The Beau & the Belle
Page 2

She smiles apologetically at me as I take a seat at the table across from her, and then Mitchell LeBlanc steps into the kitchen in a khaki-colored linen suit, the summer uniform of every wealthy man in New Orleans. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, but when I stand to shake his hand, I still have a few inches on him. His hair is thick and gray, and he has clear-framed glasses that he tugs off and folds closed.
“Beau Fortier,” he says, repeating my name as if trying to jog his memory. His eyes narrow thoughtfully. “Fortier. I haven’t heard that name in quite a while, though I think my grandfather’s partner at the design firm was an old Fortier.”
I smile. “He was.”
His eyes light up. “Small world.”
Smaller every day.
“Is that what you’re studying at Tulane? Architecture?”
I shake my head. “Oh, no. I don’t have a creative bone in my body. I’m in my final year of law school.”
“Tulane Law, huh?” His brows rise. “That’s a tough program to get into.”
I adjust my collar, slightly uncomfortable with the amount of attention on me at the moment. “I’m proud to be a part of it.”
Kathleen speaks up. “Mitch, didn’t the Fortiers used to own the property across the street?”
The question doesn’t surprise me. Mitchell and Kathleen didn’t buy this house; it’s been in their family for generations. The LeBlancs always lived across the street from the Fortiers, up until the day my grandfather got booted. That’s why the name LeBlanc remains etched in stone downtown while my own is hand-scripted in chipped paint on the side of a mailbox on the outskirts. I smile at the thought.
“They did live there,” I fill in before he can. “But the house isn’t in our family anymore. We actually live a couple miles out of town now.”
Mr. LeBlanc frowns, and I assume he’s reading between the lines. “Shame. That’s one of my favorite homes in this neighborhood.”
As the owner of an architectural preservation firm, I’m not surprised that Mr. LeBlanc has an appreciation for the house.
I nod and take a sip of my lemonade, nearly choking as it burns my throat. It’s so tart and acidic that I have to actively keep my face from contorting in disgust.
Mrs. LeBlanc smiles expectantly, so I nod and force out a clipped assessment. “It’s, um…invigorating.”
Mr. LeBlanc laughs and takes a sip of his own. “Jesus, Kath! Are you trying to kill the poor boy?” Then he turns to me. “Don’t bother. She thinks she’s Paula Deen, but she doesn’t ever follow recipes.”
“Real culinary artists just eyeball it!” she insists.
He shakes his head, ignoring her, and continues, “Whatever you do, don’t eat anything she offers you. Our daughter, Lauren, does most of the cooking around here.”
I pause. “Lauren?”
Both parents smile, clearly pleased at the mention of their daughter. If this were the 1840s, they’d point me in the direction of her oil painting over the mantel. “She’s our only child, a junior at McGehee this year.”
McGehee is the expensive all-girls prep school a few blocks over. It’s not surprising that their daughter goes there. I’ve seen the students from the school walking around the Garden District with privilege seeping from every non-acned pore. They’re the future debutantes of New Orleans, but beyond registering their giggles as I pass by, I don’t pay them much attention.
“She’ll actually be home soon,” Mrs. LeBlanc says. “You should get to meet her before you leave. Maybe you can get her interested in grad school.”
I nod politely, but I’m not all that interested in a family meet-and-greet. Even if I end up living on their property, I won’t be spending much time with them. It might seem strange, but living here is a means to an end. I need a new place to live for my last two semesters of school and when I saw the apartment on this property pop up for rent, I jumped at the chance. I have goals—big ones—and living in this area, across the street from my ancestors’ old house is a perfect reminder of everything I’m working hard to get back.
“I’d be happy to.” I reach down for my small worn leather briefcase. “So, about the apartment—I’m living off of student loans right now, and the price you’re asking is a few hundred dollars outside my budget.”
I see a mixture of pity and indecision brewing on Mrs. LeBlanc’s face, so I press forward before either of them can speak.
“Now, I’m not looking for a handout, but in the past I’ve been able to work out special arrangements with landlords—odd handyman jobs, painting, lawn care, that sort of thing. If that’s something you’re interested in, I’d be happy to write a check for two months’ rent right now.”
They should turn me down. They probably have a dozen other applicants for the apartment. It’s in a great location, and the photos made it clear that they’ve updated it in recent years.
Mrs. LeBlanc laughs. “You haven’t even seen it yet. Don’t you want a tour?”
Not really.
I’m honest with them. “I’ve been living in an old place south of Magazine Street. I’m sure the toolshed on this property has better amenities than I’m accustomed to.”
She frowns. I know it’s not fun being confronted by the hardships of the poor, but I’m not ashamed of my humble beginnings. In fact, they motivate me. I’m at the top of my class at Tulane and president of the law honor society. I have an undergraduate degree in business and a small nest egg I’ve grown through investing over the last few years. I have a singular goal: to restore the Fortier name to what it once was.
“Well if you’re sure, I think we can work something out,” Mr. LeBlanc says.
I don’t even hesitate before replying.
“I’m sure.”
I HAVE NO time to waste! No time! I would have been home already but I had to stay late for student council since I’m the treasurer. I know, it’s a ceremonial position at best, but I needed something to put on my college applications and I didn’t win president or vice president. The only position more worthless than treasurer is secretary, which is filled by a girl who was picked solely on the basis of her immaculate handwriting. Today, during our meeting, I sat watching the clock tick while Rose, our class president, argued with Elizabeth, our VP, about the theme of the cotillion dance.
“Can you believe she wants to do Midsummer Night’s Dream?” Rose asks before dramatically pretending to gag herself with her finger.
“Ugh, so 1600s,” I lament, only half-listening as I pick up the pace on our walk home from school.
“A Night in Paris is a way better theme.”
“Oh yeah, very classy,” I agree.
“You’re not listening.” She speeds up. “Why are we rushing!?”
I glance down at my pink digital watch. “Because it’s already 4:30!”
Damn. Damn. Damn.
“Oh my god, you’re hopeless. You really think he’s going to be on messenger right now?”
“He has to be!”
We’re halfway home from school, speed walking down the sidewalks in between McGehee and my house. I’m going so fast, I leave scuff marks on the aged concrete. We pass two old grannies and they broadcast their disapproval with humphs and wagging fingers.
Rose lives one block over, and we’ve walked to and from school together since our parents decided we were old enough. I have a lot of friends at school, but no one like Rose. She’s the only person who knows the real me—the me who freaks out over the idea of instant messaging with Preston Westcott. Just thinking his name makes my heart flutter. It could also be the adrenaline from the all-out run I’ve broken into.
“Doesn’t his baseball practice start at 5:00?” she asks.
“Yes!” I exclaim, sprinting wildly. My backpack flails violently, swinging from one side of my body to the other. I grip onto the straps and hold on for dear life.
Rose sighs and starts to run beside me. “This is stupid! He doesn’t even know you exist!”
“Not true! Last week, he responded when I messaged him!”