Darkness Becomes Her

Sebastian straightened, rubbed a hand down his face, and then dragged his fingers through his hair. I cleared my throat, finally feeling that embarrassment I’d been missing earlier, though it did nothing to swamp the heat from our kiss, heat that felt insanely good and tense and enthralling all at the same time. “It’s okay,” I managed despite my ragged breathing. “I’d love some water, if you have any.”

Of course they have water. What an asinine thing to say.

“Anything for you, Sebastian?”

“Water, too, Pam. Thanks.”

Pam left the table as Sebastian’s hands settled on my hips. “How are you feeling?” Pink blushed his cheeks for just a second. “I mean your head.” He laughed at himself. “Does it still hurt?”

“No. It’s fine. Thanks, though. . for helping. Where are we?”

“Gabonna’s. A block over from where you collapsed. I come here all the time. Does that happen a lot?”

“Does what happen a lot?”

One corner of his mouth lifted. “The screaming in the street. Falling to your knees. Crying. .”

Honestly, I wasn’t sure how to answer. I’d been having migraines more frequently lately, but nothing of that magnitude before. The waitress returned with the waters. I chugged half the glass. The cold liquid woke me up and cleared my head. I set the glass down and then twisted my hair into a knot.

“You should wear it down.”

My cheeks were still warm, but I was smiling as I fixed my hair. “Is that a compliment?”

“It is. I like it. It’s. .”

“Weird? Bizarre? Different? Yeah, I get that all the time.” I rolled my eyes, finishing.

“I was going to say pretty.”

“Oh.” Great. Way to go, moron. It was obvious that I sucked in the guy department. I hadn’t exactly had much practice with the whole flirting and boy thing. Most of my time had been spent avoiding guys or fighting with the ones who refused to let me avoid them.

“Sorry,” I said, deciding to be honest. “Look, I don’t really do the guy thing. Or the kissing thing. .”

“So no boyfriends back home?”

I couldn’t tell if he thought it was funny or if he really wanted to know. Looked like a mix of both. “No.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, guess I haven’t come across many who can think beyond sports, hormones, and partying.”

“And you don’t do those things?”

I shrugged. “Maybe I would have in another life. The things that are important to the kids my age stopped being important to me a long time ago, or never were.” I made a half bow. “Behold, a product of underfunded, nobody-gives-a-shit social services.”

He laughed. “It’s almost lunchtime. And as good as the food is here, I have something else in mind. What do you say we get out of here?”

“What exactly do you have in mind?”

“Beignets.”

My stomach rumbled at the idea. “Now that I can do.” Sebastian returned my grin with one of his own. And then it dawned on me that we were sitting there smiling at each other like two idiots. I broke eye contact and scooted from the bench, grabbing my backpack as Sebastian dug into his front pocket for a few dollars to leave on Pam’s table.

Clouds had gathered outside, but nothing to suggest a storm brewing. The shade was a godsend, because I was pretty sure, after my migraine from hell, that my head wouldn’t be able to handle bright light anytime soon.

Outside Gabonna’s, Sebastian whistled to one of the carriages plodding down Saint Ann Street. The driver waved, made a U-turn in the street, and then pulled up alongside us. “Bonjour, mes amis. Where can me and Miss Praline take you on this fine day?”

He had an infectious white smile, which I returned as I climbed into the back of the creaking carriage. I hadn’t imagined my foray into New 2 would involve a tourist ride through the French Quarter, but I was glad for the distraction. . and the company. “Jackson Square,” Sebastian told the driver as he sat down beside me.

“You hear that, Miss Praline? Jackson Square.” The driver flicked the reins over her large rump, and Miss Praline lengthened her stride.

We wouldn’t get there in record time, but I supposed that was the point; go slow and savor the sights and sounds of the French Quarter. Sebastian’s shoulder leaned into mine, so I took his cue and relaxed against him. Weird, but I liked it.

I needed a break like this, needed to forget all the dark things for a little while, so I listened to the driver point out places of interest and followed Sebastian’s finger whenever he showed me something he thought I’d like.

“And this,” the driver said as we rode slowly past a three-story house on the corner with double porches and wrought-iron railings, “was said to be the home of Alice Cromley.”

The name, the same name Jean Solomon had said, prickled my skin. I exchanged a quick glance with Sebastian, and then bent forward to ask the driver, “Who was Alice Cromley?”

The driver angled in his red padded seat, eyes alight and eager to tell a story. “Who was Alice Cromley? Now ain’t that a question? Alice Cromley was a quadroon, the greatest Creole beauty the Vieux Carre had ever seen. Why, she had a bevy of suitors, but she knew about them too, ya know? Knew things a mistress ought not know, if ya get my meanin’.” He chuckled. “You see, Alice Cromley was what they call clairvoyant. Made a fortune telling people what they wanted to know. And she was never wrong unless she meant to be. One day, she just up and vanished. Just like that. Couple weeks later, they found two bodies floatin’ in the Mississippi. Hard to identify ’cause, well, they’d been there for a while. But some say one of the poor departed souls was wearing Alice’s finest gown.” He laughed and clucked to the slow-moving mule. “One of her lovers made her a tomb in a cemetery round here. Nobody knows which one. It’s said he placed both bodies inside, figuring one of them had to be his beloved Alice.” The man shrugged. “Guess he figured one out of two ain’t bad.”

And her bones, according to Jean Solomon, could tell me the past. Yeah. Fat chance of that.

The carriage rolled by St. Louis Cathedral and into Jackson Square.

I forgot about Alice Cromley for the moment to admire the tall spire of the cathedral as Miss Praline pulled us down the length of the Pontalba Apartments. They were the oldest apartments in the United States, with long, cast-iron balconies, red brick, and ground-floor stores. The statue of Andrew Jackson atop his horse stood in the center of the square. There was energy here, energy that seeped into my soul and gave me a much-needed boost. Colorful. Vibrant. Beautiful. There were fortune-tellers, jewelry makers, artisans, musicians. . it was an eclectic mix of everything.

Then it was toward the Riverwalk and Decatur Street, where the carriages parked.

After tipping the driver, Sebastian helped me down from the carriage and kept hold of my hand as we headed across the street to Cafe Du Monde. I didn’t pull my hand away; it felt good. And if he wasn’t letting go, neither was I.

The smell of freshly baked bread and coffee made my stomach grumble again as we found a seat outside under the green-and-white-striped awning.

Sebastian ordered a plate of beignets and two coffees. I was too busy people watching and admiring all the details of the square, surprised by how much green there was.

“I bet your mom brought you here.” Sebastian broke through my sightseeing.

“Why do you say that?”

He shrugged, a small smile playing at the corners of his dark lips. “If she lived in New Orleans, she would’ve come here. It’s kind of a fact of life.”

That was probably true. I wasn’t even a local, and I knew that everyone went to Cafe Du Monde. “You’re right,” I responded softly, looking around at the cafe. “She probably did bring me here.” If only I could remember. What would it have been like? Coming here with my mom, sitting at one of these tables …

“So, you want to find Alice Cromley?” Sebastian asked, changing the subject. He tried to hide his amusement, but lost that battle pretty quick.