* * *
Arnaud’s had been around since 1918, a fairly new establishment in the midst of so much history. It was along Rue Bienville, and it reminded me of the house we were staying at on Royal in style, but not in color.
The ruby-colored stucco stood out against the green wrought-iron details of the poles and latticework on the balcony. Its hanging gas lanterns caressed all of the facets of the beveled glass windows and the figures that moved on the other side.
Everett had suggested the place, his family being loyal customers since the grand opening. It was one of the largest restaurants in the French Quarter, a place where true creole food was still served.
A suited attendant met us on the street. After I helped Scarlett from the carriage, he whisked us away to the count’s room. It was the largest of the fourteen spaces available, though I refused to fill its maximum capacity with guests. I had only invited people Scarlett knew and enjoyed being around. That left plenty of room for dancing.
The band played one of her favorite songs as she entered. Violet stuck a sparkling crown atop her head, and then most of the guests rushed in, surrounding her. I shook hands or kissed cheeks as one person after another greeted us.
“Gabriel and his Evangeline!” Scarlett brightened when the line moved and they appeared. The two women hugged; Gabriel and I shook hands.
“Happy Birthday,bébé! May you grow a laugh line from this night!”
Next up was Riccardo Bacchi.
“Scarlett!” he said with an Italian accent, taking her hands and kissing both of her cheeks. “Cento di questi giorni, bambina!” He had wished her a hundred of these days. “This hair!”
I took a whiskey from the suited attendant—the restaurant had asked our preferences beforehand. “Bambina,” I muttered underneath my breath.
Scarlett heard, and she elbowed me without him seeing. After he had dispersed to, of course, dance, Scarlett kissed me, her eyes playful and so damn alive.
I wrapped my arm around her back, resting my hand against her hip—the dress accentuated all of her curves, cut perfectly for her petite build. She came in closer, and we were attached at the hip.
Maggie Beautiful yelled, “Surprise! Happyaren’t you glad your parents had sexday!”as she and Aberto stepped forward. Scarlett almost picked her up off the floor. We had told her that Maggie Beautiful couldn’t make it, and to make the secret seem true, she had called Scarlett that morning.
Maggie Beautiful could put on a good show.
For the record, we did not includeme;therefore,Idid not lie.
Drinks flowed, food was served at stations, and hundreds of rose arrangements covered almost every surface.
Hours seemed to flow in the same manner as the drinks, and before long, we were well into the night, flushed faces all around from so much dancing and laughter. Before the cake was brought out, I asked the band to play the song she had entered to once more.
Our bodies came together, we moved in perfect harmony, laughing at each other only because we had had too much to drink. I attempted to sing the song to her, and she laughed even harder.
“Do that on the stage!” she said, moving her shoulders from right to left, in perfect tempo to the song.
She didn’t think I had it in me. She went to grab me, but I was too quick. The lead singer handed the microphone over and the crowd went wild. I couldn’t sing to save my life, but at one time in my life I had lived for the moment, and I never entertained the notion of being embarrassed.
Still didn’t.
This was no Sinatra tune, but I did my best to keep time and get all of the right lyrics out. I might’ve screwed them up a bit, but she didn’t seem to care.
She danced like it was her birthday.
Soon after, a multi-tiered cake from her favorite bakery in New Orleans was rolled out, sparklers lit. A chorus of “Happy Birthday” was sung by a group that was off tune but all together. All of the Italians stood out with theirAppppibirthdays.
Scarlett snatched my hand, and I knew it had more to do with her not wanting to be the center of attention than anything else. She wanted me to share in it so she wouldn’t have to bear the burden of it alone.
One minute seemed to melt into another, the smoke from the blown-out candles matching the fog in my own mind, and at the end, a second line band met us to form our own parade, napkins and handkerchiefs waving in the air, as we danced to the end of Scarlett’s birthday.
Ruthie and her driver were waiting for us after we had seen each guest off.
“It’s only one year, but one year makes a difference come morning, Wee Dancer!” Gabriel shouted and then laughed his way down the street with Eva tucked underneath his arm.
Ruthie lifted her lips at this, stomping her feet, giving a horse version of a laugh.
