Acadian Waltz Read Online Free PDF Page B

when I first noticed you in
the ER waiting area, I thought you would be just like every other woman I had
ever met. But you didn’t flirt with me or try to be someone you’re not when I
drove you home the other night. You’re different from all the rest. That’s why
I’m here.”
    I smiled into
his handsome face. “Thank you, John.”
    He eyed me
quizzically. “For what?”
    “For noticing
that I’m different.” 
    His eyes
traveled down the length of my body. “Good thing for both of us you weren’t
wearing that dress the other night. Otherwise, I might never have noticed.”
    He leaned in
closer, and a flutter of excitement gripped my stomach.
    “Nora,” he
whispered in my ear. “Perhaps you should get in the car so we can actually go
on our date.” He stepped back from me and raised his head.
    I tried to
discern what he was thinking at that moment, but his gray eyes lacked any hint
of desire. His face was oddly detached.
    I quickly
climbed into the waiting car, feeling a little let down by his reserved manner.
Perhaps he was nervous. Not every man was as blatant with his emotions as the
insufferable Jean Marc Gaspard. Maybe John Blessing was one of those men you
had to get to know before he revealed his inner workings to you. How refreshing
to meet a man who did not begin every conversation with a scowl, and whose eyes
were not filled with a dark distrust. Funny, I remember thinking at the time,
how Jean Marc’s aggravating idiosyncrasies had been seared into my memory.     
    *    
*     *
    We made our way
in his fine German automobile through the heart of the Crescent City, along the
old streets and into the Garden District. While we headed to the restaurant,
John talked about his love of New Orleans homes and their unique architecture.
    “James Gallier,
Sr. built several homes in the uptown area in addition to the former city hall
off Poydras Avenue,” he explained. “He was renowned for his use of delicately
carved cypress and the inlay of marble and tile in his long entrance halls.”
    “You’re quite an
expert on the architecture around here,” I said, admiring his slender hands on
the steering wheel.
    “Always loved
New Orleans architecture, with its mix of French and Spanish influences melding
together in a Caribbean-like climate. It’s one of the reasons I came here to
study medicine and do my residency. The first place I went after moving here
was Jackson Square. I remember being enthralled with the architecture around
the square. It’s always been my favorite spot in New Orleans.” He paused and
shifted the car down in the slowing traffic. “Everything in Dallas is new and
filled with stainless steel and glass. Here everything is as it has always been
for a hundred years or more.”
    “So are the
people,” I insisted. “New Orleanians have a strange kind of Southern apathy.
Progress is a dirty word, and instead of moving forward, sometimes I swear we
go backwards.”
    “But it’s like
any other large American city,” John objected. “The problems here are no
different than any other place in the U.S.”
    “People here are
different. They’re locked in to the land with a deep sense of tradition and
obligation to the ways of things past. It’s that sense of holding on to the
past that drowned the city after Katrina.”
    “But the past is
comforting to many people,” he countered.
    “Comfort in the
past is a luxury that holds people back from embracing the future. Schools
without air-conditioning, houses without electricity, people without basic
elementary education, and levees that failed when we needed them most. These
are all things the love of the past has given us.” I paused and took in some of
the run down homes we passed on our way down Prytania Street. “‘Embrace the
past, but save room for the future,’ my father used to always say.”
    John pulled the
car up to a red light. “He was an advocate for progress?”  
    “He wanted to
see the city