Priceless : A Novel Part 9

Like every other city she'd visited, New Orleans had built its airport where there was room-the middle of nowhere. Getting to the city involved driving through some pretty desolate areas, and the effects of Hurricane Katrina were still clearly seen. She frowned. It had been years; surely someone could have cleaned up all this mess by now?

Miss Millie's house, however, was immaculate. The older parts of the city, those built on higher ground, had survived Katrina more or less intact, but Millie's house was especially neat. She remembered Millie telling her about it.

"My grandma bought our house for twenty dollars at the turn of the century, back when that was a lot. She and my granddad cleaned it up and worked on it every spare moment they had. It's a shotgun house. Do you know what that is?"

Charlotte had shaken her head, and Millie had laughed.

"What does that fancy school teach you, anyway? A shotgun is a house that has all the rooms in a row, one behind the other. They said you could fire a shotgun in the front door and hit someone out back."

Now, looking up at the beautiful house, its Victorian gingerbread trim painted a soft yellow, its wooden shutters a pale blue, Charlotte paused. Was this an enormous mistake? She sighed, squared her shoulders, and knocked.

Nothing. Silence.

The cab had already pulled away, and the warm night air was thick but empty. Distant music, maybe a footstep or two, a sudden laugh somewhere close making her jump. But from the house in front of her, nothing.

"Looking for someone, boo?"

She whirled around, and for a moment, time stood still as she gazed at the woman who had been the closest thing to a mother she'd ever known. She'd taught her to ride a bike. Encouraged her to take singing lessons. Explained the facts of life when she got her first period. Held her hand waiting to cross the street. All of these images and memories crowded in, a rush of childhood emotions. It had been horrible, to be honest, losing her mom, and Millie had been the rock she'd clung to as the storm raged around her. And here she was, tossed out by another storm.

"Miss Millie!"

"Charlotte!" Millie's face lit up, and it was such a relief for someone to be pleased to see her that Charlotte felt a lump in her throat. Both of them were a little tearful as they hugged, Miss Millie as much with surprise as anything else.

Millie hugged her tightly. "I hoped you'd come to see me, baby. I'm so glad you did."

As Charlotte pulled back to smile at her friend, she noticed for the first time the tall, handsome young man standing just a little way away. Miss Millie followed her gaze.

"Y'all lost your tongue, Jackson? This here is Miss Charlotte Williams."

"I gathered that." He inclined his head maybe half an inch, unsmiling.

There was a pause, and then Millie laughed. "Ignore him, boo. He's just cranky." She fished for keys in her purse and opened the door. "I'm so glad we came home just now, so you didn't wander off." She looked over her shoulder. "I was praying you'd come down, but I didn't want to pressure you. I know how independent you are."

Charlotte followed her into the house, suddenly aware of how tired she was, how tightly she'd been holding on. Was independent independent another way of saying another way of saying alone alone? The events of the last several days filled her head, and a half-sob escaped her.

Miss Millie turned just as Charlotte went pale and calmly said, "Catch her, Jackson," as the young woman crumpled and fell.

AS HE LOOKED down at Charlotte, lying on the battered old couch in his living room, Jackson Pearl was surprised. She looked like a regular girl. A pretty girl, sure, but New Orleans had more than its fair share of those. And a well-dressed girl, too. But still, just a girl. down at Charlotte, lying on the battered old couch in his living room, Jackson Pearl was surprised. She looked like a regular girl. A pretty girl, sure, but New Orleans had more than its fair share of those. And a well-dressed girl, too. But still, just a girl.

For years, Jackson had hated Charlotte Williams. His mom had gone away to look after her, leaving him in the tender care of his grandmother, who, admittedly, had doted on him and his sisters and spoiled them rotten. But he'd still resented Charlotte, and even after his mother came back home-once he'd made her pay for her absence by cold-shouldering her for a month or two-he hadn't bothered to let that resentment go. Now, looking at her pale face and, in his opinion, underfed frame, he realized how silly it was.

He felt his mother watching him, and turned to her. "Don't these people eat?"

She arched an elegant eyebrow at him. Millie Pearl had been a beauty in her youth and was still, in her fifties, an attractive and elegant woman. Her skin was the color of creamy coffee, her eyes almost black. Her son had darker skin, and his eyes were copper, startling and bright like pennies. The resemblance-and the connection-between them was very strong.

The front door opened, and one of his sisters came in. Camille was a year older than Jackson and was carrying a sleeping toddler on her shoulder.

"Momma, can I put Charles down somewhere? He fell asleep at dinner, and I'm waiting for Jimmy to bring the car around to get us." She had already been whispering, so when she entered the living room and saw the apparently sleeping girl, she just kept her voice low. "Do we know this child, or is she one of Jackson's many fans, overcome by proximity?"

Her mother grinned. "You can put Charles on my bed, hon."

"It's Charlotte Williams." Jackson kept his tone neutral, but his sister narrowed her eyes at him. She knew how he felt about the Williams family, and over the previous few days, the news about Jacob Williams had freshened old wounds.

Charlotte started to stir, and Camille went to put down her sleeping son. Jackson turned on his heel and went into the kitchen, leaving Millie and Charlotte alone together.

Charlotte opened her eyes, feeling disoriented.

"Are you all right, honey? Do you feel sick at all?"

Charlotte propped herself up on her elbow, and the room swam. "Miss Millie?" she whispered.

The older woman knelt quickly and easily by her side, reaching out her hand to smooth back the young woman's hair. Millie found herself strangely touched to see Charlotte, an ache in her chest reminding her of the bond they'd once shared. Taking care of any child connects you to that child, and Millie had taken care of Charlotte for more than five years. When they'd first met, Charlotte had been deeply wounded by her mother's death, and it had taken a few weeks for her even to look Millie in the face. Once she trusted her, though, they became inseparable. Millie wondered anew how much damage her leaving Charlotte had done. At the time, she'd had no choice. Jackson was starting to get in trouble at school, and she had to choose her own child over the child who felt so much her own yet wasn't. Now she looked into Charlotte's eyes, and it was as if they'd never been apart.

Those eyes filled with tears, as Charlotte saw Millie looking at her with such affection. "I've missed you so much," she whispered, and then broke down completely. Millie sat on the sofa and put her arm around Charlotte's shoulder, shushing her over and over, tucking her hair back over her ears to keep it out of her face.

Jackson watched from the kitchen door, a cup of tea growing cold in his hand. He wasn't sure what he felt, apart from pity.

Camille stepped up behind him. "You made me a cup of tea? Jackson, you are just so sweet." She took the cup over to the kitchen table and sat down. He joined her.

"You know what that means, don't you?" She nodded toward the living room. He shook his head. "Trouble."

He frowned at her. "Why? Mom can take care of herself."

Camille laughed. "Not for Mom. Mom's made of steel. No, sugar. Trouble for you."

Then she raised the cup of tea in a toast and drained it.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

When Charlotte woke up, she found she was not alone. A large ginger cat was standing very close, watching her with thoughtful eyes. For a moment, they blinked at each other, then the cat turned and stalked off, apparently satisfied.

"You're approved of, it would seem."

Charlotte sat up, pulling the blanket up as she did so. Jackson was sitting in an armchair across the room, drinking a cup of coffee and reading the New York Times New York Times.

"How would I have known if he didn't approve of me?"

Jackson smiled briefly. "You would never have known. You just wouldn't have woken up."

Charlotte raised her eyebrows. "Really? He didn't look that tough to me."

Jackson turned back to his paper. "Appearances are deceptive."

Millie came in, bustling. "How did you sleep, sweetness? I'm afraid it's no Park Avenue apartment, and the sofa's all we got."

Charlotte stretched happily. Jackson had looked up as his mother came in and watched the young girl as the blanket fell away, revealing her silky camisole and long, smooth arms, lovely despite her bruised face. Frowning, he disappeared behind his paper again.

"It was really comfortable, and I slept like a log. Thank you so much for putting up with my surprise visit." She blushed. "And my falling apart like that."

Millie hugged her tightly. "Honey, anyone would have fallen apart after what you've been through. I was just happy to see you in one piece. I saw on the news that some crazy lady jumped you."

Charlotte shrugged. "As you can see, I'm battered but OK."

"You were lucky."

"And so was everyone around you," Jackson said, hidden in his paper. "She could have had a gun. She could have killed a totally innocent person."

There was a silence. His implication was clear, and Charlotte suddenly felt uncomfortable.

Millie's mouth twitched. "You'll have to forgive my son, Charlotte. I raised a proud black man who remembers his heritage, his history, his debt of grat.i.tude to those who went before, and his responsibility to those who will come next. However, he totally forgets his manners." She balled up a tissue and threw it at his paper. She had good aim.

"I didn't say anything impolite," he protested, folding his newspaper and getting to his feet. He was taller than Charlotte remembered and wider at the shoulders. She dropped her gaze. "I just said the truth." He walked out of the room, leaving the atmosphere somewhat depressed.

Millie patted Charlotte. "Ignore him. He's always been feisty. I imagine you would like to take a shower and get dressed. What's your plan?"

Charlotte pulled some clothes from her bag. "I was thinking of getting a job."

Millie's eyebrows went up, but she smiled. "OK. Shower's down the hall, baby. I'll see you when you're all ready."

Charlotte smiled but caught sight of Jackson putting on his jacket to leave. She wondered what he did, what was in the heavy bag he picked up by the door. He didn't say good-bye, and when she turned back to Millie, the woman was looking at her with a strange expression. She smiled, though, and pointed down the hall.

CHARLOTTE GOT DRESSED carefully, glad to see the swelling on her face was starting to go down, although there were still some interesting bruises. A light cotton Armani shift, a TSE cashmere sweater loosely belted, ballet flats, and one-carat sapphire solitaires at her throat and ears. She looked at herself and smiled, thinking how fun it was to dress down for a change. carefully, glad to see the swelling on her face was starting to go down, although there were still some interesting bruises. A light cotton Armani shift, a TSE cashmere sweater loosely belted, ballet flats, and one-carat sapphire solitaires at her throat and ears. She looked at herself and smiled, thinking how fun it was to dress down for a change.

It wasn't far to the French Quarter, which was the only part of New Orleans Charlotte knew anything about. It had been packed to the walls the last time she'd been there, midnight Mardi Gras, and it turned out to be elegant and beautiful in the soft morning light. A lingering smell of last night's party was getting hosed off the sidewalks, gradually being replaced with the scents of toasted pecans, brown sugar, and chicory. A few young men still sat numbly on the cracked and broken sidewalks, looking as if they weren't sure which way was up, but the locals were stepping over and around them without missing a beat.

Taking a seat at a sidewalk cafe, one of many, Charlotte ordered coffee and beignets, which seemed to be the traditional thing to do. She looked around, trying to get her bearings. The streets were narrow, with delicate wrought-iron balconies on the second levels of all the houses. There weren't many cars or vehicles, but people swooped about on bicycles, managing to avoid the worst of the potholes, which were positively New Yorkian in their depth. It wasn't much past nine but it was already warming up, and Charlotte loosened her sweater.

The waiter was young, and Charlotte watched him going about his work. She thought she could probably manage to be a waitress; it didn't look that hard. Smile, write things down, carry things, check. She thought about other working people she was familiar with. Maids seemed to work pretty hard, so that was out. Chauffeurs needed to know the city, so that was impossible. Hostessing in a good restaurant was probably doable; they only seemed to be hired for their looks. That would be worth a shot. She reflected that she didn't really have many marketable skills. Being able to speak French was definitely going to be helpful there; she could hear French everywhere. Heavily accented French but French nonetheless. It was just as well she'd burned down that stupid building. See? Her dad was right; every cloud had a silver lining. She wondered how long it would take him to reframe jail as a positive step. She'd always considered his ability to see the bright side a strength, but now she wondered if it was just a delusion. What to him was only "a small thing" had destroyed hundreds of lives. She wasn't sure if he really understood the magnitude of what he'd done, even now.

Feeling depressed, she paid for her breakfast and went to find a guidebook.

IT TURNED OUT that in the French Quarter alone, there were dozens of restaurants with three stars or more. Charlotte visited twenty-seven of them before lunch, and none of them wanted a hostess with no experience. At most of them, she was swiftly turned away, but at one, the hostess took two minutes to speak with her. that in the French Quarter alone, there were dozens of restaurants with three stars or more. Charlotte visited twenty-seven of them before lunch, and none of them wanted a hostess with no experience. At most of them, she was swiftly turned away, but at one, the hostess took two minutes to speak with her.

"Listen, hon. Being a hostess is harder than it looks. You run the reservations, which can be easy or hard, depending on the night and the folks, neither of which you can control. Most hostesses have a degree in restaurant or hotel management." The hostess looked at Charlotte with some sympathy. "I expect you thought we were hired for our looks, right?" She herself was tall and gorgeous, with long, dark red hair braided in a thick rope down her back. "Well, looks help, but they aren't the point. Go get a waitressing job. It's hard, but you'll catch on." She grinned. "We all got to start somewhere, right?"

Charlotte managed to smile, but her feet hurt.

Eating lunch, she felt glum. The food helped, though. She'd ordered gumbo, trying to get a sense of typical New Orleans food, and it was delicious. Warm and strongly scented, with lumps of sausage and vegetables cooked to perfection. She looked around and watched the people wandering by. So many different skin colors, so many different styles of dress, but all somewhat relaxed and everyone happy. Was it possible that no one in New Orleans was cranky? Where were the sullen teenagers dressed in black? Lurking in corners, maybe.

She brushed off her dress and went to do battle again, pasting on a warm smile and trying to keep her head up.

MILLIE PEARL HEARD the front door open and leaned back from the kitchen counter, where she was cutting up a squash. the front door open and leaned back from the kitchen counter, where she was cutting up a squash.

"That you, Camille?"

She heard a bag hit the floor. "No, Millie, it's Charlotte."

Millie wiped her hands on a dish cloth. "Well, come on through and tell me your impressions of our beautiful city! I want to hear all about it."

Charlotte came in, looking as if she'd been smacked about the head with a dead fish. Millie laughed out loud. "My Lord, child, you look just about all beat down. What happened?"

Charlotte threw herself into a chair. "Nothing, which is the problem. Amazingly, no one wanted to hire a young woman with no experience whatsoever and a swollen nose."

Millie frowned. "No one?"

Charlotte laughed bitterly. "Well, not as a waitress, anyway. I got two stripper offers and one straight hooker opportunity, but I turned those down."

"This is all in the Quarter, right?" Millie pursed her lips. "You might have better luck uptown, maybe, or even over in the Garden District. I'll ask around and see if I can help."

Charlotte put her head down on the smooth wood of the kitchen table. Her voice was m.u.f.fled. "I don't know why I thought it would be easy. Everything seemed easy until a few days ago."

Millie sat down, chuckling. "You're not remembering right. I was there, too, remember? You had a very hard time when your mom had just died; that wasn't easy. And it took you several weeks to learn to ride a bike. I was starting to think maybe you were a little r.e.t.a.r.ded."

Charlotte laughed, and Millie joined her. It felt good to be together again. To be with someone who knew her from before the evening news.

"Look, not everyone gets the whole bike-riding thing right away, OK? I was always good at singing."

Millie sighed. "That's true. I remember when I first heard you sing, I marched straight into your father's study and told him you had to start taking lessons."

"And he said yes, I presume."

"Of course. He was scared of me, I guess." Millie's face clouded slightly. "And, to be fair, he was still a little out of it from losing your mother. It broke him inside, I think. Not that I knew him before." She stood and returned to her dinner preparations. "Are you going to have a rest before dinner?"

Charlotte shook her head. "I was wondering if there was somewhere I could plug in my laptop. I wanted to check my e-mail and all that good stuff."

Millie showed her where, signed her on to the network, and left her in peace. The peace didn't last for long.

She'd intended just to check her mail, but she couldn't help checking the news. Her dad was still making headlines, this time simply for being transferred from one jail to another. She was mentioned, with "sources" saying she'd left the city in disgrace. She frowned. It wasn't really in disgrace, it was more like ... OK, it was disgrace. Then she made a big mistake and scrolled down to the comments area following the article. People were not being very kind.

"People like this should be sent to the electric chair. Now all our tax dollars will be used to keep this sc.u.mbag alive and well, while those he swindled will just have to suck it up. No wonder his b.i.t.c.h sp.a.w.n ran away, she probably feared for her life. AND SHE SHOULD."

Charlotte swallowed.

"Jacob Williams is a parasite, and his ugly socialite daughter is just as bad. Fake t.i.ts, fake a.s.s, fake smile, and no brains at all. And clearly no remorse as she's run off to find a new party town to f.u.c.k her way around in. These people are disgusting. My heart goes out to those who've lost everything."