The three-story brick edifice on Camp Street had once been the headquarters of the Katz and Besthoff drugstore chain, and memories of K&B’s signature purple color, splashed on signs and logos and labels for treasured house brands such as Creole cream cheese ice cream at 89 cents a gallon and four-year-old bourbon for $4.25, still warmed the hearts of New Orleaneans over the age of 21.

Happily, the arts gallery was open. Actually, there was no one inside the expansive room, and Tubby strolled about, admiring this and that and trying to understand an exhibit of found-art sculpture, mostly constructed of re-purposed galvanized pipes and plumbing fixtures. Hung from the pipes, or in frames welded onto the arrangements, were photographs of “old” New Orleans, Mardi Gras, ballrooms, fruit vendors. The artist was identified as Dinky Bacon, the exhibitionist whose fund-raiser the lawyer had attended. Bacon was described on a placard as living in Rudduck, Louisiana.

As far as Tubby knew Rudduck was a boat-launch on the muddy banks of Lake Maurepas and anyone there would have to live in a shack accessible only by boating across narrow bayous overhung with Spanish moss and teeming with alligators and other reptiles. However did this artist get his works, some of which were quite bulky and cumbersome, in and out of a waterbound cabin in Rudduck? This question intrigued him more than the sculptures themselves.

“Are you a member, sir?” An elfin silken-haired girl with tattooed legs appeared at his side.

“No, not for years. Do I need to pay something?”

“It’s actually ten dollars, but an annual membership costs only thirty-five and you get all sorts of special rates and invitations for the performing arts and our important events. We’re just about to start the fall season.”

“I’ll be glad to pick up some information. Here’s a ten. I was wondering if a woman who volunteers here, Peggy O’Flarity, might be around today.”

“Ms. O’Flarity? Yes, I believe she’s at the board meeting upstairs. They should be breaking up soon. Then they all have lunch.”

“Ah. Would it be possible to give her a note?”

Apparently he looked respectable enough. “I could try,” she said.

Hurriedly Tubby scribbled on the back of a business card. “Would you possibly like to have lunch with me? I’m downstairs now.”

The girl looked at the note while pretending not to, and told him to stay put.

Tubby did. The gallery had floor-to-ceiling windows facing the street, and with that urban scenery as a background, the plumbing art, together with the antique photographs positioned at odd joints, gained a context. The lawyer went groping for insightful things to say to demonstrate his intellectual side.

Hearing the click of heels above, he looked up.

He was transfixed by a pair of legs in black shoes coming down the circular stairs.

“Mister Dubonnet. Is that right?” she asked when she had completed the spiral. She had a wide smile and twinkling blue eyes.

He found his voice and rose to the occasion. “You’re saying it exactly right, but please call me Tubby. I was just in the neighborhood.”

She took his hand and gave him a smile. “And I was just finishing a meeting. What do you think of our exhibit?”

“I think, as seen with the street as a backdrop, these works fit into our urban context.”

Peggy O’Flarity had to suppress a laugh. “Well put,” she said. “I can’t wait to tell the artist. His show, however, is entitled ‘Country Living.’ ”

“What does he know?”

“Quite right,” Peggy agreed. “Did you invite me to lunch?”

“I certainly did. I’m afraid I don’t have reservations. But we’re close to Tivoli & Lee. I’ve never been there. Want to try it?”

“In the Hotel Modern, or Moderne, however you say it?”

“Yeah, it’s just a couple of blocks.”

“That would suit me, though I’m missing out on pizza and pasta salad with the rest of the board.”

Tubby ushered her to the door. “You didn’t tell me you were a board member.” He took her elbow at the steps.

“Yes, and I have been for a couple of years. It’s really a very important group.”

Tubby was something of a stranger to non-profit boards. He had always shied away from activities with no potential economic benefits other than fishing and hunting ducks.

“I’d like to hear more about your impressive group,” he lied. “How does membership here compare to, say, being on the board of the New Orleans Art Museum, or the Ogden, or the Confederate Art Museum?”

She launched into a long and informed answer to that question.

He enjoyed the sound of her voice. He would have called it languid and sexy. She was learned. She dressed a lot smarter than he did. A white blouse, unbuttoned to a daring point, a bold, beaded necklace he thought could be lapis, a wide red belt, a sharp black skirt, and those heels.

He realized she had said something that he was supposed to respond to, but they had arrived at the restaurant. “Here we are,” he said with relief.

“Oh, how nice and cool in here,” she said. The first thing that met the eye was the bar, with colorful stools against one wall, and the second thing was the cheerful hostess who said that a table for two for lunch would be no problem.

She pointed at a little shiny table with stainless-steel chairs, but Tubby pointed to a booth upholstered in burgundy leather and said that’s where they chose to be seated. They were given black napkins and spring water, and made quick work of ordering.

Peggy said she was sticking to her diet, and had a luncheon salad made of arugula and apples.

Tubby couldn’t go quite that far, even for good health, so he ordered the Tivoli Burger, made from pedigreed beef topped with roasted garlic cream cheese, pepper jelly, pickled onions, and bacon. And, just to see how it would come out, an order of deviled eggs on the side.

“How about a glass of wine?” he suggested.

“Why not?” she said agreeably, and they each ordered a glass of Foxglove Chardonnay, maybe not fancy, but the best they had.

The establishment also offered a seventy-five-cent martini, but Tubby dismissed that as gauche under first-date circumstances.

“Was finding you today at the CAC my lucky break?” he asked. “Or do you come into the city often?”

As she began to speak, the most amazing thing happened. Her subject evolved into New Orleans, what she loved about it, what she hated about it, and he found himself totally engaged in her comments. She would make an observation about the architecture and the oak trees, and he would immediately have an impression of his own to share. The Lake, the history of the French Quarter, all the good things that had happened since Katrina. He was there. It had been a long time, about five years in fact, since he had had an actual conversation with an interesting and accomplished person who liked him. Talking to Raisin didn’t count.

The food came. Tubby’s burger in its warm bun was suitably immense. The deviled eggs, served on a square pearly dish, were each topped with a scoop of smoked gulf fish in a mousse and with a spoonful of big crispy capers. They each reached for one.

But the food was almost an afterthought. A good meal, they both said so, but they kept on talking. It had possibly been a long time for her, too.

Dessert menus arrived, and they both said no. But they ordered cappuccino while she described the Northshore— a land to which Tubby had seldom traveled. It had always represented, to him, a suburban wasteland occupied by narrow-minded, unfortunate people who had to commute hours each day, but she made it sound interesting. What with the beautiful farms, the trails, the rivers, the bicycling, and the cultural events in Covington.

“I’d sure like to explore it someday,” he said, totally in her spell.

“You could if you like. Come on over and see my place. You can ride a horse.”