In an instant, my world freezes.
That small, small world Tucker was speaking of only moments prior comes to a startling halt.
She’s here… in New Orleans.
How?
Why?
My mind is spinning as my eyes drink her in. It’s been five years—five long damn years—since she walked away from me, never looking back.
“Jette?” I ask, the nickname I gave her when we were teenagers slipping out of my mouth on a whisper.
Recognition dawns on her and causes her to gasp as a checklist of emotions flashes across her face—shock, confusion, embarrassment—but she never once acknowledges me. She doesn’t even say my name.
I’m not the masochistic kid I once was, so I don’t wait for her next move. If it’s anything like her last one, she’ll be gone without a trace… no forwarding address, no phone number… no email.
Just fucking… gone.
Quickly, I excuse myself and head back to my saxophone, the burn of Georgette’s abandonment from five years ago still stinging like it was yesterday. On autopilot, I look over my playlist, refusing to search the crowd for her—the last person I ever thought I’d see in New Orleans.
I’m a professional and well-versed in picking up the pieces left behind by Georgette Taylor. As they say in the industry, the show must go on. But a few minutes into my set, I can’t help but notice her.
Those blonde curls I’ve dreamt about for so long are hard to miss. And I catch sight of them just as she walks out the front door, not looking back.
Chapter Two
Georgette
I’m not sure why I run, but I do, all the way to the hotel I’m currently staying at. As I approach the front door, a man dressed in a suit greets me with a tip of his head and a smile. “Good evening, Miss.”
“Hi,” I breathe out, still panting from the unexpected physical exertion.
“Are you here for a party?” he asks, holding the door open for me as I stand there with my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath, like a dimwit.
In or out, Georgette, make up your mind.
“Uh, no,” I reply, shaking my head as I walk past him into the lobby. I was at a party, a perfectly lovely party with delicious food and festive drinks and nice people… and Finley Lawson.
Finley. Lawson.
In New Orleans.
How is that possible?
Of all the places in all the world.
“Spending New Year’s Eve alone?” he asks, a kind smile on his face.
“Seems that way.” I shrug, trying to blow it off, but inside I’m still reeling. I should’ve stayed at Lagniappe, but there’s no going back now. Besides, what would I say?
Sorry for running out on you… again?
The doorman resumes his post but not before tipping his head once more, sending me on my way with a polite greeting. “Have a good evening.” That’s pretty much been my experience thus far in New Orleans—so many nice people.
“You too,” I tell him, digging in my sparkly bag for my key card. “And Happy New Year.”
“Yes, Happy New Year.”
After a morning of flying, followed by a meeting with my new boss, and then an evening of meeting new people, I’m actually exhausted. So, it’s not a horrible thing to be back in my room before midnight. I’ll need the extra sleep to be ready for my first week on the job. According to Cami, I’ll be hitting the ground running.
The gallery is newly opened. She’s been doing everything herself while searching for the right person to hand it all over to while she has her baby… me. I’m that person.
Well, at least, she thinks I’m that person. I pray I’m that person. Up until now, I’ve held several positions at various galleries in New York, including my last job as an assistant buyer at Sotheby’s.
But I’ve never managed an entire gallery. By myself.
Cami knows that, though. I didn’t hold anything back from her in my multiple interviews. We spoke about everything from my education, which includes a degree in art management, to my internships. But what she seemed most interested in is my love of art.
And that’s what I ended up loving the most about her… and 303 Royal Street.
More than anything, I want to work with people who love art as much as I do. I want to be in a city that loves what I love, and that’s what made New Orleans feel like home the second I stepped out of the Uber and onto the sidewalk in front of the hotel that sits next door to the gallery.
Everything about this city screams creativity wrapped in culture.
Trevor, my boyfriend, said this was a step backward. I’ve been at Sotheby’s for the last two years, since I graduated from NYU. According to him, I should’ve stayed at Sotheby’s and worked my way up.
But that’s Trevor, he’s ambitious and driven. Those are two of the qualities that drew me to him, that and his stunning smile and ash-blond hair. He was handsome and he filled a gaping hole at the time. When we first started dating, I didn’t even want a relationship, so we were friends, which is how my two most important relationships have started—friendships that turned into more. But unlike my feelings for Finley, which came fast and furious, my feelings for Trevor were slow and subtle. Eventually, he was what was comfortable. He made me feel like I had a place to call mine. In a huge city, like New York City, that says something.
Staying at Sotheby’s and following Trevor’s advice was always a possibility. I could’ve done that. I probably would’ve been happy… or something close to it.
But one lonely night, when Trevor was working late, which had become more of a norm than an occasional thing, I felt something call to me. It was like a wild echo on the wind, something that reached deep down into my soul.
For the past couple of years, we’ve been at an impasse with our relationship. My job at Sotheby’s was growing stagnant. It felt like the world was turning around me and I was stuck in the middle, going nowhere.
That night, I got to daydreaming, one search leading to another, and before I knew it, I was on a website with listings of job opportunities. As I narrowed down the search to art manager and director positions, 303 Royal Street Art Gallery was the first listing.
Artist-owned and operated.
New Orleans, French Quarter.
Competitive salary.
And there was a personal note from the owner.
Hello,
I’m Camille Benoit-Landry and I’ve been an artist since I was five. There’s a good chance my blood has been replaced with paint. It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do, except for having a family. Which brings me to why I’m looking for a special person to help run my gallery. Just after the new year, I’ll be welcoming my third baby into the world, and my husband insists on me taking some time off. So, for a couple of months, I’ll be handing over the day-to-day duties of 303 Royal Street to someone else…
The note itself was out of the ordinary. Typically, you wouldn’t get that much insider information about a job opening, which is what caught my interest and attention. The rest of Cami’s personal message went on to describe the dynamic of the gallery, which is still in the newborn stage itself. Everything she described spoke to my soul—open to local artists, flexible hours, collaborative opportunities. It sounded fresh and bursting with possibilities.