By the time I find a parking spot in the Quarter, two blocks away from my apartment, the weight of the day has me dragging ass to my gate that reminds me altogether too much of the wrought iron marking the entrance to Haven. It seems like everything reminds me of it today, or maybe I just don’t want to forget last night.
It’s already nearly seven when I unlock the gate and carry my bag down the narrow brick pathway leading into the enclosed courtyard out back. Music from Harriet’s open window—opera, of course—greets me as I stop and survey what looks like a party in the making.
“Tempe, girl, that you?” Harriet calls from the outdoor table where a lavish buffet is set up under a huge live oak draped with thick blankets of Spanish moss and resurrection fern. Fairy lights and solar-powered Chinese lanterns dangle from the branches, and the tinkle of the fountains and the koi pond are the only sounds beyond the noise of the city and the music. The blue water of the small splash pool reflects the lights, adding ambience.
I jerk my head, looking around for the other guests, worried I’m interrupting, but no one else is here. At least, not yet.
“Are you having a party?”
Interacting with humans tonight, beyond my landlady, might be more than I can handle.
She lifts her champagne flute with a shake of her head. “Party? No. Not tonight. Come join me.”
The decadent setup of the table would seem extravagant for one person by anyone else’s standards, but one thing Harriet believes in is embracing life and enjoying every moment. Calling for a takeaway spread like this for herself shouldn’t surprise me at all.
She’s the one person who I might actually be able to spill my entire story to and get real, valid advice on the situation Valentina has presented me with. Harriet’s a shrewd businesswoman who owns a few shops in the Quarter, but doesn’t run any of them herself. Instead, she spends her time painting and traveling the world.
“You have another wineglass?”
Tilting her head back, she laughs. “Silly question.”
She produces one from behind the centerpiece on the table and reaches for a bottle of champagne resting on ice. A knot of tension in my upper back loosens a few degrees. She pours, almost letting it overflow, before handing it off to me as I approach.
As she raises her glass to clink the rim of mine, she says, “Champagne is the answer tonight. I don’t care what the question is. You can write that down if you’d like. Feel free to refer to it whenever you look like you’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders like you do now. You need to get laid more often, girl.”
I choke on the perfectly crisp, bubbly liquid and lower the glass as I cough. “Thanks for the tip.”
“You need more than the tip. You need a guy who knows what the hell he’s doing. Preferably by multiple guys so you can compare styles. But not at the same time.” She grins at me with a wink. “Unless you’re into that sort of thing.”
“Umm ... I’ll get right on that ...” I trail off and realize I probably should have chosen my words with more care.
“You’re damn right you will. Find a man and climb on top to ride.”
I’m tempted to drain this glass, but out of respect for the pricey label on the bottle, I take a sip instead.
“This is delicious, by the way.” At this point, I’m ready to change the subject to just about anything.
“Of course it is. I don’t swill from the twist-off bottles. I’m not sixty anymore.”
Harriet’s comment scares up a chuckle from my throat. She’s truly one of my most favorite people in the world.
“You’re sure there’s no special occasion we’re celebrating tonight with this fancy spread?” I ask the question more to make conversation than anything else.
“It’s ...” She looks at me, her brow wrinkled. “What day of the week is it?”
“Friday.”
She gestures with her glass. “It’s finally Friday! Or Fri-yay, as I like to call it. Isn’t that all the reason we need? Not that one needs a reason to celebrate still kicking around on this spinning bit of rock hurtling through the universe.”
“Fair enough.” I lift the glass to my lips again and sip, letting the crisp wine smooth some of the battered edges of my soul.
It’s not usually my MO to take solace in alcohol, but tonight ... tonight I’m not sure I care. It’s not like I’m drinking whiskey, the devil that dragged my dad under. Seven Sinners was his label of choice when he had the money, which he rarely did.
Makes my job kind of ironic, doesn’t it?
Harriet picks up a bone china plate emblazoned with skulls and flowers and loads it with delicacies.
“Here, try this aged cheddar. It’s decadent. And these grapes taste like they came straight off the vine. Speaking of vines, I bought a vineyard this morning.”