a split second. “Goodbye.”
Noel’s amber eyes flickered with some hidden
message just for her. Or was she imagining things? Lyrissa nodded
to Miss Georgina and walked away.
She spent the next few hours trying to shake
off the effect of his smoldering gaze.
“I see something strange here in the cards.”
Lyrissa’s great- aunt Claire pursed her ruby red lips.
“Don’t be such an idiot,” Mama Grace said.
“Taking up Tarot reading at your age.” She made a rude noise to
punctuate her scorn.
Lyrissa rolled her eyes. She loved her
grandmother and great-aunt dearly, but they were a bit much at
times. Still, Mama Grace was conservative compared to her baby
sister Claire. A host of sterling silver bracelets tinkled
musically each time Aunt Claire moved her arms. She was sixty-three
going on sixteen. At sixty-eight, Mama Grace exercised full rights
to be the authority as the elder sister.
“The Tarot is reliable. Look at what happened
to Earl Collins. The cards—”
“Had nothing to do with it. Earl tripped over
his big feet like he’s done since we were children,” Mama Grace
said. “Now voodoo is a different matter.”
“Will you two stop? Retirement means taking
up knit-ting or Tai Chi, not witchcraft.” Lyrissa plopped down into
an overstuffed chair.
“Voodoo isn’t witchcraft, it’s a religion.”
Mama Grace shook a finger at her. “Besides, we’re only exploring in
the wonderful tradition of Miss Zora.”
“True,” Aunt Claire said.
“You know, Claire, I just thought of
something. Lyrissa is doing what Miss Zora did.” Mama Grace smiled
with pleasure. “Isn’t that wonderful?”
“Exactly, Grace. You hit it just right, as
usual.” Aunt Claire nodded at her sister.
Lyrissa sighed. Mama Grace and Aunt Claire
had long been ardent admirers of Zora Neale Hurston. They had in
fact become experts in Hurston’s writings and her life as an
ethnographer. Miss Zora, as they called her, had been an educated
and daring young woman. In order to learn about the folklore and
culture of poor blacks, she’d taken on the persona of a
working-class uneducated person. She’d even gone so far as to be
initiated as a voodoo priestess.
“God created a plethora of mysteries and
there are just as many ways to seek the answers,” Aunt Claire
said.
“In fortune telling and chicken bones? I
don’t think so. You’re retired librarians, for goodness’ sakes!
Give me a break”
“Don’t be a smart mouth,” Mama Grace shot
back.
“Okay, fine. But I’ll stick to what really
works.” Lyrissa nibbled on the small squares of fresh apple Aunt
Claire had served her. “Does anyone want to hear about my first day
working for Georgina St. Denis?”
“Of course we do!” Aunt Claire dropped the
card she was holding.
“So tell us. How bad off is the old hellcat?”
Mama Grace leaned forward with a gleam in her eyes.
“She’s doing great, considering,” Lyrissa
said.
“Humph! Georgina St. Denis will live to be
one hundred on sheer meanness.” Aunt Claire scowled.
“Did you see the painting?” Mama Grace
said.
Mama Grace referred to the reason Lyrissa
would suffer Miss Georgina’s tantrums. “Sunday Stroll on the
Faubourg Tremé” was a magnificent oil painting done by their
ancestor, Jules Joubert in 1819. It had been acquired by the St.
Denis family under questionable circumstances. “Stolen” was the
word her grandmother used regularly.
“I couldn’t exactly do an inventory, Mama
Grace.” Lyrissa looked at her. “I’m going to take my time, get
familiar with the house and the personalities.”
“What personalities?” Mama Grace said.
“There’s the housekeeper. She comes in four
days a week.” Lyrissa shifted in her chair.
“No problem.” Aunt Claire shrugged.
“And then there’s him” Lyrissa thought of
broad shoulders covered by expensive fabric.
Mama Grace blinked in confusion. “Georgina’s
husband has been dead for almost ten years now.”
“Her son lives
Noel’s amber eyes flickered with some hidden
message just for her. Or was she imagining things? Lyrissa nodded
to Miss Georgina and walked away.
She spent the next few hours trying to shake
off the effect of his smoldering gaze.
“I see something strange here in the cards.”
Lyrissa’s great- aunt Claire pursed her ruby red lips.
“Don’t be such an idiot,” Mama Grace said.
“Taking up Tarot reading at your age.” She made a rude noise to
punctuate her scorn.
Lyrissa rolled her eyes. She loved her
grandmother and great-aunt dearly, but they were a bit much at
times. Still, Mama Grace was conservative compared to her baby
sister Claire. A host of sterling silver bracelets tinkled
musically each time Aunt Claire moved her arms. She was sixty-three
going on sixteen. At sixty-eight, Mama Grace exercised full rights
to be the authority as the elder sister.
“The Tarot is reliable. Look at what happened
to Earl Collins. The cards—”
“Had nothing to do with it. Earl tripped over
his big feet like he’s done since we were children,” Mama Grace
said. “Now voodoo is a different matter.”
“Will you two stop? Retirement means taking
up knit-ting or Tai Chi, not witchcraft.” Lyrissa plopped down into
an overstuffed chair.
“Voodoo isn’t witchcraft, it’s a religion.”
Mama Grace shook a finger at her. “Besides, we’re only exploring in
the wonderful tradition of Miss Zora.”
“True,” Aunt Claire said.
“You know, Claire, I just thought of
something. Lyrissa is doing what Miss Zora did.” Mama Grace smiled
with pleasure. “Isn’t that wonderful?”
“Exactly, Grace. You hit it just right, as
usual.” Aunt Claire nodded at her sister.
Lyrissa sighed. Mama Grace and Aunt Claire
had long been ardent admirers of Zora Neale Hurston. They had in
fact become experts in Hurston’s writings and her life as an
ethnographer. Miss Zora, as they called her, had been an educated
and daring young woman. In order to learn about the folklore and
culture of poor blacks, she’d taken on the persona of a
working-class uneducated person. She’d even gone so far as to be
initiated as a voodoo priestess.
“God created a plethora of mysteries and
there are just as many ways to seek the answers,” Aunt Claire
said.
“In fortune telling and chicken bones? I
don’t think so. You’re retired librarians, for goodness’ sakes!
Give me a break”
“Don’t be a smart mouth,” Mama Grace shot
back.
“Okay, fine. But I’ll stick to what really
works.” Lyrissa nibbled on the small squares of fresh apple Aunt
Claire had served her. “Does anyone want to hear about my first day
working for Georgina St. Denis?”
“Of course we do!” Aunt Claire dropped the
card she was holding.
“So tell us. How bad off is the old hellcat?”
Mama Grace leaned forward with a gleam in her eyes.
“She’s doing great, considering,” Lyrissa
said.
“Humph! Georgina St. Denis will live to be
one hundred on sheer meanness.” Aunt Claire scowled.
“Did you see the painting?” Mama Grace
said.
Mama Grace referred to the reason Lyrissa
would suffer Miss Georgina’s tantrums. “Sunday Stroll on the
Faubourg Tremé” was a magnificent oil painting done by their
ancestor, Jules Joubert in 1819. It had been acquired by the St.
Denis family under questionable circumstances. “Stolen” was the
word her grandmother used regularly.
“I couldn’t exactly do an inventory, Mama
Grace.” Lyrissa looked at her. “I’m going to take my time, get
familiar with the house and the personalities.”
“What personalities?” Mama Grace said.
“There’s the housekeeper. She comes in four
days a week.” Lyrissa shifted in her chair.
“No problem.” Aunt Claire shrugged.
“And then there’s him” Lyrissa thought of
broad shoulders covered by expensive fabric.
Mama Grace blinked in confusion. “Georgina’s
husband has been dead for almost ten years now.”
“Her son lives
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