Chapter 1

They say there are blessings from Katrina. Mine was I lost my job.

I gaze around at the lush breakfast area of The Monteleone Hotel in New

Orleans, enjoying eggs Benedict, crisp bacon and the creamiest grits I’ve had

in years and force myself not to laugh. Life is looking up, despite my lack of

job security. All I have to do is get on a plane, make my assignment and my

life will resemble this from now on.

“More coffee, ma’am?” I glance up from my newspaper and I wasn’t really

reading and there’s a red-headed man wearing a uniform more typical of the

1920s standing beside my table.

And he isn’t carrying a coffee pot.

Startled, I shake my head. I’ve had my caffeine quota for the day,

promising my doctor I would stop at two cups in the morning. Of course, I

never promised anything about afternoons.

After all, I am a journalist.

“Very good ma’am.” He bows and quietly saunters out the cafe door. I’d

say float but that’s absurd.

“Who was that?” I ask the waitress when she arrives to refill my cup.

Despite my promises, I let her.

“Who was what, dawlin?”

After months in Cajun Country, it feels great to hear a New Orleans

accent again, people we label “Yats” because they usually begin a greeting

with “Where y’at?” It’s more Brooklyn than Southern, slower and more

friendly. Definitely not the Hollywood, Tennessee Williams drawl most

people assume to find here sprouting from residents dressed in seersucker and

white bucks.

The Yat sends me a puzzled grin with a hand on her hip, the kind siblings

bestow on one another. This is New Orleans. We’re all related so why not

just act like family.

“Are you all doing a costume brunch now?” I ask, adding, “I’m writing a

story on the hotel.”

Dolores — it was written on her name tag right above “Ask About Our

Rebirth Specials” — isn’t impressed with my assignment. She grabs one of

her purple and gold hoop earrings and pulls, her snide expression unfaltering.

“Did Margaret put you up to this?”

“Who’s Margaret?”

Dolores huffs and walks away, leaving me to ponder what the hell that

was all about.

I check my watch. Two hours. I’m meeting Mary Jo, my old roommate

from college who is now the PR director of The Monteleone, and then I’m on

my way. She’s late, as always, but this will be one of those times I’m not

going to hang around, even though she set up my complimentary night at the

historic hotel in the hopes I would write a glowing story to help attract

tourists back to New Orleans; it’s been months since Katrina and many

people still think we’re under water. But today my first press trip as a travel

writer awaits and I have a plane to catch.

Finally, Mary Jo appears, wearing her usual navy blue A-skirt and

matching button-up sweater, topped by a discreet strand of pearls and creamcolored headband. I almost laugh because she could have walked out of the

LSU Delta Gamma house, but her coifed hair and perfect makeup make me

feel self-conscious. She waves from the hostess desk and I attempt to

straighten out my wrinkled blouse before she sits down.

“What’d you think?” she says before even pulling out a chair.

“Gorgeous as always.” I place a hand over my coffee cup as Dolores

arrives, hovering her pot across the table like an alien spaceship and sending

me a suspicious glance. “The customer service is exceptional, Mary Jo

McConnell.”

Hearing the name, Dolores jerks to get a better look at my table

companion. Mary Jo is clueless, but Dolores suddenly resorts back to her

cheerful self. “Would you like some coffee, Miss Mary Jo?”

“No thanks, Dolores. I’m just here to see how my travel writer friend’s

stay is going.”

Mary Jo pronounces my new profession like my family does, as if I’ve

decided to become a ventriloquist or palm reader for an occupation. I’ve been

writing travel stories for years, bringing in extra income to my well-paying

newspaper job covering the school board and police beat in deep St. Bernard

Parish for the New Orleans Post. The Post is the smaller city newspaper to

the notable Times-Picayune. Note sarcasm here: the pay sucked, we were but

a shadow to the Times-Pic and guess who’s up for a Pulitzer for their Katrina

coverage? My twin Sebastian thought my day job would produce fodder for

the Great American Novel I was to write and my dad called it “a decent job

and I should be glad to have one.” I saw it as newspaper hell.

But I dismiss Mary Jo’s obvious doubting of me making a living at

freelance travel writing, instead catching how Dolores is now doubly scared

because she’s finally figured out I may write about her. She starts fussing

over me and I wonder if, as a travel writer, I will have this power over people

from now on.

Cool.

Mary Jo shushes her away and I explain how my suite overlooking Royal

Street delighted every sense (all true), the rooftop pool was heavenly (too

crowded and noisy but the drinks helped make that go away), my massage

the night before couldn’t have been better (again, no lie, although that poor

woman got her money’s worth working on me) and two small children kept

me up all night running down the hall. I left that last part out.

Either the hotel’s haunted or there are parents here waking from a good

night’s sleep that I want to throttle.

Once we get awkward business out of the way and I assure her a story is

forthcoming in Mais Yeah!, the southwest Louisiana weekly I now write

travel for, we catch up on girlfriend news. Mary Jo shows off her enormous

diamond and grabs my day planner to circle the date of her upcoming

wedding. Branford J. Whitaker the third, otherwise known as “Brick” — I

don’t inquire — heads up his father’s Carnival store, the kind that sells all

that China-made crap thrown at Mardi Gras parades, those lovely beads,

doubloons, trinkets and the like that everyone kills each other over and then

stuffs into attics like Christmas decorations.

“There’s so much money in Carnival,” Mary Jo informs me. “You

wouldn’t believe how much those krewe members spend on throws.” She

leans in close and whispers with a sly smile, “Thousands and thousands,

which is great for the Whitaker family.”

I really shouldn’t have blurted it out, but I had to stop the jealousy rising

in my chest. As much as I love my new freedom and finally realizing my

dream, I’m scared as hell at the lack of financial security and I’m trying hard

not to remember that fact.

“You did what?” Mary Jo asks me, which surprises me as much as TB’s

reaction.

“I don’t understand why this is such a surprise.”

“Viola, you’re upset because of the disaster,” she says, patting my hand.

“The loss of your house, “It’s a mother-in-law unit,” I answer way too

defensively.

My mother calls my home in the neighboring town of Lafayette a potting

shed because of its ruggedness — okay, it’s a bit frayed at the edges — and

refuses to set foot inside. Which turned out to be a good thing; my parents

never visit.

“Deliah said it was a dump.”

“You talked to my mother?”

“I can find you a really nice place in New Orleans....”

“Can’t afford it now that I’ve gone freelance. You talked to my mother?”

Mary Jo takes my hand and squeezes. “We’re worried about you.”

I pull my hand back and offer up my best “life is good, what hurricane?”

smile. Nothing is taking me down today. “My landlord is letting me live there

free in exchange for keeping an eye on the big house,” I say, trying to

eliminate the defensive edge from my voice. It could have been a closet and I

would have eagerly agreed. Well, it kinda is.

“It’s part of the freedom package that’s allowing me to work as a travel

writer and not go back to that horrid newsroom,” I continue. “You know how

miserable I was.”

Mary Jo tilts her head as if to start a “Yes, but....”

“Did I tell you that Reece, my Cajun landlord, isn’t hard on the eyes?”

Wrong thing to say when you’re fresh into a separation.

“This is all too soon to be thinking of dating your landlord, Vi.”

“Who said dating? He’s married.”

Mary Jo winces. “Maybe you and TB should get counseling.”

“You never liked TB,” I add. “Since when are you taking his side?”

TB stands for T-Bubba. My ex loves to joke about his name, calling

himself half Cajun, half redneck since the Cajun “T” stands for “petite,” or

“Petite (Little) Bubba.” His father, the redneck half, was Bubba Senior. My

mom calls TB a disease.

Mary Jo huffs while shaking a packet of Sweet-n-Low before ripping off

the side and pouring the cancerous substance into her coffee. Just watching

her sip that pink stuff leaves an awful aftertaste in my mind and I swallow

hard.

“A divorce is a pretty big step,” she says. “And you just went through a

traumatic experience. You don’t need to pile more stress on your life.”

What’s a little more stress after axing your way through an attic when

lake waters rushed through your home, to sit on a rooftop for two days while

your government ignored you? Not knowing where your twin brother was for

more than a week. In fact, now that Sebastian is working as a temp in the

restaurant industry and moving around the Deep South, I still don’t know.

Brat.

“I’ll be fine.” Weirdly enough, I actually believe that, feel infinitely

better. The future is unstable but the possibilities are endless.

Mary Jo doesn’t share in my excitement. The light behind her eyes

disappear, replaced by a comatose stare she once exhibited when she thought

Lampton “Scoop” Mallard over at the KA house was having an affair.

Goosebumps run up my arm and panic fills my chest.

“Is this about Lillye?” she asks quietly.

Time to leave. I check my watch. “I need to go. My plane leaves at ten.”

“Viola.” Mary Jo grabs my hand as I rise. “This is all so horrible. You

lost everything and now you’re getting a divorce and living in someone’s

potting shed.”

I give her a kiss on the cheek, knowing she means well. I have my photos.

Really, what else matters?

“I’ll be fine,” I say.

Mary Jo grins through the tears; she really is a good friend. I give her a

tight hug and roll my pink and white polka dot luggage I nabbed at Goodwill

to the Honda that TB had insisted I keep (he’s spending his share of the

FEMA money on a pickup). I have to stop by the house and give TB the mail,

since mail service in New Orleans is spotty at best. Our insurance check

finally arrived, so I need to hand it off to TB before I fly out so he can

continue renovations.

I drive through the tourist-infested French Quarter amazed at how the lure

of Bourbon Street keeps them coming no matter what. Good thing our

founding fathers settled the heart of the city above sea level. You’d never

know a disaster happened gazing out at the crowds strolling through the

ancient quarter, giant drinks shaped like bombs in their hands, those tacky

beads around their necks making the Whitakers rich, and silly grins produced

when alcohol mixes with the freedom to be whoever you wish to be.

The closer I get to Rampart, however, the more damage I spot, blue tarps

on the roofs to keep the rain out, piles of mildewed sheetrock by the curb. I

turn and head over to Canal and move toward the lakeside of town, an area

called Mid-City where TB and I lived. The waterline is evident here, like a

child extended his hand with a pen between his fingers, letting it mark up the

sides of houses. The further west I travel, the higher the mark, like I’m slowly

descending under water and into hell.

In fact, I am. All that euphoria of staying at the elegant, historic

Monteleone Hotel in the heart of the romantic French Quarter disappears and

the horror of Katrina stares back at me everywhere. I swallow hard, fighting

down the bile and panic as I gaze at the blocks upon blocks of water-logged

homes and the empty shopping centers and dead traffic lights. One corner

still sports an abandoned boat from the rescue days. A pack of dogs runs wild

down Iberville Street. A billboard blown free of its tethers has landed in a

housetop and I see a smiling woman enjoying coffee peeking out by the

chimney.

This is what Mary Jo and my mother want me to live in. I vow to hand

TB his mail and haul *** to the airport.

He must have heard me drive up for TB is halfway to the curb by the time

I turn off the engine. I’m not happy to see him and that old guilt comes back

with a rush. I could write a dissertation on why my marriage failed, but sum it

up with one sentence: The man aggravates the hell out of me. For years I

tried to hide it, put “a nice face on” as my mother would say, but the

nastiness in my voice bubbles to the surface and pours out, sometimes in

turrets.

Before I’m able to grab the mail and lock up the car, TB’s staring at me

over the hood. “Mary Jo called in tears, said she’s worried about you.”

I groan, pushing the lock button on the door; I wasn’t able to afford one

of those push-button kind you carry on a key chain. I even roll down my

windows the old-fashioned way. “What could possibly be wrong?” I ask TB

sarcastically, laughing.

“She said you’re on your way somewhere.”

I don’t feel like explaining to the world where I am and what I’m doing

because family and friends keep trying to talk me out of it. And get

counseling. Both of which I don’t intend to do. Even though TB’s motivation

is to get me back into the marriage, I keep it simple. “I’m going on a press

trip.”

“Oh yeah, what for?”

Here come the twenty questions. TB’s idea of a conversation is asking

mundane questions, like a three-year-old following a parent around the

house. “What are you doing?” “What’s your plans for today?” “What do you

want to do for dinner?” “Was that the mail?”

“I got invited to go somewhere, to do a travel story,” I tell him.

“Where are you going?”

I shouldn’t have blurted it out but my multi-tasking brain is busy focusing

on getting to the sidewalk and not on the elderly man across the street staring.

A shiver runs up my spine as I feel those cold black eyes upon me. “I’m

heading to Eureka Springs, Arkansas.”

“What for?”

I pull TB through our front gate and head up toward the house, glancing

back to see if the old man is still there. He is. And his gaze still bores holes

into my back.

“Who is that?” I whisper to TB.

“Who is what?”

A normal person would have had trouble comprehending how TB could

have missed this intense weirdo across the street, but TB is regularly clueless.

I turn toward the house but pause at the porch and hand TB the mail.

“Aren’t you coming in?”

“Uh, no.” I had seen all I had wanted of our house about a month after

Katrina, when they finally let residents into the parish to view what was left

— if anything — of their homes. Weeks under water can do amazing things

to a person’s belongings, like a stick of butter in the microwave left on high

too long. I don’t want to step foot in that house again.

TB marches up the steps. “Want to see what I’ve done with the kitchen? I

painted the cabinets and found some nice granite pieces half price.”

I’m not following. “Really? I need to get to the airport.”

He nods but I can tell he wants to talk, try to convince me a legal

separation isn’t the best route. Thankfully my trip to the courthouse last week

sealed the deal. “Your mother said we need time.”

My head snaps to attention. “What? You talked to my mother?”

“For a woman who routinely left me places as a child because she was

too busy practicing speeches for her TV appearances, I doubt she’s worried.”

“You should give her a break,” TB says. “Tulane hasn’t asked her back.”

I’m sorry my mother is out of a job, really, but whose side is she on? She

hates TB, convinced I had married beneath me, which is probably true. Now,

he’s her best friend?

I nod at the mail in his hands. “The insurance check is on top.”

“I finished the second floor. You’ll hardly recognize it.”

“Uh, huh.” I turn back toward the street and the creepy old man has

reappeared on the porch next door. I can’t get to my car, out of the Katrina

zone and to the airport fast enough.

“Don’t you want to even look?”

“Nope.” I head to the front gate but I can tell TB is hot on my heels.

“What are you doing again?”

“I told you, a travel writing thing,” I shout out without turning around. I

can’t bear seeing that man again, or pondering how a man his age moved so

fast. “Like the ones I used to do on the side, although this one is an organized

press trip.”

“Where are you staying?”

“The Crescent Hotel.” Crap. I feel like Homer Simpson after he says

something truly stupid. Why did I just tell TB that? I make it to the driver’s

side and gaze up at him over the hood. He stands there like a puppy dog

wanting a bone.

“Can I come?”

Travel writers on press trips receive everything complimentary —

accommodations, food, plane tickets. Guests are not allowed. Usually, the

tourist bureaus foot the bill and they are not about to spend valuable dollars

on people who won’t write about the place. I’ve heard about husbands or

wives posing as photographers but that’s about the extent of it. TB had

accompanied me once on a trip I arranged on my own, and I hated every

minute. I wanted to explore, he wanted to drink and sit by the pool. I wanted

to enjoy a nice meal and examine the place on my own, he blurted out to

everyone that I was there on assignment so every member of the restaurant

visited our table. The next time I arranged an excursion I conveniently

planned it over a weekend during football season, knowing well TB wouldn’t

give up valuable couch time.

“No, you can’t come,” I tell him tersely.

“I could stay in the room, not bother you....”

“No.”

“I could just hang by the pool....”

I hate to do it but the look on TB’s face, the putrid smell of mildew and

decay and that horrid man’s stare make me slip in my car and drive off

without another word. I have a plane to catch and nothing is getting me down

today, I practically yell inside my head. The guilt is eating me alive and it

takes everything not to gaze in the rearview mirror.

“Call your mom,” I hear TB shout out, as I turn the corner and head back

to the interstate.

I’m late getting to the airport, mainly because my mother called twice and

I fumbled with my purse trying to silence the damn cell phone. The

distraction made me miss my exit and I ended up circling Kenner needlessly.

When I finally park, get through security and make it to my gate, I have

minutes to spare. I drop my bag at my feet, fall into the chair and breathe

deeply, startling the well-dressed man across from me whose right eyebrow

raises without him looking up from his laptop.

“Finally,” I say to no one and the man shifts in his chair. Am I bothering

him? Doesn’t matter. I’m free of my ex-husband, my overbearing family, my

well-meaning friends pushing psychoanalysis and the putrid wrath that was

Katrina and on my way to a new adventure and career.

And that’s when she started singing.

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