The Beau & the Belle
Page 56
When I was still in the initial planning phase for NOLA (i.e. partaking in Pinterest sessions on the company clock back at Sotheby’s), I thought it would be a brilliant idea to do a soft opening on the Monday before Fat Tuesday. Everyone’s already in party mode, there’s a ton of press out covering events, and I could build on the momentum of Mardi Gras. Now, suddenly, I think I’m a complete idiot.
Even with all my careful planning, construction delays have made the entire process a total nightmare. I should postpone the soft opening, but as anyone in business knows, that’s nearly impossible at this point. Word has already spread. I’ve already invited family and friends. Two separate local news crews are doing interest pieces about the gallery, my mom, and me. There will be a reporter from the Times-Picayune, not to mention two dozen food, art, and lifestyle bloggers in attendance, and I’ve already hired a florist, a caterer, and a photographer. Everyone will walk out the door at the end of the night with a little bouquet of flowers, a bag of coffee, a small art print, and at least one picture worthy of sharing on social media.
The soft opening itself is coming along flawlessly.
My building is not.
Beau has banned the “D” word from my vocabulary, but I still whisper it in a huff every chance I get.
Delays. Delays. Delays!
For the last two weeks, I’ve spent every waking hour at NOLA or at Beau’s house. I’d be twitching in a corner if it weren’t for him. He’s been leaving work at 4:00 PM every day so he can come help me, and I didn’t even realize how much I was doing until he stepped in and took some of the burden off my shoulders.
With him here, I have four hands instead of two. It doesn’t take long before he starts knowing what to do before I have to ask.
He hounds the contractor, calls in favors, and turns water into wine. He’s confirmed the vendors. He brings me water and makes me drink at least two big gulps because apparently, I’ve forgotten that my body needs nourishment to survive.
It’s Saturday morning and Beau and I are fighting our way through the crowds in the French Quarter. Every time I blink, tourists multiply. One drunk buffoon becomes two before my very eyes. Even if you can hail an Uber, you can forget about driving anywhere. The only way we can get from Beau’s apartment to NOLA is by walking with fierce determination and a couple of elbow jabs thrown in for good measure.
We arrive by 8:00 AM, and my battalion of baristas is due any minute. I’ll spend the day training them and going over what the soft opening will be like on Monday. I’m so nervous, I haven’t been sleeping well.
“Here, eat this,” Beau says, holding up a breakfast taco we picked up on the way.
I push it away. “No time for chewing!”
“Lauren.”
Fine. I take it out of his hand and scarf it down in two bites. My stomach protests. I realize I haven’t had a proper meal in days.
“Do you think we can do this?” I ask, looking up at Beau with wide, scared eyes.
I realize he couldn’t understand me due to the amount of egg and bacon I have crammed in my mouth, so I swallow and try again.
He nods confidently. “You’re stressing yourself out for no reason. Construction will be finished today. We did the blue tape walkthrough last night. There are just minor touchups that need to be fixed. The light in the bathroom should be replaced this afternoon, but we have a backup plan in case it’s not.”
“I need to call the bakery and confirm our order.”
“Did that yesterday.”
“Do you think we have enough coffee?”
“You have a metric fuck-ton.”
“Right. Maybe I’ll just go back into the storage room and count beans just to be sure.”
He grabs my shoulders, and I realize I’ve been pacing. He bends and suddenly his blue eyes are all I see. They’re the color of serenity.
“Did you sleep at all last night? I felt you tossing and turning.”
I cringe. “I can sleep at my place tonight. I didn’t mean to keep you up.”
“That’s not what I meant. I like you staying at my place.”
I draw a circle on his chest. “You know eventually I have to sleep at my own apartment though, right? I’m paying rent.”
“You’re about to be making more money here than you’ll know what to do with.”
He kisses my nose.
I can’t help but laugh. “Beau, okay, it’s not about the money, it’s—”
“Do you want to stay with me?”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s settled.”
Not really.
“I like sleeping with you, but I also don’t want to get rid of my apartment.” Now suddenly, I can’t meet his eyes. “I like having it in case…”
I’m expecting him to force more of an explanation out of me, but surprisingly he seems to understand.
“I get it. This is still new. If you want to keep it, you can, but I’ll help cover the rent in the meantime.”
I open my mouth to argue, but then my baristas arrive together, all smiles. Better yet, they’re both wearing their light gray NOLA t-shirts and trendy jeans. Employees! My employees! This is happening!
Training only takes a few hours. My register is a nifty little swiveling iPad. I show them the interface and they familiarize themselves with the espresso machine. They’ve both worked at coffee shops before, so they know the drill. The only difference here is that there will be art for sale as well. My mom’s abstract paintings are already hanging on the wall, blasting the space with much-needed splashes of color. On top of her large-scale canvases, shelves are set up along the wall beside the coffee bar and will display prints, t-shirts, and small pottery goods, as well as NOLA-branded merchandise. Right now, the shelves aren’t as full as I’d like them to be, but that will come with time. I had to fill some space with a stack of coffee mugs. The baristas are impressed with what I’ve managed to do with the space in so little time. I hesitate to believe them since they’re on my payroll, but Beau insists they’re being honest.
Around lunchtime, Mrs. Fortier and my mom arrive to provide reinforcements. Now that they’re neighbors, they’ve been spending a lot of time together. Today, they’ve coordinated their efforts. Mrs. Fortier brings sandwiches and my mom brings her weaponized lemonade. Beau and I both separately warn his mom to pour it down the sink discreetly.
They aren’t as helpful as I thought they would be. I give them menial tasks and they still just end up distracting one another with gossip from around town. At one point, my mom asks Mrs. Fortier if she saw Preston in the paper with his new girlfriend, and Beau and I exchange a private laugh. Honestly though, I’ve never seen two women with so much to say. Gardening, books, TV shows—they bond over it all. My mom has always been a little recluse, opting to spend hours in her studio rather than lunching with other ladies from the Garden District, but apparently Mrs. Fortier brings out her social side. In the end, I give Mrs. Fortier a broom and my mom a dustpan. They can talk and sweep at the same time. The floor has never looked cleaner.
We stay so late that by the time I lock up, my eyes are watering and I’m shaky with hunger.
“Do you think this will all be worth it?” I ask Beau as we walk home, hand in hand.
“Absolutely. I love the concept and I think it’ll be successful. If you’d come to Crescent Capital with the idea, I would have invested.”
It means so much to hear him say that, and I poke him to see if he’s telling the truth. “You’re not just saying that because of my bedroom binder?”
He shakes his head, like he can’t even believe I’m asking. “You’re going to be a sensation, Lauren. Just wait and see.”
LATER THAT NIGHT, I can’t sleep, and I don’t want to keep Beau up with my tossing and turning again. I gently lift his arm off me, tuck a pillow in the spot where I was (it’s more or less as lumpy as I am), and slink out of bed, grabbing his my LSU sweatshirt out of the closet before padding downstairs. After I make a pot of coffee, I carry a steaming mug into the front parlor. In the center of the room, there’s an antique desk with an iMac he’s given me free rein of. It takes a second to boot up. While I wait, I blow on my coffee, trying to cool it down enough to drink. My intention is to check my emails for NOLA; it’d be nice to have them all read and organized by the time Beau wakes up.
Even with all my careful planning, construction delays have made the entire process a total nightmare. I should postpone the soft opening, but as anyone in business knows, that’s nearly impossible at this point. Word has already spread. I’ve already invited family and friends. Two separate local news crews are doing interest pieces about the gallery, my mom, and me. There will be a reporter from the Times-Picayune, not to mention two dozen food, art, and lifestyle bloggers in attendance, and I’ve already hired a florist, a caterer, and a photographer. Everyone will walk out the door at the end of the night with a little bouquet of flowers, a bag of coffee, a small art print, and at least one picture worthy of sharing on social media.
The soft opening itself is coming along flawlessly.
My building is not.
Beau has banned the “D” word from my vocabulary, but I still whisper it in a huff every chance I get.
Delays. Delays. Delays!
For the last two weeks, I’ve spent every waking hour at NOLA or at Beau’s house. I’d be twitching in a corner if it weren’t for him. He’s been leaving work at 4:00 PM every day so he can come help me, and I didn’t even realize how much I was doing until he stepped in and took some of the burden off my shoulders.
With him here, I have four hands instead of two. It doesn’t take long before he starts knowing what to do before I have to ask.
He hounds the contractor, calls in favors, and turns water into wine. He’s confirmed the vendors. He brings me water and makes me drink at least two big gulps because apparently, I’ve forgotten that my body needs nourishment to survive.
It’s Saturday morning and Beau and I are fighting our way through the crowds in the French Quarter. Every time I blink, tourists multiply. One drunk buffoon becomes two before my very eyes. Even if you can hail an Uber, you can forget about driving anywhere. The only way we can get from Beau’s apartment to NOLA is by walking with fierce determination and a couple of elbow jabs thrown in for good measure.
We arrive by 8:00 AM, and my battalion of baristas is due any minute. I’ll spend the day training them and going over what the soft opening will be like on Monday. I’m so nervous, I haven’t been sleeping well.
“Here, eat this,” Beau says, holding up a breakfast taco we picked up on the way.
I push it away. “No time for chewing!”
“Lauren.”
Fine. I take it out of his hand and scarf it down in two bites. My stomach protests. I realize I haven’t had a proper meal in days.
“Do you think we can do this?” I ask, looking up at Beau with wide, scared eyes.
I realize he couldn’t understand me due to the amount of egg and bacon I have crammed in my mouth, so I swallow and try again.
He nods confidently. “You’re stressing yourself out for no reason. Construction will be finished today. We did the blue tape walkthrough last night. There are just minor touchups that need to be fixed. The light in the bathroom should be replaced this afternoon, but we have a backup plan in case it’s not.”
“I need to call the bakery and confirm our order.”
“Did that yesterday.”
“Do you think we have enough coffee?”
“You have a metric fuck-ton.”
“Right. Maybe I’ll just go back into the storage room and count beans just to be sure.”
He grabs my shoulders, and I realize I’ve been pacing. He bends and suddenly his blue eyes are all I see. They’re the color of serenity.
“Did you sleep at all last night? I felt you tossing and turning.”
I cringe. “I can sleep at my place tonight. I didn’t mean to keep you up.”
“That’s not what I meant. I like you staying at my place.”
I draw a circle on his chest. “You know eventually I have to sleep at my own apartment though, right? I’m paying rent.”
“You’re about to be making more money here than you’ll know what to do with.”
He kisses my nose.
I can’t help but laugh. “Beau, okay, it’s not about the money, it’s—”
“Do you want to stay with me?”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s settled.”
Not really.
“I like sleeping with you, but I also don’t want to get rid of my apartment.” Now suddenly, I can’t meet his eyes. “I like having it in case…”
I’m expecting him to force more of an explanation out of me, but surprisingly he seems to understand.
“I get it. This is still new. If you want to keep it, you can, but I’ll help cover the rent in the meantime.”
I open my mouth to argue, but then my baristas arrive together, all smiles. Better yet, they’re both wearing their light gray NOLA t-shirts and trendy jeans. Employees! My employees! This is happening!
Training only takes a few hours. My register is a nifty little swiveling iPad. I show them the interface and they familiarize themselves with the espresso machine. They’ve both worked at coffee shops before, so they know the drill. The only difference here is that there will be art for sale as well. My mom’s abstract paintings are already hanging on the wall, blasting the space with much-needed splashes of color. On top of her large-scale canvases, shelves are set up along the wall beside the coffee bar and will display prints, t-shirts, and small pottery goods, as well as NOLA-branded merchandise. Right now, the shelves aren’t as full as I’d like them to be, but that will come with time. I had to fill some space with a stack of coffee mugs. The baristas are impressed with what I’ve managed to do with the space in so little time. I hesitate to believe them since they’re on my payroll, but Beau insists they’re being honest.
Around lunchtime, Mrs. Fortier and my mom arrive to provide reinforcements. Now that they’re neighbors, they’ve been spending a lot of time together. Today, they’ve coordinated their efforts. Mrs. Fortier brings sandwiches and my mom brings her weaponized lemonade. Beau and I both separately warn his mom to pour it down the sink discreetly.
They aren’t as helpful as I thought they would be. I give them menial tasks and they still just end up distracting one another with gossip from around town. At one point, my mom asks Mrs. Fortier if she saw Preston in the paper with his new girlfriend, and Beau and I exchange a private laugh. Honestly though, I’ve never seen two women with so much to say. Gardening, books, TV shows—they bond over it all. My mom has always been a little recluse, opting to spend hours in her studio rather than lunching with other ladies from the Garden District, but apparently Mrs. Fortier brings out her social side. In the end, I give Mrs. Fortier a broom and my mom a dustpan. They can talk and sweep at the same time. The floor has never looked cleaner.
We stay so late that by the time I lock up, my eyes are watering and I’m shaky with hunger.
“Do you think this will all be worth it?” I ask Beau as we walk home, hand in hand.
“Absolutely. I love the concept and I think it’ll be successful. If you’d come to Crescent Capital with the idea, I would have invested.”
It means so much to hear him say that, and I poke him to see if he’s telling the truth. “You’re not just saying that because of my bedroom binder?”
He shakes his head, like he can’t even believe I’m asking. “You’re going to be a sensation, Lauren. Just wait and see.”
LATER THAT NIGHT, I can’t sleep, and I don’t want to keep Beau up with my tossing and turning again. I gently lift his arm off me, tuck a pillow in the spot where I was (it’s more or less as lumpy as I am), and slink out of bed, grabbing his my LSU sweatshirt out of the closet before padding downstairs. After I make a pot of coffee, I carry a steaming mug into the front parlor. In the center of the room, there’s an antique desk with an iMac he’s given me free rein of. It takes a second to boot up. While I wait, I blow on my coffee, trying to cool it down enough to drink. My intention is to check my emails for NOLA; it’d be nice to have them all read and organized by the time Beau wakes up.
