in the city unnecessarily exacerbated the growing unemployment and homelessness crises. He felt a deep kinship with those distressed by the circumstances, a bond that goes back generations to the city’s antebellum history.
His great-great-great-grandfather, William Fortier, an inventor and industrialist, moved to New Orleans from France in the first half of the 19th century. In the French fashion, he eschewed slave ownership, opting to build his great wealth through innovation and resourcefulness rather than forced labor. William’s rich legacy, including a grand estate in the Garden District, was lost to future generations of Fortiers when his descendants fell on hard times in the 1960s. Growing up poor in the shadow of his ancestors’ highs and lows, Beau felt duty-bound to take a chance on a shaky post-hurricane economy.
“We don’t lend money with the goal of bleeding people with interest payments,” he said, pointing to a wall of over 100 company names and logos. “In exchange for capital, we actually take a stake in each business. From breweries to boutique hotels, we’re personally invested in the fabric of the city.”
This wasn’t always Fortier’s goal. When Hurricane Audrey wreaked havoc on New Orleans, Fortier was in his final year at Tulane Law. Due to extensive damage, students were transferred to the University of Texas at Austin. It was there that he was first introduced to Russell Hancock, the other co-founder and COO of Crescent Capital. The son of real estate mogul Paul Hancock, Russell provided the initial funds needed to put their plan into action.
“At the time, I had every intention of starting out on my own,” Fortier explained. “But it made sense to partner with Russell. Together, we’ve hustled for the last decade, and now Crescent Capital is the leading venture capital firm in Louisiana.”
I stop reading there, mostly because it’s a lie—Russ hasn’t hustled a day in his life—but also because I’ve already read the rest. The damn newspaper article is everywhere. I had 10 copies sent to my home, and another half-dozen sat piled on my desk the day it was released. People are excited about it. They think it’s a good thing that my dedication to the city is starting to get broad recognition, but the spotlight isn’t a place I’m accustomed to. Though it’s good for my firm, it’s slightly unsettling to get into a random Uber and find a photo of myself blown up to epic proportions on the front page of the Times-Picayune.
“Is this yours?” I ask, holding up the newspaper.
My driver shakes his head. “Some lady had it earlier, raved about the blowhard on the cover.” His gaze shifts to my face and he narrows his eyes. “He kinda looks like you.”
I cast the paper aside. “Don’t know him.”
He grunts. “I didn’t either until earlier this week. You turn on the news and that’s all they want to talk about. Some guy named Forty who invested a bunch of money after Audrey. Big deal—I’m not gonna suck some banker’s dick just because he found some new way to get rich.”
“You don’t have to suck anybody’s dick you don’t want to.” I chuckle.
“I’m just saying, what’s the big deal? Not like he went out on a limb or anything. Rich guys like him—”
“He wasn’t rich.”
His eyes meet mine in the mirror again. “What?”
“You said ‘rich guys like him’—he wasn’t wealthy back then. That’s why it’s a good story.”
He scoffs like that annoys him and then his eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror again. “You sure you don’t know him? You could be his twin.”
“Positive. Here is fine,” I say, gesturing to the sidewalk as we stop at a red light.
“But the entrance is around the corner,” he says, hesitant to end the trip early and reduce his fare. “Traffic is just backed up for some red carpet event or something up ahead.”
Which is the exact reason I insist he drops me right here. I step out before leaning in and tipping him with a crisp $100 bill.
“Consider this the blowhard’s latest investment—no fellatio required,” I quip, closing the door. I set off toward the ball, brushing off my tuxedo jacket, which fits like a second skin. I remember going with my mom to pick out my first one, seven or eight years ago. I needed it for an event, and I’d only ever rented the cheap ones. She dragged me to Nordstrom and had a tailor measure every nook and cranny. When that tuxedo was delivered, I left the rack behind forever.
I pull a thin black mask from my pocket and tie it around my head before turning the corner. It conceals my identity just enough that when I pass behind the red carpet, no one tries to stop me for a quick photo. After the hectic, media-filled week I’ve had, I appreciate the brief bout of anonymity.
The ball is being held at Muriel’s Jackson Square, an upscale restaurant in the heart of the French Quarter. I’ve eaten here enough times to know it like the back of my hand.
