Mark

“Do you drive?” Gavin corners me on my way to Lara’s dressing room. His face is red and sweaty. He looks like he’s been fighting.

I’m tired, and all I want is to see my girl, hold her in my arms and forget this shitty job and this shitty night. A quick check in the room confirmed what I felt certain—she wasn’t one of the dancers in that fucking orgy.

“Yeah, I drive,” I say, not wanting to stand here talking.

He pulls out a set of keys. “You’re driving my brother to Atlanta tonight.”

Fuck… “Don’t you have a car service?”

“Yeah, it’s called you.” He punches me in the chest, and I feel his anger. I don’t understand it, but I know enough not to challenge him.

Grasping his fist, I take the keys. One is black and chunky with the distinctive Lincoln logo on it. “Where you parked?”

“Out the back door. You’ll see it. For expenses.” He shoves another money clip in my hand and starts in the opposite direction. I slip the bills in the pocket of my blazer and look toward the dressing rooms, wondering if I have enough time to see Lara, tell her what I’m doing.

“Get out there now,” Gavin barks. “He’s on his way.”

That answers my question. Dammit, why didn’t I get Lara a phone? She doesn’t want one, but this is why she needs it. Atlanta’s a seven-hour drive. I won’t be back until tomorrow night at the earliest. She’ll wonder where I am. She was already so nervous when I was late this evening. I told her I’d always be there.

Exhaling a frustrated growl, I push through the metal door into the back parking lot. Sure enough, a navy Towncar is parked in a nearby spot, impossible to miss. Tapping the key, the doors unlock, and I slide across the leather seat. It’s the nicest car I’ve ever been in.

Staring at the dash, I wait, getting angrier as every minute passes. Where the fuck is this guy? I could’ve easily seen Lara in the time he’s taking to get here. Turning the dial, I find a jazz station and leave it. It reminds me of the night we slipped out and went to Preservation Hall. Looking through the window, I remember everything about that night, her laughter, kissing her under the stars, holding her body against mine as we listened to the band, her mother’s pen…

That part sticks in my memory. Her mother’s pen…

It was the only time in our night sadness broke through. She tried to dismiss it, to push it away, but I could see how it hurt her.

The door opens, and the red-headed man drops into the back seat. “Let’s go.”

His door slams shut, and I steer us out of the parking lot. It takes me a few minutes to weave through the narrow streets until I’m on Canal. A few more blocks, and we’re on Interstate 10 headed north.

The only sound in the vehicle is classic jazz playing softly. I expect it will be this way until my eyes flicker to the rearview mirror.

Green eyes glare at me, and with a jolt, I fix my gaze on the road. Would it be rude for me to raise the glass partition? This guy gives me the creeps.

“Doorman,” he finally says, and even his voice sounds icy. “What’s your story?”

Again, I look in the mirror to see his eyes sizing me up.

My hands tighten on the wheel. “No story. Just doing my job”

“What’s your name?” Impatience drips in his tone.

“Mark.” I remember Gavin’s response to my name, and hold it there. If anyone is involved in the underworld, it’s this guy.

He’s not letting it pass. “Just Mark? So you’re famous? Like Cher or Madonna? Everybody knows Mark…”

This guy’s a total asshole. “No, sir. I am not famous.”

“So, Mark what?” he snaps.

Taking a measured breath, I answer him. “Fitzhugh. My name is Mark Fitzhugh.”

He doesn’t blink, which surprises me. “That’s an old one. How did you end up working for my brother?”

“He offered, and I said yes.”

Again, his voice heats. “How did you meet my brother?”

“I was on the set crew.”

“Idiot.” He shifts in his seat. “And you like working as a doorman?”

“Looks like I’m working as a driver now.” Our eyes clash this time in the rearview mirror. I’m not taking his shit for eight hours. “Why don’t you fly to Atlanta?”

“I don’t fly.” He looks out the window, and his mind seems to drift. “They’re such pretty things, aren’t they?”

I’m not sure if he’s talking about airplanes or something else. “I’ve heard flying can be beautiful.”

“The dancers.” He exhales a long sigh, and his voice changes to longing, sadness… It’s chilling. “They break so easily.”

My brow lowers, but he leans back against the seat and the glass separating us slowly rises.

I don’t care. I have one focus. Getting him to wherever the fuck he’s headed and getting back to the theater before tomorrow night’s finale.

* * *

Lara

I’m exhausted and moody at morning rehearsal. I spent the night searching for an answer, a way out, and the few times I managed to sleep, a green-eyed fox chased me through my nightmares.

I haven’t seen Mark since last night before the show. He looked like he stepped out of a men’s fashion magazine. Tall and slim, with his light brown hair falling in perfect waves and a shadow on his cheeks, he made my knees weak. He also frightened me. He looked like he had one foot out the door of this place, and it made me realize how much I’ve started dreaming he could save us, believing his dream. I can’t do that.

Tanya is falling apart. She’s late and moody, and her poses are sloppy. Tension hovers over rehearsal like the heavy velvet curtains lining the stage. Gavin lurks in the house silently watching our rehearsals and making Roland impatient and cross.

He’s at the piano writing notes on sheet music and as I approach, he glances up at me and smiles before looking down again. “Last week I was worried you were angry with me,” he says as he writes. “When in reality, you’ve simply found someone new.”

“It’s not like that,” I say.

“Certainly looked like that yesterday.” He gives me a wink. “Lara’s in love.”

I push back. “I can’t think about that now.”

“Come on, Lara. It’s your old pal Roland.”

Vanessa’s loud laugh pierces the air, and I cringe. I decide to put it out there, see how much he knows. How much he’ll tell me.

“Who is Guy?”

His body stiffens, eyes narrow. “What?”

His sudden change in demeanor tells me more than his words ever could. “Molly met him after the show a while back, and—”

“Keep her away from him.”

“Who is he?”

“Gavin’s brother.”

I shake my head. “But why have I never seen him? How could I not know Gavin had a brother?”

“He went away a while back. I don’t know why he’s here now, but it’s the reason I told you to be careful. Stay away from him. Keep Molly away from him.”

“If he’s Gavin’s brother, that means—” I try to piece together this new information, understand how it relates to the show, to us.

Roland grips my arm so hard I wince. “Do what I say,” he growls.

I bend my elbow and push his hand away. “Don’t treat me like that. Tell me why.”

He exhales and releases me, but the anger is still there. I watch him circle the piano and start to play what he’s just written. “I’m not going to repeat stories about Gavin’s brother.”

“Okay…” Time to push. “We had a visitor last night.”

His hands pause over the keys, and his eyes cut to mine. “Guy?”

I nod. “It doesn’t seem to matter what we do. The theater isn’t that big.”

“What did he say?”

“That he knew me, that he’s been watching me. That he’ll be back and Molly and I should get some sleep in the meantime.” I circle the instrument to sit beside him, lowering my voice. “What do I do?”

His lips press together. Five measures pass before he speaks, voice calm. “I’ll talk to Gavin. Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry about it? After all you’ve said?” My voice is a panicked whisper as my grip tightens. “I’ve seen the look in his eyes before.”

He hammers the final three chords and drops his hands to the bench, looking up at me. “Maybe it’s time for Molly to go.”

Acid rises in my throat, and my fists clench. I’ve never been so angry with Roland before. “That’s all I get? Half-stories and impossible ideas?”

“Calm down.” He reaches for my hand, but I jerk it back and stand. He stands with me. “I said calm down.”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve,” I hiss, my chest so tight it hurts to breathe. “I can’t send her away. I have nowhere to send her.”

He studies me then sits, playing a song I’ve never heard before. I watch him stringing together notes into a flowing melody like my world isn’t crumbling all around me.

“How do you like this?” he asks.

“It sounds like breaking dishes.” I spin on my heel to leave.

He stops playing and catches my arm. “I said for you not to worry about it. I’ll handle this situation with Guy. Just trust me.”

“I can’t do that anymore.”

I walk away from my old protector and out of the theater. I don’t know where Mark is, and I can’t wait any longer for a solution.

It’s time to take matters into my own hands and do what I can to save us.

* * *

“Here we are,” Freddie says, holding a heavy, dark-wood door for me. It’s accented with a clear glass panel and a gleaming brass H in the center.

Inside is an open, gas-lit space with white plaster walls and dark-wood molding and wainscoting. The floors are tiny white tiles arranged in a circular mosaic pattern with green accents in the center, and the entire place holds about forty small, dark-wood tables. It’s classic New Orleans.

A handful of diners are scattered around, and each sit before colorful foods on white place settings atop white linens. A dark-wood bar is situated in the far-right corner with six stools tucked beneath a glossy ledge.

The wall behind it is lined in mirrors and glass shelves that hold bottles of various shapes and colors above clear glassware. A stout man in white shirtsleeves stands beside a bright brass tap station in the center, chatting with a man in a black suit.

The man holds a cigar from which a thin line of smoke curls to the ceiling, and a crystal snifter filled with amber liquid is beside his hand. The low murmur of polite conversation fills the air, and it’s all so refined and beautiful. It’s completely foreign to me.

We don’t wait long at the entrance before another stout fellow with a crisp, white apron tied over a black vest greets us. He recognizes Freddie at once.

“Monsieur Lovel,” he says with a bow. “Right this way, sir.”

We’re led to a small table for two, and when we stop, the host holds my chair for me. Every muscle in my body is tense, but Roland taught me the trick of passing in society—follow one quick step behind everyone and mimic their behavior.

I sit and then jump back as our host places a large, white-linen napkin across my lap. Then he looks at me as if expecting me to say something. I’ve never been waited on, so I simply smile. A waiter steps up and hands a large cream-colored sheet to Freddie, who peruses it briefly.

“Today’s menu looks good,” he says. “And bring us whatever your sommelier recommends with each course.”

The waiter bows his head, and Freddie looks to me for approval. As if.

I simply smile again.

“Is that acceptable, darling?”

“Of course.” I have no idea what I just agreed to eat, but my stomach is in knots anyway.

Within moments a plate of little brown shells arrives. I’ve heard of escargot, but I wait until Freddie picks up the tiny fork to remove a pinch of dark meat from inside. He makes a satisfied noise, and with careful hands, I follow suit. I’m not sure what to expect, but the moment the rich, buttery morsel hits my tongue, I have to resist the urge to groan loudly with delight. No matter what it once was, this is fresh, buttery, and perfectly seasoned—a welcome change from my usual day-old hard bagels.

“Food & Wine named this as the premiere bistro in the city,” Freddie replaces his small utensil on the white linen. “They are trying to make New Orleans the Paris of the South.”

I nod as if I know what the heck he’s talking about. Freddie doesn’t question my assent as the small plates are removed and replaced with new ones containing a dark green and purple salad.

I watch him pick up the smaller fork and prepare to do the same when he stops moving, sighs, and looks directly at me.

I freeze.

Has he figured out my trick?

“You are so beautiful in this light.” He smiles, and I start to breathe again.

“Freddie.” I shake my head.

“I’ve dreamed of being closer to you, and now it’s happening.” He still holds his fork aloft, gazing at me instead of eating. I try not to appear impatient. My stomach is near growling.

“You have such talent. It must be difficult to only have one part in the show.”

I can’t tell him it’s the furthest thing from my mind. “I try not to let it get me down.”

“I love it. Grace in the face of life’s challenges. It’s great marketing,” he says, at last stabbing the bitter green salad he ordered for us both.

I smile demurely and follow suit, hoping to get us off the topic of my occupation and onto his. “Do you go back to Paris often?”

“Not as often as I’d like. My father likes me to stay here and look after our interests.”

“Of which you have many?” I smile, hoping I’m not being rude. “I mean, to keep you here so long.”

“Hmm.” Freddie continues eating, clearly bored with the subject. “Our shipping business is strong and well-established. There’s really no need to fuss about it. I’m looking for something new…”

His eyes land on mine as the salad plates are removed. I think about Roland’s reasons for pushing me toward Freddie as the servers place a gorgeous arrangement of roast beef with dark gravy and something smooth and white with a little sprig of green in front of us. The luscious scent makes my mouth water, and again I fight back a squeal of delight. I can’t remember the last time I had red meat.

“Well, this looks acceptable.” Freddie picks up his silver knife and fork and slices into it. I do the same, but he’s talking again. I don’t want to stuff my face while he’s staring at me. Still, I manage to get a piece of roast in my mouth, and I almost swoon at the flavor.

Freddie doesn’t seem to notice. “We were doing fine with the usual New Orleans souvenirs, spices and such. Then we added coffee and it simply exploded.”

He slices another piece of roast as I study the fluffy white side dish.

“The potatoes are amazing, aren’t they?” he says, with a twinkle in his eye. My eyebrows rise. Potatoes? I would never have guessed…

“How they get them so smooth is a closely guarded secret,” he adds as if reading my mind.

“You enjoy fine dining.”

“It’s true. I have Epicurean tastes.”

Freddie leans back in his seat, placing the white cloth napkin beside his plate. I do the same, although I’m miserable at all the meat left on my plate. I wonder if he’d notice if I slid it into my handbag…

“Do you feel up for a stroll?”

“Of course!”

He stands and takes several bills from his pocket. He places them on the table as he takes my arm, and I feel pretty confident new shoes would not be an issue for Freddie Lovel.

Back on the street, my hand is in the crook of his arm as we walk, surveying the galleries and storefronts along Royal. It’s warm in the sun, but with the humidity low, it’s bearable. All of the blooms are gone, but dark-green ivy climbs healthy and bright up the sides of buildings and over the wrought iron trim.

A fountain trickles softly in a passing courtyard. It reminds me of my first adventure with Mark to the secret poboy shop, and my stomach cramps. It’s only been a day, and I miss him so much. I hate all of this. Where is he?

We pass a shop with a large painting of the Seine in the window, and Freddie stops.

“How I long to be home again,” he says.

“Back in Paris?”

“The cuisine here is… well, it’s quite good.” He covers my hand with his, glancing up at the sky. “It’s just so miserably hot all the time.”

I smooth my hair off my face. “I’m in the theater most days. I guess I’m use to it.”

He nods and looks ahead. “The truth is if it weren’t for you, I’d most likely melt into a puddle of ennui.”

I have no idea what that means, and it never occurred to me that Freddie would be so anxious to go home. “I’d love to see Paris.”

“Oh, darling, you would love it.” Freddie’s eyes take on an expression I usually see after my performances. “It’s so beautiful with the flowers and the cafés along the Rive Gauche. Our home is in the seventh arrondissement, which is the best place to live.”

“It sounds amazing.”

“Would you ever consider going?” His eyebrows rise.

I bite my lip and we resume our stroll. “I’ve never been outside New Orleans, but I’ve always wanted to travel. With the right person.”

Freddie’s chest rises. “There are places I could show you that would take your breath away. From Montmartre you can see the entire city spread out below, with its tiny streets. And the shopping on the Champs-Élysées is incomparable.”

“I don’t know where I’d stay, and I have my little… sister Molly to consider.”

“My sister has a large townhouse. I’m sure she would love to have a celebrity guest.”

“I’m not a celebrity.”

He smiles and pats my hand. “You might not be one yet, but you have the potential.”

My brow furrows and I look up at him. “I’m basically one step above a stripper. Wouldn’t she find that… problematic?”

“Of course not. Last year’s number one song was recorded by a former stripper. One could even argue that Playboy spread made Marilyn Monroe a star.”

For a moment my old promise to Molly about what our future might look like feels so close. The limos and the little dog.

“It sounds like a beautiful dream.” We walk a moment in silence before I speak again. “Will you return to Paris soon?”

Freddie stops walking and looks deep into my eyes. “Would you care?”

I choose my words carefully. “I’ve looked forward to your visits. I imagine I would miss them… more than I can know now, standing here, holding your arm. But what could you possibly get out of it?”

I really want to know.

His eyes are warm and he covers my hand with his. “Paris is a much smaller market than America. I’d be honored to be the man who shared your talent with the world. And maybe, one day, you might think of me as more than a friend?”

We’re back at the theater, and I think about his words. “I imagine anything is possible.”