The Beau & The Belle Page 11

  Of course my mom enables her, and together, they turn to party talk. Instead of joining, I go to the fridge and play a game of If I Eat This, Will I Die? while looking for a snack. I decide an apple is safe and chomp down on it as loudly as possible in the hopes that it blocks out their voices. The party is all my mom has talked about for the last few weeks and if I have to hear the details one more time, I’m going to go to the bus terminal and fulfill that psychic’s premonition. Fortunately, it doesn’t take them long to shift from party talk to Rose’s life in Boston. My mom is doing her best to convince Rose to move back to New Orleans, though it’ll never happen. Rose loves her life up north, her career, and her friends. Also, the men. Nothing has changed since high school. For the last decade, I’ve listened to Rose talk about her dating life in excruciating detail—every kiss, every tussle between the sheets. She’s never had a shortage of lovers. Meanwhile, I’ve had Clark, the well-mannered accountant—the bore. I don’t think he ever touched me without asking my permission first, and while consent is great, I don’t think I need to sign on the dotted line before every single kiss.

  Rose spent her early 20s figuring out her likes and dislikes in the bedroom. I spent my early 20s figuring out if I prefer deep dish or stuffed-crust. My findings: I like pizza. I can’t help but feel like I have catching up to do in the love department. I’m starved for a passionate lover. I need Fabio without all the hair. I need Pepé Le Pew without the smell. I need a certain unrequited teenage crush to fucking requite itself.

  DON’T, my brain warns. Do NOT go there.

  But it’s too late. I can’t stop myself. Every so often, my mind wanders to memories of him that still linger, memories of what it was like to be in love with someone when I was so young and foolish. It doesn’t help that I’m standing here in the kitchen, a place where my flickering memories are easily resurrected into 3D technicolor.

  My cheeks grow hot and I press my palms to them, trying to ease whatever sensation is building inside me. My mom asks me if I’m going through early menopause, and I threaten to have her put in a nursing home.

  “I mean, I think the whole use-it-or-lose-it hypothesis is scientifically proven,” Rose points out. “You might actually be drying up.”

  I ignore her, all the while trying to convince myself to forget about Beau. I repeat the same mantra I’ve used ever since I first moved away to Connecticut for boarding school. At this point, the words have branded my soul: It was just a few months. I hardly knew him. And then I add something new: I hardly knew myself! I mean, I thought Evanescence would be around forever, along with Justin Timberlake’s tight frosted curls! Such rationalizations don’t matter though. They’re futile at best, delusional at worst, because over the last 10 years, I’ve replayed every one of our encounters in my mind a hundred times, spinning each one into fantasies and dreams so much that I can’t even remember what was real and what I’ve fabricated.

  Did he really teach me to dance in here, late at night with the setting sun seeping in between the trees?

  Have I ever had a romantic experience as an adult that has even come close to that? One time for my birthday, Clark bought me a couple’s massage. It was a nice thought until he tapped out three minutes in for being too ticklish. For the remainder of my massage, I could hear him arguing for a partial refund in the lobby.

  I turn toward the refrigerator to get some tea and my gaze sweeps past the window above the sink toward the house across the street. I shiver. It hasn’t changed at all in the years I’ve been gone. Beautiful. Stately. Everything a home in the Garden District should be: Italianate, two-storied with white columns, dark shutters, ornate woodwork, and lush gardens. Heavy oak trees shade the property and when I take a hesitant step closer to the sink, I finally notice the proud sign hanging on the scrolling cast-iron fence: SOLD.

  ANGEL OF INVESTMENT

  Homegrown hero speeds hurricane recovery

  FOR TOURISTS AMBLING through the vibrant French Quarter today, it’s hard to remember the devastation wrought by Hurricane Audrey. This is thanks to the many first responders, charitable organizations, and everyday people who have lent hands on the road to New Orleans’ recovery. But, as local business owners look back on the tenth anniversary of the costliest natural disaster in American history, many say they owe their redemption specifically to one young entrepreneur.

  “My doors would not be open today without Beau Fortier,” said Joel Milne, the owner and operator of Lafayette’s, a restaurant that’s been a fixture in the area for years. “It’s as simple as that.”

  Beau Fortier, 35, is the co-founder and CEO of Crescent Capital, a New Orleans-based investment company. In addition to traditional venture capital and angel investing, Fortier’s firm specializes in what he likes to call “resurrection capital”.

  “The vast majority of bankruptcy filings after Audrey hit were businesses that were thriving before the storm,” explained Fortier from his spacious corner office overlooking the French Quarter. “They were healthy companies that just needed a hand to get back on their feet, but the big banks had written the whole city off.”

  Fortier claims that this national reluctance to reinvest in the city unnecessarily exacerbated the growing unemployment and homelessness crises. He felt a deep kinship with those distressed by the circumstances, a bond that goes back generations to the city’s antebellum history.

  His great-great-great-grandfather, William Fortier, an inventor and industrialist, moved to New Orleans from France in the first half of the 19th century. In the French fashion, he eschewed slave ownership, opting to build his great wealth through innovation and resourcefulness rather than forced labor. William’s rich legacy, including a grand estate in the Garden District, was lost to future generations of Fortiers when his descendants fell on hard times in the 1960s. Growing up poor in the shadow of his ancestors’ highs and lows, Beau felt duty-bound to take a chance on a shaky post-hurricane economy.

  “We don’t lend money with the goal of bleeding people with interest payments,” he said, pointing to a wall of over 100 company names and logos. “In exchange for capital, we actually take a stake in each business. From breweries to boutique hotels, we’re personally invested in the fabric of the city.”

  This wasn’t always Fortier’s goal. When Hurricane Audrey wreaked havoc on New Orleans, Fortier was in his final year at Tulane Law. Due to extensive damage, students were transferred to the University of Texas at Austin. It was there that he was first introduced to Russell Hancock, the other co-founder and COO of Crescent Capital. The son of real estate mogul Paul Hancock, Russell provided the initial funds needed to put their plan into action.

  “At the time, I had every intention of starting out on my own,” Fortier explained. “But it made sense to partner with Russell. Together, we’ve hustled for the last decade, and now Crescent Capital is the leading venture capital firm in Louisiana.”

  I stop reading there, mostly because it’s a lie—Russ hasn’t hustled a day in his life—but also because I’ve already read the rest. The damn newspaper article is everywhere. I had 10 copies sent to my home, and another half-dozen sat piled on my desk the day it was released. People are excited about it. They think it’s a good thing that my dedication to the city is starting to get broad recognition, but the spotlight isn’t a place I’m accustomed to. Though it’s good for my firm, it’s slightly unsettling to get into a random Uber and find a photo of myself blown up to epic proportions on the front page of the Times-Picayune.

  “Is this yours?” I ask, holding up the newspaper.

  My driver shakes his head. “Some lady had it earlier, raved about the blowhard on the cover.” His gaze shifts to my face and he narrows his eyes. “He kinda looks like you.”

  I cast the paper aside. “Don’t know him.”

  He grunts. “I didn’t either until earlier this week. You turn on the news and that’s all they want to talk about. Some guy named Forty who invested a bunch of money after Audrey. Big deal—I’m
not gonna suck some banker’s dick just because he found some new way to get rich.”

  “You don’t have to suck anybody’s dick you don’t want to.” I chuckle.

  “I’m just saying, what’s the big deal? Not like he went out on a limb or anything. Rich guys like him—”

  “He wasn’t rich.”

  His eyes meet mine in the mirror again. “What?”

  “You said ‘rich guys like him’—he wasn’t wealthy back then. That’s why it’s a good story.”

  He scoffs like that annoys him and then his eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror again. “You sure you don’t know him? You could be his twin.”

  “Positive. Here is fine,” I say, gesturing to the sidewalk as we stop at a red light.

  “But the entrance is around the corner,” he says, hesitant to end the trip early and reduce his fare. “Traffic is just backed up for some red carpet event or something up ahead.”

  Which is the exact reason I insist he drops me right here. I step out before leaning in and tipping him with a crisp $100 bill.

  “Consider this the blowhard’s latest investment—no fellatio required,” I quip, closing the door. I set off toward the ball, brushing off my tuxedo jacket, which fits like a second skin. I remember going with my mom to pick out my first one, seven or eight years ago. I needed it for an event, and I’d only ever rented the cheap ones. She dragged me to Nordstrom and had a tailor measure every nook and cranny. When that tuxedo was delivered, I left the rack behind forever.

  I pull a thin black mask from my pocket and tie it around my head before turning the corner. It conceals my identity just enough that when I pass behind the red carpet, no one tries to stop me for a quick photo. After the hectic, media-filled week I’ve had, I appreciate the brief bout of anonymity.

  The ball is being held at Muriel’s Jackson Square, an upscale restaurant in the heart of the French Quarter. I’ve eaten here enough times to know it like the back of my hand.

  “Sir? May I have your name?” the attendant at the door asks, her iPad armed and ready.

  “Beau Fortier.”

  I don’t miss the subtle shift of her smile—the recognition I’m still getting used to.

  “Of course! The mask threw me off. Go right on in. There’s dancing and hors d’oeuvres on the first floor and a lounge on the second floor.”

  I nod and brush past her, stepping inside. It’s crowded, the front foyer of the restaurant packed with bustling bodies. Women slip out of coats and scarves, checking them with attendants before stepping into the receiving line to greet our hosts.

  The line moves quickly and before I know it, I’m in front of Mr. LeBlanc, extending my hand like everyone before me. He gets one good look at me behind the mask and tugs me into a hug.

  “Beau,” he says, his voice booming over the crowd. “Good to see you, son.”

  It’s been 10 years since I rented their apartment, but I’ve seen him and Mrs. LeBlanc around town every so often. We’re invited to many of the same events, though I don’t usually attend. I haven’t had the time, but tonight, I cleared my schedule.

  Mrs. LeBlanc smiles and when I pull back, she wraps me in a hug of her own. “I’m so glad you could make it tonight! Lauren will be so happy you’re here!”

  I mold my features into a simple smile—anything more and Mrs. LeBlanc will catch it.

  “Lauren is here?”

  Of course she is. I knew she’d be at the masked ball. After all, it’s being thrown in her honor, in addition to celebrating the start of Carnival season. The 12th night marks the end of Christmas and the beginning of Carnival. From now until Mardi Gras (French for Fat Tuesday), New Orleanians will do their damnedest to stuff themselves with rich foods and stiff drinks in anticipation of Lent. I, for one, plan on indulging in a different guilty pleasure.

  Mrs. LeBlanc grins. “She is. I saw her just a minute ago—she’s supposed to be up here greeting everyone with us, but I think Rose stole her away.”

  I smile, promise to catch up with them later, and head to the bar, suddenly anxious to see her.

  Don’t be confused: I haven’t been pining for Lauren for 10 years—I’ve been too busy. Those first few months after Audrey, I thought about her a lot. I’d wonder what she was doing, where she was. I saw online that McGehee had temporarily shut down for repairs, just like Tulane. I knew she probably hadn’t stayed in New Orleans. I could have asked her parents for updates when I saw them over the years, but I purposely held off. The last decade has been about business—specifically, growing Crescent Capital.

  “I’d recognize that ugly mug anywhere, mask or no mask.”

  I chuckle and turn to find Russ, my business partner, with a drink in each hand. He clinks them together before holding one out for me. It’s dark—rum and coke. “Aren’t we a little old for drinks like this? And is that new?”

  He downs three-fourths of the glass with one sip in answer to the first question before brushing his hand down his tuxedo jacket for the second. “It is. Tom Ford.”

  “You look like a prick.”

  “A rich prick.” He smirks and holds up his drink like he’s making a toast. “And that’s fine by me. Here’s to one night of behaving badly.”

  “One night?”

  Russ doesn’t need an excuse.

  “One night tonight, then one night tomorrow, and so on—it’s called living in the moment. It is Carnival season after all.”

  I shake my head and tip back a sip of my drink. Russ draws out extremes in people: enthusiastic love or severe hate. He’s the wealthy son of a real estate developer. A northerner by birth, southerner by choice. Handsome, smooth, kind of an asshole. We met in Austin when I was finishing up my last semester of law school. Given the choice, I would have preferred to start out on my own, but Russ had something I needed: cash—lots of it.

  It hasn’t been easy working with him though. We might be like brothers, but like brothers, we’re usually close to blows. Russ had a markedly different upbringing than I did and he wears that privilege like a gaudy beaded necklace, testing my patience on a daily basis. I’m the one in the office Monday through Friday (and often weekends). Russ comes in when he feels like it, more for show than anything else. I swear half the time it’s just so he can steal the alcohol from my minibar. Now, I hide the good shit.

  I’m okay with his absence though; I like running the show, and I’m not good at sharing. Having to deal with the board is bad enough. Russ is easy to control. He cares about profit and I’m happy to make that for him because the richer he gets, the richer I get.

  I finish my drink and pass it off to a waiter making the rounds.

  “Cassie’s here.”

  “Who?” I ask.

  “The girl you dated for a little while last year. You liked her, I thought?”

  “Yeah, sure,” I offer, placating him. I don’t remember a Cassie.

  Then it clicks.

  “Do you mean Cathy?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I said.”

  I snort under my breath. I’m not sure what I expect—he can barely remember the names of the women in his life, much less mine.

  “You should try to talk to her,” he says while scanning the room. “She looked pretty good for someone named Cathy.”

  “I’m not interested.”

  He hums. “That’s too bad.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He turns and I see that gleam in his eye—the one that scares me a little. It’s the same look he had right before he dropped half a million dollars at auction on a canary yellow Porsche 918.

  “It means you’re finally going to get out there tonight, bud.” He claps his hand on my shoulder, and I resist the urge to punch his smug smile. Thanks to my newfound boxing hobby, I could knock out every one of those pretty teeth with one blow. “No more holing yourself up in that office.”

  Russ isn’t one for empty words. I narrow my eyes.

  “What’d you do?”

  He uses the hand on
my shoulder to twist me toward the crowded room. “Do you see those little cards the women are holding?”

  I hadn’t until he mentioned it. They’re small, delicate, and gold-leafed, no bigger than a business card. Some of them are wearing them tied around their wrist with a ribbon.

  “Those are dance cards,” he explains, and I frown. What is this, the 1800s? “And let’s just say that for the rest of the evening, Beau Fortier is spoken for.”

  “Funny.”

  “You think I’m kidding, but I’m not. The first dance is going to start soon and look here, I think it’s your first partner.”

  A pretty brunette strolls up to us with a tentative pink-lipped smile. Behind her small black mask, her gaze sweeps from Russ to me.

  “Beau Fortier?” she asks shyly. “Umm, I think I’m supposed to dance with you first?”

  She holds up her card like it’s a subpoena. In slot number one, I see my name written in Russ’s coarse scrawl. I want to protest. I want to drag Russ outside by the scruff of his neck and teach him not to fuck with people’s lives. I want to tell this nice woman the truth and turn her away, but my manners are ingrained in my DNA. There are people watching us, and I won’t embarrass her in front of her friends.

  I turn and clap a hand on Russ’s shoulders, feel his knees buckle under the weight. His dark eyes flare with fear just before he’s smart enough to mask it.

  “Don’t go far, buddy. I’d like to have a word with you after this dance is over.”

  He blinks. Swallows. The fear is already gone. It’s that privilege sinking in again—Russ creates consequences, but he never suffers them. To him, people are playthings.

  “I’ll be right here,” he promises with an amused grin, but we both know it’s a lie. He’ll stay in hiding until my annoyance has lessened to a low simmer, until I’m ready to joke about this. He knows I’ve never been good at holding grudges. Besides, he probably thinks he’s doing me a favor. There are worse pranks to play on someone.