I didn’t recognize the guy earlier, but now it’s obvious that it’s Preston Westcott. He looks like a younger version of his dad. He’s the kid who made Lauren cry the other night.
“Do you know her or something?” Brittany asks, and I realize she’s studying my face. I don’t know what she sees, but it’s enough to make me turn and refocus on the notes scattered across my coffee table.
“I’m renting this apartment from her parents.”
She frowns and tips her head. “That doesn’t really explain it.”
“What?”
“The creep-o way you were looking at a high school girl.”
“What are you implying? If you must know, she confided something in me the other day, and I feel a little protective over her.”
“Yeah, okay.” She chuckles. “Still, maybe you shouldn’t drive around any playgrounds for a while. I think 500 feet is the typical—”
My eyes narrow. “Drop it, Brittany.”
Her gaze widens in shock. I’m not usually so curt. “Whoa.” She holds her hands up in innocence. “All right. I was just making a joke.”
“That’s not really the best material. Again, stick to your day job.”
“Holy shit, Beau. Chill out.” She’s shocked. I’ve never been so brusque with her before; I’ve never really had a reason to. “Where were we? Chapter 14?”
I’m not quite ready to play nice, so I turn and pin my gaze back to my notes.
“I’m on 15.”
LATER THAT WEEK, Mr. LeBlanc invites me to dinner. They’re hosting the Westcotts, and Mr. LeBlanc thinks it’s a good opportunity for me to introduce myself and get on the mayor’s radar. After all, upward mobility in this city is more about who you know than what you know.
I find my best black suit, the one I usually wear during mock trials when I want to seem especially intimidating. It was a gift from my mom for Christmas two years ago. She must have scrimped and saved for it all year long. At the time, I tried to insist that she return it and buy one half the price. Hell, even a suit that cost one-fourth of the price would have worked, but she wouldn’t budge. She wanted me to look the part.
When I head over to the main house, I find Mrs. LeBlanc in the kitchen finishing up last-minute prep. I’m not surprised that she’s outsourced the cooking to a catering company. There’s a chef flitting around the kitchen, whipping and chopping while waiters polish china and set the table.
I tap my knuckles on the doorframe to announce myself and Mrs. LeBlanc glances up with a wide smile.
“Beau! You look so handsome.”
I smile and thank her as her hands fly up to touch her hair, still up in rollers. “And look at me! I’m not even close to being ready yet! Oh gosh, would you mind staying down here and overseeing the prep? You know where most everything is if they need a platter or glassware, right? If not, Lauren should be down in just a second.” She tips her head toward the stairs and raises her voice. “Lauren! Are you almost ready?”
“Coming! Coming!” Lauren says, her voice carrying down the hall.
A moment later she’s there standing in the doorway of the kitchen, blonde curls tumbling down around her shoulders. She’s wearing a dark red dress, the hem going well past her knees. It’s boxy and ill-fitting, but worse than that, she’s wearing what I can only describe as Halloween makeup on her face.
Mrs. LeBlanc slaps a hand against her mouth to keep her laughter contained. “Lauren, I thought we’d moved past the smoky eye phase? You know this is going to end up like the fake eyelash debacle that landed you in the ER.”
Lauren pouts. “I thought I did it better this time—I followed the instructions on the back of the makeup.”
Mrs. LeBlanc grabs her shoulders and spins her back around. “Let me just say this: I know only two people who can pull off that much eyeshadow—Bette Davis and Johnny Depp.”
I chuckle under my breath as her mom leads Lauren back upstairs, presumably to wash her face. I don’t know why she even bothers with that stuff. She doesn’t really need it.
Mr. LeBlanc comes down a few minutes later and invites me to join him in the formal living room. A waiter is standing at the threshold with cocktails, and I eagerly accept one. It’s been a while since I’ve had anything other than cheap beer. After we toast, I take a small sip of the gin and tonic. It’s somewhat bitter, slightly sweet, and it goes down smooth—the mark of something top shelf.
“Good, right?” he asks me.
I nod and take another sip. We discuss law school and my aspirations after I finish while we wait for the rest of his guests. He’s surprised to find that I won’t be pursuing law as a full-time career.
“Most people study business or economics before starting an investment firm,” I explain. “Then they spend half of their money on overpriced lawyers. I always figured it made sense to be my own counsel.”
He chuckles and takes a sip of his drink. “I knew you had a tenacious spirit when I first met you. Westcott is going to like that.”
It’s another few minutes before the doorbell rings. I stand to accompany Mr. LeBlanc into the foyer and then he pulls open the door and welcomes his guests: Mr. and Mrs. Westcott, along with their son, Preston. I’m surprised to see him hovering behind his dad, fidgeting with the uncomfortable sweater vest that’s pressing his bow tie into his neck.
“Mitch, it’s good to see you,” Mr. Westcott says, stepping into the house.
He’s taller than his son, barrel-chested with a booming voice. His white hair is parted to the right and his blue eyes are piercing and incisive as they sweep past Mr. LeBlanc and land on me. “This must be young Mr. Fortier. Good to meet you, son.”
“Call me Beau.” I accept his hand and offer him a firm handshake, careful not to apply too much pressure. There’s an art to first impressions, and I can tell by the approval in his eyes that I’ve not missed the mark.
“What is it that you do, Beau?”
“He’s in his final year at Tulane Law,” Mr. LeBlanc supplies for me, sounding like a proud father rather than my landlord. “After that, he’s planning on taking the New Orleans financial world by storm.”
Mr. Westcott nods, still assessing me. “With a face like that you should be in politics, not wasting away in dreary old finance,” he says with a chuckle.
“I’ll take the compliment.” I laugh. “But it seems to me that nowadays finance and politics are almost one and the same.”
He turns to Mr. LeBlanc. “See that charm? He’d be a great politician!”
I catch Preston narrowing his eyes at me, seemingly annoyed with the situation. I don’t have time to read into it though because Lauren is dashing back down the stairs, fresh-faced and anxious to join the group. Her gaze sweeps from me to Preston and then back again. Her eyes drag down my suit, and I spot a little blush at the tops of her cheeks.
“Lauren, come say hello to Lori and William,” her father says, wrapping a protective arm around her shoulders and tugging her in close.
Mrs. Westcott steps forward and beams. “It’s good to see you, sweetie. How are you enjoying your junior year?”
“It’s been going well,” Lauren says with a quiet voice. “I’m about to start going on college tours.”
“I wish Preston would take the same initiative,” Mrs. Westcott says, throwing a teasing glance back to her son, who’s still hovering behind his dad. “Preston, come say hello. Stop sulking in the background.”
Preston throws his mother a disdainful glare but steps forward nonetheless.
“Hi Preston,” Lauren says with a tentative smile.
He nods in her direction but remains quiet, opting to stare past us into the dining room with his hands stuffed in his pockets.
Mrs. LeBlanc joins the group and we move toward the formal living room. Cocktails flow, though Lauren and Preston are limited to some kind of pink lemonade. Preston rolls his eyes as he takes his glass off the waiting tray, as if it’s silly that he can’t drink with the adults. I wonder if they snuck alcohol at the pool party the other day. My friends and I were definitely drinking at 17, but Lauren seems so much younger than I remember being at that age.