Ramona looks at me with eyes wide open. I know the look means to stop, but sometimes I’m a little bit of an ass. “I’m not on your schedule, Carol. I’m not on anyone’s schedule.” Carol turns, leading our pack the last block toward the café. It’s clear that I’ve angered her, but I don’t care. It’s certainly not the first time, and I doubt it will be the last.
“Don’t turn around, but I think someone is following us,” Helen whispers.
I turn, seeing a group of older women, several men covered in oil and dirt, and a family casually strolling the streets, all obviously heading toward the café. “Who are you talking about?”
“God, Violet. I said not to turn around!” she whisper-yells.
“You know listening is not one of Violet’s strong points,” Ramona says with a laugh.
“You might as well have told me to turn around and look,” I answer, agreeing with my bestie. “Who do you think is following us, the family, the workers just getting off shift, or the old women?”
“You don’t see him?” Helen asks.
“Who?” I turn, searching for the mysterious stranger.
Helen moves to my side. “There’s a man. He has long hair and looks out of place.” It’s then that I see him. She’s right. He looks like he’s from another world. He holds himself like he’s in a grand ballroom at St. Charles Avenue, rather than the gritty world of the French Quarter. His out-of-place clothes are the first thing I notice.
He’s wearing a charcoal-colored suit that’s perfectly tailored and fits him like a glove, double-breasted and the fabric, catching the faintest hint of sunlight, whispers money and class. His shirt is crisp white linen, and he’s wearing gloves…gloves. The kind that are worn by men who are not meant to work with their hands. Long dark hair is tied at the nape of his neck. His style is far too unconventional for a Southern gentleman, and yet he wears it with such confidence that it feels deliberate.
Whoever he is, he doesn’t belong here. Yet, it’s clear he’s not lost.
“Violet, quit staring,” Helen warns. “He’ll see you.”
“I’m not sure if I mind him seeing me,” I answer. On cue, a faint smile forms on his lips…almost as if he can hear our conversation.
“We’re here and only eight minutes behind schedule. Everyone, decide what you want quickly,” Carol orders.
“It’s not like there’s an overwhelming amount of items to choose from. I think I’ll have a beignet and coffee,” I answer, sarcasm filling my tone.
“I’ll have the same,” the rest of the girls agree.
I glance behind us, searching for the well-dressed man, and realize he’s gone. Disappointment fills me. We order and find a table large enough for all of us. While the rest of my friends sit prim and proper, the way a lady should, I lean back in my chair, crossing my legs at the knee. My grandmother probably just did a flip in her grave, but would she be surprised by my stubbornness? Probably not.
Our group spends the next half hour sharing stories of childhood, of our matching bridesmaids’ dresses, and what a beautiful bride Ramona will be. I’ve managed to eat three beignets with a minimal amount of powdered sugar covering me.
“Look at you,” Lily says, pointing at the sugar making its home on my bare skin.
“Maybe that guy will help wipe it off,” Helen teases.
“Oh, my God, Helen.” Carol covers her mouth indisgust. “Why must you talk about something so vulgar?”
“Carol, sex isn’t vulgar,” I retort. “It’s something that’s supposed to happen. It’s what we were made for.”
“Our bodies were not made to defile,” Carol argues.
“How do you think you were born?” Ramona asks, making me smile. “Unless you’re the long-lost sister of Jesus, you were conceived the same way as the rest of us.” Carol scoffs while wiping powdered sugar from her lap.
“There he is,” Helen whispers, as the man joins the line to order. “See, I told you he was following us.”
“Just because he’s at the same public restaurant doesn’t mean he’s following us. We’re in a large city with thousands of people.” Ramona speaks words of wisdom.
I focus on keeping my eyes level as he places his order. “Has Jonathan told you where the honeymoon will be yet?” Lily asks the bride-to-be.
Ramona smiles, showcasing sugar-covered lips. “No, but I think I’ve figured it out.” She claps her hands, throwing white powder everywhere. “Paris,” she says with a wide smile. “He’s taking me to Paris!”
“Oh, my,” Lily answers. “Are you sure?”
“No, but he asked me a few facts about the Eiffel Tower and mentioned I needed dresses like the French women wear.” Ramona’s smile covers her face.
