“Come on, you have to have at least one.”
“Clue.”
Good pick. “Oh, that’s perfect. A classic. Which ending do you like best?”
“You’ve seen it?” She cocked her head at me.
“Yeah, I always had a thing for Madeline Kahn. She played—”
“Mrs. White. I know. I imagine her ‘flames on the side of my face’ speech when I get irate at work.”
I smiled. “God, I love that part. I read that she ad-libbed that whole scene.”
“Really?” She smiled, too. “She’s even more amazing than I thought.”
“Good taste in movies, check. Any particular music tastes I should know about?”
Her laughter stopped, and she bit down on her thumbnail—her nervous tell. “Look, I don’t know if we should keep going down this road.”
“I’m pretty sure this is the best way to get to Audubon Place . . .” I glanced to her, hoping she’d laugh again.
“You know what I meant.” She gestured at me and then back to herself. “This thing that we’ve been doing. It’s not . . . I don’t know if it’s a long-term sort of thing.”
My mind couldn’t parse what she’d just said. I’d never been dumped, never stuck around long enough for any woman to give me the boot. Was that what this was? Was the sinking feeling in my chest evidence of being dumped? Surely not.
She turned away from me, breaking the connection as I tried to form a coherent sentence. I failed, and we settled into an awkward silence before pulling under the wrought iron arch that marked the entrance to Audubon Place.
The guard walked up, but before I rolled down my window, I said, “This conversation isn’t over.”
Her eyes went wide, no doubt from the heat in my words.
I lowered my window and greeted the guard.
“Who are you visiting today?” He smiled and leaned over, sweeping his gaze over the inside of my car.
“Mr. Porter. I should be on the approved list. Scarlett Carmichael.”
“And, sir, you are?” He flicked his gaze to me.
“Oh, he’s just my driver. I can’t ride in the backseat. I get carsick.” She smiled and crossed her legs at the knee, her skirt riding up to show the creamy skin of her thigh.
The guard stared, just like I did. “Yes, ma’am. Let me just check the list.”
“Thanks.”
“Your driver, huh?” I grumbled under my breath.
“Shh. You wanted to come with me. This is the way to do it.”
I stared through the gate at mansion after mansion dotting the lane.
“Mr. Porter lives there.” Scarlett pointed to one of the houses—a white, three-story affair with too many columns to count along the front. “And Mr. Rhone is his neighbor on the other side.”
The guard flipped through some pages on a clipboard and then walked to the gate, swinging it open for us. We eased down the street, passing mansions left and right.
I checked my rear view. Shorty drove past the gate and stopped, keeping a clear view of our car as we turned into Guy Porter’s drive. He’d been following us like a shadow since we left the house.
“How do you know he’s home?” I peered at the house through the columns. It was an antebellum masterpiece—beautiful, stuffy, and outrageously expensive.
“He’s Catholic. So he won’t be at church and he will be drinking a mimosa or a bloody mary for brunch.”
“Good point.” We stepped out of the car, the sun breaking through the scattered clouds at intervals. The walk was surrounded by tall oaks, tangled and covered in Spanish moss.
Scarlett took the few steps to the front porch, marched to the door, and rang the bell. I checked my clothes, feeling out of place in such a grand entryway. My blue button-down was clean and my jeans seemed neat enough. I’d worn a regular pair of brown oxfords.
“You look fine. Don’t be a girl.” She didn’t even turn around.
“How did you—?”
The door opened and an older man in a white uniform smiled at Scarlett. “Ms. Carmichael. We weren’t expecting you.”
“Sorry about this. But I need to see Guy as soon as possible. Is he home?”
“Yes, ma’am. He’s in the breakfast room but he has company. Come on in and have a seat. I’ll let him know you’re here.”
“Thanks, Gene.” Scarlett stepped inside and I followed, nodding a greeting to Gene.
The house was beyond my wildest dreams of opulence, giving even Lynch Lane a run for its money. The floors were a light honey oak, highly polished, and the walls were covered in hand-painted vines and flowers. Gene led us to a sitting room and hurried back out into the hallway.