French Silk(66)

They moved past the salmon walls and green shutters of the famous Brennan's restaurant. Claire became aware that Cassidy was watching her closely. She turned the tables and began to study him. "You aren't married, are you, Cassidy?"

"Does it show?"

"No. It's just that most wives wouldn't approve of your working hours." She kept her expression impassive, although she was glad to learn that her sins didn't include kissing a married man.

"I was married," he told her. "I blew it."

"Regrets?"

He shrugged. "Not about her. It worked out best for both of us. I guess you could say I was married to my career. Sort of like you." He paused, giving her an opportunity to comment.

Instead she asked another question. "Any children?"

"No. We never got around to it. Guess that worked out best, too. I wouldn't have wanted to inflict a divorce on my kids." He stopped outside a store front and gazed through the burglary-proof windows. "A gun shop. How convenient."

"Is that the best you can do, Cassidy?"

"Come to think of it, you're too smart to buy a weapon so close to home and in a neighborhood where you're so well known."

She gave him a shrewd look. "You checked, didn't you?"

"Yeah."

From there they moved to a shop whose entire inventory consisted of earrings. "Yasmine is one of their best customers," Claire told him as he stared in awe at the vast variety.

In this elite shopping district, most of the stores were already closed. The silence on the street seemed to envelop them. Bourbon Street was only a block away, but it could have been a hundred miles. Occasionally a few piercingly sweet notes of a jazz trumpet wafted on the sultry air, but they drifted away like lost souls in search of refuge. The wrought-iron grilles that surrounded the overhead balconies added to the aspect of seclusion. Filigree iron gates provided glimpses into inner courtyards where mossy fountains trickled, gas hurricane lamps sputtered, and scarred brick walls guarded secrets.

They came upon a cat scrounging for dinner in a bag of garbage at the curb. Two couples wearing LSU sweatshirts staggered down the street, laughing, talking loudly and profanely, sloshing the Hurricanes they'd taken out in paper cups from Pat O'Brien's. An old man with a mangy beard and wearing an unseasonably heavy overcoat nonchalantly relieved himself against the wall of an alley. An elegant elderly couple, walking arm in arm, passed them, saying, "Good evenin'." A young man wearing tight black jeans, a black turtleneck sweater, and heavy makeup swished past and made a kissing motion toward Cassidy with his glossy scarlet lips.

They turned onto St. Peter Street in front of the Royal Café. Claire pointed out its double balcony to Cassidy. "I think it's the prettiest one in the Quarter."

Jackson Square was closed for the night, but the shops and eateries surrounding it were still open. "I thought about getting a cappuccino here," Claire told Cassidy as she halted in front of a small, intimate bar tucked beneath the historic Pontalba Arms apartments. Two of the outdoor tables were occupied by lovers who were engrossed in each other and impervious to the rest of the world. "But I could smell fresh beignets, so…"

She pointed him toward the Café du Monde. They waited for traffic at the curb, where a solo saxophonist was playing for the money passersby tossed into his hat, which lay on the sidewalk. The driver of a horse-drawn carriage and a sidewalk artist who had retired his pallets for the night were having a friendly argument over the football season.

"I agree with the artist," Claire remarked. "The Saints have got to beef up their offensive line if they hope to get in the playoffs this year."

"You could understand those guys?" Cassidy asked.

"Couldn't you?" The sleepy nag harnessed to the carriage was wearing a big floppy hat with bright pink plastic geraniums encircling the crown. Claire stroked her muzzle as she stepped off the curb.

"Not a word. For almost a year after I moved here it was like living in a foreign country. It took a while for my ears to adapt to the accent. I still have trouble sometimes."

"You don't have any trouble understanding me."

"You, Claire, I have the most trouble understanding."

She indicated a table on the open-air terrace of Café du Monde. He held the chrome chair out for her. A waiter in a long white apron approached, his hands outstretched in welcome.

"Ms. Laurent, bonsoir. How lovely to see you."

"Merci," she said when he bent to kiss her hand.

"And this is?" he inquired, looking at Cassidy.

She introduced Claude, the waiter. "An order of beignets, please, Claude. Two cafés au lait."

"Very good," he said, briskly moving toward the kitchen.

"Obviously you come here often," Cassidy observed.

"It's almost been overrun by tourists, but Mama still enjoys coming here, so I bring her at least once a week."

Claude delivered their order. The yeasty smell of the square, hole-less doughnuts and the aroma of the coffee made Claire's mouth water. She dug in, unabashedly licking the powdered sugar off her fingers. Looking across at Cassidy, she laughed at the powdered sugar ringing his mouth and passed him a paper napkin from the dispenser on the table.

They demolished the beignets, splitting the third one, and sat silently sipping the scalding mixture of coffee and milk. Claire was content to sit and savor the flavor of New Orleans at its best. Too soon, Cassidy got down to business.