The two upper floors of the main house have a combined eight bedrooms with private balconies and iron railing, each of the massive rooms containing a set of French doors that lead out to secluded sitting areas. Even more so now that the English Ivy that spirals up the columns on the porch have long since started to reach for the iron bars, wrapping those balconies in an extra layer of secrecy. And while it made it easy for the mister to throw two or three of his mistresses from them without anyone seeing, it does nothing to hide the damage that’s been done with years of vacancy and neglect.
There are rows of Woodland Phlox and Louisiana Irises that encompass the entire front and sides of the house, spilling out over the beds into a beautiful sea of purples. Rumored to have been planted in order to hide those same mistresses' shallow graves, and if they were, I’m glad they’re so pretty. Those women deserve that after such ugly deaths at the hands of an even uglier man.
The back porch is much larger than the front, the sole purpose of it to entertain and impress Mr. Bissonnette’s many business partners, complete with stone pathways leading out into the back garden full of pecan and magnolia trees, everything in full bloom and dripping with life.
It’s quite breathtaking actually, with the large marble fountain that includes spitting fish and dancing cherubs, all the different topiaries and stone benches. Too bad I’m too far gone to see anything but an extravagant mausoleum.
Approaching the front steps, I tip my head back and groan when I’m immediately met with a pissed off Justine and her hardened stare.
“You can’t keep doing this. Not anymore. I may have been able to get this gig for you, but I sure as hell can’t keep it. It’s noskin off my hide if you screw this up.” She crosses her arms in front of her chest as she scowls at me, no doubt preparing for the lecture I’m sure she’s been rehearsing since I hung up on her a little while ago.
But I’m not really feeling it.
Not after being forced to leave my tomb to come out here, and not after finding my new friend waiting on my car.
“I know.” I hold up my hand to stop her as Justine opens her mouth. “I know. You stuck your neck out for me, and I need to be better. I’m sorry, Justine.” I give her a forced smile as I attempt to smooth this over, my stomach twisting into knots at my bullshit line we both see right through. But this hasalljust become part of the norm these days.
I’m starting to wonder if I’m secretly a psychopath.
“I just worry so much about you,” Justine says with a sigh as her tone softens, the tough guy act disappearing as quickly as it came. She wraps her arm around my shoulders and gives me a small squeeze as soon as I’m within range. “I want my Leo back. I want you to find who you are again.”
Justine lets go of me but doesn’t stop flapping her gums. “The new benefactor isn’t going to care about yourstruggles;he won't care about your past, or our relationship. He isonlygoing to care about the restoration of this property and if anything, or anyone prevents that from happening.” Then she grabs the sides of my face and looks me dead in the eyes. “Just try.Please. I’m asking you totry.”
I nod absently and hope my expression isn’t as checked out as I feel.
I know Justine is right, that this is good for me. And I am well aware that it’s ultimately her neck on the chopping block if I fuck this up.
I also know Justine worries herself sick over me and all of my bullshit because she loves me more than anyone else ever has.But what Justine doesn’t know is the fact that I long ago resigned myself to this pitiful excuse of an existence, and I have little to no intention of making an effort to change it.
I’m doing this for her so when it’s all said and done, Justine can look back without any regrets, and she can say she tried. And I guess somewhere in my fractured mind and my broken heart, I’m doing it so she knows I still love her too.
Fucking sappy shit.
“Justine, I really am sorry.”Sort of.Sorryshe still feels obligated to put up with mysorryass. “I will be better.”But probably not.
She shakes her head with a sigh then flashes a warm smile before spinning on her heel and heading for the front doors. “Let’s get on with it then. Hustle now, we’ve already wasted most of the morning.”
I look down at my watch with a smirk.
9:06 a.m.
We clearly have different definitions of time wasted, but I silently follow her into the house anyway.
And as soon as we breach the doorway past some dude I don’t recognize standing just inside it like a statue, Justine starts pointing to different places on the walls, at the floor, down hallways and along banisters, filling me in on everything I missed already today, but her words are inaudible against my own thoughts.
Like what thisjob,what this place means to my friend, to my pseudo-mother of sorts.
Justine has run around the grounds of the Bissonnette Plantation since she was a child. Her father was the groundskeeper here when the last of the Bissonnette family donated it to the city of New Orleans as a historical property back in the seventies. Restoration plans were drawn up at the time with a sole benefactor who wanted to see the estate restoredto itsformer glorybacking the entire project, the long-term goal being a teaching tool for future generations to come.
Unfortunately, they only got as far as the carriage house before the benefactor suddenly died in a series of weird and unexpected events, and funding was cut off.
The city kept Justine’s family on to look after things, and that’s exactly what her father did right up until he passed away four years ago. Which is when Justine and Pierre stepped in, her mother having passed about ten years before we even met, meaning it would fall to her eventually. But eventually came sooner than Justine thought, and it was her father’s dying wish that she continues to care for the estate the way he always had.
Recently though, this new, mysterious benefactor enlisted Justine to oversee all the renovations as they picked up where the dude from back in the day left off—including the hiring of any and all trades necessary to complete the project. Which is exactly how I wound up with the gig to restore the original paintings of the Bissonnette Plantation a few months ago.
I needed it for so many reasons that really mean nothing to me, but Justine needed me to have it. She needed me to try one more time, to be better on some level, if for no one else but her.
And when Justine read the contract to me, citing all of the details on how the mystery philanthropist wanted to renew the property right down to filling the fields once used for indigo and sugar cane crops with sunflowers toreplace the sadness and death with beauty and new life, well, her face just beamed, and I couldn’t say no.
