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Authors: Midnight on Julia Street
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furniture,” she ventured lamely.
“I don’t think ‘nice’ quite applies in Marchand’s case.”
“No?” she asked as she observed an angry furrow creasing his forehead.
“No,” King echoed shortly. “My godfather went to work for Grover Jeffries a few years back. As his public relations adviser,” he added, bitter sarcasm edging his voice.
“If Jeffries has such a sleazy reputation, why’d your godfather decide to do that?”
King gave her an appraising stare. “The Marchands are an old, distinguished family, but by the late 1980s, there wasn’t much left of the estate. After the big oil bust—fifteen or twenty years ago—Laf’s law practice wasn’t thriving either. However, the man knows all the important political players in New Orleans—black and white. So, he transformed himself into a fixer. The very mention of Lafayette Marchand’s name has been enough to open many doors for Jeffries in the last ten years. And opening doors for a wealthy developer can be a very lucrative business in these parts.”
“And Marchand is your godfather,” she murmured.
“I fired him from that job.”
“I’m sorry,” she offered simply. “It must be hard for you to run into him all the time, since you make a habit of fighting to save historic buildings from the Jeffries style of urban renewal.” King remained silent, so Corlis thrust out her hand. “Well… thanks again for stopping by,” she said, feeling unaccountably shy. “And thanks, too, for telling me about WJAZ.”
“What are old friends for?” he replied with a wink, his good humor apparently returning. Then he seized her hand and gave it a friendly squeeze. It felt warm and oddly comforting.
“Have a nice Christmas,” she ventured.
“ This year? After that wedding yesterday? I appreciate the sentiment, Corlis, but I don’t think happy holidays are in the cards for the Kingsbury-Duvallon clan,” he said, referring also to his mother, Antoinette Kingsbury’s side of his family.
I don’t think so either , Corlis concurred silently.
She was suddenly assaulted by a brief unhappy childhood memory of her mother—angry and silent—pushing her out of a dented Volkswagen on Christmas morning in front of her father’s glamorous quarters in Beverly Hills. She continued to meet King’s gaze, amazed by the unusually dark blue irises that stared back at her. “Well, then,” she amended, “I’ll just say happy New Year.”
“Better,” he agreed with a brief nod. A lopsided grin spread across his handsome features. “Happy New Year, Ace. Let’s hope it’s an improvement over last year—for both of us.”
Softly shutting the door behind him, she murmured, “No kidding. Bye, now.”
She remained standing with her hand on the knob, listening to King’s footfalls as he descended the stairs. When she heard the front door to Julia Street close shut, she turned and wandered down the hallway, pausing in the bathroom to gaze at her disheveled reflection in the mirror over the sink.
Damned if King Duvallon didn’t look sexier than ever, even in ratty tennis shoes and a sweat-soaked polo shirt! And he actually apologized for the events twelve years ago.
Well… he sort of apologized.
***
True to King Duvallon’s word, Corlis received a call from Andy Zamora himself, three days before New Year’s Eve. After a brief negotiation, she signed a two-year contract with WJAZ-TV on December thirtieth—at a third less salary and virtually no expense account or perks except for a health plan.
However, in the immortal words of Aunt Marge, “Beggars can’t be choosers.” In fact, her elderly relative urged her to take the job with good cheer. “You know the McCullough family motto,” Marge advised briskly over the telephone from her condo in California. “Begin at once, and do the best you can!”
Corlis threw herself into her demanding job from the first day she went to work for wiry, plain-speaking Andy Zamora, owner of the
“I don’t think ‘nice’ quite applies in Marchand’s case.”
“No?” she asked as she observed an angry furrow creasing his forehead.
“No,” King echoed shortly. “My godfather went to work for Grover Jeffries a few years back. As his public relations adviser,” he added, bitter sarcasm edging his voice.
“If Jeffries has such a sleazy reputation, why’d your godfather decide to do that?”
King gave her an appraising stare. “The Marchands are an old, distinguished family, but by the late 1980s, there wasn’t much left of the estate. After the big oil bust—fifteen or twenty years ago—Laf’s law practice wasn’t thriving either. However, the man knows all the important political players in New Orleans—black and white. So, he transformed himself into a fixer. The very mention of Lafayette Marchand’s name has been enough to open many doors for Jeffries in the last ten years. And opening doors for a wealthy developer can be a very lucrative business in these parts.”
“And Marchand is your godfather,” she murmured.
“I fired him from that job.”
“I’m sorry,” she offered simply. “It must be hard for you to run into him all the time, since you make a habit of fighting to save historic buildings from the Jeffries style of urban renewal.” King remained silent, so Corlis thrust out her hand. “Well… thanks again for stopping by,” she said, feeling unaccountably shy. “And thanks, too, for telling me about WJAZ.”
“What are old friends for?” he replied with a wink, his good humor apparently returning. Then he seized her hand and gave it a friendly squeeze. It felt warm and oddly comforting.
“Have a nice Christmas,” she ventured.
“ This year? After that wedding yesterday? I appreciate the sentiment, Corlis, but I don’t think happy holidays are in the cards for the Kingsbury-Duvallon clan,” he said, referring also to his mother, Antoinette Kingsbury’s side of his family.
I don’t think so either , Corlis concurred silently.
She was suddenly assaulted by a brief unhappy childhood memory of her mother—angry and silent—pushing her out of a dented Volkswagen on Christmas morning in front of her father’s glamorous quarters in Beverly Hills. She continued to meet King’s gaze, amazed by the unusually dark blue irises that stared back at her. “Well, then,” she amended, “I’ll just say happy New Year.”
“Better,” he agreed with a brief nod. A lopsided grin spread across his handsome features. “Happy New Year, Ace. Let’s hope it’s an improvement over last year—for both of us.”
Softly shutting the door behind him, she murmured, “No kidding. Bye, now.”
She remained standing with her hand on the knob, listening to King’s footfalls as he descended the stairs. When she heard the front door to Julia Street close shut, she turned and wandered down the hallway, pausing in the bathroom to gaze at her disheveled reflection in the mirror over the sink.
Damned if King Duvallon didn’t look sexier than ever, even in ratty tennis shoes and a sweat-soaked polo shirt! And he actually apologized for the events twelve years ago.
Well… he sort of apologized.
***
True to King Duvallon’s word, Corlis received a call from Andy Zamora himself, three days before New Year’s Eve. After a brief negotiation, she signed a two-year contract with WJAZ-TV on December thirtieth—at a third less salary and virtually no expense account or perks except for a health plan.
However, in the immortal words of Aunt Marge, “Beggars can’t be choosers.” In fact, her elderly relative urged her to take the job with good cheer. “You know the McCullough family motto,” Marge advised briskly over the telephone from her condo in California. “Begin at once, and do the best you can!”
Corlis threw herself into her demanding job from the first day she went to work for wiry, plain-speaking Andy Zamora, owner of the
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