12
After lunch, we wandered the Garden District, talking about architecture, Anne Rice, and some of the District’s other famous residents. John got a kick out of seeing the Mannings’ home and hearing the ghost stories the city was known for. I promised him we could do a haunted tour the next time he came to town.
The weather was lovely. Moderate temperature with a light breeze. Perfect walking weather, but not the whole way across the city to the French Quarter, so John had his car pick us up and drop us at the address I gave the driver.
“When I’d asked you to show me around, I hadn’t expected a cemetery tour.” John opened the car door for me.
“Trust me. You don’t want to miss this.” I climbed out of the car, and he followed, leaving his jacket behind. “Afterward, we can walk through the French Quarter and Jackson Square on the way to Café du Monde for beignets.”
I took his hand and pulled him through the crowd of tourists waiting to meet their guides. I let go when we reached the break in the concrete wall at the gated entrance, and I saw Antoine hurrying toward us.
“Hello, gorgeous.” He gripped my forearms and pressed a quick kiss to my cheeks. “I was so glad to get your call.”
I’d known Antoine since college. He was one of the best tour guides in the city, both because of his knowledge and a bit of showmanship. It didn’t hurt that the dark skin and hazel eyes he got from his Creole great-grandparents made susceptible tourists think of Anne Rice’s vampires when they saw him. Depending on the group, he didn’t work to disabuse them, playing up the supernatural lore of the city.
“I’m so glad you could meet us on such short notice. I want to introduce you to someone.” I gave Antoine’s shoulder a quick squeeze, before turning back to John, who’d come to stand right behind me. Closer than a normal client but not in an offensive, hovering way.
“This is John Essex.” I watched as the men shook hands, Antoine pulling himself up to match John’s energy. “He’s building a boutique hotel just outside the Quarter, and he wants to learn more about the city.”
“You’ve come to the right place. I can help you with that, and I know Elena can help you make your project beautiful.”
“I don’t doubt that,” John said, shifting his attention from Antoine to me.
The focus felt a bit like standing under a spotlight. One I wasn’t sure I wanted to bask in. John had been attentive and interesting. Charming with a bit of flirting. Almost perfect. But something felt off, and I couldn’t put my finger on it. Maybe it was the worry about him being a client. Maybe it was because Jake kept intruding in my thoughts because of our previous plans for the day.
“It might seem strange to start here at the cemetery, but it will give you a good sense of the history of the city. And in New Orleans, the dead are very much a part of our present.” Antoine held up his guide badge to the security agent at the gate andled us into the cemetery. “St. Louis No. 1 is the oldest existing cemetery in the city. It was established in the late 1700s on land considered too swampy to be of much use to the living.”
“Are the walls made of tombs?” asked John, motioning to the masonry walls made of stacked sealed openings. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but they look like pizza ovens.”
Antoine grinned and touched my hand. “I like this one. Perceptive and he’s not afraid to say what he thinks. But thoughtfully.”
John glanced between the two of us, a creased etching a line in his forehead.
“They’re called wall oven crypts,” I said, pausing for Antoine to elaborate.
“You’re kidding.” The crease on John’s forehead deepened and his expression shifted from discomfort to incredulity.
“Not at all. This city gets hot, and land is at a premium, as I’m sure you know.” Antoine tipped his head in John’s direction and slid into his tour guide’s cadence, his accent deepening. “When someone died, they were put in a simple wooden casket and sealed inside the crypt, either a wall crypt or one of the freestanding family ones.” He motioned to the small buildings surrounding us like a miniature city for the dead. “The crypt stayed sealed for a year and a day to give the body a chance to go through a slow cremation. At the end of the year, the tomb was opened and whatever was left was pushed to the back to make room for the next body.”
“Macabre but efficient.” John nodded and motioned for me to follow Antoine as he led us through the cemetery.
We walked every labyrinthine foot, down paths between family crypts. Antoine slipped in and out of his tour guide persona, alternating between sharing details about voodoo priestess Marie Laveau’s tomb and answering John’s questions about the history of the city and the complicated race relations.By the end of the tour, I was tired but satisfied with the decision to come, and John and Antoine seemed equally charmed by each other.
“Thank you so much. That was amazing.” John shook Antoine’s hand and slipped him what I assumed was an exceptional tip.
My friend waited until John shifted his attention back to the crypts before arching his eyebrows in a way that made it clear he thought this was more than a client-designer situation, and he’d be asking for details later.
He could ask, but I had no idea what I’d say.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to call for the car?” John’s palm brushed the small of my back as we left the cemetery and made our way past the line of tourists.
“It’s close enough to walk,” I said, trying to decide if I wanted to lean into or away from his touch.
When we reached the street, I didn’t have to decide. John took my hand and held it tight in his much larger one as we crossed Rampart. There was something protective in the way he positioned himself between the oncoming traffic and me. Under any other circumstance, I was pretty sure I’d like it.
I ignored my lack of response in favor of navigating our way to Jackson Square. We paused to listen to a woman belt out “Sunny Weather” accompanied by a piano someone had rolled into the street.
“This city is wild. I love it here.” John leaned close behind me, his mouth a few inches from my ear so I could hear him over the music.
