Lara

The French Quarter glistens in the cool, damp night. The smoky street lamps make rainbow reflections in the puddles, and the sound of music fills the air. As we pass the clubs, I see couples dancing with their arms locked around each other, and I hear loud, boisterous laughter through the tavern doors.

He leads me down several narrow passageways until we’re again at the levee, racing up the hill to see the river spread out massive and brown before us. The humid breeze hits us with short, cool gusts, and I know winter is coming, or at least the few weeks of cold weather we call winter this far south.

It’s a clear night, and the moonlight dances in silvery sparkles on the mixed-up currents as the sound of a saxophone playing low and a guitar strumming in time drift across the water from Algiers.

I allow my coat to fall open, Mark pulls me to him, and we dance. Only it’s not like any dance I’ve ever done before. It’s slow and sensual, and he leans closer to press his lips to mine again and again until I’m drunk with the music and the movements and his tongue touching mine.

Resting my head against his chest, I listen to his heartbeat keeping time with mine. He clasps my hand in his, his other arm tightly encircling my waist, and I try to think of a time when I’ve ever felt this happy. It’s as if for this one night I’ve been given a holiday—no fear, and nothing bad can happen.

“It’s a perfect night,” he says into my hair.

I close my eyes and inhale deeply. The dewy grass-scent mixes with Mark’s warmth and etches a permanent memory in my mind. The song fades away, and he steps back, still holding my hand, leading us down toward the river. I sit on the grass and he steps to the water’s edge.

“It’s so huge,” he says, looking out at the lights of the riverboat in the distance. Then he spins around to face me, stretching his arms wide. “We could get on a boat and take it anywhere we want.”

He takes a step toward me, but his foot slips and he falls, landing with a loud Oof! right next to where I sit.

I burst out laughing, loud and clear, and the sound is so strange, I almost don’t recognize it. He smiles and slides to a sitting position, dusting his palms together.

“I’ve never heard you laugh before.”

I clear my throat and try to stop, but I’m giddy. Instead, I place my hand over my mouth to hide my grin. “It’s always so intense at the theater,” I say.

He slides closer to me, and I lean back, nestling into his arms.

“I like your laugh.” His face is low to mine, our lips a breath apart.

He slides my hair away from my cheek before gently kissing me. My eyes close as a new song drifts across the water to us. Warm lips part mine and a fresh wave of desire moves through my stomach.

I reach up to touch his cheek and everything melts away, from the damp grass at my back to the clock ticking on this holiday. Reality is only a few hours away, but in this moment, I’m here in Mark’s arms. His mouth travels to my cheek and then my jaw, tickling my neck, and I open my eyes to see thousands of stars glittering above us.

“It’s so beautiful,” I breathe.

Two of us, under the stars…

He lifts his head to smile at me, and I touch his face, his bright eyes, then I run my finger down his nose to his lips, which he pushes out in greeting.

I’ve never been so light and free, and I can’t help laughing again. I wonder if we’ll make love here under the stars, but he stands, pulling me to my feet with him.

“There’s another place I want to take you first,” he says.

“First?”

“On our way to my place.”

I pause, and he waits, watching my expression. “Okay,” I say, and he relaxes.

“So about this place,” he continues. “I’d never seen anything like it before I came here. It’s an old hall where musicians gather to play and people stand around and watch. And the music… you won’t believe how great it is.”

“Is it jazz?”

“It’s everything—jazz, Dixieland, blues.”

My hand is captured in his, and he leads me over the levee and down the hill again. Short palmettos sprout along the sides of alleys, and twisted wisteria winds up abandoned fence posts and pretty much anything that will stand still. In the spring they drop lightly scented, purple blooms everywhere, but now they’re simply ragged green vines that look more like weeds than anything pretty.

We reach the bottom and cross the cobbled street to the square near the statue of Andrew Jackson on horseback. The massive square is empty, and we quickly pass the dark shops. Still, I can’t help stopping to look in the front window as we pass Gerard’s. A new display is there, and right in the center is a sparkling brass and cloisonné pen.

My breath catches, and the old sadness slips back.

“What?” Mark steps up next to me and looks in the window. “Do you like that?”

“It was my mother’s.”

The words are out before I can stop them. I’ve never told anyone how I support Molly and me. Not even Evie.

“Your mother’s?” He looks at me. “How do you know?”

I try to laugh again, but I can hear the difference. Instead I shake my head.

“Tell me,” he insists.

I gaze into his blue eyes and try not to care. “Remember that day? When I was here running an errand?”

“Yes.”

“I was really pawning that for money to buy Molly shoes.”

A flash of pain crosses his face and he pulls me to him.

My throat tightens, but I struggle back. “Don’t. It had to be done. I can’t regret it now.”

“Still, it was your mother’s.”

“No. Not tonight.”

His lips press together, and he looks at the window again. My hand hasn’t left his, and I pull him into the square again, away from my sad memories, my truth. He takes the lead again, and I follow him past the massive white church with its three skinny, slate-gray spires pointing high into the night sky.

As we walk down the narrow, cobbled streets, I realize except for that one moment, I haven’t stopped smiling since we stepped foot outside the theater. We sneak through the city like runaways, and his hand only leaves mine for a moment. It becomes the strongest sense I have of this adventure.

Finally we find the place, and as we enter the dark, smoky hall, there’s a room to the side filled with people sitting on chairs or on the floor. Some spill out into the passage where the music echoes off the wood floors and walls. Mark pulls me to the doorway, and his hands find my waist as he holds me in front of him. Smoke fills the air, and men and women of all races crowd together to listen.

Men play trumpets and clarinets. One has a guitar, another an upright bass, and still another a tuba. Mark is right—it’s brilliant and captivating, and the crowd sways and nods to the rhythms. The songs stretch on for several minutes as each musician takes a turn improvising.

I study their faces and the silky expertise with which they manipulate their instruments, and something deep within me connects with the sounds. I wish Roland were here to listen.

This is what the city is all about.

This is the brightness.

I study the faces of the audience, black and white, pushed in tight, smiling. Some have their eyes closed; others are laughing and keeping time, starting to dance. Everyone feels it. We’re all here smashed together in one hall, and the music erases the pain and darkness that otherwise keeps us apart.

“What do you think?” Mark’s lips are close to my ear, and I turn and kiss them before answering.

“I love it. It’s my new favorite place.”

He kisses me again and smiles, and I return to the show. That’s when I see him. Two blue eyes fixed on me from across the room, and my body tenses. Mark’s hands tighten at my waist.

“What’s wrong?”

Gavin is watching us, and his frown shakes me to the core.

“I’ve got to go,” I say, backing away. Reality rushes back stronger, as if it’s angry for being shut out for even a night.

I push through the crowd to the door, Mark right on my heels.

“What happened?” he asks. “Are you okay?”

“I just realized how late it is, and I’ve got to get back. Someone might see us.”

“But… Are you worried about Freddie? Because I don’t think—”

“No. I mean, I don’t know,” I stammer, turning up the collar of my coat. “We could run into anybody out here.”

His hand finds mine again, clutching it. The warmth is reassuring, but I’m too shaken to relax. He leads me through the damp streets, and we pause at the Pussycat Angels banner in the front of the theater. It’s a black and white shot of all the girls sitting together nude. Nothing is shown, our arms and legs are strategically placed, but sex is in our eyes.

Tanya stands in the center of us with her body dripping in sparkling diamonds. Large, glittering stones are strategically placed over her nipples, and she’s wearing a thong. Everything about her is fake, the wig, the makeup, even the jewels, but she’s the star.

Soon that will be me.

My stomach is tight as we sneak around to the back entrance. Mark stops me at the door, pulling me to him. “I don’t want to leave you here.”

“I live here.”

“You could live with me.” He hugs me close, kissing my cheek, and a pit forms in my stomach.

I shake my head, stepping out of his arms. “I can’t leave Molly. She’s here because of me. I can’t walk away from her—”

“I’ll find a different job, a better job. We can leave here, and you can both move in with me.”

Leave with Mark…

Leave with Mark…

My eyes squeeze shut as the notion floods tingling warmth through my insides. I want to say yes so much, but like always, my brain forces me to face reality.

“It sounds wonderful.” I choose my words carefully, not wanting to hurt him. “But I can’t walk away on a dream. The truth is you don’t have another job… And I can’t take that chance.”

As I’m saying the words, a gulf of sadness opens in my chest. Staying in this theater, taking my chances as its star is not the best option by a long shot, but we have a roof over our heads and food to eat. Gavin gave me a promise, and Roland’s making him keep it. It’s a tenuous layer of protection, but it’s real.

Mark’s brow furrows, and he nods, thinking. “So it can’t happen tonight, I get that, but it can happen.” His blue eyes meet mine. “I want you with me.”

Stepping forward, I reach for his hand, holding it in both of mine, cherishing the way he comforts me so deeply. He touches the part of me that has stopped believing in happy endings. “Thank you for tonight. For all of it.”

“You sound like you’re giving up.”

I lift his hand to my lips and kiss his fingers. “I’m tired. It’s been a busy day.”

“You need a phone.”

“No.” I shake my head and exhale a bitter laugh. “We can’t afford it.”

“I’ll afford it.” He pulls me closer and touches my cheek. “Go inside and rest, but believe me. I’m serious about this.”

The girls call him a hero. I study his face for the space of a heartbeat, feeling my ability to hope struggling for life. Could he be my hero? It’s too early to know.

Instead, I leave him with a kiss, pushing through the metal door and back to my reality.