“Ugh!” I cover my eyes with my hands. “But how can I want him when he’s myfriendand when I’m already in love with Cash?”
When neither of them answers, I lower my hands. They’re both eyeing me.
“What?” I say. “What’s with the faces?”
“It’s just dat…” Jean-Pierre hesitates. “Areyou in love with Cash? Or is it more like you feel youshouldbe in love with him?”
I blink dully, and Eva fills the silence with, “Itdoesseem like Cash came into your life at a vulnerable time. And speaking as a friend”—she puts a hand over her heart—“I’ve always thought you romanticized things with him a bit. Hanging on when you should’ve been letting go. I’m not saying you didn’t love him back then, or even that you don’t love him now, I’m just wondering if it’s…everything you think it is.”
“Okay.” I nod. “But even if that’s the case, and I’m not saying it is, that doesn’t change anything, does it? I’m right, aren’t I, to want to be careful? To think it’s best not to jump into anything that might hurt one or both of them?”
Before either of them has a chance to answer, a voice calls up from below, “Excuse me!”
The three of us exchange a glance.
“Excuse me!” the voice calls a second time. “My phone died and my husband left his back at the hotel! Can you tell us how to get to Lafitte’s Old Absinthe House?”
Even if the New England accent didn’t make it obvious the owner of the voice is a tourist, the request for directions to one of Bourbon Street’s most popular hangouts would. Visitors to the city love the idea that it’s the place where General Andrew Jackson and our resident outlaw pirate, Jean Lafitte, hatched the plan to work together to fend off the approaching British fleet during the War of 1812.
Thrusting aside my blanket, I ignore Yard’s groan of displeasure and lean over the balcony railing. A couple who look to be in their mid to late forties stare up at me.
“Keep going the way you’re going.” I point up the street. “Once you hit Bourbon, head uptown.”
The man and woman glance at each other before turning confused stares my way.
“Which way is uptown?” the man asks.
“Oh, right.” I laugh, explaining to them that in New Orleans, we don’t abide by the cardinal directions of north, south, east, and west. Instead, we use the geography of the city: lake, river, downtown, uptown, respectively. “Left on Bourbon Street,” I tell them. “Then go a couple of blocks.”
They smile and wave their thanks. After they’re gone, movement below catches my eye. That irritating reporter steps from the shadows of Emeril Lagasse’s famous French Quarter restaurant.
“Ugh.” I fist my hands on my hips and call down to her, “This borders on harassment, you know?”
Eva and Jean-Pierre—excellent friends that they are—leap up to flank me.
Instead of looking chagrined, however, the reporter offers me a smile. It looks particularly toothy in the glow of the streetlamp. “I thought you said you’d be willing to talk after Mr. Dubois was cleared of wrongdoing.”
“Yeah.” I cross my arms. “So?”
“So I figured since the charges against him were officially dropped, that maybe now you’d—”
I don’t hear the rest of what she says. I’m too fixated on the sensation of the bottom falling out of my stomach. My knees give way, but luckily the end of the chaise is there to catch me.
“Didn’t you watch the evening news?” the reporter calls.
“She’s goin’ to need to talk to ya another time,” Jean-Pierre answers. “How ’bout…uh…” He looks down at me and whispers, “Tomorrow mornin’ work for ya,cher?”
I nod absently.
“Tomorrow mornin’,” he calls to the reporter. “She’ll meet ya at Café Du Monde at eight sharp.”
The journalist responds, but I don’t catch what she’s saying. I’m too focused on pulling out my cell phone and, with trembling fingers, texting Luc.
Me: Is it true? Were the charges dropped?
He starts responding immediately, and I wait impatiently as the three dots scroll lazily across the bottom of my screen as if this is an everyday text exchange instead of one of the most important moments of my life. Eventually, his answer appears.
Luc: Yep. Abelman gave me the news 2 hours ago.
