Author's Note:
It's so easy to become what you despise.
Over the years that I've read stories at various websites, one thing I've learned to hate is when I start reading a story, especially one that hooks me, only to have it stop suddenly. I recently started one that I was really enjoying, only to be horrified that it ended so abruptly. And it was one of the rare stories that I both really connected with and couldn't predict the ending to, so I felt horribly...betrayed is really the only word I can come up with. When I decided to start writing, I vowed to never be that author.
I originally intended to complete the story, When Love Takes Over before posting, but after starting writing again and spending so much time thinking and daydreaming about this story, I was too excited to wait and posted Chapter 1 soon after beginning Chapter 2. Besides, I reasoned, I did have the whole story outlined. What could go wrong?
Obviously a couple of things. One was a personal issue, the sudden illness and death of a family member. Another was something I had heard of, but didn't really believe until I had personal experience. I had heard authors talk about how characters they thought they had completely decided on can morph and change during writing, sometimes to the point of pushing against the original plotline. I am ashamed to admit that I thought that just meant they were undisciplined. "That wouldn't happen to me,: I thought smugly (and incorrectly as it turns out). At any rate, Brandon and Reed didn't behave exactly as I had planned, and it has taken me more time than I realized to reconcile their unexpectedly independent behavior with the story I had planned to tell. The intriguing thing is that though I've reconciled their personalities with my original storyline, I'm no longer 100% sure how it's all going to pan out.
I am sorry for the delay in Chapter 2, and I will endeavor to do my best to furnish the remaining chapters in a timely manner.
*****
I made my way through the tortuous maze of one way streets that make up New Orleans' Garden District, a labyrinth made even worse by the proliferation of pot holes (some large enough to swallow small cars whole) and the never ending street construction. My friends all tease me about driving like a little old man, but even I was impatient with the snail's pace I had been forced into by the various obstacles.
If I didn't get home soon, Reed would already have left for the airport, even though his flight wasn't until several hours. I've personally never been one of those waiting to the last minute, rushing through the airport types, but he had even me beat. I'd leave for the airport two hours before the flight. He wanted to actually be at the airport at the 2 hour point. In fact one of our few really major fights had occurred early in our relationship when I had offered to take him to the airport on a trip home to see his family. I had been held up at work and got to his house late; he was already pissed and upset, but then when we hit bad traffic, he lost his shit. I still made well before the 45 minute cut off, but he was furious, and threw himself out of the car without even a "goodbye" the moment I came to a stop. He called immediately upon landing to apologize and even sent flowers to me at work to say he was sorry, but I made sure never be in charge of his airport travel again.
After what seemed like an eternity, I finally dodged the final traffic hurdle, one of the many college aged students on bikes that blanket Uptown, one (without a helmet, of course) that was texting, wearing earbuds, and seemingly unaware that she was on an actual street and not one of the bike paths in Audubon Park, and pulled into a parking spot on the street in front of the house. Like many of the houses in this older part of town, it didn't have a separate garage, and we parked in the street or the circular brick paved drive in front of the house.
Reed's car, a black Mercedes convertible was parked there, as was the small black Mercedes SUV I normally drove (I was torn about the matching cars-with my eye for design detail, I had to admit the two black cars looked great in front of the red brick house with traditional white trim and matched the black front door and shutters, but I couldn't get past thinking they were pretentious at the same time). Today though, since I had been delivering some tile and various other supplies to the jobsite, I had been in my trusty old pickup, the same one I had had since first dating Reed and usually parked on the street. In addition to our cars in the drive, though, was a third car, also a black Mercedes, but this time a sedan ("God," I thought rolling my eyes at the row of similar cars as I got out of the truck and walked to the front door, "could Uptown people be anymore like sheep." Then it occurred to me that I was one now, and I promptly stopped the eye rolling)
Our house wasn't on St. Charles, but had a desirable spot a block or two from it. It wasn't one of the great mansions or antebellum gems that line much of that street, but being built in the 1920s, its red brick facade had a lovely patina, and it was graciously proportioned, though far too big for just the two of us. It was handsome, though, I had to admit as I walked to the leaded glass front door. Built in the Neoclassical style popular in the twenties and thirties, it had a perfectly symmetrical facade.
It was a center hall style, with a hall wide enough for a seating area across from the staircase, and the french doors that opened to the back yard were positioned so that you had a direct view of the courtyard, pool, and pool house from the front entrance. To the right, an opening led to the huge dining room that had a table that could accommodate sixteen. Beyond that was a butler's pantry, a large kitchen, and a breakfast area.
To the left was a large room, that I had reconfigured into a library/office, with floor to ceiling bookshelves. Behind it was tucked the graceful stairs that curved to the second floor; I had replaced the bulky wooden railing with a much more refined metal one that had been silver leafed and glazed (by yours truly) to a soft silver gilt. The back of the house had an enormous sunken living room with a built in bar tucked into one corner. All the rooms were decorated in the approved Uptown style-polished pale marble floors, creamy neutral wall colors except for the library which had been lacquered in a deep blue-green, a mix of antique furniture and plush upholstery which had been slipcovered in Belgian linen, all mixed with contemporary art and accessories.
It was beautiful, but honestly, I found it all a bit cold. I had much preferred the BoHo comfort of our first house, but I had agreed with Reed that our house's decor needed to reflect the kind of interiors our potential clients wanted, and this was it. The bedrooms upstairs were more of the same, except for the pair of battered brown leather armchairs (they had been my first purchase for my apartment after Katrina and my first major furniture purchase ever) tucked into the guestroom. The sinfully comfortable chairs were about the only furniture that had survived the various moves over the years.
The best part of the house though, and the only part I truly loved, was the courtyard. Except for the perimeter planting beds, it was paved in red brick that had been bleached by 100 years of sun. The same brick made up the walls that surrounded it, but they had been covered by vines of creeping fig. The same creeping fig crept up the small pool house that served as our primary guest quarters since it contained a small kitchen and full bath in addition to a large bedroom/ sitting area. But the best part was the the small, but serviceable pool. Here was where I spent much of my time, either in the pool or lounging in the shaded porch off the guest house.
Today, though, I wasn't spending much time thinking about the decor. I was anxious to see if Reed was still here (he sometimes took cabs to the airport, so his car still being in the drive was no indication he hadn't left) and wondering who the other car belonged too. It looked familiar, but since Uptown was littered with very similar black Mercedes sedans, only vaguely familiar.
Upon entering, I heard voices in the library. They stopped when they heard me entering. I heard Reed say, "Hello?"
"It's me," I answered, stepping toward his voice. When I entered the room, I stopped for a moment and stared at him for a bit, as I often did. He was just so handsome. And he liked dressing up, even for travel, so with his expensive, dark washed jeans, he wore a slim cut jacket over a button down shirt, accented with a knitted tie. His sartorial elegance made me painfully aware of my own paint stained jeans and battered work boots. His luggage, a Louis Vuitton duffle and hanging bag in charcoal canvas lay on the sofa. I went over and gave him a quick hug and kiss. I was disappointed he had company ("There goes any chance of a quickie," I thought), but was glad to at least get the chance to give him a proper goodbye, since I had been in such a rush this morning.
