Page 4 of February (New Orleans #2)

T he weather had prevented the company jet from taking off the previous night, leaving Monica all packed and ready to go but with no way to get there. She’d returned home and had to unpack her toiletries since she rarely had backups and hadn’t been prepared with travel-sized anything, so after that, she’d sent an email to her assistant asking her to pick up at least three of every staple in her bathroom so that she’d never have to run into this situation again. She’d already been upset about having to go somewhere at the last minute, and then, she’d had to unpack her stuff and repack it all over again the following morning.

After spending a few hours in the office to try to give herself a little more time with her team before she’d be gone unexpectedly for a few weeks, she headed back to the airfield. There, she was told all was clear, and they took off. She hadn’t even thought to bring her assistant with her, which seemed like something she should have suggested because as she sat on the flight, Monica came up with at least ten things for her to do while she was gone. She could delegate. Of course, delegating to her assistant was one thing. Asking a director in one of the departments she oversaw to handle something she wasn’t sure they could take care of properly was quite another.

When they landed on the runway, she was helped off the small plane and led straight out into a humidity she’d only ever experienced in two places. One was Orlando, where she had gone for a conference. She’d stayed only as long as she had to and had left immediately after, unable to wait for her hair to return to its usually shiny, soft self instead of the frizzy mess it had turned into. The other time was on her honeymoon to Bora Bora, which had been Lily’s idea and not at all the honeymoon Monica had wanted. When she’d dreamed of a honeymoon, it had been somewhere they could mix romance and relaxation with a little history and culture. It wasn’t that Bora Bora didn’t have those things. It was that Lily only wanted to lie on the beach and spend time in their resort room making love. While there was nothing wrong with either of those activities, it wasn’t ideal for her , but back then, Monica had been so in love and so in lust with her older and more experienced wife that she’d just given in. She’d still enjoyed her honeymoon, with the exception of her frizzy hair and how everything felt like it was sticking to her body, which always felt clammy.

“God, it’s humid,” she remarked out loud to no one.

“You should try coming here in the summer,” the flight attendant said as she climbed off the plane.

“It gets worse than this?” Monica joked.

“Much,” the woman replied.

“It’s only a few weeks. It’s only a few weeks,” Monica recited.

It was her new mantra, and she said it a few more times to herself as she picked up her phone.

“Yes, Miss Arnette?”

“Can you please look up and find some kind of anti-frizz hair product and have it sent to the hotel?”

“Anti-frizz?” her assistant asked.

“Yes. The humidity here is awful.”

“Oh,” the woman replied. “Of course. Anything else you need?”

“A pocket fan,” she joked.

“You want me–”

“No, I was kidding. That’s all for now, but I’ll email you a list when I get to the hotel.”

“Okay. I’ll have something dropped off for you.”

“Thank you,” Monica replied and hung up the phone.

A car was waiting for her on the runway. She climbed inside while others placed her luggage into the trunk. Grateful for the air conditioning, she took a minute to rest her head back and let the cool air hit her. She wasn’t sure how she’d deal with three weeks of this. New York got humid, too, but mainly in the summer, not all year round. Then again, it was nice that there was no snow on the ground, and it wasn’t the thirty degrees she’d left at home. That was something good. Monica decided to try to focus on that, the good, as she was driven from the airfield and into the city.

She had been told that the offices were in the Central Business District, so she’d booked the nicest hotel that was close by, which happened to be the Four Seasons. She’d seen the photos, and it was right on the water, with a ground-floor pool that overlooked the river. She had managed to book a deluxe king suite with a river view at the last minute, which gave her something to look forward to. Their spa also gave her something to look forward to, and she planned to book many, many treatments and massages to help her occupy her time when she wasn’t working.

Upon arrival, she was greeted as a VIP and escorted to her room, which, she had to admit, was beautiful. Everything in the room was white and looked brand-new. The valet dropped her bags off for her as she looked out the window and took in the river. There was something about water that calmed Monica, but at the same time, she was a New Yorker; she’d seen rivers before and wished for a view of clear ocean water as far as the eye could see instead.

“Can I book a spa service with you? I forgot to ask when I was checking in,” she said to the valet.

“Of course, Miss Arnette,” he replied.

Monica took cash out of her purse and handed it to him.

“Can I get a massage booked for tonight, a facial for tomorrow night, and a wrap of some kind for the day after? Anything after seven is fine. I assume you’re open late?”

“The spa normally closes at eight, but yes, we’d be able to get you those appointments,” he replied, taking the tip. “I’ll have maid service leave you a card with the appointment times on the desk if you’d like.”

“That would be fine,” she said.

“Very well. Thank you, Ma’am,” he said and turned to go.

“Ma’am,” she muttered under her breath.

When she was in her twenties, no one had even thought about calling her ‘ma’am.’ In her thirties, it had depended, but ever since she’d turned forty, she’d been getting it a lot more frequently. Then again, she was in the South now. Most people used ‘ma’am’ and ‘sir’ down here, so she decided that the valet had just been polite and respectful and hadn’t called her ‘ma’am’ because she was older now. For whatever reason, that had her thinking about Lily’s girlfriend. Did anyone ever call her ‘ma’am?’ Probably not for another decade, at least. Monica sighed and sat down on the bed.

There were still a few hours left in the workday, and she was expected at the office to meet the family who owned the place. She knew she should freshen up and head that way, but something had her needing to relax just for a moment. In New York, she was always on the go, but as she sat on the end of the crisp, clean bed, she thought about how it felt good to just be still. Across from the bed was the desk, where she saw three bottles of water and the minibar under them. It was too early for her to start drinking, but she could use some water to rehydrate after the flight. She downed half the bottle before she, once again, moved to the window overlooking the water. It wasn’t so bad, being here, she thought as she finished the water.

Monica checked her watch and decided she still had at least an hour until she needed to leave, so she removed her business suit, which hadn’t gotten wrinkled on the plane, to her surprise, and lay down over the comforter in her matching bra and panty set. She only meant to close her eyes for a minute, but when they finally opened, she noticed she was wrapped in the comforter now, and the sun seemed a whole lot lower than it was supposed to be.

“Shit,” she said, jumping out of bed.

She checked her watch and realized that she’d napped for two hours. Having run into the bathroom, she looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair, which had been perfect before, now looked like she’d slept on it for a day and a half, and it was frizzy. Monica tried to tame the brunette strands and remembered about that anti-frizz ask she’d made of her assistant. It hadn’t been at the counter when she’d checked in and still wasn’t here.

“Yes, Miss Arnette?” her assistant asked, picking up.

Monica rushed around the bathroom and tried to fix her lipstick while also still brushing her hair.

“Where is that anti-frizz stuff I asked you for?”

“It should be on its way. I asked the pharmacy to deliver it to the front desk, but they don’t normally deliver, so I had to ask them to do it just for you. They said they’d have it to you within a few hours.”

“Well, it’s been a few hours,” she replied. “Did they call you wondering where I was?”

“The pharmacy?”

“No, the people at Southern Hospitality Greetings.”

“Oh, no. Were they supposed to?”

“I’m late for our meeting.”

“They haven’t called. Would you like me to call them and let them know you’re running behind?”

“No,” Monica said as she picked up the phone off the counter and carried it into the bedroom, where she dropped it onto the bed and picked up her pants from the chair she’d draped them over. “Can you order me a car, though?”

“Sure,” her assistant replied.

“And they really haven’t called or emailed? I’m at least an hour late.”

“Nothing that I’ve seen, no. Did they call your phone instead?”

“They have the office number, not this one,” Monica replied.

“Well, I could call them to see if they meant to cancel, if you want.”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll be downstairs in ten minutes.”

“The car will be there waiting for you.”

“Great.”

Monica readied herself as best as she could and slipped into her heels as she made it to the door. Two minutes later, she was in the lobby.

“Oh, Miss Arnette, we have a delivery for you,” the front desk agent said.

“Perfect timing,” she replied under her breath. “Would you mind having it brought up to my room?”

“Of course, Ma’am.”

There was that ‘ma’am’ again. The door was opened for her by the doorman, who greeted her with a kind smile. The doormen in New York did the same because their jobs in the high-end buildings of the city depended on it, but this man seemed to have a genuine smile as he asked her if she needed a cab called.

“No, thank you. This is my car,” she said as she pointed to the town car that had just pulled up in front of the building.

“Have a nice afternoon,” the doorman said in response.

The chauffeur got out of the car just in time and opened the door for her. Monica climbed in and reveled again in the air conditioning.

“I wasn’t given an address for your destination,” the chauffeur said once he was behind the wheel.

“Oh, one second,” she said. She pulled out her phone to check the email that had the address in it and handed it to him. “Here you go.”

“Oh. That’s where you’re going?”

“Is there a problem?”

“No, it’s just that it’s right over there.” The chauffeur pointed ahead. “About a block and a half away.”

Monica looked through the windshield to try to follow his finger and saw a building that looked to be about three stories.

“That’s it?” she asked.

“That’s it.”

Monica sighed and asked, “Can you just take me? I’m too tired to walk, and I am incredibly late already.”

“Sure,” he replied, putting the car in drive.

A whole minute and a half later, the car pulled over to the sidewalk. Monica felt like an idiot, and a lazy one at that, but she was grateful for the AC and the fact that she didn’t have to walk even the short distance in this humidity. When the chauffeur opened the door for her, Monica got out and looked down at her foot when she felt something squishy.

“What the hell?” she said.

“Oh,” he replied apologetically. “Um… Yeah… The horse-drawn carriages take the tourists through here sometimes.”

“Horses?”

“They go around the city. Usually, though, not all the way over here, which is probably why no one’s picked that up yet.” He pointed down to the horse poop she’d stepped in. “I might have a rag or–”

“Yes. Whatever it is, yes,” she huffed out.

Monica sat back in the back seat of the car, removed her beautiful red heel, and stared at the bottom of it, covered in a muddy brown now. The chauffeur was kind enough to use a bottle of water and a rag of some kind to clean it for her while she texted her assistant to make sure to tip this man well because he definitely deserved it. When he was finished, he handed her the shoe back and helped her over the pile of manure.

“You’re my hero,” she said, meaning it.

A few seconds later, Monica opened the door to the office building, carrying her bag in her free hand, and looked for the suite where she was supposed to be meeting the current owners. There were no numbers on the doors or walls next to them, which was odd, so she checked the floor directory and guessed that she should be turning right, and it would be there. She pushed open the door and found a small, open office space with old furniture and a few employees milling about.

“Can I help you?” a young man in his twenties asked.

“I’m looking for Southern Hospitality Greetings.”

“This is it,” he said. “Can I–”

“Miss Arnette,” an older man said as he headed her way.

“Yes. Monica is fine,” she replied, holding out her hand for him to shake.

“I’m Dale Musgrave.”

“It’s nice to meet you. I apologize for being so late.”

“You’re late?” he asked as he shook her hand.

“You didn’t notice?”

Monica wondered if that was one of the reasons why they were struggling: no one here could keep time.

“We’ve been busy around here,” the man replied with a chuckle. “Come on in. This is our satellite office, so we only have a few people here, but we have a conference room where you, my wife, and I can chat privately.”

Dale Musgrave clearly didn’t want her to be introduced to everyone in the office yet. That meant the people working here likely had no idea that the company was about to be sold. While Monica understood why business owners didn’t share that information prematurely, she generally found that the more transparent they were with their employees, the better the overall process went for everyone.

“I’ll introduce you to our daughter as well. Bridgette?” He said the name a little louder than the sentence before it.

Monica turned, following his gaze, and caught sight of a young woman with auburn hair around her shoulders that had a slight frizz to it, something she could empathize with. The green eyes were aimed right at her in a glare.

“Bridgette,” he repeated.

“Yeah?” the woman said as she took a few steps toward Monica and was clearly hesitant about having to do it.

“This is Monica Arnette.”

“Monica is fine.” Monica held out her hand for Bridgette to shake.

Bridgette’s nose crinkled up at something as she took Monica’s hand, shook it hard, and then pulled back immediately.

“Oh, it’s not me,” Monica said, realizing. “I mean… I stepped in something right outside.” She pointed behind her as if Bridgette and Dale could see the pile of horse crap from here. “I stepped in horse manure. I tried to…”

Dale laughed and said, “Well, welcome to New Orleans.”

Bridgette didn’t laugh, though. She just kept on glaring.