The following Friday evening, an uneventful, nonstop flight to New Orleans had her touching down in one hour and ten minutes. Garrett had arranged priority boarding, and Celia had a reserved seat close to the front of the plane. It seemed that before they even took off, they had landed.
The short flight had given her little time to get anxious. A glass of red from the flight attendant helped.
After making a quick pit stop, she walked through baggage claim with her carry-on. At the bottom of the escalator, she found a gentleman holding an electronic tablet with her name in bold black print.
What the hell? I know he said he'd send a car, but really?
"Hi, I'm Celia Barlow," she said to the uniformed gentleman. He had curly, dark brown hair, wispy sideburns, and a small mustache that hovered over his upper lip. A few inches shorter than her, his thick accent announced, without a doubt, that Cajun Louisiana blood ran through his veins.
"Ma'am. I'm Barton. I'll be your driver."
"My driver? Well, all right then!" Celia was in unexplored territory. She had no idea what she should do next.
"May I take your bag?" Barton asked with charming professionalism. She grew suspicious. After all, who was this guy really? "I think I'm okay, but thanks," she said, pushing her bag behind her. "Ma'am, I insist." Barton smiled, reaching around her and taking the handle of the roller bag.
Guess I don't have a choice.
She relinquished the bag.
Yeah, this is weird. I'm not sure I thought this all the way through. "Ma'am, if you'll wait here, I'll pull the car around." Celia scoffed. "That seems silly. Why don't I just walk with you to the car?" Barton nodded his head. "In that case, please follow me. We're in the parking garage across from the terminal."
Barton moved with purpose through the terminal to the exit, motioned her across the roadway, and into the garage. With trepidation, Celia followed, despite the fact that she had to increase her pace to keep up.
When they arrived at the car, Barton opened the rear passenger door for her and said, "Here you go, ma'am. There are beverages inside. Please help yourself."
Celia didn't move. Her hand went to her mouth as she stood in front of a black stretch limousine. Gawking at the vehicle from bumper to bumper, she let out a nervous laugh.
"I've never been in one of these before. Not sure what to do." A nervous chuckle escaped. Looking for guidance, her shoulders lifted as her eyes pleaded for help.
Barton offered a reassuring smile and gestured toward the open door. "Just hop on in and make yourself comfortable," he said, his voice inviting and steady. "There's a selection of beverages inside—help yourself to whatever you'd like. I'll handle your luggage and see to it that you get to the restaurant. When dinner wraps, I'll be waiting to take you to your hotel. My job tonight is to make sure everything goes smoothly for you. Enjoy the evening."
Celia tossed a tentative smile at the courteous man and climbed into the back of the car, out of her depth and trying to hide her complete disorientation.
Barton closed the door behind her. Once inside, she absorbed the interior of the limousine, wide-eyed. A long bench lined the far side of the car with a matching bench at the rear end of the compartment. Both were dark grey leather with tuck-and-roll contours. Tinted windows encased the cab interior, affording a good view of the outside while keeping lookie-loos from peering in. There were three flat-screen monitors hung on the interior, one on each side and a larger one at the end. Each displayed a graphic of the New Orleans skyline as the background, with the words 'Welcome to New Orleans, Celia' in bright orange text.
Holy crap!
On the right side of the compartment, a full bar, complete with a newly filled ice bucket, chilled champagne, and several cans of assorted sodas, sat at her disposal. Nestled inside a protective rack were two bottles of red wine, a Cabernet and a red Zinfandel. A corkscrew hung from a hook beside them.
Of course, a moonroof beckoned at the top of the cab. Celia had visions of standing in the open roof, ripping off her top, and screaming as they drove through the streets of New Orleans. She had seen it in a movie somewhere and always thought it would be fun.
Yeah, that's not happening.
Sizing up the bar, she saw her reflection in the mirrored glass that lined the wall behind it. She spoke to her reflection.
"When in Rome!" she said out loud.
Using a faux high English accent, she looked left and asked herself, "Would you like a glass of red?" Spinning to her right, she replied in a deeper voice, "Why yes, that sounds stunning. And then I'm off to play the grand piano."
Light-headed, she reached for the red zin. Opening a bottle of wine was not something she did often, and clearly she lacked the skill to do so. As she attempted to cut off the foil cap, she heard the driver's side door slam shut, then Barton's voice came over the intercom.
"How we doing back there? Everything all set?" he asked.
She looked around for an intercom button or something she could push to respond. She had no idea what to do. Tossing her hands in the air and surrendering to the situation, she yelled at the glass partition, "How do I talk back to you?"
She heard Barton laugh. "You just did. It's voice-activated when I'm talking with you. If you need to call me, use the console on the right side of the bar— the one with the speaker."
Celia took a quick look and saw an intercom-like console with several buttons.
"Oh yeah, I found it."
"Great. If you need to speak to me, just hit the red button and it'll turn the system on."
"Okay then. I got it," she replied, relief in her voice. Barton continued, "You okay? All set?"
Celia gave an apologetic laugh and said, "I'm trying to open this wine, and I suck at it. Can you give me a hand?"
Without a word, the driver's side door opened, and in an instant, the passenger door opened in back. He slid in and sat in the doorway.
"Here, let me help." Taking the bottle and the opener, he ripped off the foil and popped the cork with almost no effort at all. Reaching in, he grabbed a red wine glass, poured the wine, and handed it to Celia.
"There you go, ma'am. We should be at the restaurant in twenty minutes.
Enjoy the ride."
Barton replaced the wine bottle, closed the passenger door, and Celia heard him climb back in front. As they began to move, the wine sloshed in Celia's glass.
The situation she had gotten into amazed her; sitting in the back of a limo, on the way to a restaurant, for dinner with a clandestine older man she barely knew. But, so far, she had to admit, this was working out damn well.
I could get used to this.
Relaxing, she leaned back and sprawled out on the plush leather bench, one arm draped over the back of the bench, the other holding up her glass of wine.
"Ah, this is the life, eh? Who'd have thought it, right?" She raised her glass to the heavens and laughed.
Taking a sip of the wine, her eyes popped open.
Wow! This is excellent.
She usually drank red out of a box and, on occasion, shared a bottle with her dad, but she'd never had anything this good. It had a spicy tang she hadn't expected and really liked. She checked the label, pulled out her phone, and snapped a picture: Martinelli JackAss Zinfandel. The name made her chuckle. She planned to buy some when she got home.
Celia could see a lot of the city as they drove to the restaurant. It had been so long since she had been here that she really didn't remember very much, so it was like the first time for her. The airport sat west of the downtown area and the French Quarter, and they drove east. They took a short jaunt east on the I-10 freeway and then hit the surface streets. They passed the Superdome, where the Saints play. The downtown skyline came into view, with the Mississippi River as the backdrop. The lights sparkled, and the moon reflected off the river, leaving a long, autumn-colored streak.
The limo made a few turns, both right and left, and, with her wine glass still half full, it stopped in front of a Cajun-pink building. Celia had no idea if Cajun pink was a real color, but she had only seen it in New Orleans, so in the realm of her experience, it existed. Barton opened the passenger door and beckoned her to exit.
Celia took a last gulp of her delicious wine and scooted to the door. Barton held his hand out to assist her exit.
"Here we are. Did you enjoy the ride?" Barton asked, taking the wine glass from her hand with grace.
"Amazing. Whatever this wine is, it's great. Will the bottle still be there on the way back?"
Barton smiled, "It certainly will be."
"Ohhh, that's exciting. Thanks so much. This is the restaurant?" Celia asked in a nervous, rapid-fire rush.
She looked up at the building. Two stories tall, it had a very square front facing the street, as most structures in this part of town did. A balcony protruded above with three very tall doors, all bordered by black shutters. The black wrought iron railing, so iconic to New Orleans, lined the perimeter of the second-story landing.
Barton escorted Celia to the front door and opened it for her. Trepidation besieged her. A daunting insecurity accosted her, starting with her wardrobe choice: a black skirt with a simple pale blue silk blouse, just a little too low-cut, accented with a navy-blue belt, matching blue shoes, and bag. She thought it quite fetching when she dressed. Yet, standing outside of what appeared to be a five-star restaurant, it seemed inadequate, and she hesitated to enter.
I don't know what the hell I'm doing.
Barton asked, "Everything okay? You can go in. Mr. Tyler said he'd meet you at the bar."
Celia stalled in a perfect storm of awkward silence. "Thanks—uh—yeah. I'll see you in a little bit."
Straightening her skirt and brushing the front of her blouse, in an attempt to eliminate any possible wrinkles, Celia entered the restaurant.
Three steps in, she found herself standing in front of the hostess desk. The pretty young woman behind the desk asked, "May I help you?" "Um, yes, where's the bar?" Celia managed to get out. The hostess pointed to her right and said, "Right that way." "Thanks," she croaked.
Celia glanced at the front door, wanting very much to run through it and jet back to Austin.
Without a viable alternative, she took a deep breath and entered the bar. Oh well, fortune favors the bold, right?
Boisterous activity accosted her as she entered. Groups of animated people stood in small clusters throughout the bar. Occasionally, a group would break out in laughter. Everyone wore some variation of business casual, with some ladies in slacks, others in skirts and dresses. Doing a quick survey of the female patrons' attire, Celia realized her outfit would pass muster with no problem. A bit of her inherent insecurity faded away.
She scanned the room for Garrett, hoping to recognize him. After all, they had only met the one time. Her height always came as a big advantage in these situations. She could see and be seen over everyone's head.
How funny if I come all the way down here and can't find him.
Before she could check the entire room, she heard her name. Turning toward the sound, she saw Garrett waving to her from the end of the bar. Clearly, he had been on the lookout and saw her the second she walked in. A touch reassured, she waved back and made her way through the crowd.
"Hi! You made it!" Garrett said, taking her hand and pulling her over. "I'm so happy to see you again. I was just telling my colleague here how we met." Celia blushed.
She probably thinks I'm an escort.
"It's not what you think. I was just in a spur-of-the-moment mood." She let out a nervous laugh.
Yeah, no question... huge mistake.
Garrett jumped in. "Let me introduce you. This is Reagan Barrone. She's my consigliere, my right hand. I couldn't get anything done without her."
Reagan bore a striking presence that immediately drew Celia in. An attractive black woman, her features were each distinctive in their own right—an elegantly long nose, a strong chin, and ears with a unique Vulcan shape. Separately, the features may have contrasted, but all told, they came together in a way that was both memorable and compelling. Her hair and her makeup enhanced her natural look. Reagan carried herself with an easy confidence that could not be questioned. A gentle curve in her smile welcomed Celia without judgment.
Reagan reached out and took both of Celia's hands in hers. "It's so nice to meet you, and don't worry, nobody thinks you're on the clock," she said, throwing a sideways look to Garrett, "regardless of how Garrett made it sound."
A tiny snort escaped Celia's mouth, and she covered it with her hand. "That's exactly what I figured you'd be thinking." She laughed out loud.
"Thanks for the clarification. It really is just a whim that I'm here. We'll have to see how it goes."
Reagan asked, "Celia, Garrett there tells me you're Texas royalty. Is that so?" Celia beamed. "I don't know about royalty, but my great-great-grandmother was something of a big deal back in the day," she said, pride warming her voice.
"A suffragette who helped women in Texas get the vote. My namesake."
With amazed satisfaction, Celia shared the story.
"That's astounding." Reagan cooed. "Can you even imagine what being a woman in those times must have been like?" With an exaggerated gesture, she pointed to her arm and then her mouth. "With this skin and this mouth, I'd be kicking and screaming all the way to the gallows," she predicted.
Garrett joined in. "People don't realize how close that period is to us. When I was a kid, a woman couldn't get a loan, buy a house, or even get a credit card without her husband. That's why so many of our grandparents stayed together all those years—poor old granny had no other options."
"I'd have been washing floors or cleaning toilets, not running a big old company," Reagan threw in.
Just then, the hostess walked over and said, "Mr. Tyler, your table is ready."
"Okay, grab your drinks. Let's head on back. Celia, you need anything before we go?"
Celia considered ordering a glass of red, but she still savored what she'd had in the limo, so she decided to wait.
"I'm good for now. I'll have some wine when we get settled."
"Very well, let's skedaddle." Garrett followed the hostess as the rest of them fell in line.
The entourage wove their way through the main dining room into a private room in the back.
Two large chandeliers dominated the room, demanding attention. Hanging symmetrically from the ceiling, their curved glass stems and candle-shaped bulbs glowed with subtle effervescence. Hundreds of pearl-shaped glass medallions dangled from each, with a cluster of cut glass at the top resembling a fountain.
The room was wallpapered in red felt, stamped with a subtle crest pattern. Dark oak wainscoting lined the walls, capped by ornate molding. A half-dozen oil paintings hung around the room, mostly old steamboats and cotton mills.
At the center of the opulence stood a dining table grand enough to rival the chandeliers. Its polished maple surface and beveled edge caught and scattered the light. An embroidered runner stretched the length of it, and three formal place settings had been arranged with great care—one on each side and one at the head. Clearly, the center leaves had been removed to create a more intimate environment. Each setting included a charger, three glasses, and an array of knives, forks, and spoons. In the middle rose a giant bouquet in an ornate brass vase with handles. Several wine bottles were displayed nearby, two already poured into curved decanters encrusted with silver brooches.
Celia wondered at Garrett's life. While these were things that were the height of extravagance for her, it appeared to be nothing but another day in his life.
"I could definitely get used to this," she chuckled to herself.
"Reagan, please sit opposite Celia. Celia, there please." He gestured to a chair on the nearside of the table. "And I'm here. Everybody happy?" Garrett asked, taking complete command.
Everyone took their assigned seats as the procession began. Three waiters, in white tux shirts, cummerbunds, and black slacks, entered the room and performed the pre-dinner ritual. The first two brought water and bread, while the third man had a little cup on a chain hanging around his neck. Celia watched with curiosity as it all unfolded before her.
The waiter with the cup crossed to Garrett and asked, "Mr. Tyler, do you have a preference for which wine we pour first?"
Garrett rubbed his chin and turned to Celia. "Did you happen to try any of the wine in the car?"
"As a matter of fact, I did. I had the Zinfandel. It was scrumptious." Relaxing, Celia glowed as she talked.
Garrett smiled. "Ohhh, you have excellent taste. Let's start with the Martinelli. Always drink your best wine first, right?"
Reagan laughed, congratulating Celia on her good taste. "I love a woman who knows her wines. Nicely done." Reagan purred. I have no idea what you're talking about, but okay!
The waiter poured a small taste from the carafe closest to Garrett into the metal cup around his neck. He tasted the wine with great scrutiny and smiled.
"You will be very pleased with this, Mr. Tyler. It's one of my favorites. Little known but exquisite."
The waiter poured a taste into Garrett's glass. He held the glass to the light, tilted it, sniffed it, and finally took a sip. Celia watched, captivated by the process. Garrett closed his eyes and said, "No question, this is exquisite. Please, pour for everyone.