by Anne McClane
Lacey chuckled. Hearing Tonti go on about the world as she saw it for the last hour plus had strangely settled her nerves. And while she would never call Trevor her “fella,” she did find it easy to describe him and all his charms. And she found, when she’d given Tonti the PG-rated version of her relationship with Trevor, she’d actually forgotten about Nathan for a brief moment.
She almost didn’t want to bring up Gus Savin, because she finally felt more relaxed than she had in weeks. But the combination of the sparkling wine and the momentary bout of self-confidence fueled her.
“Tonti, have you ever met the antiques guy down in the Quarter—Gus Savin?”
“Why, of course, child. What brings him up?”
“Nothing, I met him for the first time out in California. He’s a financier on the project I’ve been working on. I just thought it was kinda funny. I’d dealt with people who work for him for years, when I worked for Trip. But I’d never met him until now.”
“He’s one of those types who makes himself known on his own terms. Not quite a recluse, but he definitely doesn’t seek out the spotlight. I’d be the same way if I had his kind of money.”
Lacey stopped herself from laughing. She couldn’t picture Tonti shying away from any kind of light.
“Is he really that rich?”
“That family’s money goes back as far as the Louisiana Purchase, and probably even further. I remember speaking to him once at the Odyssey Ball, it had to be at least ten years ago now. He knew a lot about Galliano. He said he grew up there but spent his school years back east at some Eton-like boarding school. Which explains a lot.”
The quizzical look on Lacey’s face made Tonti go further.
“For one, it explains why I didn’t know him growing up, child. We have to be close to the same age.”
Lacey nodded. “Other than him growing up in Galliano and having a lot of family money, do you know anything else?”
“Like, what? Is he gay or straight?” Tonti rolled her eyes. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, please don’t tell me you’re interested. I know I said I’d support you whoever you chose, but please, I can think of only one reason to get involved with that man. And I know you’re not a gold digger.”
Lacey’s stomach went sour at the thought. “No, no, no, Tonti! That’s not it at all. His whole involvement in the movie production just seems fishy to me, that’s all.”
“So you’re playing detective. Okay. That I can support. Anyway, I think he’s gay. Or certainly bi. Or maybe asexual. I’ve never known him to be connected with anyone, male or female.
“And I wouldn’t worry too much about him backing the movie. He probably has money in many a Hollywood ventures. It’s a good way to be close to the limelight, but not in it.”
“You’re probably right. That makes sense.” Nothing about Gus Savin made sense to her, but she was ready to stop discussing him. The information about Galliano was definitely something to research further, on her own.
“And I’ve told you about Trevor, but I haven’t said anything about how beautiful the resort is, the place where I stayed for a few weeks.”
If she left out the earthquakes and the creepy Gus Savin visions, the place and her time there would seem downright picturesque.
31
Galliano, Louisiana
One summer in the mid-twentieth century
Birdie knew change was brewing. Momma had called it the Sense. She’d said Daddy had it the whole time she knew him. And it made sense that Birdie had the Sense, too. She took after her father. She’d received so many of her gifts from him.
She’d felt it before Morris had gotten the sickness in his legs. She’d felt it before Momma died. She’d felt it before that twister tore through Galliano. She couldn’t remember if she’d felt it before Daddy died. If so, it would had to have been the first time.
Momma had told her about it when Léon got sick. It was maybe two years after Birdie had helped him after his fight with the coyote. Momma had told her dogs don’t live as long as people, and Léon’s time was almost at hand. Ronnie had told her she had given Léon an extra life, like how they say cats have nine lives. Dogs only get one, but Birdie had given Léon two.
This time, she knew it wasn’t about anyone close to her. No, it was closer than that.
It was why she asked Ronnie, during a recent phone call, to look after Morris. To move him up to Ohio if he had to. It indicated the kind of man Ronnie was, the kind of man Birdie always knew him to be, that he accepted her words with no protest.
“Ronnie, don’t ask why I’m asking.”
“I know better than that.”
“I know you and Morris have differences, but he respects you. More than most men he knows. He may put up a fight at first, but he’ll listen to what you have to say. He’ll follow you. You just need to show patience.”
“Just don’t put me in this situation for a while, you hear?”
Birdie just smiled when Ronnie said that.
It was why, during their last visit, Birdie took Cecil out with her on a day off. They each acted about ten years younger than they were, and had a great time doing it. They made stories about all the birds they saw on the river batture, they made stories about all the raccoons, possum, coyote and alligators they couldn’t see, but knew were hiding, waiting for the light to go down so they could do their nightly dance.
It’s why she took him near the cemetery, the same one where she had found Léon so long ago, and told Cecil about his grandfather, her father. How you wouldn’t find his grave there, how he said he “didn’t want his spirit bound up in this place.” His spirit was out in the batture, and off in the woods to the north, and in the nightly dance of all the creatures of this land. And how his spirit was also in Birdie, and in Cecil, in a very particular way. She explained to Cecil how his grandfather had passed along a very special gift, a way to help other people. She told Cecil she was sad they lived so far away from each other, and that she wished she could show him more. But that his father knew about his special gift. And that if he asked his father about it, and listened, really listened, he would know what to do.
That day, the day she had stayed late, waiting for Mr. Becnel, she had felt the Sense more strongly than she ever had before. Everything about that day had been normal, but just amplified by the Sense. She was in the Becnel’s kitchen. This was as it was most days. Evangeline had a book before her at the kitchen table, and Foxy was at Birdie’s heels. This was also as per usual. Mrs. Becnel was having a good day, and the three younger children were with her. This was a little unusual.
Foxy was talking up a storm about Madeleine Picoult, a girl from school. Evangeline was pretending to read. Birdie set a bowl down in front of her, filled halfway to the top with sugar and butter.
“As long as you’re sitting there not reading, why don’t you work on mixing that for me?” Birdie winked at her and returned to the stove.
Evangeline huffed and set her book aside. But the mixing bowl gave her a better vantage point for watching her brother and Birdie.
“Madeleine Picoult went to the city with her big sister. Just the two of them! Their parents let them go alone!”
“So, everything you’ve told me about Madeleine Picoult, Foxy: she hits other children . . . ”
“She hits boys!”
“ . . . And girls, too, you said. She goes into town with her teenaged sister . . . ”
“She’s seventeen,” Evangeline interjected.
“You read that in that book, Sister?” Birdie asked.
Evangeline returned to her stirring.
“Any who, everything I hear about this Madeleine Picoult, she is not the girl for you, Foxy.”
Foxy stopped his chattering and looked stunned.
“She’s too much like you. You’ll want a gentle girl.”
“No I won’t!”
Birdie laughed. “Maybe not right now this instant, but eventually. Someone who can help you raise your children. Because if they’re anything like you, you’re going to need that kind of help.”
Something about the children, or child, Foxy would have. Birdie felt the Sense there. There was no way to explain it.
“I’m not bad!” Foxy took up his own defense.
Birdie wiped her hands on her apron and turned around to face Foxy. “No, child, you are not bad. You are a beautiful child of God who’s full of spit and spirit. You would be blessed to have ten of you to raise. But you won’t want to do it alone.”
“When are we gonna eat?” he asked.
“Is that any way to speak?”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Birdie. I’m just kinda hungry now.”
She crouched down and embraced him. “So ask, ‘May I enquire when dinner will be ready?’”
He broke free and said, “May I require when dinner will be ready?”
“Not for another hour. Go play, child. Work out some of that spirit.”
Foxy ran out to the living room. “How’s that mixing coming, Evangeline?”
“Fine, Ms. Birdie. Do you think I’ll be a good mama?”
“Oh, Sister, if you pay half as much attention to your children as you do to all the business going on around you, you will be a super mama.
“But you don’t need to be thinking about that just yet.” Birdie had noted how all the blossoming signs were there for Evangeline. Lord help her if she developed in the same way her older sisters had.
“Just you look out for yourself. You’re probably the best suited for that. To look out for yourself and your family.”
Birdie walked over to inspect the mixing. She grabbed the bowl from Evangeline.
“Fine job, Evangeline. Fine job.”
It was after dark by the time Birdie got into her truck to head home to Morris in Larose. Mrs. Becnel had asked her to stay after dinner. She had said she wanted Birdie to stay until Mr. Becnel made it home from his business trip, better to have two adults in the house. But there was another reason, one she wouldn’t say out loud. Birdie knew Mrs. Becnel also wanted her to stay to help Foxy with his homework. He had a math test tomorrow, and everyone in the house knew that Birdie was the best with math.
There was no moon that night, and the air was thick through the fields laying alongside Louisiana Highway One.
She imagined the lights from her truck’s headlights were the only lights for miles around.
32
Lacey thought about “spooky action at a distance.” She had tried to read more about it in the book Cecil gave her, but she still didn’t understand. So instead, she thought about two places, separated by distance, and elevation. Here was the New Orleans Healing Center, roughly two feet below sea level. And there was the Healing Institute back in San Luis Obispo, with its hillside location. If one were truly in need of healing, it was a lot easier to walk through the doors of the New Orleans Healing Center than to traverse that steep incline to the spacious domed interior of the Healing Institute.
The exterior to the Healing Institute was certainly more sylvan than the surrounding St. Claude neighborhood of the Healing Center. But thinking of those woods just spooked Lacey all over again.
She took her time getting to the bookshop. She was hoping against hope that she would find Cecil there, just like the last time. Or rather, that he would find her there, as that’s how it all appeared to go down.
What had she learned since that last time?
Cecil passed this along to me. I know that for certain. But I haven’t seen him since I’ve known this.
The displays along the bookshelves had changed. The section with all the books about healing or healers wasn’t where it was before. That’s where she’d last met Cecil. She ambled down the aisles, attempting to casually peruse.
I’ve learned that I’ve truly moved on from Fox.
It hadn’t even been two years. Was it possible to really move on that quickly? Oddly enough, the fresh heartbreak with Nathan helped. At least in that capacity. And she would always be connected with Fox’s family. Through Tonti—she had made her undying devotion abundantly clear. And her name. She came to this gift through the Becnels (even though she still didn’t understand how or why). She wanted to keep the name. She’d never really thought of not keeping it.
So Fox gave me a name, another family, and a thicker skin. I can live with that.
She felt a fleeting glimpse of something like nostalgia. For the innocence of first love, for the trust she was so willing to give. Truth was, that hadn’t changed. She was still willing to give away her trust. The change was: she was stronger now. She could handle the pain when that trust was betrayed. And she knew to be more selective.
Trevor. I know he’s not Mr. Right. No reason he can’t be Mr. Right Now.
There was a different person behind the sales counter of the bookstore. Another young man, as disinterested as the other one who had been there when she met Cecil. She began to get the vibe that she wasn’t going to find Cecil today.
She thought a little bit more about Trevor. With her romantic life a wide-open horizon, why not continue with him? Any “bumps in the road” they’d experienced felt like her own doing, her own expectations getting in the way. And with the distance between them soon to grow longer, she’d have to let go of any expectations.
She sauntered into the “books of local interest” section. A photo collage graced the cover of a book on Mardi Gras, with the subtitle Carnival Royalty. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t have given it a second glance. She had no problem with the celebration aspect of Mardi Gras, or its reputation for debauchery. There needed to be a place for those aspects of life, and she always liked how Mardi Gras gave sanction to them. It was the part of Mardi Gras that was hijacked by the social elite that always bugged her. She’d heard her old boss, Trip Carriere, talk about his membership in the Rex Organization enough. She’d learned long ago to tune it out or ignore it.
The book contained profiles of the kings and queens of Mardi Gras for the past fifty years. She knew Gus Savin had been Rex relatively recently. She knew it all too well, because Trip would take every possible opportunity to regale her with the tragic tale of when Gus Savin had robbed him of the crown. He had been convinced that the enviable title of “Rex—King of Carnival” would be his. Not just that, he would be the youngest man to ever receive the honor. Gus Savin received both those “honors” instead.
Lacey picked up the book. Slight nausea tickled at her esophagus. She flipped to the page featuring Gus Savin. Even though the picture was more than ten years old, he looked the same as he had when she met him just a few weeks ago. He was wearing a navy blazer, this one with some type of crest embroidered on the right side. Same floppy hair both he and Trip Carriere sported. And there was the pinky ring, noticeable through a slight glint in he picture.
The profile didn’t contain anything she didn’t already know. Tonti’s intel about Galliano had been the most intriguing thing she’d heard about him, anyway.
The man behind the sales counter began to take an interest in Lacey’s loitering. Had she been there too long?
She looked around. She had no sense of Cecil. She didn’t know why she thought he might magically appear, anyway. The whole idea seemed silly, now.
She didn’t want the book, but it was the one she had in her hand, and she wanted to prove to the suddenly-interested store clerk that she was a paying customer.
Lacey hustled to the counter and paid cash for the stupid Mardi Gras book.
The clerk offered an insincere “thank you” as he handed Lacey her change, and promptly went back to being disinterested.
Whatever, Lacey thought.
Careful, young Lacey. That sounds rude. She heard a voice in her head.
Cecil?
; Was she really hearing Cecil? She’d “heard” Eli a few times, but this was different. Eli never sounded like his actual voice, she just knew it was him. This voice sounded like Cecil’s.
Look me up when you return to New Orleans permanently.
Again. It was Cecil’s baritone, his inflection, everything.
Lacey hustled out of the store and moved to a corner of the atrium where she wouldn’t draw attention to herself. Because she figured talking to the voice in her head might look a little weird.
Cecil? How? And what do you know about Gus Savin? And why did you give me this power? And where are you?
She thought she heard his laugh, but it was starting to fade.
I’ll be here when you come back. We can talk about those questions then.
Those last words sounded like they came from the end of a long corridor.
“Dammit!” she said out loud. Some Superfriend you are, Cecil.
The voice in her head had gone silent. She was just starting to get used to the idea of Eli’s ability. Was she really ready for another “silent conversationalist?”
Lacey looked around to see if anyone had heard her. She sank down to a nearby step and put her head in her hands.
About five minutes later, she was in her car headed home. It felt like five hours later. She wanted to hurry up and head back to California, so she could hurry up and finish her work out there, to hurry up and get back here permanently. Permanently, like Cecil had said.
She beat her hand against the steering wheel of her rental car. It wasn’t as sturdy as her Accord.
She didn’t want to spend too much time in her house. It felt too weird without Ambrose. So on her arrival there, she left the Mardi Gras book on a shelf, grabbed her bag, and left an hour earlier for the airport than she intended. She had hoped to return to California with some answers, and instead was returning with more questions.
33
