The Beau & the Belle
Page 30
How the hell is this bank offering a 2% interest rate on savings accounts?
I ARRIVE FOR brunch the next morning before Lauren does. Mrs. LeBlanc lets me in, tells me I look handsome in my suit, and ushers me back into the kitchen where she’s currently unpacking food from a large brown paper bag. Apparently, she has outsourced brunch to a nearby restaurant.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she says. “I ordered you a little bit of everything.”
Normally on weekdays, I’m in the office and my breakfast is something simple and healthy—egg whites, protein, green and blended—but I’m not picky because I haven’t forgotten my roots: scrambled eggs and sticky syrup.
“It’s great, thanks. Can I help with anything?”
She laughs as she folds the brown paper bag. “It’s sweet of you to offer, but there’s really nothing left to be done. Lou insisted that I order food.”
“Oh, is she coming this morning?”
I train my voice to sound as if I don’t care, but Mrs. LeBlanc still smiles at me knowingly.
“She is coming, but she called and said she’s running late. Only my Lou can be late to the first appointment of the day.”
I nod and reply with a barely interested hum. She told me last night she was going to be here, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she manufactured some excuse. I’ve seen her twice since she returned to town and on both occasions, she couldn’t wait to be rid of me.
Mrs. LeBlanc transfers our food onto plates and sets it out on the table. Coffee and orange juice is poured. Silverware gleams. It almost looks like she spent all morning preparing the meal.
“Why don’t we go ahead and eat?” she says, glancing down at her watch. “There’s no sense in letting the food get cold.”
The front door slams and Lauren’s voice trails through the house. “Sorry! Sorry! I’m here.”
We both turn in unison as she appears in the kitchen doorway looking as if she just stepped out of a boardroom. My gaze sticks on her black heels and then slowly lifts up across her black stockings, pencil skirt, and white silk blouse. There’s a delicate bow tied between her collarbones and her hair is twisted in a low bun at the nape of her neck, curls nowhere to be found.
“Wow! You look fancy,” Mrs. LeBlanc says with a teasing whistle. “Do you have a meeting or something after this?”
Lauren drops her purse on the counter and saunters toward us, careful not to meet my eye as she smooths a hand across her hair. “Oh, yeah. Something like that.”
She has my camel coat in her hand. “Here you go.”
“Where’s your meeting?” I ask, taking the coat and hanging it on the back of my chair.
She glances toward me, meets my eyes for a brief moment, and then looks away. “Downtown.”
“What is it for?” her mom asks, purely curious. She doesn’t realize she’s doing my dirty work for me.
Lauren waves her hand in the air. “Business! Commerce! All right, are you two done? What else can we talk about?” she flusters.
I don’t usually go for the polished business look, but Lauren pulls it off so well that I might have a change of heart. I wonder if her stockings are thigh-highs, if there are delicate little clips holding them in place beneath her skirt.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she hisses when her mom crosses the kitchen to grab the pot of coffee.
I tip my head. “Like what?”
“Nothing. Just stop.”
“Did you dress like this for me?”
Her eyes widen in feigned shock. “How dare you? I have a business meeting.”
“With whom?”
“My…tax guy.”
“Accountant,” I correct with a teasing smirk.
“Obviously, yes. Him.”
Her mom is back in earshot. “I thought you were using Joanne?”
“Right. I am, tax guy is just…my nickname for her. Is breakfast ready? I’m starving.”
We take our seats at the table, where Mrs. LeBlanc has set my food down beside Lauren’s. I pull out her chair and she thanks me. Her skirt rides up a tantalizing inch when she sits and she sees me notice, tugging it down with an angry scowl. I imagine her dressing like this in New York.
“You’re looking very fancy today, Beau,” she says, her gaze nowhere near me.
“Well, it’s such a coincidence—I have a business meeting after this too,” I say, my tone dripping with sarcasm.
“Really? I wouldn’t have guessed. Suits seem to be all you wear these days. Do you sleep in them too?”
Mrs. LeBlanc chokes on a laugh and an explicit reply is on the tip of my tongue before I remember we’re at brunch with her mother. For a few minutes, we eat in silence. Lauren takes tiny bites, keeping her gaze pinned out the window. I sip my coffee, contemplating how I can get her alone.
“It’s strange to see you both sitting here now, all grown up,” Mrs. LeBlanc says, smiling at us. “It’s like we all stepped into a time machine.”
“Mom…” Lauren warns.
Mrs. LeBlanc holds up her coffee cup in innocence. “It’s just that you were both so young back then, kids, and now look at you.”
“Yeah, yeah, we get it.”
Mrs. LeBlanc turns to me with a suspicious gleam in her eye. “Beau, I suppose you’ve worked out that Lou had a big crush on you back then?”
Lauren’s fork stabs into her omelet. “MOM. Next subject.”
Her mother completely ignores her. “It was so cute. Her dad and I used to pretend we were oblivious. The way she was always fussing over you—you know, I think she tried to invite you to every single family dinner. God, she went on about you constantly.”
“I was a teenager,” Lauren says in her defense. “I also thought I was going to marry Nick from the Backstreet Boys.”
We continue ignoring her.
“Is that right?” I ask, leaning forward toward Mrs. LeBlanc. “Truthfully, I always thought she had a thing for Preston.”
Her mom frowns. “Preston Westcott?”
I nod. “She’s actually going on a date with him.”
Her mom makes a little sound like she finds that interesting. “You didn’t mention that, Lou.”
“Yeah, well, consider it mentioned,” she grumbles. “Next subject.”
Mrs. LeBlanc finally takes the hint. “Right, well, Mitch’s firm is throwing a Carnival luncheon. We’re raising money for the Ronald McDonald House this year, and you and your mom will have to join us. I’m dying to meet her.”
“I’m sure she’d love to be there. When is it?”
“A week from Saturday, here at the house. I’ll get you a formal invitation before you leave.”
Lauren doesn’t even look at me through the rest of brunch. Mrs. LeBlanc carries the conversation, and we’re left in silence on our side of the table.
When I’m done, I clear my plate and step outside to look at my old apartment. It’s been a decade since I’ve seen the place, and I always wondered if they continued renting it out after the hurricane.
Lauren steps out to join me on the back porch and for a little while, we don’t say a word. Finally, she sighs. “C’mon, I’ll show you what it looks like now.”
I’m surprised she’s suggesting a tour, just her and me. Last night she couldn’t wait to get away from me.
“After the hurricane, my parents had a hard time finding a renter since most students were displaced. My mom decided to convert it to an art studio, and now she works out here.”
She unlocks the door and flips on a light. The scent of acrylic paint hits me right away. The old furniture is gone, replaced with art supplies. A large wardrobe takes up one wall, drawers spilling open. Paint is everywhere, on the floor and stacked in boxes. There’s no rhyme or reason to the design of the room. Stools are set up in front of three different easels, all with canvases at varying degrees of completion.
“How many artists work in here?”
“Just her. She does that a lot,” Lauren explains. “She’ll work on a few things at once depending on her mood or the light or the season.”
I ARRIVE FOR brunch the next morning before Lauren does. Mrs. LeBlanc lets me in, tells me I look handsome in my suit, and ushers me back into the kitchen where she’s currently unpacking food from a large brown paper bag. Apparently, she has outsourced brunch to a nearby restaurant.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she says. “I ordered you a little bit of everything.”
Normally on weekdays, I’m in the office and my breakfast is something simple and healthy—egg whites, protein, green and blended—but I’m not picky because I haven’t forgotten my roots: scrambled eggs and sticky syrup.
“It’s great, thanks. Can I help with anything?”
She laughs as she folds the brown paper bag. “It’s sweet of you to offer, but there’s really nothing left to be done. Lou insisted that I order food.”
“Oh, is she coming this morning?”
I train my voice to sound as if I don’t care, but Mrs. LeBlanc still smiles at me knowingly.
“She is coming, but she called and said she’s running late. Only my Lou can be late to the first appointment of the day.”
I nod and reply with a barely interested hum. She told me last night she was going to be here, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she manufactured some excuse. I’ve seen her twice since she returned to town and on both occasions, she couldn’t wait to be rid of me.
Mrs. LeBlanc transfers our food onto plates and sets it out on the table. Coffee and orange juice is poured. Silverware gleams. It almost looks like she spent all morning preparing the meal.
“Why don’t we go ahead and eat?” she says, glancing down at her watch. “There’s no sense in letting the food get cold.”
The front door slams and Lauren’s voice trails through the house. “Sorry! Sorry! I’m here.”
We both turn in unison as she appears in the kitchen doorway looking as if she just stepped out of a boardroom. My gaze sticks on her black heels and then slowly lifts up across her black stockings, pencil skirt, and white silk blouse. There’s a delicate bow tied between her collarbones and her hair is twisted in a low bun at the nape of her neck, curls nowhere to be found.
“Wow! You look fancy,” Mrs. LeBlanc says with a teasing whistle. “Do you have a meeting or something after this?”
Lauren drops her purse on the counter and saunters toward us, careful not to meet my eye as she smooths a hand across her hair. “Oh, yeah. Something like that.”
She has my camel coat in her hand. “Here you go.”
“Where’s your meeting?” I ask, taking the coat and hanging it on the back of my chair.
She glances toward me, meets my eyes for a brief moment, and then looks away. “Downtown.”
“What is it for?” her mom asks, purely curious. She doesn’t realize she’s doing my dirty work for me.
Lauren waves her hand in the air. “Business! Commerce! All right, are you two done? What else can we talk about?” she flusters.
I don’t usually go for the polished business look, but Lauren pulls it off so well that I might have a change of heart. I wonder if her stockings are thigh-highs, if there are delicate little clips holding them in place beneath her skirt.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she hisses when her mom crosses the kitchen to grab the pot of coffee.
I tip my head. “Like what?”
“Nothing. Just stop.”
“Did you dress like this for me?”
Her eyes widen in feigned shock. “How dare you? I have a business meeting.”
“With whom?”
“My…tax guy.”
“Accountant,” I correct with a teasing smirk.
“Obviously, yes. Him.”
Her mom is back in earshot. “I thought you were using Joanne?”
“Right. I am, tax guy is just…my nickname for her. Is breakfast ready? I’m starving.”
We take our seats at the table, where Mrs. LeBlanc has set my food down beside Lauren’s. I pull out her chair and she thanks me. Her skirt rides up a tantalizing inch when she sits and she sees me notice, tugging it down with an angry scowl. I imagine her dressing like this in New York.
“You’re looking very fancy today, Beau,” she says, her gaze nowhere near me.
“Well, it’s such a coincidence—I have a business meeting after this too,” I say, my tone dripping with sarcasm.
“Really? I wouldn’t have guessed. Suits seem to be all you wear these days. Do you sleep in them too?”
Mrs. LeBlanc chokes on a laugh and an explicit reply is on the tip of my tongue before I remember we’re at brunch with her mother. For a few minutes, we eat in silence. Lauren takes tiny bites, keeping her gaze pinned out the window. I sip my coffee, contemplating how I can get her alone.
“It’s strange to see you both sitting here now, all grown up,” Mrs. LeBlanc says, smiling at us. “It’s like we all stepped into a time machine.”
“Mom…” Lauren warns.
Mrs. LeBlanc holds up her coffee cup in innocence. “It’s just that you were both so young back then, kids, and now look at you.”
“Yeah, yeah, we get it.”
Mrs. LeBlanc turns to me with a suspicious gleam in her eye. “Beau, I suppose you’ve worked out that Lou had a big crush on you back then?”
Lauren’s fork stabs into her omelet. “MOM. Next subject.”
Her mother completely ignores her. “It was so cute. Her dad and I used to pretend we were oblivious. The way she was always fussing over you—you know, I think she tried to invite you to every single family dinner. God, she went on about you constantly.”
“I was a teenager,” Lauren says in her defense. “I also thought I was going to marry Nick from the Backstreet Boys.”
We continue ignoring her.
“Is that right?” I ask, leaning forward toward Mrs. LeBlanc. “Truthfully, I always thought she had a thing for Preston.”
Her mom frowns. “Preston Westcott?”
I nod. “She’s actually going on a date with him.”
Her mom makes a little sound like she finds that interesting. “You didn’t mention that, Lou.”
“Yeah, well, consider it mentioned,” she grumbles. “Next subject.”
Mrs. LeBlanc finally takes the hint. “Right, well, Mitch’s firm is throwing a Carnival luncheon. We’re raising money for the Ronald McDonald House this year, and you and your mom will have to join us. I’m dying to meet her.”
“I’m sure she’d love to be there. When is it?”
“A week from Saturday, here at the house. I’ll get you a formal invitation before you leave.”
Lauren doesn’t even look at me through the rest of brunch. Mrs. LeBlanc carries the conversation, and we’re left in silence on our side of the table.
When I’m done, I clear my plate and step outside to look at my old apartment. It’s been a decade since I’ve seen the place, and I always wondered if they continued renting it out after the hurricane.
Lauren steps out to join me on the back porch and for a little while, we don’t say a word. Finally, she sighs. “C’mon, I’ll show you what it looks like now.”
I’m surprised she’s suggesting a tour, just her and me. Last night she couldn’t wait to get away from me.
“After the hurricane, my parents had a hard time finding a renter since most students were displaced. My mom decided to convert it to an art studio, and now she works out here.”
She unlocks the door and flips on a light. The scent of acrylic paint hits me right away. The old furniture is gone, replaced with art supplies. A large wardrobe takes up one wall, drawers spilling open. Paint is everywhere, on the floor and stacked in boxes. There’s no rhyme or reason to the design of the room. Stools are set up in front of three different easels, all with canvases at varying degrees of completion.
“How many artists work in here?”
“Just her. She does that a lot,” Lauren explains. “She’ll work on a few things at once depending on her mood or the light or the season.”
