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Dressed in something very “quiet luxury,” I started my quest for social status on Royal Street, exploring the art galleries and inquiring about art-related events and charity galas.

I, of course, purchased a few pieces I knew showcased my excellent taste and, more importantly, my enormous, god-given bank account.

To get into the upper echelon, you had to look as if you were already a part of them without caring that you were.

You never ask about the who's who in town.

They will gravitate to you if you're good enough. And I was more than good enough.

After a day of elite shopping, I wandered into a cafe for a coffee. A particular cafe. Even though I hadn't asked about the wealthy residents of Nola, sales clerks dropped a few names during our conversations. And one of them came with a recommendation for great coffee.

William Goldring—the name that had been dropped with the coffee rec—was an old man, but I wasn't interested in being his trophy wife or even his mistress.

I just wanted an in. And I knew I wouldn't do as well with the women of high society—those uppity bitches.

But an old man will always appreciate a beautiful woman who can relate to him.

Sex doesn't matter when they're at a certain age.

It's the illusion that it could matter—that's what gets them.

After googling Goldring, I lurked in shops in the area until I saw him walk into the cafe.

I lurked a little more before paying for my purchases, then “wandered” into the cafe.

With coffee and a chocolate croissant in hand, I sat down at a table within reach of Mr. Goldring, just about a foot away from his seat and facing in the same direction.

And I ignored him. Instead, I looked focused on the leather portfolio I pulled out of my Dior tote.

It was full of potential art pieces to purchase.

Alternating sips of coffee and bites of croissant between flipping pages, I went through the portfolio and pretended to consider the art.

It took less than five minutes to get him talking.

“Excuse me, miss,” Mr. Goldring drawled.

I looked up and around as if I didn't already know who was speaking to me, and then settled my stare on William Goldring. With a smile, I asked, “Yes?”

“I couldn't help but notice that you're looking over some lovely pieces there.” He nodded. “Are you a gallery owner?”

“Oh, what a lovely job that would be.” I leaned closer and whispered, “I'm ashamed to say that I don't work. I mean, I did, years ago, and I was successful enough that I don't have to work anymore.”

He laughed. “I as well, sugah.”

I joined him in laughter. “Isn't it wonderful?”

Did I worry about him asking about how I made my money? No. The rich never ask that. It's impolite.

“So, which of those is at the top of your list?” He leaned closer.

I handed him a few papers. “I bought a painting from this collection today, so I'm trying to decide if I want another from the same artist or if I should branch out. I do love to support local artists. But, oh, I adore this one.”

He took the papers and looked them over. “Ah! I've been eyeing this painting myself.”

“Oh, then I'll get something else. As I said, I purchased one of this artist's pieces this morning. I'd hate to snatch up a painting you've been wanting.”

“Oh, darlin', don't worry about me. I've collected a lot. I was just surprised that we have the same taste. You look so young, and I'm told that I have more . . . mature taste in art.”

I snorted. “How rude!”

He laughed. “I don't mind. I'm old. Hard not to notice.”

I cocked my head at him. “What does that matter? You look healthy. You're still alive. And you have a great eye for art. Frankly, a lot of the new art movements confuse me. I don't like the way the art makes me feel. And that's all that matters, isn't it? How you feel when you look at it.”

“Yes, I agree. That's why art is so subjective.”

“And I couldn't care less what other people think of my collection. They're for my pleasure. And it's a pleasure that isn't fleeting. I prefer those.”

He burst out laughing. “My God, sugah! I love the way you think. Yes, indeed. Art is a lasting pleasure. If you take care of it, at least. After my long life, I've come to appreciate the things I can enjoy without effort. We spend so much time pursuing the fleeting pleasures of life.”

“And now you know what lasts.” I nodded. “You see? Whoever told you that you have mature taste is an asshole.”

Goldring laughed again. When he settled into a smile, he asked, “What are you doing tonight?”

I blinked, acting surprised.

“Oh, don't look at me like that.” He waved me off. “As I said, I'm not into the fleeting pleasures anymore. I'm not about to ask you on a date, cher. I just wanted to invite you to a charity art auction.”

“Darlin', life is about all pleasure—fleeting and lasting. So don't you dare give up on the fleeting.” I winked at him. “I was surprised because I didn't know there was an event tonight, and I inquired over them at the galleries I visited today.”

“Oh, well, this is a private affair. Invitation only.” He winked back at me and pulled a little card out of a silver card holder.

After writing on the back with a silver pen, he handed the card to me.

“This will get you in. The address is on the back.

Seven tonight. That's when the preview starts. The bidding begins at nine.”

I looked at the card. “Thank you so much, Mr. Goldring.” I held out my hand. “I'm excited to see the pieces.”

“And I'm excited to make a new friend. That's rare for me.” He kissed the back of my hand.

“Well, I think I'm going to put these away for now.” I gathered my papers and waved at the chair across from mine. “Would you care to finish your coffee with some company?”

“I'd adore that!” Goldring picked up his coffee and sat down across from me.

We spent the next hour talking about art. It was exhausting, but I got what I wanted from it. Like most of my interactions with men.