That Old Black Magic by Mary Jane Clark

breasts hadn’t affected him at all. He’d had no desire to wrap Marguerite in his arms and smother her with caresses and kisses.
    Yet it took every bit of control Bertrand had to keep himself from climbing into bed beside Piper.

Chapter 17
    I t was still dark when Mike arrived at work. He entered through the back of the store and flipped on the lights. As he took inventory in the kitchen, he didn’t know if he should be patting himself on the back for being a good father and letting his son sleep in or kicking himself for giving in to Tommy’s whining. Either way Mike was exhausted. He wondered how he was going to get through the long day ahead.
    He put together a list of the meats, rolls, and cheeses he wanted to get ordered for the sandwiches he’d promised to make for the St. Patrick’s Day fund-raiser at the Gris-Gris Bar for Wuzzy’s little boy. When asked, Mike had immediately agreed to donate the muffulettas. Poor Wuzzy had a tough row to hoe with a disabled son, no wife, and mounting medical bills. Merchants up and down Royal Street were contributing goods and services to help Wuzzy Queen out of his little boy’s problems.
    Mike ripped open two cartons delivered the day before. He unpacked the contents and restocked the shelves with containers of potato crisps and jars of marinated mushrooms. Then he checked the meat case, replenishing it with a new ham from the walk-in refrigerator.
    He walked to the front of the shop, tidying up merchandise as he made his way to the entrance and thinking how fortunate he was that his own son, while lazy, was exceedingly healthy. Mike unlocked the door. He reached to raise the shade in the front window, then stopped as the door opened.
    â€œWow. You’re here early,” said Mike.
    â€œI know, but it’s going to be a crazy day. I won’t be able to get over here at lunchtime. Could you make me a muffuletta now?”
    â€œOkay,” Mike said, turning his back and walking toward the rear of the store.
    The customer quietly turned the lock on the front door before following Mike to the workstation and watching as the butcher slid a fat smoked ham back and forth, back and forth across the razor-sharp blade of the meat-slicing machine. Mike caught each thin slice and piled it on the round, sesame-seeded bread that lay split open on the counter. He repeated the process with salami, depositing it on the ham. Next a layer of capicola, followed by pepperoni, Swiss cheese, and provolone.
    â€œLooking good,” said the customer, observing from the other side of the counter. “Thanks again for this.”
    â€œNo problem,” said Mike. “We Royal Street folks have to help each other out when we can.”
    â€œHow many muffs do you think you’ve made in your life?” asked the customer, setting a shopping bag on the floor.
    The sandwich maker laughed. “I couldn’t even begin to tell you.” He reached for the glass container of olive spread he had mixed himself. Finely chopped green olives, celery, cauliflower, and carrot seasoned with oregano, garlic, black pepper and covered with extra-virgin olive oil, all left to marinate overnight.
    The customer persisted. “All right, then. How many muffs did you make yesterday?”
    Digging into the olive mixture, the butcher shrugged. “Maybe a hundred and fifty.”
    The customer whistled. “Business is good, huh?”
    â€œIt’s all right, but it’s nowhere near the place on Decatur. They sell hundreds a day. Every time I go by, there’s a line out the door. I gotta find me a way to get listed in those travel guides.”
    â€œLocation, location,” said the customer. “Being near Jackson Square and the cathedral sure helps.”
    â€œTrue,” said Mike. “But Royal Street isn’t exactly a poor relation in the location department. We’re the heart of the French Quarter.” He nodded over his shoulder