seemed to admire Sam, even look up to him. The good Lord only knew, the boy needed someone he could respect.
“So how’s everything going with you, pretty lady?” Sam’s dark eyes slowly raked her from head to foot, then back again. “Got everything under control…” His words trailed away suggestively. “Everything’s all neat and tidied up as usual? Up at the house?” he finally added.
His inference was offensive and Charlotte responded with chilly politeness. “Everything’s just fine up at the house.”
Sam grinned knowingly. “Now, Charlotte, if you’d be nicer to me, I might be persuaded to take you out on the town and show you a good time.” He waggled his eyebrows, à la Groucho Marx. “Hey, a little jazz, a little razzmatazz…” He held out his arms and shuffled his feet, executing an intricate dance step. Then, without warning, he suddenly grabbed her. Before she could utter a protest, he whirled her around, and it was either follow him or stumble over her own feet. When she finally did open her mouth in protest, he abruptly stopped and released her, and Charlotte swallowed her protest.
In an instant, he grew sober, and a stilted expression came over his face as he took a step backward. “Or maybe madame would prefer something a bit more cultured around our fair city,” he said in a pseudo cultured voice. Bending forward at the waist in a mock formal bow, he continued. “A museum? Or the symphony? Or perhaps the opera?” He suddenly smirked. “If we had an opera, that is,” he added.
The whole thing had happened in a matter of moments, and Charlotte was still trying to recover from the shock of it all. He’d asked her out before, and she suspected that he already knew that her answer would always be no. He simply wasn’t her type. Still, he asked every time he saw her.
Gathering her wits about her, she forced a saccharine smile. “Thanks for asking, but no thanks. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
He slapped his hand over his chest in an overly dramatic gesture. “Oh,” he groaned. “You wound me deeply, fair lady.”
“Yeah, right!” she retorted, unable to suppress the sarcastic rejoinder. “Sam Roberts, you’re about as full of baloney as they come.” The man was incorrigible and outrageous to boot. “Now—if you’ll excuse me—I have places to go and things to do.”
Sam threw back his head and roared with laughter. “That’s what I like about you, Charlotte. You say what you mean and mean what you say—but here, let me get that door for you.”
With one hand he opened the door of the van, and with his other hand, he made a wide sweeping arc. “Your carriage awaits, milady.”
Charlotte stiffened, not sure of what to expect next, but she wasted no time climbing inside the van. To her relief, Sam simply shut the door.
“You take care now, Miss Charlotte,” he told her, with a mock salute. “See ya next time.”
Not if I see you first, Charlotte thought as she drove away.
Though Charlotte had good intentions, it was almost six before she finally pulled into the small parking lot behind the Devilier house. When she’d arrived for her hair appointment, Valerie was still busy with another customer and she’d had to wait a precious twenty minutes for her turn. Then she’d gotten stuck in a traffic jam, thanks to a malfunctioning traffic light and the usual Friday five o’clock rush of commuters trying to get a jump start on the weekend.
The parking area behind the Devilier house took up about half of the back property, and Charlotte estimated that it was just large enough to accommodate eight to ten vehicles.
The other half of the backyard had been turned into a small garden area, an oasis landscaped with azaleas, sweet olive, small palms, and night-blooming jasmine.
At the edge of the parking lot was a magnificent live oak that had to be at least a hundred years old judging from its size alone. The oak offered shade both to the parking lot and to the garden.
As Charlotte admired the old oak, she wondered if the tree was a member of the exclusive Live Oak Society. It always made her smile when she thought about the unusual club where membership requirements were based on the age and size of the oak, and dues consisted of forty-five acorns a year.
“Nowhere but New Orleans,” she murmured.
Charlotte’s smile faded. Time was a-wasting. It was already twilight, and soon the twilight would fade into darkness. For safety’s sake, Charlotte didn’t like the idea of being caught all alone in the big old empty house after dark.
Vince Roussel, the owner of the construction company in charge of the renovation, had given her a master key. With the house key firmly in one hand and her car keys in the other, she locked the van and hurried to the back entrance of the house.
Thank goodness enough light poured in through the fanlight above the door for her to see, Charlotte thought as she stepped into the back hallway. Roussel had assured her that the electricity and the water would be turned on by the time her crew came in for the cleanup, but the moment she was inside, she tested the light switches just to make sure. Charlotte breathed a sigh of relief when lights in the dim entrance hall came on.
“Awesome,” she whispered, as her eyes swept over the wide hallway. The Devilier house on the outside was a wonderful specimen of the Greek Revival era. Charlotte had been in many magnificent homes over the years she’d worked in the Garden District, but even with the thick layer of sawdust and dirt that seemed to cover every available surface, the inside of the Devilier renovation was a thing of beauty with its high ceilings, the crystal chandeliers, and the intricately molded ceiling medallions and cornices.
In keeping with the luxurious ambience of the house, along one wall was an Empire chaise longue upholstered in a bluish-green brocade with dark gold trim. Two matching, gilded lyre-back chairs flanked a small marble-top table on the opposite side. On top of the table was a gorgeous Tiffany-styled lamp.
Charlotte frowned. Why on earth had they already delivered the furniture, especially the lamp? All of that should have been delivered after her crew cleaned up. She swiped her finger along the back of the chaise longue. At least it was protected with a clear plastic wrap. Good thing it was, since the dust was as thick as mud. Her gaze strayed to the lamp again. She’d have to caution her crew to be careful around that lamp. It looked expensive, and she didn’t want to have to replace it if someone got careless and broke it.
Eager to explore the rest of the house, and ever conscious of time passing, Charlotte dropped the keys in one side of her apron pocket and removed her notebook and pen from the other side.
The downstairs was divided into two small apartments, each almost identical and each consisting of a bedroom, a bathroom, and a combination living area and small galley-type kitchen. What truly impressed her and surprised her was the luxuriousness of each apartment. As in the grand entrance hall, great care had been taken to preserve and restore the original structure, and the workmanship was superb.
As she toured the first downstairs apartment, she was relieved to note that though it was certainly dirty, the cleanup work would be mostly routine stuff. And if the rest of the apartments were like the first one, there was a good chance that most of the work could be completed on Saturday. She might not need the crew for Sunday too, which would mean more money in her pocket.
Judging by the looks of the living room, the degree of cleaning needed in the second downstairs apartment was much the same as the first. Except this one had mosquitos, she thought as she swatted at one buzzing
