We walk outonto Bourbon Street and it receives us like it always does—without ceremony, without judgment, just the city doing its thing, lightly scented with that particular cocktail of some night-bloom that still lingers, last night’s rain, fresh bread from somewhere nearby, and underneath it all the river, patient and enormous and completely indifferent to the fact that I’m on the arm of a man who materialized out of my dreams.
Life is strange. I’ve always known this. This morning it’s being very thorough about proving it.
Dallas stops us in front of the White Swan.
“This is where you’re staying?” I can’t exactly be mad about it. Dallas couldn’t have known that this hotel is basically my nemesis.
Sure, the reason the White Swan started attracting all thebest customers is because they were spending a ton of money to do things right and we … weren’t.
But still. All my old emotional scars light up at the sight of it.
“My assistant booked it for me,” Dallas says. “According to him, it’s the quaintest hotel on Bourbon Street. Now I know he was wrong about that.”
I glance up at him.Stop it with the dark blue eyes and those wide shoulders.Okay, he gets a few points for saying that.
I haven’t been inside the White Swan in years. We go inside and I have to admit it’s beautifully decorated. Gold-leaf fleur-de-lis wallpaper makes the foyer sparkle with a welcoming New Orleans flavor. There’s even a water feature. The front desk is white marble—borderline tacky, in my opinion, but it looks expensive. Two young, prim-looking hostesses in crisp white uniforms are ready to greet people.
“Mr. Wilder,” one of them gushes. “Your limo is waiting for you at the back entrance.”
Limo?
“Thank you.” His response is aloof and blasé, almost bored, like there’salwaysa limo waiting for him.
A doorman opens the (gorgeous) carved wood-framed glass doors at the back of the foyer. On the glass, two white swans have been etched.
Outside, a driver is waiting next to a white stretch limo. I’ve lived four doors down from this hotel my whole life and never knew there was a courtyard back here. It has an old but functioning and well-maintained fountain, shade trees, high walls and a circular driveway. With the white limo gleaming in theearly morning sun, it looks like a scene from a Hollywood movie.
“This is yours?” I gasp.
“Not mine, but yes, this is our ride.” Dallas says it like an apology. “Apparently NOLA doesn’t do Maybachs.”
I’m still staring at the limo. “W-what’s a Maybach?”
“It’s a kind of car. I’ll show you next time.”
Next time.But the doorman is opening the door for us and Dallas leads me to the limo. I climb in and Dallas slides in next to me.
The inside of this limo is literally bigger than the room I’ve been sleeping in for the past year. Two plush cream-colored leather seats face each other. An opaque glass partition between us and the driver slides closed with a soft, expensive sound. The lighting is low and amber.
“Wow,” I whisper.
“I know. I prefer to be a little more inconspicuous, but sometimes it can’t be helped.”
“Oh. Right.”
Dallas sits close to me, his solid, warm thigh flush against mine. I’m conscious of my old, worn uniform, which clashes with his no-expense-spared (just a semi-educated guess) perfection and the opulent surroundings. I spend most of my time in dimly-lit, shabby-chic (we like to think, but now I’m wondering if the “chic” half of the equation is a stretch) interiors, so I never think too much about how my work clothes really do look frayed and tired. Because I wash them so much. Because all I do is work.
On the odd occasion I have the time to go out to a gig or toget a coffee with Sadie, I have a handful of other outfits I pull out from the box under my single bed, most of which came from thrift stores and are equally threadbare and worn.
Not that I usually worry about it all that much, but here in this polished limo with its leather seats and shiny windows—and its one other occupant, whose thick-cotton shirt probably cost more than I make in a month—I can’t help but wish I’d taken a little more time this morning. Then again, it probably wouldn’t have helped anyway.
Like my daddy used to say when we got a bad review because the place was looking more and more run-down,we carry our diamonds and gold on the inside, dahlin’, and when you measure it like that we’ve got more wealth than all of them put together.
At the time it sort of helped. I used to pretend my blood was made of tiny diamonds and my heart was solid gold and that everyone could tell because the fiery light beamed itself out of my eyes in a way that blinded them to how old my clothes were. It often seemed to work. People noticed my hair and the color of my eyes and the shape of me—or at least that’s what they commented on and stared at.
So I do it now. I pretend I’m beaming out that golden light.Who needs new clothes when you’re made of Hope Diamonds?
Either way, Dallas doesn’t seem to notice my clothes. He’s watching my face like it’s the most beguiling thing he’s ever seen. “I bought you something.”
