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“You’re spending too much time with that white man,” Grace scoffed. Louis rolled his eyes.
“I told you, he ain’t white, he French. And, what, I can’t have a friend?”
They’d already had this argument, more than once.
“Never had friends before.”
“Yes, and this is a nice change. You’ve got Levi, Paul’s got… I don’t know, Jesus?”
That finally got a laugh out of his sister. They sat at the dinner table alone. Mama had already retired for the night, and Paul was at midnight mass, regardless of the fact that it was only 9.
“Why can’t I have somebody?” He asked.
“You can have somebody,” she said earnestly. “But why him?”
“Why not him?”
“He makes people uncomfortable.”
“He’s got tricks, that’s all.”
“Hmph.”
Louis grinned. “And now you sound like Mama.”
“Just be careful, Louis.” Her gaze softened. “You will, won’t you?”
“I will.”
He didn’t tell her he was going to meet Lestat after this, to take him to his favorite tailor over on South Rampart St. He’d never thought he’d be friends with a white man, a Frenchman at that. But Lestat didn’t belittle him, never talked down to him or questioned his intelligence. He wanted Louis’ opinion on everything, asked him questions, peppered him with them, what did he like to read, what was his favorite song, where was the best place to go for a drink or to listen to a band. And other questions: why did he let Tom Anderson talk to him any which way? Why didn’t he gut Alderman Fenwick like a pig with the knife hidden in his walking stick? Why did he insist on calling these worms sir? Lestat said it was beneath him, and he was right, Louis knew he was right, but try as he might to explain that things worked differently in America than Europe, Lestat didn’t understand, which made him equal parts enamored and exasperated.
And Lestat’s clothes. Louis shook his head. They were well-made, and expensive, but about 10-15 years out of date, at least, which he wasn’t sure how to explain to himself, since Lestat clearly had the means to be up on the latest fashions? But maybe he didn’t care about fashion. Only that seemed wrong, too, because someone that didn’t care about fashion wouldn’t jump at the chance to be taken to the best tailor in all of New Orleans, or arrive with 13 trunks full of shit in the first place, for that matter. A mystery, his Lestat.
Not yours, he told himself. Slow down, Louis. Maybe Grace was right. Maybe he needed to be a little more careful.
He pulled out his golden pocket watch and checked the time. Half past nine, now, and he was due to meet Lestat.
“Don’t stay up too late. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He got up and dropped a kiss on Grace’s cheek.
“See you tomorrow.”
By the time he got to the tailor, Lestat was waiting outside.
Shit.
Try as he might, and he was trying, he couldn’t stop noticing how good looking Lestat was. Golden hair, broad shoulders, and the most piercing gaze. Like he was looking right into Louis, reading his mind. Good thing he couldn’t read his mind, because he was usually thinking about how he wanted to kiss Lestat. Which was inappropriate. He shook himself out of those thoughts and smiled.
“Remind me why we couldn’t do this in the morning?” Louis asked.
“I’ve told you, Louis,” Lestat said breezily. “I’m not a morning person.”
“We’ll have to pay extra for him to see you at night.”
Lestat waved a hand dismissively.
“All right, all right.” Louis laughed and rapped on the door. The tailor’s shop receptionist opened it immediately.
“Mr. de Pointe du Lac,” she said.
She nodded her head in Lestat’s direction.
“Sir. Come in.” She stood to the side and they entered the tailor shop.
The tailor was an Irishman by the name of Declan Ahearn. He’d arrived in New Orleans a few years prior and set up shop in the Central Business District. It had taken him awhile to strum up business - the other whites didn't much like Irish, Italians, or Jews - and Louis knew he'd been one of his first customers. He'd been curious, he'd never met an Irishman before. Could barely understand the man at first, but he sewed him a jacket like nothing he'd ever seen, a red striped number, so he kept coming back. Then when Pa died, Louis had needed a place to put his money, and quickly, lest bill collectors and God knows who else came calling, and the Irishman let him stash it here. He had stash houses all over the city, now, but kept the bulk of it here, paid Declan 10% of his earnings to keep it safe for him.
His receptionist was a Colored girl, Verte LaFontaine, and Louis had long wondered if they had something going on. She was always here, no matter the time of day or night, and he knew Declan kept an apartment upstairs.
"Miss LaFontaine," he kissed her on the cheek. "This is my friend, Monsieur Lestat de Lioncourt."
"Monsieur de Lioncourt," she nodded again. "Tout lien avec le marquis d'Auvergne de Lioncourt? J'ai étudié l'histoire de France."
Lestat clapped his hands, delighted. "Elle parle parfaitement français!"
"Oui monsieur, ma mère a insisté," Miss LaFontaine said. "Dit qu'aucun créole louisianais qui se respecte ne parle pas l'anglais."
"Hey!" Louis said. His French was rusty, but he caught the gist of it.
"Sorry, Louis," she said with a laugh. "Declan will be down shortly. Care to have a cup of coffee while you wait?"
"Yes, please."
"Louis!" Lestat admonished him as soon as she was out of earshot. "Why didn't you tell me she spoke French?! I would've come to visit sooner, if only to have someone to converse with in the mother tongue."
"I thought you said you were gonna teach me French?"
Lestat laughed. "Don't pout, Louis, don't be jealous! I only have eyes for you."
It's just humor, Louis told himself as heat bloomed in his stomach. This was how Lestat liked to tease, a mock flirtatiousness that bordered on disrespect. It was part of what had initially infuriated him about the man, but he was learning the nuances of Lestat's communication style.
They were interrupted by Miss LaFontaine returning with a tray of coffee, two cups, and a saucer of milk and cream.
"Sucre, monsieur?" She asked Lestat as she poured him a cup.
"English, please," Louis said crisply. He wasn't jealous, though, he told himself. He wasn't.
"Non, merci," Lestat responded with a smile.
Louis had had just about enough of this. "I'm gon’ tell Declan you're down here flirting."
Ha! He thought. A blush finally spread across Miss LaFontaine's cheeks. He KNEW they had something going on.
"Flirting, did you say?" Declan's thick accent entered the room before he did.
"Oh, it's just good fun," Miss LaFontaine said. Now that Declan was in the room, she only had eyes for him. “Just entertaining your guests, is all.”
Declan was tall and dark-haired, which had surprised Louis when he met him, he'd thought all Irish were redheads. He did have eyes as green as moss on a weeping willow, though.
“Thank you, Miss LaFontaine,” Declan said, smiling at her so broadly Louis could see the gold crown covering the molar in the back of his mouth. “What would I do without you?”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Ahearn, sir. And I reckon you’d get along just fine.”
“Never.”
Lestat’s eyes went between the two of them amusedly.
“Comme c'est beau,” he said. Miss LaFontaine’s pulse jumped in her throat.
“I’ll be leaving you now, sirs.” She placed the two full coffee cups on the table, picked up the tray, and left. Declan’s eyes followed her out of the room before he turned to Louis.
“Louis!” He shook his hand. “What brings you here at this time of night?”
Louis clapped a hand on Lestat’s shoulder. “My friend here needs a new wardrobe, and I’m afraid he’s not a morning person.”
A glint came into Declan’s eyes. “A new wardrobe? What were you thinking?”
Louis tapped his chin. He finally let his eyes roam appreciatively over Lestat, under the guise of deciding. He’d already decided what they should get.
“Three piece suit… four, maybe five of them? Gray pinstripe, brown, black… herringbone?”
Declan nodded enthusiastically.
“Wool. Notched collar. Nipped waist. Broad shoulders. Clean lines, polished. You know how I like,” Louis continued.
Declan pulled a small notepad and pencil out of his pocket and began to take notes.
“Five shirts… seven?” Louis asked.
“Seven is better.”
“Two white, two striped, three plain.” He approached Lestat, put his hands on his shoulders. “May I?” He asked.
“Of course,” Lestat said. Louis removed Lestat’s jacket and set it aside. He stood directly in front of him, so close their noses were almost touching. Lestat wore a white collared shirt with a vest under his jacket.
“Two sweaters,” Louis said while he brushed his hands down Lestat’s arms, as if he were flicking away imaginary lint. “Cardigans. Nice big buttons. Brown. And… red.”
“You love your red, Louis, you devil,” Declan grinned. “What else?”
He adjusted Lestat’s tie. It was an old-fashioned silk cravat, tied Cravate à la Byron. That just would not do. It was the new 20th century, after all. “Ties. Ten of them. Paisley. Stripes. Argyle. Green. Silk, of course.” He paused. “Two dinner jackets. Two vests. Two pairs of pants.” He tucked Lestat’s hair behind his ear. His eyes really were the most extraordinary shade of blue. “A hat. Black, Bowler.” He let his hands drift down to Lestat’s wrists. “Pocket squares, cuff links?” Lestat nodded. “Those too, Declan.”
“Anything for you?”
“I need a new Chesterfield coat. Gray for me.” He winked at Lestat. “Black for him.”
“Matching?” Declan asked.
“Yes. Oui s'il vous plait,” Louis said. “See, I know a little.”
“Je vois, mon amour,” Lestat said quietly.
“M-mon amour?” Louis stuttered out.
“Mon ami.”
A slip of the tongue, that’s all, Louis said to himself. An accident.
“Declan, might I make a request?” Lestat said. His eyes were locked on Louis’.
“Whatever you want, Mr. de Lioncourt.”
“An inscription on the ticket pocket of the herringbone, if I may? I’ll write it down for you.”
“Of course.” Declan handed over the notepad and Lestat hid it from Louis while he wrote in it.
Louis raised his eyebrows. Lestat only smiled at him and handed the notepad back.
“Keep your secrets, then,” Louis said with a laugh.
“When will the order be ready?” Lestat asked Declan.
“Eight to twelve weeks. Eight at the earliest.”
“Send me an invoice and the bill will be paid in full.”
“Not for the Chesterfield-” Louis started to say.
“Include both Chesterfields, s'il vous plait,” Lestat interjected.
“Excellent.” Declan looked like the cat who ate the canary. Louis had brought friends here before, but never such a large and extravagant order.
“Could he try on some items while we’re here? Samples?” Louis asked.
“Wonderful idea. Let me bring out a few things.” He disappeared into the back.
Now Louis and Lestat were alone.
“I hope I wasn’t too presumptuous,” Louis said. What he didn’t say was, I’ve thought about you in these clothes for weeks.
“Au contraire, my Louis,” Lestat replied. “This has been quite wonderful.”
His Louis. His.
They still stood so close, nose to nose. Louis tried to swallow down his… proclivities. Lestat was his friend. He didn’t want to make it awkward and ruin it. But he couldn’t help but wonder what he would taste like if he leaned forward just an inch, closed the space in between them. Let his lips land on his. Would he push him away? Or would he embrace him?
Declan came back pushing a rolling metal garment rack, with Miss LaFontaine in tow holding the notepad and pencil. Louis took a step back.
“All right, lads, we have a few things here. Jackets, shirts, pants… I’m not a hat maker but I have a few hats, we work with an excellent milliner next door.”
He pulled out a sewing tape measure and a pin cushion stuck with pins. “I’m just going to take a few measurements, and Miss LaFontaine will take notes for me. You ready, Miss LaFontaine?"
"Yes, Mr. Ahearn, sir."
"All right. Arms out, if you please."
Lestat spread his arms like a bird. Declan began to measure him. Louis tried to ignore what was definitely a pang of jealousy as Declan's hands swept across Lestat.
"Height... 72 inches. Chest... 38 inches. Waist... 31 inches. Hips... 38 and a half inches, make sure you get the half, Miss LaFontaine. Inseam... 34 inches. Sleeve length... 32 inches. Neck size... 16 inches."
Miss LaFontaine nodded. "I got it, Declan... I mean, sir."
He smiled at her. "I'm sure Mr. de Pointe du Lac and Mr. de Lioncourt don't mind if you call me Declan, do they?"
Louis shrugged. "It don't bother me none."
"Nor me," Lestat said primly.
"All right, now that’s settled, let's try a jacket." Declan grinned winningly at Miss LaFontaine, who pulled a dark gray pinstripe dinner jacket off the rack.
"May I?" Louis asked again. Miss LaFontaine held out the jacket, and Louis took it from her. He helped Lestat into the jacket and buttoned it up. It had an oversized lapel, which he adjusted, tucking in Lestat's cravat for him. "Hat?" he asked Declan. Declan handed him a wool Bowler Derby hat with a ribbon band. He passed it to Lestat, who turned around and settled it on his head in the mirror. He tucked his hair behind his ears, a hint of a smile pulling at the left corner of his mouth, the side with the little scar, the side Louis ached to touch, to kiss. Louis leaned over to look in the mirror at Lestat’s reflection himself. Lestat was pleased, he could tell.
“You like it?” He asked anyway.
“C'est magnifique, parfait. I love it.” Lestat smiled brilliantly at him.
“Please keep the hat and the jacket,” Declan said. “And a few ties. It’s the very least we can do to tide you over until the rest is ready. We have seamstresses on call, we’ll bring on assistants, won’t we, Miss LaFontaine?”
“Yes, sir, Monsier de Lioncourt. Nous l'aurons prêt en un rien de temps.”
Louis rolled his eyes.
“Louis is becoming exasperated,” Lestat said. “I think it might be time for us to retire for the evening.”
“Lestat!”
“C'était un plaisir de vous rencontrer,” Lestat continued. He lifted Miss LaFontaine’s hand and kissed her fingers.
“Oh, now I’m jealous!” Declan said good-naturedly. “The price just doubled.”
“Come, Louis, we must go before it triples!” Lestat swept out the front door, giggling uncontrollably.
Declan laughed and shook his head. “I like him very much, Louis.”
“Always good to see you, Declan.” Louis shook his hand. “Miss LaFontaine.” He kissed her cheek.
“And you, too, Louis.” Miss LaFontaine wiggled her eyebrows at him and held up something behind her back. The notepad.
“Come with me upstairs, darling…” She steered Declan away, discreetly leaving the notepad on the table.
Louis snatched it up the instant they were gone and opened it to the page just before Declan’s measurements. And there, in the bold, curving script of Lestat’s handwriting, he saw the inscription he’d requested be sewn over the ticket pocket of the herringbone suit jacket:
LDPDL