degree of security. She expected to be polite to Kirk Remington, but cool and distant.
A smile teased her lips when she thought about the irony of going out with the rich, high and mighty Kirk Remington in her twenty-four dollar bargain basement dress. No doubt the women Kirk Remington took to dinner wore designer originals from Paris or Rome. But, what the heck—she wasn’t out to impress the man. He knew she was just a poor musician. One look at this third-rate hotel room when he came to pick her up would be evidence enough of her financial status.
The dingy room didn’t bother her very much. True, it was not much larger than a walk-in closet. A single bed, a battered dresser and one chair left very little room to move about. The rug was threadbare, the wallpaper streaked and faded. But there was a tiny balcony overlooking a typical French Quarter courtyard filled with banana trees and tropical plants. And for that, Lilly forgave the room all its other shortcomings.
She slipped on her brown trench coat and stepped out on her minuscule balcony. She felt the cold touch of the wrought-iron grillwork under her palms as she leaned against the railing, looking down at the courtyard, then across the rooftops of the Vieux Carré. The sunset filled the sky with blood red streaks. Again a damp mist was in the air, lending a soft aura to the ancient buildings. She felt the chilling touch of the mist on her cheeks.
More than that, she felt the mood of the city, the heartbeat of this ancient setting with its character of fun and wickedness. She was acutely aware of the mingling of time, of past and present. She could hear the clop-clop of a horse-drawn sightseer’s carriage down the mist slick cobblestone streets and imagined it was carrying caped and gowned aristocrats of another century past street corner gas lights to the French Opera House. The ghosts of slaves, freebooters, plantation owners, dashing Confederate cavalry officers, and Storyville harlots moved wraith-like in the early fog that swirled in across the levee from the Mississippi. They mingled with twentieth century artists, tourists, merchant seamen, jazz musicians, nightclub strippers and antique-shop owners.
She watched as night fell and the mist created soft halos around the street lights. She had the eerie feeling that a single incantation from a voodoo queen could evaporate the present, and she would find herself back in the wicked days of the Storyville red light district. She could almost hear Jelly Roll Morton playing in one of the bordellos and see the beautiful octoroon ladies-of-the-evening in the mahogany paneled rooms of Lulu White’s sporting house.
A strange mood possessed her. It was as if she were having an out-of-body experience, leaving the limitations of time and space behind. She saw herself and Jimmy LaCross, walking together down the streets of this romantic city in other times and places. Had they been lovers before, in another lifetime? Was that why she was eager to give her heart to him now, subconsciously remembering the passion they had shared in another existence?
Perhaps she had been a southern Creole belle, and he a dashing Confederate cavalry officer home on leave. Their last hours together had been intense, snatched from a fate that would take him back into battle. They had shared passionate kisses and embraces. They might have known each other intimately in a bed in this very room. Her face warmed with a blush at that fantasy.
Or, maybe he had been a musician playing in the honky-tonks of the old Storyville red light district and she had been his woman.
But the face of her lover in the fantasies became confused with another. The image of Kirk Remington began to intrude, to take over her daydream. He became a Rhett Butler, a blockade runner and freebooter, striding through the streets on a mission of international intrigue. They met secretly, and he rode with her over the cobblestone streets in a carriage that took them to a
A smile teased her lips when she thought about the irony of going out with the rich, high and mighty Kirk Remington in her twenty-four dollar bargain basement dress. No doubt the women Kirk Remington took to dinner wore designer originals from Paris or Rome. But, what the heck—she wasn’t out to impress the man. He knew she was just a poor musician. One look at this third-rate hotel room when he came to pick her up would be evidence enough of her financial status.
The dingy room didn’t bother her very much. True, it was not much larger than a walk-in closet. A single bed, a battered dresser and one chair left very little room to move about. The rug was threadbare, the wallpaper streaked and faded. But there was a tiny balcony overlooking a typical French Quarter courtyard filled with banana trees and tropical plants. And for that, Lilly forgave the room all its other shortcomings.
She slipped on her brown trench coat and stepped out on her minuscule balcony. She felt the cold touch of the wrought-iron grillwork under her palms as she leaned against the railing, looking down at the courtyard, then across the rooftops of the Vieux Carré. The sunset filled the sky with blood red streaks. Again a damp mist was in the air, lending a soft aura to the ancient buildings. She felt the chilling touch of the mist on her cheeks.
More than that, she felt the mood of the city, the heartbeat of this ancient setting with its character of fun and wickedness. She was acutely aware of the mingling of time, of past and present. She could hear the clop-clop of a horse-drawn sightseer’s carriage down the mist slick cobblestone streets and imagined it was carrying caped and gowned aristocrats of another century past street corner gas lights to the French Opera House. The ghosts of slaves, freebooters, plantation owners, dashing Confederate cavalry officers, and Storyville harlots moved wraith-like in the early fog that swirled in across the levee from the Mississippi. They mingled with twentieth century artists, tourists, merchant seamen, jazz musicians, nightclub strippers and antique-shop owners.
She watched as night fell and the mist created soft halos around the street lights. She had the eerie feeling that a single incantation from a voodoo queen could evaporate the present, and she would find herself back in the wicked days of the Storyville red light district. She could almost hear Jelly Roll Morton playing in one of the bordellos and see the beautiful octoroon ladies-of-the-evening in the mahogany paneled rooms of Lulu White’s sporting house.
A strange mood possessed her. It was as if she were having an out-of-body experience, leaving the limitations of time and space behind. She saw herself and Jimmy LaCross, walking together down the streets of this romantic city in other times and places. Had they been lovers before, in another lifetime? Was that why she was eager to give her heart to him now, subconsciously remembering the passion they had shared in another existence?
Perhaps she had been a southern Creole belle, and he a dashing Confederate cavalry officer home on leave. Their last hours together had been intense, snatched from a fate that would take him back into battle. They had shared passionate kisses and embraces. They might have known each other intimately in a bed in this very room. Her face warmed with a blush at that fantasy.
Or, maybe he had been a musician playing in the honky-tonks of the old Storyville red light district and she had been his woman.
But the face of her lover in the fantasies became confused with another. The image of Kirk Remington began to intrude, to take over her daydream. He became a Rhett Butler, a blockade runner and freebooter, striding through the streets on a mission of international intrigue. They met secretly, and he rode with her over the cobblestone streets in a carriage that took them to a
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