After Fat Tuesday

Chapter 1

I’ve often wondered how anyone in New Orleans manages to stay thin. With the scent of beignets in the air, gumbo bubbling in every pot, and pralines practically calling my name from every corner, it feels impossible to resist indulging. At least for me it is, and maybe that’s why I’m the size I am—a big, soft woman with curves as abundant as the city’s charm. I used to fight it, this growing body of mine, but somewhere along the way, I realized: why should I? I love food, I love this city, and maybe it’s time to love myself too.

After a ten-year relationship that had gone as stale as day-old beignets, I’d packed my bags and left Atlanta without looking back. My ex, Paul, was a decent man—steady, predictable, and utterly uninspiring. We’d grown comfortable in our routine, but somewhere along the way, I’d stopped feeling seen. Worse, I’d stopped seeing myself. Ten years of shrinking into the background while the rest of the world demanded more of me had left me longing for passion, for excitement, for a version of myself that I hadn’t yet met.

So here I was, back in New Orleans, standing in front of the creaky double doors of the old shotgun house I’d inherited from my grandmother. The place smelled like history and mildew, but it was mine. The peeling paint and uneven floorboards didn’t bother me. This house had a kind of beauty that didn’t need anyone’s approval, and I knew that I could learn to do the same.

I set my suitcase down and exhaled, feeling the weight of the moment settle over me. My reflection in the dusty hallway mirror caught my eye, and I paused. I wasn’t thin—hadn’t been for as long as I could remember. My hips flared in defiance of every magazine cover I’d ever seen, my thighs pressed together like they’d made a pact, and my belly, soft and rounded, whispered secrets that no diet could ever silence. Some days I hated it, and other days I simply tolerated it, but today, standing there in my grandmother’s house, I made a decision: I wasn’t going to hide anymore.

The city’s rhythm called to me—the distant hum of jazz drifting through the air, the tantalizing scent of something frying wafting from a neighbor’s kitchen. This was a place that didn’t apologize for its appetites, and maybe that’s what I needed. I wanted to feel alive again, to taste life without guilt or hesitation.

I wasn’t sure where this journey would lead me, but for the first time in years, I felt like I was stepping into something that was entirely mine. New Orleans had its arms open wide, and I was ready to let it hold me.My best friend Monica had invited me to a party later that evening. It was to be the kind of affair that I’d only ever seen in movies—linen tablecloths, gilded platters piled high with hors d'oeuvres, and well-heeled guests exchanging laughter that seemed practiced and polished. I wouldn’t have a chance of setting foot in a place like this if it weren’t for the fact that I had been best friends with Miss Monica Rousseau, since we were children.

Monica’s family wasn’t rich exactly, but compared to mine, they might as well have been royalty. Her father owned a string of successful hardware stores, and her mother’s family was old money—one of those names that carried weight in New Orleans. Meanwhile, my family had always been more salt-of-the-earth. My father drove a taxicab until his knees gave out, and my mother cleaned houses for people like Monica’s.

When I was twelve years old, I won a scholarship to the prestigious St. Genevieve’s Academy, an all-girls private school in the heart of the city. This is where I would meet Monica, perhaps the only way that a person like her and a person like me could have been brought together. We were like oil and vinegar at first, being forced to sit next to one another in class. In time though, we would learn to get along, and soon we were the best of friends. 

Despite our differences, Monica and I had remained friends long after our school days were over. She was the kind of person who flitted between social circles with ease, and though I sometimes envied her charm and grace, I loved her for the way she never seemed to look down on me. It was Monica who had insisted I come to this party, brushing off my protests that I wouldn’t fit in.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Désirée,” she’d said, rolling her eyes as she rifled through my closet. “You’re stunning. They’ll be too busy admiring you to notice anything else.”

So here I was, wearing the only dress I owned that might pass for cocktail attire, nursing a champagne flute I couldn’t bring myself to refill, and trying not to feel like I’d crash-landed in someone else’s life. Monica was off mingling with her well-dressed acquaintances, and I was left to fend for myself in this sea of silk and sequins.

I’d just about decided to sneak out when I felt the weight of someone’s gaze. Turning, I locked eyes with the most captivating man I’d ever seen, and for a moment, the world around me seemed to blur.

The party was more extravagant than I’d expected—a lush garden illuminated by strings of lanterns, the air thick with the scent of blooming jasmine and rich Creole spices. I was awkwardly nursing a glass of champagne, trying to ignore the gnawing insecurity that whispered I didn’t belong here, when I felt someone watching me.

Turning, I saw him: Julian Devereaux. He was striking in the way only men born into privilege could be—effortlessly handsome, with sharp cheekbones, a tailored suit that fit him like a second skin, and an air of confidence that bordered on arrogance. His smile was slow and deliberate as he made his way toward me, and I couldn’t stop the flush that crept up my neck.

“You’re too beautiful to be standing here alone,” he said, his voice smooth as molasses.

I laughed, startled by the boldness of his compliment. “Maybe I just don’t know anyone well enough to interrupt their conversations.”

“Well then, allow me to be your conversation.” His gaze lingered on me—not just on my face, but on all of me, as though he were savoring a particularly fine work of art. “I’m Julian Devereaux. And you are?”

“Désirée Beaumont,” I managed, my voice a little breathless. He took my hand, pressing a kiss just above my knuckles. It felt old-fashioned and overly theatrical, but the warmth in his touch made my heart flutter.

“Enchanté, Miss Beaumont,” he said, his grin widening. “I have a feeling you’ll make this evening infinitely more interesting.”

For the rest of the night, Julian stayed by my side, pulling me into his orbit with a charm that felt impossible to resist. We talked about everything and nothing—food, music, the history of New Orleans—and every time his hand brushed mine, sparks seemed to leap between us. By the time I left, the world felt just a little brighter, and I couldn’t stop wondering when I’d see him again.