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Authors: Cate Tiernan
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sleeve. Ungraciously I took the handkerchief and wiped my nose and dabbed at my eyes. Then what? Did one return a used hankie? Gross. The guy solved my dilemma by taking it from my hand and standing up. He walked to a small fountain that I hadn’t even been aware of: a blue-caped, Nordic Virgin Mary, with thin streams of water running from her outstretched hands.
The guy wet the hankie and came back, wringing it out. I sighed and took it again, and since this situation was already too far gone for me to possibly salvage it, I wiped the cool, damp cloth over my face, feeling tons better.
“Thank you,” I said, still unable to look at him.
“You’re welcome.” Uninvited, he sat down next to me. I was in no mood to make friends, so I just pretended he wasn’t there. Now that I was calmer, I looked at the fountain, the different flowers growing in the somewhat untidy beds. Narrow walkways of well-worn brick made a knot of paths around the fountain. Small birds chirped in the thick growth of shrubs that hid the brick walls from inside.
The air was still humid here, marginally cooler than on the street. A vine grew thickly on several walls, its shiny dark green leaves surrounding heavily scented creamy flowers.
“Confederate jasmine,” the guy said, as though he knew where I’d been looking. He knelt quickly and plucked a crisp white flower off a smaller shrub. Finally taking in his features, I saw that he had dark brown hair, almost black, and was tall, maybe almost six feet.
“Gardenia.” He handed it to me, and I took it, inhaling its fragrance. It was almost unbearably sweet, too much scent for one flower to bear. But it was heavenly, and I tucked it behind my ear, which made the guy laugh lightly.
I managed to smile.
“I guess I’m trespassing,” I said.
“I guess we both are,” he agreed. “But I love to come here in the evenings, to escape the crowds and the heat.”
“Do you work at the church?” I asked.
“No. But my apartment is right up there.” He pointed to the third story of the building next door. “I didn’t mean to spy on you. But I thought you might be sick.”
“No,” I said glumly, thinking, Sick of New Orleans.
“I understand,” he said gently. “Sometimes it’s all too much.” He had a precise, crisp way of speaking, as if he’d gone to school in England. I looked at him, into his eyes, and wondered if he could possibly understand.
No. Of course not. I got up and rewet the handkerchief in the fountain. I knelt by its base, wrung out the thin cloth, and wiped my face again and the back of my neck.
“I’ll have to start carrying one of these,” I said, pressing the wet cloth against my forehead.
“You’re not used to the heat,” he said.
“No. I’m from Connecticut,” I said. “I’ve only been here a couple of weeks. I’m used to my air actually feeling like air.”
He laughed, putting his head back. I realized that he was actually really good-looking, his throat smooth and tan, and I wondered if his chest was that color. I felt my face heat at that thought and looked down, embarrassed. When I looked up again, he was watching me intently.
“They say the heat makes people crazy,” he said, his voice very quiet in the private garden. “That’s why there are so many crimes of passion here—the unending heat works on you, frays your nerves. Next thing you know, your best friend has a knife to your throat.”
Well, I was a little creeped out, but mostly his voice worked slowly through my veins like a drug, soothing me, calming me, taking away my raw pain.
“What did you do?” I asked seriously, and a glint of surprise lit his eyes for a moment.
He laughed again, and there was no mistaking it—I saw admiration in his eyes. Attraction. “I was speaking metaphorically. Fortunately, so far I haven’t stolen my best friend’s girl.”
For just an instant, I pictured myself, going out with some unnamed best friend and then meeting this guy,
The guy wet the hankie and came back, wringing it out. I sighed and took it again, and since this situation was already too far gone for me to possibly salvage it, I wiped the cool, damp cloth over my face, feeling tons better.
“Thank you,” I said, still unable to look at him.
“You’re welcome.” Uninvited, he sat down next to me. I was in no mood to make friends, so I just pretended he wasn’t there. Now that I was calmer, I looked at the fountain, the different flowers growing in the somewhat untidy beds. Narrow walkways of well-worn brick made a knot of paths around the fountain. Small birds chirped in the thick growth of shrubs that hid the brick walls from inside.
The air was still humid here, marginally cooler than on the street. A vine grew thickly on several walls, its shiny dark green leaves surrounding heavily scented creamy flowers.
“Confederate jasmine,” the guy said, as though he knew where I’d been looking. He knelt quickly and plucked a crisp white flower off a smaller shrub. Finally taking in his features, I saw that he had dark brown hair, almost black, and was tall, maybe almost six feet.
“Gardenia.” He handed it to me, and I took it, inhaling its fragrance. It was almost unbearably sweet, too much scent for one flower to bear. But it was heavenly, and I tucked it behind my ear, which made the guy laugh lightly.
I managed to smile.
“I guess I’m trespassing,” I said.
“I guess we both are,” he agreed. “But I love to come here in the evenings, to escape the crowds and the heat.”
“Do you work at the church?” I asked.
“No. But my apartment is right up there.” He pointed to the third story of the building next door. “I didn’t mean to spy on you. But I thought you might be sick.”
“No,” I said glumly, thinking, Sick of New Orleans.
“I understand,” he said gently. “Sometimes it’s all too much.” He had a precise, crisp way of speaking, as if he’d gone to school in England. I looked at him, into his eyes, and wondered if he could possibly understand.
No. Of course not. I got up and rewet the handkerchief in the fountain. I knelt by its base, wrung out the thin cloth, and wiped my face again and the back of my neck.
“I’ll have to start carrying one of these,” I said, pressing the wet cloth against my forehead.
“You’re not used to the heat,” he said.
“No. I’m from Connecticut,” I said. “I’ve only been here a couple of weeks. I’m used to my air actually feeling like air.”
He laughed, putting his head back. I realized that he was actually really good-looking, his throat smooth and tan, and I wondered if his chest was that color. I felt my face heat at that thought and looked down, embarrassed. When I looked up again, he was watching me intently.
“They say the heat makes people crazy,” he said, his voice very quiet in the private garden. “That’s why there are so many crimes of passion here—the unending heat works on you, frays your nerves. Next thing you know, your best friend has a knife to your throat.”
Well, I was a little creeped out, but mostly his voice worked slowly through my veins like a drug, soothing me, calming me, taking away my raw pain.
“What did you do?” I asked seriously, and a glint of surprise lit his eyes for a moment.
He laughed again, and there was no mistaking it—I saw admiration in his eyes. Attraction. “I was speaking metaphorically. Fortunately, so far I haven’t stolen my best friend’s girl.”
For just an instant, I pictured myself, going out with some unnamed best friend and then meeting this guy,
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