Out of the Easy(19)

I had never been amongst such wealth. Just last week, I had stopped by the funeral of one of Cokie’s friends, a negro trumpet player named Bix who lived in the Quarter. His family was so poor they’d put a plate on the chest of the corpse, and people dropped coins in to pay for the undertaker and the brass band procession. Uptown, families rented half a dozen butlers just to serve drinks at their funerals. Tragedy was a big social event, and everyone wanted in on it. Sure, I saw wealthy people and tourists in the Quarter, but I had never been to their homes. I wondered if Forrest Hearne had lived in a neighborhood like this.

Patrick stopped in front of a sprawling Greek Revival mansion with double galleries and a long walkway lined with perfectly manicured hedges. The lights were ablaze, the house alive with guests and merriment.

“This is it,” said Patrick. He didn’t even pause, just marched toward the front steps, leaving me to scurry along behind him like a duckling chasing its mother.

The scent of Havana tobacco draped thick from the magnolia trees in the front yard. Ice cubes mingled and clinked against the sides of crystal tumblers. Patrick said hello to a group of men sitting on the veranda. I heard the pop of a champagne cork and laughter from inside.

We walked through the open door into an enormous entry hall that buzzed with activity. I clutched Patrick’s elbow, wishing I owned something better than my faded linen blouse. The tinkling of a piano drifted from a nearby alcove, and Patrick moved toward it as if pulled by a magnet.

We entered a beautiful drawing room with flocked wallpaper and plush sofas and chairs. People gathered in clusters around the room while a man in a black suit played “It’s Only a Paper Moon” on the piano. The furnishings were expensive, but different from Willie’s. Willie’s furniture had an exotic feel, with sensual colors and curves. This was elegant, refined, and so clean I could practically see my reflection in everything.

“Not a single smoke or bloodstain,” I whispered to Patrick.

“Not that you can see,” said Patrick out of the corner of his mouth.

A circular mahogany table was covered with sterling frames of all shapes and sizes, boasting the legacy that was the Lockwell family. There were photos of babies, teenagers, grandparents, a golden retriever, the family at the shore, at the Eiffel Tower, all with smiling faces advertising how happy and valuable their lives were. There was even a photo of Charlotte in a small oval frame.

I stared at the pictures. If someone meant something to you, you put their photo in a silver frame and displayed it, like these. I had never seen anything like it. Willie didn’t have any framed photos. Neither did Mother.

“Josephine!” Charlotte was suddenly at my arm, looking radiant in a mint green cashmere sweater, her auburn hair held neatly in place by a black velvet headband. “I’m so glad you’re here!”

“Thank you for inviting us.”

“Well, don’t worry. I won’t leave your side. I know it’s horribly uncomfortable to be at a function where you don’t know anyone.”

I nodded. Charlotte understood. It was as if she’d heard my thoughts on the way over. Or perhaps my face was splotched again.

“Hello, Patrick. Did you have any trouble finding the house?” asked Charlotte.

“Not at all. But then a place like this is hard to miss, isn’t it?” said Patrick.

“Yes, a quality that my aunt is all too proud of,” whispered Charlotte. “They’re not exactly the understated type, if you know what I mean.”

“That’s a lovely photo of you,” I said, pointing to the frame.

“Oh, that’s a couple years old now. I just had a new photograph taken at Smith. Here, let me introduce you.”

Charlotte pulled both Patrick and me over to an attractive middle-aged couple across the room. “Aunt Lilly, Uncle John, these are my friends Josephine Moraine and Patrick Marlowe.”

“How do you do?” said Mrs. Lockwell. “Marlowe, I know that name. John,” she said, swatting her husband’s arm, “why do we know the name Marlowe? Is your mother in the Junior League, dear?”

“No, ma’am,” said Patrick. “My mother lives in the West Indies.”

“Is your father an attorney?” asked Mr. Lockwell.

“No, sir, my father is an author and a bookseller. We own a bookshop in the Quarter.”

“Well, now isn’t that quaint. We just love books, don’t we, John?”

Mr. Lockwell paid little attention to his wife and instead looked about the room, eyeing all the other women. “And where are you in school, Patrick?” asked Mrs. Lockwell.

“I just finished up at Loyola,” said Patrick, gratefully accepting a beverage from one of the waiters that was circulating.

“And you, Josephine? Have I seen you at Sacred Heart with our Elizabeth?” asked Mrs. Lockwell.

“Josephine lives in the French Quarter, Aunt Lilly. Isn’t that exciting?” said Charlotte.

“The Quarter. Oh, my,” said Lilly Lockwell, putting an affected hand to her chest. “Yes it is. What did you say your last name was, dear?”

“Moraine.”

“John.” She swatted her husband’s arm. “Do we know the Moraines in the Quarter?”

“I don’t believe we do. What line of business is your family in, Josephine?”