The Seventh House

By Duncan Lane

A marvelous blend of modern realism and dream-like allegory. This paranoid romance gives an evocative glimpse into the eclectic bohemian lives of aspiring artists in New Orleans.

Jessica DeLaine is a freewheeling artist and entrepreneur. New Orleans is the center of her world, but her impending marriage will require leaving the city she loves. Her farewell project is to be a magnificent glass sculpture - until an unexpected encounter disrupts all of her plans. Is the handsome man in the long gray overcoat an ardent admirer from her past, a figment of her imagination, or a dangerous stalker? Fantasy and reality blur for Jessica, and her destiny becomes enmeshed in her artwork as she strives to complete her masterpiece.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Duncan Lane
• Release date: Mar 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393678885

Duncan Lane

Duncan Lane was born and raised in England, but later moved to California. He is married and has two children. His degree in engineering initially led to a career in hi-tech. He wrote his first novel in his spare time (midnight to 2a.m.) over the course of several years. When it was published, he promptly quit his day job. He now has multiple novels and a screenplay to his credit. He currently lives and writes in San Francisco.

Book preview

Chapter 1   

The Seventh House now holds your star

So wedded bliss cannot be far.  Anon.

THE LINE OF CARS MOVED like a reluctant centipede, listlessly crawling along under the noonday sun. All three lanes of southbound Elysian Fields Avenue had been squeezed down to one by the dictate of cones. Jessica kept her car creeping forward in first gear, maintaining a slight pressure on the blue plastic steering wheel to counteract its tendency to pull to the right. She glanced over at Kate, who was fanning herself with her hand and staring stolidly out the open passenger-side window.

‘FOBO’ was the only thing Kate had said since getting into the car and slamming the door. Or more accurately, she’d said FOBO  among a string of expletives and then declared she didn’t want to talk about it.

Some silly chatter or gossip was what Jessica had been hoping for—anything to distract her from dwelling on thoughts of sculptures and glasswork. She gave a loud sigh and let her shoulders slump. No reaction from Kate.

Jessica scowled and her loose black-rimmed glasses slipped down the sweaty bridge of her nose. She shoved them back into place a little harder than intended, then arched her back and shifted her bottom; short shorts and vinyl seats were not a good combination on a day like this. To call it hot wouldn’t do it justice. This was New Orleans summer heat—steaming, sweltering, glaring, humid, stick-to-your-underwear heat—and it was only the second day of May.

The car’s engine began to judder in protest at the prolonged first-gear crawl. Jessica played the clutch, easing the car along and lingering in a brief respite of shade beneath one of the giant old oak trees dotted along the grassy center median. Elysian Fields Avenue did its best with trees and grass, but in truth it was a poor cousin to the city’s more elegant uptown streets; more of a broad utilitarian thoroughfare, a main route from Interstate 10 down to the French Quarter, lined with small  clapboard houses, sporadic strip malls and gas stations.

Beyond the shadow of the tree and once again in full sun, they were slowly passing a Domino’s Pizza restaurant when the reason for the delay became apparent. The distant blatting of jackhammers and the unmistakable acrid waft of hot tar reached them.

Hey, the City must have finally decided to fix those whopping great potholes at the junction with St. Claude, Jessica said.

Kate gave a disinterested shrug by way of response, but at least it was a response.

Traffic stopped. Jessica brought the borrowed old Honda Civic to a smooth halt using the handbrake—the brake pedal had quit working last week. She shifted to neutral and drummed her fingers on the steering wheel in time to the stuttering idle of the engine. Despite the increasing construction noise, she left her window wound all the way down in the vain hope of a cross breeze.

The car ahead of them was a gleaming beige BMW, one of the big and expensive ones. The driver had apparently had enough of delays. He kept inching forward, crowding up behind the car ahead of him, and gave three long blasts on his horn.

What’s his problem? Kate asked.

He’s an asshole, Jessica replied with a grin. And he’s managed to stop right where the sun’s in my eyes. She flapped down the sun visor and sat up tall to cut off the reflected glare from the BMW’s rear window.

Kate squinted and raised her hand to shield her eyes. Where’s my visor?

Probably on the back seat with the rest of Blaine’s crap, Jessica replied. He never throws anything away. He replaced the oil pump last week, and kept the old one—it's back there somewhere. In the rear-view mirror she could see  an old plastic milk crate crammed with various greasy metallic things.

Kate twisted around to look. I’ll let him off for keeping car parts and half-used  cans of paint, but jeez, there’s old pizza boxes on the seat and about a thousand crushed Coke cans on the floor. No wonder it stinks in here.

Ah, what are you going to do? It's better than walking and at least he’s got a banging stereo. Let’s have some tunes, Jessica said. She bent down and fumbled behind her feet for her copious canvas shoulder bag. She extracted a random CD without a case and sat up in time to see the BMW moving forward. Oh, we're off again. Stick this one in, will you?

She handed Kate the disc and eased the car ahead for about fifty yards. They stopped again, this time next to a black construction worker in sagging blue jeans and an orange vest over a denim shirt. Beads of sweat glistened on his face and dripped off his nose as he rhythmically shoveled asphalt into a pothole. He paused in his work and stepped aside as a big yellow dump truck reversed past. It rumbled by, belching diesel fumes and beeping its way along the construction zone.

Kate inserted the CD into the player. Mr. Blue Skies blasted out from the surround sound speakers.

Jessica grinned and began bopping to the beat. She liked old British rock. When people asked her why, she said because of her old British dad. Thanks to him, all the Brit bands of the sixties and seventies were ingrained in her psyche.

Who is this? Kate shouted above the music.

ELO. Jeff Lynne, and maybe Roy Wood. I can’t remember if he was on this one.

It’s good. But singing about sunshine and blue skies is making me feel even hotter. This car’s like a frickin’ sauna on wheels. Mind if I shed a layer?

I wish I could, but I'm not wearing a bra, Jessica replied.

Go ahead, no one will notice.

Thanks a lot.

I didn't mean it that way. Kate peeled off her pink sweaty t-shirt. Ah, that's better, give the girls a little air. She tugged at the straps of her brown leather bra, jiggling her ample breasts.

Leather? Jessica asked.

Oh, don’t you start. Zeek’s idiot actor friend already pissed me off enough. He—

Who?

"Jeez, don’t you ever listen? Zeek’s college buddy—the actor—he’s staying with us for the week.  Anyway, this morning, he saw me in my bra and declared I have FOBO. Damned nerve of some people."

Jessica raised a quizzical eyebrow.

FOBO—fear of being ordinary, Kate explained.

Ah, cute, you should put it on a t-shirt.

No way, I think it’s rude. Makes me sound like some sort of poser doing stuff just to be different. Truth is I had to wear this one today because I lost my regular bra yesterday.

How do you lose a bra? Jessica asked.

Kate didn’t say anything, but gave a licentious grin.

Well, Jessica said, FOBO or not, someone approves of your style.

The road-worker next to the car was leaning on his shovel and eyeing Kate. He said something and smiled.

Kate turned down the music and leaned out her window. What?

I said dat's a nice lookin' brassiere. Where you get it?

Thanks, I make them myself, Kate replied. Twenty-five bucks at the Bywater Art Mart. I'll be there this Saturday.

Dat's a good deal, girl.

Yeah? How about I sell you this one for a hundred? Kate asked, slipping the strap off her left shoulder.

Hundred dollars? At Mardi Gras a girl showed me her titties for a one-dollar string of beads.

That was months ago—inflation's a bitch, ain't it?

Traffic started again and Jessica eased the car forward. The worker gave them a happy parting wave. Y'all take care now.

You too, have a good one, Kate replied and settled back into her seat. Hey, we're finally moving properly.

Yeah, we might even make the light this time. Jessica shifted up to second gear.

The signal changed to  yellow. The BMW driver floored it and shot through the  intersection, making a tire-squealing left onto St. Claude, oblivious to the sign hanging from the traffic light prohibiting left turns. Jessica yanked on the handbrake.

Coward, Kate said. You could’ve made that. She bent forward to turn up the stereo.

You should—

Jessica broke off, transfixed by the sight of a tall handsome man on the sidewalk. He was about thirty feet away to her right, shimmering in the heat haze of the road works. Her heart began to pound, her throat tightened. "My god, it is him."

Who? What? Kate sat up and tried to follow where Jessica was pointing. She frowned. You mean that fat white guy in the hard hat and orange vest?

No, the man talking to him. Ah damn, the truck’s in the way now.

The enormous yellow dump truck, still bleating its reversing signal, pulled across their view.  It settled next to them with an emphatic hiss of air brakes as if pleased to be an obstruction.

Jessica smacked the steering wheel. Didn't you see him?

Who?

The man in the coat. It’s weird, but... Jessica took a deep steadying breath. But I swear it was the guy we saw at the Gare du Nord the day we were leaving Paris. You remember, the guy we called Monsieur Gorgeous. He was right there.

You mean your fantasy man? Here? You're nuts.

I swear it was him. He was standing right there, plain as day.

Uh-huh. Sure he was, Kate replied.

I know it sounds crazy, but I've seen him a bunch of times lately, little glimpses here and there, but this time I saw him clearly. It’s like he’s been stalking me for the last couple of months.

You mean since you got out of the hospital?

Jessica pursed her lips and said nothing.

Sorry, Kate said. It's just a bit hard to believe that Monsieur Gorgeous would give up sauntering around Paris, smoking Gauloises and hanging out at sidewalk cafes to come and dig up roads in New Orleans.

He wasn't digging up the damned road. He was ... he was just standing there, wearing a suit and an overcoat, and talking to the construction guy.

An overcoat? Kate asked.

Jessica closed her eyes and tried to recall the exact image of the man. The face was right and the clothing, too—a long gray wool overcoat worn open over a tailored blue suit, white shirt with the collar unbuttoned and no tie. The exact same outfit from five years ago in Paris, except back then he'd been holding a dozen red roses.

She and Kate had watched him from their train compartment. They’d boarded early and spent the time before departure making up stories about the people outside on the platform. Jessica had created a whole back-story for the handsome man with the roses—his lost love, his hopes for a reunion, his yearning heart. Just silly fun until their eyes met and he smiled at her. Her heart had done a somersault—something in that smile, something in those beautiful brown eyes. She’d wanted to run out and meet him, to throw herself into his arms. But she hesitated too long; the train started and the moment was lost.

The car behind honked and brought her back to the