Priceless (13 page)

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.

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.

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
.

“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 gratitude 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.

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 café, 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.

“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.