They were good to me, giving me anything I needed to further my studies, and when they surprised me with tuition to Yale, I was speechless. I will forever be grateful to them for taking me in.
My foster mother used to tell me I was a miracle. Even at sixteen, which is normally older than most people would adopt, they took one look at me and knew I was special. They’d lost their child too young. A drunk driver, who sped off after knocking her off her bike, was never found.
When the opportunity came up to live in Italy after I’d finished my studies and got my degree, I jumped at the chance. A one year paid apprenticeship at an art gallery in one of the most picturesque cities in Europe. Thankfully, it’s given me more than enough savings to be comfortable until my first paycheck. And when I get home, I can pay my own way.
Opening my laptop, I click on the browser and immediately type Elliot plantation house. Not far down the search results, a five-star rating grabs my attention.
Owned and operated by the Elliot family for more than thirty-five years, this picturesque property is in a league of its own. The gardens are filled with some of the finest botanicals and a small maze to keep the little ones busy.
Mr. Elliot says of his home: “This will one day be my son’s. Julian will take over and make me proud. All my hard work, all the time and effort I’ve put in, is for him. When I lost my wife, Julian’s mother, I had to focus on the little time we’re given on this earth, and that made me want to dream big. And here I am.”
If you’re in NOLA at any time of the year, this is one place you wouldn’t want to pass by. Rated five stars by our critic on both quality and service.
My heart goes out to Julian Elliot in that moment. Losing his mother and then his dad. Granted, my father is alive and well somewhere, but to lose a parent is something I’d never wish on anyone. Perhaps I was right. Maybe he’s hurting. I know when Mom died, all I wanted to do was hide. To lock myself away and never see the sun again.
Well, if that’s the case, I’m going to make him see that his father is right. You never know when your time is up, and sitting around in a state of depression is not the way to live.
After a far-too-long flight and another connection, I’m finally here. I didn’t expect it to be so warm, and I have to shrug off the sweater I’m wearing as I make my way out of the arrivals section of the airport.
With my suitcases on the cart, I sneak between people greeting their loved ones and others welcoming guests holding placards with names written on them. I’ve always loved airports, the excitement of either going on vacation or returning to find people you love waiting on you.
But the moment I stop, the innate pain in my chest reminds me that I no longer have anybody around to wait for me. Sighing, I focus on the here and now, the reason I’ve made it all the way to New Orleans. I promised my mother one day I’d make it here, and I did.
The rental car Mr. Elliot hired for me is waiting at the curb. A handsome young guy hands me the keys with a smile, and I can’t help but think of my best friend. Knowing Phoebe, she’d probably ask for his number, but Phoebe’s in Italy, and I’m here, nervous because I’m about to drive on the other side of the road again.
Behind the wheel, I think about what I’m heading for. This hasn’t been easy, having the world at my feet, and now, coming back here, filled with memories of my mother. She spoke of this city with so much love, so much fondness, and my tears well up being here.
I flick the button to turn on the stereo, and I find a station that has some classical music, which sets me at ease. The roads aren’t too bad once I get a few miles into town, and soon I’m smiling as I pull up to the building, which is so close to Bourbon Street I can hear music when I push open the car door.
Stepping out of the vehicle, I take in the rich opulence of the architecture, and my stomach somersaults wildly realizing I’m here. I’ve made it.
And it’s charming in the most delightful way.
The door of the apartment building slides open when I walk up to it, and I’m met by a man who offers me a smile. He looks to be in his fifties, with an eccentric shirt that reminds me of the photos I’ve seen of Hawaii or some far-off island.
“Hello, I’m Nea Kinley,” I tell him.
“Ah, yes, welcome. I am Rico. I’ll be here every day if you need anything, except Sundays,” he informs me with a smile. “Mrs. Bishop told me you’d be moving in today. Here are your keys,” he tells me as he hands me the set with a small gold lock that he continues to explain is for my post box. “You’re welcome to use it or not, but we like to make sure all residents have privacy.”
“Thank you. This is wonderful.”
It doesn’t take me long to get my suitcases out of the car, and soon, Rico and I have my luggage outside the apartment door. My fingers tremble as I unlock it and step into one of the most stunning living
