The Beau & the Belle
Page 13

The chef announces that dinner is ready and we’re ushered into the dining room. Place cards are set up around the table, assigning us to our seats. Mr. LeBlanc and Mrs. LeBlanc sit across from one another at the heads of the table. Mr. Westcott and his wife flank Mr. LeBlanc on either side. I’m positioned next to Mr. Westcott, Lauren sits on the other side of his wife, and Preston takes his seat beside me.
The dramatic first course is presented to us: pompano en papillote covered with a sauce of wine, shrimp, and crabmeat. I’ve barely managed my first bite when Mr. Westcott turns to me.
“So, Beau,” Mr. Westcott says, clapping me on the shoulder. “You had a full ride to LSU and you’re at the top of your class at Tulane—tell me, were you a St. Thomas man?”
All eyes are on me as I answer. “No, sir. I grew up just outside of town, a few miles toward Baton Rouge.”
“Did your father practice law?”
I think back to that rusted red cab sitting on my mom’s property. “No, sir, he didn’t.”
“Ahh, so you’re blazing your own trail,” he surmises. “And your mom, did she grow up here?”
He’s not asking these questions for conversation’s sake. He’s heard the Fortier name before and is trying to place it. He’s trying to see if I’m worth knowing.
“Don Fortier—Beau’s great-grandfather—used to work at the architecture firm with my grandfather,” Mr. LeBlanc says with proud smile. “They designed quite a few of the homes around the Garden District.”
The Westcotts ooh and aah with renewed interest. With this tug on her husband’s line, Mrs. Westcott keeps fishing.
“So then why on Earth did your family move away?” Mrs. Westcott says with a confused frown. “Surely they were renowned in New Orleans?”
“My mother enjoys a quieter life,” I say in lieu of a full answer.
“Sounds like bullshit to me,” Preston whispers, but both of his parents still hear him.
“Preston!”
“What?” he says defiantly.
“Hey I…I got an A on my calculus test this week!” Lauren suddenly announces loudly. “Actually, it was the highest grade in the class.”
“That’s great, honey,” Mrs. LeBlanc says with a smile.
“What high school did you go to?” Preston asks, turning to me.
“Yeah”—Lauren interrupts with a peacekeeping glance between us—“I really didn’t think I was going to do that well because our teacher included a few trick questions.”
I see what she’s trying to do and while it’s admirable, I don’t need her to deflect the attention away from me. I’ve dealt with bigger and badder brats than Preston in my life. I turn to face him.
“I went to Madison High School.”
There is no further confusion about the sort of life I had growing up. My embattled high school shut down shortly after I graduated because it wasn’t meeting the state’s minimum requirements. In other words, most of my graduating class can barely read above a 6th grade level. It’s a major problem in rural areas, and one of the reasons wealthy people in Louisiana spend so much on private school educations.
“So it wasn’t really a quieter life your mom was after, it was a cheaper one,” Preston jabs.
“Prsssstnnn,” his mom hisses reproachfully. “Apologize now.”
“It was a joke!”
“It’s okay.” I smile before conceding matter-of-factly. “You’re right, Preston, I’m very lucky to have made it to where I am today with such an inauspicious starting point.”
Silence falls around the table, and I’m not sure how to continue. Preston, like a boy poking a hornet’s nest, looks disappointed that I haven’t taken the bait. He has it out for me all right, though I haven’t figured out why.
“Some of the best men I’ve met in my life have been self-made, Beau,” Mr. Westcott says, turning an admiring gaze toward me. “Don’t let your humble beginnings define you. Preston could learn a thing or two from you.”
Preston snorts, and I have my answer. It’s hard having your father’s praise aimed at someone other than yourself, especially if you’re coming from a place of low self-esteem.
“Preston, I’m not warning you again,” Mrs. Westcott cautions, admonishing him in front of everyone.
The conversation shifts toward a discussion about delayed updates with the levees at Lake Ponchartrain. We’re in the middle of hurricane season and there have been reports of a few storms brewing in the gulf. I listen half-heartedly as waiters sweep in to replace our appetizer plates with the second course. Lauren tries to engage Preston across the table, but his replies are sharp and brusque. Whatever annoyances he has toward his father, he’s taking them out on her.
“Have you done any college tours yet?” she asks with a sweet smile.
“No.”
She leans forward. “Rose and I have one scheduled at LSU in a few weeks. You could come with us, I’m sure.”
He grunts in response and doesn’t even bother looking up at her. His attention is on his plate.
“Beau, what exactly are your plans after graduation?” Mr. Westcott asks, drawing my attention once again.
I’m forced to engage him, though there’s no way he’s pulling me into politics. It’s not what I want for my future. We talk about the merits of working in the private sector versus the public sector. Mr. Westcott argues that public service is one of the only ways a person can truly make a difference in social welfare. I respect his perspective, but I beg to differ. I think the rising tide brought by conscientious business investments has the power to lift all of society’s boats.
All the while, Lauren frowns at her plate, pushing her food around with her fork rather than eating it. It’s a sad sight I keep replaying in my mind long after dinner is over and I’m back in my apartment, alone, sipping beer and reading through notes. Midterms are over, but that doesn’t mean I get a break. I’ll take a breather once I walk across that stage and collect my law degree.
A light rapping sounds on my apartment door so I push my textbook onto the coffee table and stand, looking around for a shirt.
“Beau?” Lauren’s voice asks gently. “Are you awake?”
I freeze. It’s past midnight. She shouldn’t be here.
The knocking continues. “Beau?”
She’s never come over to my apartment before, not since that first day when she gave me a tour. Her being here isn’t a good idea, but I can’t just pretend I’m not home. I grab a shirt and decide to answer the door without letting her in.
Lauren is standing on the other side of the threshold with her hair pulled up in a ballerina bun, wide eyes, flushed cheeks. Her short-sleeve button-down pajama shirt is pink with white polka dots and matches her shorts underneath. She looks like she’s about to go to her first sleepover.
Her bottom lip is tugged between her teeth, and when our eyes meet, she lets it go. “Hi.”
I glance past her, toward her parents’ house. All the lights are off. It’s quiet.
“Can I come in?” she asks, pressing onto her tiptoes to look over my shoulder.
What is she looking for?
I shake my head. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea, Lauren.”
Her face falls and her gaze meets the ground, as if she’s embarrassed that I’d feel the need to condescend to her about obvious boundaries.
“Just for a quick talk,” she insists, pushing against the door with both hands. “It’s kind of an emergency.”
What kind of game is she playing? Oh, that’s right, the get-Beau-evicted game.
Her face lights up when I don’t put up a resistance, and she doesn’t give me time to change my mind. She scurries into my apartment and I whip the door closed fast, my heart racing as if I’ve already done something wrong. Haven’t I?
When I turn, she’s standing in the center of my apartment, spinning in a circle on her bare feet.
“Huh, I thought you would decorate it or something,” she says, inspecting the space.