very expensive BMW, the kind that cost more than I could earn in a year.
“Come in,” he said. We stepped from the garage into an enclosed courtyard, a trademark of old French Quarter homes, then crossed the gorgeous garden space to the residence on the other side.
He opened the French door and waved me into a living room that had retained all the original charm of the building—crown molding, rounded corners, beautifully restored oak hardwood floors—with a contemporary vibe. Soft neutral paint and brass accents somehow tied together the house’s historic roots with a current aesthetic.
“Do you like it?” he asked, watching me closely.
“I do.” I wandered over to the twill sofa and studied the tiny touches in the room, from fresh magnolias in a vase to the tasteful accent tables. It screamed of high-end designer tastes while still making me want to curl up and relax.
“Thanks,” he said.
“This is your place?”
He nodded.
It wasn’t a surprise. It wasn’t like I’d expected him to be letting me into someone else’s house. “It’s beautiful.”
“Thanks. Would you like a tour?”
“I’d love one.” There wasn’t much I loved more than wandering through historic New Orleans properties.
Like most owners of old homes in the city, Miles knew a great deal about the history of his. The building itself was essentially a D-shape with the garage wing forming the spine. We started with the communal areas first as he explained the features to me that only a dedicated owner would know. The building itself was antebellum—pre-Civil War—and had been the city residence of a wealthy sugar baron. Miles hadn’t focused on keeping antique furniture and décor the way some people did, but he’d very much respected the integrity of the architecture, showcasing original wood, glass, doors and fixtures wherever he could. But the real test was coming, and I was curious to see what would happen when we reached the former slave quarters. Would he acknowledge them? Ignore them? What had he done with them?
He led me through the formal dining room which wasn’t that formal—comfortable upholstered chairs surrounded a long farm-chic table—and a kitchen that made me itchy to cook on its gleaming cooktop. It was big and spacious, and I wanted it.
“Do you do much cooking?” I asked.
He nodded. “For myself. Not so much for other people, but I know my way around a kitchen.”
He’d never mentioned a girlfriend, and this seemed to confirm that he wasn’t seeing anyone now. I’d broken down a few nights before and done some googling, bringing up years of his dating history. From ages eighteen to about twenty-two, he’d been the darling of TMZ as he dated a parade of Disney Channel starlets and two members of the same girl group. After that, the reports slowed down, but I wasn’t sure if it was because the paparazzi had lost interest in him or if he’d slowed down dating. Every now and then, a story cropped up that showed him stretched out on a yacht next to a hot blonde or on a Miami beach chair next to a smoldering brunette, but if they stuck around, it wasn’t making the tabloids.
I wondered how to work it into a casual conversation, something I could drop in like I didn’t care about the answer. Something like, This is a lot of house for just you, maybe?
But the thought fled from me completely when he led me into the next wing. It was connected to the main body of the house now, but back then, it would have been detached from the main building to house the people enslaved by the sugar baron who’d built this place. Miles opened the first door on the right and flipped on a light, then stepped inside and made room for me to follow.
“These were the slave quarters,” he said, his voice quiet.
I looked around, processing how he’d approached it. Some people turned these spaces into guest bedrooms or apartments to sublease. He’d turned them into a long gallery and converted it into a library. Books lined the shelves from floor to ceiling with artwork and sculptures dotting walls and pedestals.
“A library. I don’t think I’ve seen one of these spaces used this way.”
“Yeah.” He scratched his head like he wasn’t sure what to say. “I almost didn’t buy this house because I hated the idea of owning a property that had ever been used to enslave people. But the former owner was a jazz musician. Rooster John?”