She hesitated and scanned the area one last time. “Are you sure there are no snakes or alligators around here?” she asked.
“I guarantee you that before this night is over, you won’t be worried at all about snakes, alligators or any other creatures of the swamp. Now undress slowly so I can watch,” he said, an authoritative bent to his voice that hadn’t been there before. By the time she was totally naked, passion enflamed her.
She lay down beside him, anticipating heaven.
Instead she fell into the depths of hell.
Tuesday, September 18
Helena Cosworth gathered her luggage from the taxi and walked the short distance to an intricately designed seven-foot-high metal gate. She stood there for a moment, letting the familiarity seep into her tired bones until grief-crinkled memories invaded and dampened her spirit.
The historic French Quarter carriage house just beyond the gate had been her second home for as long as she could remember. Her mother had died when she was only five.
Her dad had been an oil and gas executive who went wherever he was needed. If the location wasn’t right for raising a daughter, she went to boarding schools in the States. Even when she lived with him, she spent most summers and many holidays in New Orleans with her energetic, fun-loving grandmother Mia.
During those visits, Mia had made her the center of her life and the adventure-laden Crescent City was their playground. The zoo, Audubon Park, the bustling Mississippi River, theater, trips down St. Charles Avenue on the cable car, parades galore. And the many hours spent in museums nurturing Helena’s passion for art.
The lifestyle wasn’t ideal by everyone’s standards, but it worked for them. When her father had died from a sudden heart attack a week before her high school graduation, she moved in with Mia and began her college career the following fall at Tulane University.
Helena reached to the keypad and punched in the code for the security system Mia had installed a few years back. A twist of the handle and a firm shove and the gate squeaked open.
Heat and humidity hit like a wave of steam as she stepped inside the courtyard where the day’s fetid air seemed trapped by the surrounding walls. She was quickly revived by the fragrance of night jasmine that overflowed from a huge pot and the cooling mist from the impressive angel fountain in the middle of the spacious area.
She didn’t even glance toward the four apartments surrounding the rest of the courtyard as she made her way to the bright red door that served as the main entrance to the carriage house. The original, barn-style doors on the front of the house that had once swung open for horses and carriages had been replaced with brick walls and fake, shuttered windows years ago.
A shudder of emptiness shook Helena’s resolve not to fall into a state of teary-eyed depression. It had been just over five weeks since she’d received the heartbreaking news of Mia’s tragic accident, and although she’d been here for the funeral, the wound of grief felt fresh.
She opened the door and stepped into the marble foyer. The air conditioner was blasting away. Thankfully, she’d let Ella Grayson know when she was arriving. Ella had been one of Mia’s tenants for years and she and Mia had been fast friends. They’d become closer than ever after Ella’s great-niece, Elizabeth, had been brutally murdered last spring.
Helena parked her luggage by the door and dropped her handbag onto the antique cherrywood table before flicking on the delicate Tiffany lamp. Illumination climbed the foyer walls in enchanting patterns. Everything looked the same as it had when Mia was alive. Even the citrusy fragrance of the candles she’d burned nightly lingered in the air.
The property now belonged to Helena—at least until she found a buyer. Giving up the old carriage house would be like giving away a chunk of her soul, but her career was in Boston. She would start her new job with one of the most successful individually owned art galleries in the city on November 1. A few of her paintings already hung in the gallery.
Helena traipsed across the cozy sitting room with its worn Persian rug, comfortable furniture and shelves filled with books and framed photographs.
When she stepped into the kitchen, memories attacked full force. She’d had morning coffee at the small, round mahogany table with Mia for as long as she could remember, though when she was young, Helena’s cup was filled mostly with cold milk and a shot of honey.
They’d sipped the chicory-laden brew from dainty flowered cups while Mia filled Helena’s young head with simple answers to life’s mysteries.
Like why king cakes had plastic babies hidden inside them and why people riding floats at Mardi Gras always wore masks. And why even rich people ate po’boy sandwiches that needed to be dressed.
Heart aching, Helena finally walked to the foot of the elegant, curved staircase. The staircase where her grandmother had slipped and fallen to her death.
According to the medical examiner, a severe brain trauma caused by the fall had likely killed her within minutes. Minutes that she’d been totally alone.
Helena forced herself to go on, climbing the stairs slowly, stopping only a few seconds at the landing before making it to the second floor and the bedroom she’d always thought of as her own.
A pale orchid coverlet and countless pillows covered the four-poster bed. Beyond that, tall French doors opened onto a balcony that overlooked Dumaine Street.
Helena unlatched the doors, swung them open and stepped onto the balcony.
Spicy odors of fried seafood wafted through the air and suddenly Helena was starved. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast and that was only her usual yogurt and granola. It was nearly seven now.
There would be time for memories and unpacking later. A beer and a po’boy were calling her name.
Alyssa Orillon rinsed her empty teacup and placed it on the countertop to be carried upstairs to her main living quarters later. The small downstairs kitchen was barely big enough for the mini-fridge, a microwave, a card table and two padded wooden chairs she’d picked up for next to nothing in a used furniture store on Magazine Street.
The remaining five hundred square feet of the home’s ground floor was dedicated to her cozy waiting room and a private counseling area. Located only two blocks from Jackson Square, she was right in the thick of the tourist pedestrian traffic, though business was slow tonight.
Not untypical for a Tuesday night. Last weekend’s convention goers had gone home. This week’s hadn’t arrived yet.
She glanced at her watch. Half past eight. Too early to call it a night—especially since she didn’t open her doors until early afternoon on weekdays.
Inconveniently, the beginning of a headache was tapping at her right temple. An uneasy feeling had been messing with her nerves all afternoon, the kind of vague sense of anxiety one might expect from a psychic—unless said psychic was a complete and total fraud—like Alyssa.
Fake, but not a rip-off artist, as some of her competitors were. Alyssa was an expert at giving customers what they wanted. Most people were fairly easy to read if you honed your skills as well as Alyssa had.
The professionally printed sign painted on her door lured in the type of customers she handled best.
Alyssa Orillon—Psychic.
Is true love in your future?
Is the man in your life right for you?
Is something wonderful about to bless