Passion's Song. Farrah Rochon
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skills with the new café and there are a number of the older kids who have part-time jobs this summer. But many of them don’t know anything about savings or taxes. These are life skills.”
April couldn’t deny that it was definitely needed. Just yesterday she’d had to explain what FICA was to a group of kids who were comparing their first pay stubs. Rashad Parker said he’d borrowed money to buy a new video game from his uncle based on his hourly wage, not realizing that he wouldn’t get the entire amount in his paycheck.
This foray into the work world was a first for many of the kids there. They had a lot to learn, and Damien was well equipped to teach them.
But to convince Damien to come out to the Ninth Ward on a weekly basis?
April still couldn’t believe he’d made the trek to this part of town this morning. He may have purchased land here, but she knew better than to think it would change his feelings about their old neighborhood. Damien had deep-rooted disdain for this area, and for good reason. These streets had taken an awful toll on his family.
She’d tried to explain to him over the two years since they’d both returned to New Orleans that this neighborhood had changed for the better, yet it was as if he suddenly lost his hearing whenever she started. He supported her efforts to make a difference in the lives of the kids who lived here; however, donating money seemed to be the extent of what he was willing to do. April doubted she could ever convince Damien to voluntarily spend time here.
Unless...
A smile tipped up the corners of April’s lips. Why hadn’t she thought of this before?
“Give me a day or two, ladies. I just might have the perfect way to convince Damien Alexander to volunteer at A Fresh Start.”
* * *
April made a left onto South Peters and then a quick right, driving up to the towering parking garage at One Canal Place. She knew Alexander Properties was located in the high-rise at the base of Canal Street, but it wasn’t until she’d had to look it up on Google to find the suite number that it occurred to April that, in the two years since Damien moved his real estate firm from Houston to New Orleans, she hadn’t once visited his office.
High-end retailers, the ones she used to patronize back when she played some of the most prestigious music halls in the world and was required to wear ball gowns to work, occupied the first two floors of the building. April much preferred her current dress code.
The elevator bank that led to the attached office building was packed with business-attired people all staring intently at the descending numbers above the elevator doors. April would have taken the stairs if Damien weren’t on the very top floor. Although, considering the amount of people waiting for the elevator, it would probably take the same amount of time to reach his office.
After seeing three elevators come and go before she could finally squeeze into one, April still had to wait through more than a dozen stops as they ascended to the thirty-first floor.
She should be grateful for the long trek to Damien’s office. It gave her time to mull over the proposition she would soon present to him. April was fully prepared for Damien to send her marching out of his office—figuratively, at least. Even though he said he didn’t want to go the ex-girlfriend route, she knew he had his pick of other women he could call on to accompany him to events this summer.
But she’d sensed desperation in his eyes when he’d come to see her at A Fresh Start this morning. Something in the way he’d pleaded with her said that this went deeper than just having a woman on his arm. April planned to make that desperation work to her advantage.
She was the elevator’s sole occupant by the time it arrived on the top floor. She made her way down the hallway to the suite bearing the Alexander Properties logo, with the capital A and P overlapping. April allowed herself to indulge in a moment of pride. She’d helped Damien pick this logo five years ago, when he branched off from the national real estate firm he’d worked for since graduating from college and started his own company.
The door opened before she could reach for the handle, and a plump Melissa McCarthy lookalike with hot-pink horn-rimmed glasses and bright red lipstick came out.
“Oh, hello there,” she greeted. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, I’m here to see Damien Alexander,” April said.
The woman’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, and it occurred to April that this office might have experienced an uptick in women showing up at the door to see Damien since the release of that top ten bachelors article.
“Oh!” The woman snapped her fingers. “Now I remember who you are! You’re on that magazine cover.”
April’s head jerked back in surprise. “Me?”
“Yeah. You’re the cellist. Ms. Knight, right?”
“Yes. April,” she said.
The woman held out her hand. “I’m Clarissa, the office manager here. You were on the cover of some classical-music magazine a few years back. Damien has a copy he keeps on the credenza in his office.”
April’s heart skipped a beat. An array of emotions cascaded through her at the thought of Damien holding on to a copy of the obscure magazine she’d been featured in years ago. She didn’t realize he’d even run across it, seeing as only true classical music devotees normally read it.
Clarissa held up a finger. “Give me just one sec.” She looked past April. “Hi, Ryan.”
A young blond guy in his early twenties walked toward them, a bicycle helmet tucked under one arm and a messenger bag slung over his shoulder. Right Away Courier Services was embroidered across the front flap.
Clarissa signed the form attached to a clipboard, then took the sealed envelope that was handed to her. “Thanks, Ryan. I’ll see you again next week.”
She stared at the blond as he retreated down the hallway, her eyes clearly focused on a certain part of his anatomy.
Clarissa clucked her tongue. “God, I love summer. The khaki pants just don’t fit him as well as those butt-hugging shorts do.” She nodded toward the door. “Follow me. Damien’s on a conference call but he should be done in a minute.”
Upon entering the office, April declined a seat on the white suede-like love seat, choosing instead to stand while she perused the sparse yet elegant lobby area. The receptionist’s desk was a huge semicircle that encompassed most of the small entryway, done in what looked like the aluminum roofing that was used on older houses when April was growing up. It was topped with beautiful jade-tinted frosted glass.
April was a bit surprised by the decor. She’d pegged Damien as one who would prefer rich, dark wood over glass-and-steel ultramodern furnishings. But then it occurred to her that she had not spent enough time with him over the years to know if this was his style or not.
The realization caused a pang of sadness to ring through her. Their lives had turned out so differently from those teenage fantasies she used to indulge in, back when she imagined herself and Damien married with two-point-five kids, living in a nice house in Old Metairie or in Algiers Point. She’d imagined herself as a member of the Louisiana Philharmonic Orchestra while Damien played football for the New Orleans Saints.
At least she’d had the opportunity to perform as a soloist with the LPO at Gallier Hall years ago. It was the closest she’d come to living out at least one part of those long-ago dreams.
Clarissa disconnected from the call she’d taken the moment they walked into the office.
“Let me buzz Damien for you,” she said. “His conference call should have ended by now.”
“If he’s busy, I can wait. I don’t have an appointment, so I don’t want to infringe on his time if he’s in the middle of something.”
And wouldn’t that be a great excuse to back out of the deal she was preparing to propose?
Clarissa