“Mommy, are we goingnow?”
“In a minute, my love.” I pulled Darius close, cradling him in my arms, whispering apologies in his ear.
“Ugh, stop it,Mommy. Can we go?”
I gave him one last kiss before he wiggled away, running back to Miss Virginia, who’d just entered the room.
Montana smiled at me like I was the only woman in the world, then addressed my son like a dedicated fath- …individual, not giving me time to process how much we’d just connected. “Yes. We heading to the Quarter, Little Dude. Try all them praline places. Start us a new tradition.”
“Prah-leens?” Darius blinked.
“Or Hubig’s hand pies,” his mom said, running a hand over Darius’s back.
“Can I bring Brody? It’s my favorite toy!”
I placed my hand on my hip and smiled at my son. “Bébé, every toy’s your fav.”
“Bébé?” Montana’s brow lifted. “Did you put some NOLA in that,chère?”
“Maybe.” I poked his massive chest.
His eyes rolled away. He wanted a kiss. My eyes read,Not in front of your momma.
Later, Montana slowed down Canal Street, with me on the passenger side, Darius behind me, and Miss Virginia behind him. My forehead pressed against the window.
“Montana,”—Virginia’s voice sounded teasing—“remember when you ate three orders of beignets. You were eight! I had to roll you and your beignet belly out the door!”
“Momma, don’t start.” Montana chuckled. “You still knock backfiveorders.”
I giggled, snapping a picture of a copper statue of a trombone player.
“Can I have five orders?” Darius asked, bouncing around.
“Non,” Montana muttered. “Coz you want a king cake too.”
“I want a cake baby!” Darius shouted.
“Not so loud.” I craned my neck every which way to watch when Montana turned on Royal Street.
“This is Royal Street? HC&PP is on this street?” I asked. Yeah, odd that I needed a reminder. I worked nearby—right across from Antoine’s. But the Quarter was draped in purple, green, and gold. Beads laced across balconies. Every building looked similar now. “What are those boxes he’s carrying?”
“King cake,bébé,” Montana said.
“Ohhh! Give me the babies,” Darius crooned.
My brow furrowed. “What’s with all these bands? I’m used to the solo violinist, a cellist, even an SWV look-alike crew, but …”
“They brass bands,” Miss Virginia said. “It’s Carnival season.”
Montana rolled past the Hot Chicken & Peach Pit Maison, which had no parking available.
Montana muttered and made turns onto St. Louis and Bourbon, searching the streets for open parking. Several right turns later, we eventually saw glimpses of Jackson Square, where artists propped canvases against iron fences. St. Louis Cathedral came into view, towering above, as if a scene from a film, while Darius whined, desperate to have his face painted. He wanted to be one of those silver human statues.
As Montana turned down St. Peter Street, my neck nearly snapped for a different reason. A shop tucked opposite the Maison Bourbon Jazz Club caught my eye.
The store, Mad Bold & Blown, had a logo of a Black queen crowned in onyx, her features flawless and fragile, turned to glass. She was fire-kissed and frozen mid-dream. The brand’s presence immediately grabbed my attention, similar to the allure of HC&PP’s image.
A Going Out of Business sign flickered in the wind like a bad lash extension. I hated that. Another Black woman’s dream flickering out.
