They all responded the same way—with genuine pleasure and the kind of loyalty that came from being seen and valued. They had no idea who I was outside these walls. To them, I was just a successful businessman who owned a high-end jewelry shop. A man who appreciated good work and treated his employees well.
A client came in while I was there—a woman in her early thirties, nervous energy radiating off her. She was looking at engagement rings, and I could tell from the way she kept glancing at her phone that she was waiting for her fiancé to arrive.
I approached her with a warm smile.
“Welcome to Landry Designs,” I said. “Are you looking for something special today?”
“I’m—yes,” she said, her nervousness easing slightly at my tone. “My fiancé is supposed to meet me here. We’re looking at engagement rings. I wanted to see what you had before we decided.”
“You’ve come to the right place,” I said. “What’s your style? Classic? Modern? Something with a story?”
We talked for ten minutes. I showed her pieces, asked about her fiancé, and listened to her talk about their relationship. By the time her fiancé arrived, she was relaxed and smiling, and she’d already decided on a ring—a beautiful solitaire diamond in a white gold setting that caught the light like it was alive.
“You’re going to make her very happy,” I told the fiancé as he looked at the ring with the kind of awe that only came from a man about to propose.
“I hope so,” he said. “I’m terrified.”
I laughed—a real laugh. “That’s how you know it matters. The fear means you care.”
I left them with Drake to handle the paperwork and walked back to my office in the rear of the shop. The space was clean,organized, and decorated with photographs of custom pieces I’d designed over the years. There was a window that looked out onto the street, and I stood there for a moment, watching people pass by.
This was the other side of me. The side that created beauty instead of destruction. The side that made people smile instead of fear.
Both versions were real.
Both versions were necessary.
I pulled out my phone and checked the time. 4:47 PM. The shop would close in about an hour. I’d stay until closing, make sure everything was locked up properly, then head home.
But first, I had a moment of peace in this space where I could be something other than the monster whom NOLA feared.
I looked at the photographs on my wall—all the beautiful things I’d created, all the moments I’d helped make possible.
Then I thought about the blood on the tablecloth at the Sazerac Room.
About Dominic’s hand pinned to the mahogany table.
About the text I’d sent to Raymond:Schedule the interview. Friday. 2 PM.
Truth Renois, somewhere in the Seventh Ward, about to walk into my world without understanding what that meant.
I turned away from the window and headed back out to the shop floor.
“Everything good?” Vicki asked, looking up from her workbench.
“Everything’s perfect,” I said, and I meant it.
Both sides of me were satisfied.
For now.
The sun was setting over Magazine Street when I walked Vicki to the door. She was the last one out—David and Jennifer had left twenty minutes earlier, and Drake right behind them.
“You sure you don’t want me to stay and help lock up?” Vicki asked, pulling her purse onto her shoulder.
“I’m good,” I said, holding the door open for her. “Go home. Enjoy your evening.”
She smiled, that warm maternal smile she always gave me. “You work too hard, Mr. Landry.”
