Priceless (15 page)

“Why? You look awesome.”

Kat grinned. “Why, thank you, darlin’. But we’re going to go see my daddy, and he likes me a little more ladylike.”

WHEN CHARLOTTE AND
Kat walked into the restaurant an hour or so later, a large man looked out through the kitchen door and shouted.

“Katherine Karraby, don’t you look a picture!”

“Hey, Daddy. How y’all doing in here today?”

Kat was wearing an original Laura Ashley tea dress from the early ’70s, long enough to cover the Dr. Martens underneath. Charlotte had grinned to see them, but Kat pointed out that one could only sell out so far.

“Daddy likes me to wear a dress, but he’s never noticed shoes in his life.”

Her father, David Karraby III, was as tall as Charlotte’s father but a great deal larger in every other respect. He was easily as charismatic, though, and made Charlotte feel immediately at ease.

“Charlotte, you say? Of the North Carolina Charlottes?” He roared with laughter and gave her a friendly hug. Behind his back, Kat rolled her eyes in apology. “Why, there’s nothing at all of you, nothing but the frame you came with.” He turned toward the kitchen. “Louis, we need beignets out here, and lay on the sugar with a heavy hand, man.” He pulled out chairs for them both, and they sat, as if they were all old friends.

David Karraby managed somehow to make Charlotte feel
like the center of attention while at the same time greeting absolutely everyone who walked in, some of them by name. At one point, he got up to hug a party of about two dozen people, and Kat leaned over to explain.

“The Karrabys have been in New Orleans since before it was American. We’re Creoles, ya know? As far as my family is concerned, the
vieux carré
is the only
carré
, baby, though even we moved out when the tourists moved in.”

Charlotte laughed but didn’t really understand. Like most New Yorkers, she took little interest in the history of other cities. All she knew was that for some reason, New Orleans felt good to her, reminded her of Paris, and these friendly Karrabys were part of it.

“Even though many of our customers are from out of town, most are locals or frequent visitors, and my father prides himself on never forgetting a name or face.” She watched her dad working, with affection. “He loves it, really, wouldn’t want to be anywhere but here. After Katrina, we were one of the first places open.”

David Karraby sat back down, having grabbed yet more food from somewhere. He pressed it on them. “Eat, Charlotte, eat. You’ll need stamina to make it through the humidity of our summers.” He sat back and regarded her thoughtfully. “You know, when you walked in, I thought you looked familiar, but I assumed it was because you were a friend of Kat’s. But I just put it together—you’re Jacob Williams’s daughter, aren’t you?”

There was a silence. Charlotte carefully put down her beignet and dusted off her fingers. She looked at Kat, who just smiled.

“Daddy, you’re getting slow in your old age. I recognized her as soon as she walked into my store, but I was raised with more
gentility than you, it would seem.”

Charlotte stood. “I’ll leave. I’m sorry.”

Kat and David were horrified. “Oh, sit down, darlin’, sit down!” he said. “The goings on in New York couldn’t matter less of a whit down here, for one thing, and secondly, if we were all held liable for the sins of our poppas, the Louisiana jails would be even fuller than they are.” Karraby looked sorry that he’d worried her, but his eyes were still as sparkly as his daughter’s. “New Orleans is a sanctuary for many, and you are welcome to our fair city, Charlotte Williams.”

Kat leaned forward. “She needs a job, Daddy.”

He smiled. “Can you wait a table, sugar?”

Charlotte tried to look confident. “I can try.”

He laughed. “Well, if you can’t, you can always wash dishes. That would be novel for you, I’ll wager. You can start tomorrow night.”

Another crowd came in, and he bounded to his feet.

“Mr. Mayor!
Bonjour!
” He launched into a charming, laughter-filled mix of French and English, clasping everyone by the hand and greeting them as if they’d been on a desert island for a decade.

Kat watched her daddy at work and grinned. “You’d never think the mayor was at our house just this past weekend, would you?”

Charlotte was curious. “Do you still live at home?”

Kat shook her head. “I have a place in the Marigny, but my mother would just about die if she didn’t see me every weekend. She worries I’ll become too bohemian if I don’t get rinsed off in the Garden District from time to time.” She looked at her daddy, who was still very much engaged. “We should get back to the
store. Do you have simple clothes and comfortable shoes for working in?”

Charlotte shook her head. “I don’t know, really.”

“OK, then, honey, I am going to show you the time of your life. We are going to take a few hundred bucks of your credit and go get you a complete working wardrobe.”

“Where? Heaven?”

Kat laughed. “One better. Target.”

Three hours later, they threw themselves through the door of the store and dropped their bags with a flourish.

“Well, that was the most fun I’ve had in ages—on my own, at least.” Charlotte laughed.

Kat pouted. “Hey, I was there!”

Charlotte looked at her new friend and grinned. “True, and it never would have happened without you. Are you hungry?”

“Sure, let’s dress up and go eat.”

Charlotte frowned. “I don’t want to get anything on my new dress.”

Kat extended her arms and turned in a slow circle. “Think of this as the biggest dress-up box ever. Most of it will fit you, and you can think of it as an ad for the store. We’ll go out to dinner, then to a club, and when everyone comes up and asks you where you got your amazing clothes, you can name-check the store. It’s marketing, baby!”

After much discussion, they decided to go with a ’40s jazz club style. Kat pulled dresses with that classic New Look silhouette—wide shoulders, tight waists, mid-calf length. And Charlotte did their hair in low, rolled chignons. Bright red lipstick, liquid eyeliner, powder—when they were ready, they looked
like latter-day Lena Horne or Lauren Bacall, all curves and sass and style.

Kat was tickled pink. “I never had a wing man before,” she crowed. “My sister is just too proper to wear clothes that someone else owned first. She doesn’t get it at all.”

Charlotte fingered the rose-colored silk of her dress. It had been the haute couture of its day, and every button, seam, and fold was of the highest quality. “The woman who originally bought this dress knew she was making an investment, and she was right. It’s still as gorgeous today as it ever was.”

“And you, my friend, look amazing in it.” Kat tipped her head. “I don’t suppose you like to sing, do you?”

Charlotte was surprised but nodded. “I actually always wanted to be a singer, professionally, but everyone persuaded me to go to Yale instead.”

“And they don’t have music at Yale?” Kat was sarcastic.

Charlotte blushed. “No, of course they do, but I guess I have the wrong sort of voice or something. I tried out for a couple of rock bands, but they just said I had a good look but no thanks. Eventually, one of the musicians told me I sounded like Norah Jones, which was apparently not a good thing.”

“But she’s very successful.”

“Sure, but not as a rock singer.” Charlotte shrugged. “I’ve tried to sing differently, and it doesn’t work. It’s a funny thing, but when I’m singing, I feel as if that’s actually me. Do you know what I mean? And I’ve decided that there’s not going to be any more changing of me. I’ve done that too much in my life, and those days are done.”

Kat laughed. “Yay!
Viva la revolution!
Anyway, I have the
perfect place for us to go; they love Norah Jones there. Don’t forget, jazz was born right here in New Orleans.”

“I don’t really think of myself as a jazz singer. I just have that kind of bluesy voice, apparently.”

Kat frowned at her. “Child, this is the Big Easy. We don’t believe in labels, OK? It’s all just music to us.”

“Well, that’s easy for you to say. You had the balls to follow your dreams when you were only eighteen. I just did what I was told.” She sighed. “Until now, that is.”

Kat squeezed her hand. “Look, if I can do it, you can do it. And let’s face it, there’s nothing I like more than a makeover.” She looked down at the vintage clothes they were wearing. “Or, in this case, makeunder.”

And with that, she grabbed some evening bags from the enormous collection on the wall of the store, and they headed out into the scented evening air.

THE CLUB WAS
deep in the heart of the French Quarter, and at first, Charlotte thought she’d traveled in time. The sounds of a big band wafted out into the street, and the people milling about were all dressed as they were, although some had veered forward into the ’50s. They worked their way through the crowd until the bouncer saw them, and once he’d spotted Kat they were whisked inside in no time. Inside, a girl wearing fishnet tights and carrying a tray of cigarettes around her neck directed them to a table. Everything inside was deco—mother of pearl and red leather banquettes, twinkling lights on the dance floor, elegant cocktails in period glasses. It was a dreamland.

Kat leaned forward to yell over the music. “I have a friend who runs this club. It’s newish. Before this, he did a whole ’70s disco thing, over at another location. He likes to do the period thing, you know, and we all just kind of go along with it. It’s fun!”

Charlotte grinned. “I have a friend like that. You’ll have to come to New York and meet him one day.”

“I expect I will, once you’re tired of the Big Easy.”

The band struck up a tune, and couples took to the dance floor, all of them accomplished swing dancers. It was amazing to watch, and after a couple of cocktails, even Charlotte’s toes were tapping. The band had an enormous sound and swung hard, like the Ray Charles Big Band or even the Quincy Jones Orchestra—highly syncopated rhythms and brilliant orchestration and arrangements. Janet had taught her to listen properly to music, and she could really appreciate the mastery of this band.

“I’m going to dance, OK?” Kat got up and wandered over to a nearby table, pulling a handsome guy to his feet and giving him a hug. Kat clearly knew a lot of people, and in many ways, she reminded Charlotte of herself. Herself but nicer.

Kat and the guy danced well together, and Charlotte watched happily, feeling safe and relaxed for the first time in a while. Being in a new city was uncomfortable, but a nightclub was familiar territory. And oh, the music. She found herself singing along under her breath, unable to stop herself.

The song ended, and a white spotlight found the bandleader. Charlotte was looking elsewhere, but when he started talking,
she turned at the familiar voice.

It was Jackson.

She looked more carefully at the band. “Jackie Pearl and the Pearly Kings” was written on their music stands.
Huh
. Millie had said he had a band. Charlotte just hadn’t realized she meant an orchestra.

“Ladies and gentlemen, my good friend Kat Karraby informs me we have a visiting musician in our midst.”

Charlotte’s heart sank.
Oh, no, she didn’t.
But she had. Was there anyone Kat didn’t know?

“Can Kat’s mystery friend please join us on the bandstand? The Club du Quarante has a tradition of singers sitting in, and we might as well invite the Americans to join us, why not?” The audience laughed.

Kat showed up at the table, her eyes twinkling. “Come on, Charlotte, don’t keep them waiting.”

“You’re kidding. I can’t stand up there and sing.”

Kat frowned. “Why not? You said you could sing, right?”

“Yes, of course. But that doesn’t mean I’m ready to do it right now.”

“Oh, come on, this is New Orleans. The normal rules of time simply don’t apply.”

Jackson spoke from the podium, unable to see through the spotlight. “Is it possible that a Karraby has lost the powers of persuasion we all thought they’d traded their souls for?” More laughter.