she stepped back onto the street, Lauren was practically assaulted by music. She came to a dead halt.
There was something happening in the street. A jazz funeral. The mule-drawn hearse, escorted by mounted police, passed just as she emerged. Behind the hearse came the mourners and, with them, the musicians. It was a spectacle not everyone got to see, something unique, sad yet wonderful, to be found in the city. Someone was about to be laid to rest in grand fashion.
The procession had to be on its way from the church to the cemetery—something of a long route from here, Lauren thought. The musicians were playing a dirge now, but she’d been to several jazz funerals in her life, and she knew that once they left the cemetery there would be a celebration of the deceased’s life. Often the band would play “When the Saints Go Marching In,” the old standby. It was an old custom, African beliefs blended with western religion.
On the street, everyone had stopped, watching the procession go slowly by.
She did the same.
The mourners were black, white and all shades in between.
One of the trumpet players was a huge, handsome African-American man. As he played, his eyes lit on Lauren, and she offered him a nod of respect. Strangely, he kept watching her solemnly until he had passed her.
As soon as the funeral had moved on, people began to mill around on the sidewalks again, and cars followed slowly, until they could turn onto a different street.
Lauren found herself listening to the sad dirge until the funeral march was but a hint in the air, and the laughter on the street and sounds of a corner rock band overshadowed what had been. Then she gave herself a shake and hurried into the next store.
She saw T-shirts, voodoo potion boxes, alligator heads, votive candles and holders, but no sign of Deanna.
Nor did Heidi appear.
She walked back into the store where Heidi had been looking at the hat. Neither of her friends was there.
Irritated, she took out her cell phone. She tried Deanna’s number first and got her voice mail. The same thing happened when she tried Heidi’s number. Cursing silently, she left her a message, too.
She didn’t want to go far; they had to be nearby somewhere. But after going in and out of a dozen shops, cafes and restaurants, her level of aggravation peaked, and she gave in to the heat and her own weariness and opted for a table near the street at the last café she checked and ordered a giant iced tea.
While she sat, she drew out her sketch pad, but before she could start working on a street scene, she found herself staring at the sketch she had made of the fortune teller the night before.
“You ruined the whole party, you know,” she said softly to the sketch. The woman was still striking, everything about her unusual, from the remembered color of her skin to the bone structure of her face.
“Talking to yourself?” someone said.
She looked up, startled, wariness slipping through her.
Their handsome neighbor from cottage six was standing by her, a pleasant smile on his face.
She didn’t answer; she was torn between suspicion and an inexplicable desire to engage in conversation. Okay, maybe not so inexplicable. He was exceedingly attractive. Tall, everything in proportion, muscular without being musclebound, with rugged features that were classically appealing and entirely masculine. She even liked his scent, and felt oddly drawn to move nearer to him.
I would actually like to get to know him, she admitted to herself.
And then another voice chimed in. The truth was that he scared her. And maybe he scared her just because she felt such a strong sense of attraction to him.
Would she have been so afraid if it hadn’t been for what had happened in the Square, the crystal ball and the illusion of genuine danger?
“Wow,” he murmured, and she realized that he was looking at her sketch. “That’s magnificent.”
“I don’t know about magnificent,” she murmured, embarrassed.
He never actually asked if he could join her, and she never suggested that he do so, but he drew out the chair across from her anyway and sat down.
She was glad, she realized. She liked having him there, liked talking with him. Liked feeling his eyes on her appreciatively.
And yet she was still…wary.
Scared.
Something wasn’t right.
“You’re quite an artist,” he said.
“It’s a living,” she replied.
He flashed her a smile. A very attractive smile. “Not everyone is good enough to make a living at it.”
“I’ve been lucky.”
“Are your friends artists, too?”
“Yes. Artists, graphic designers.”
“You do logos, fliers, that type of thing?” he inquired politely.
“Yes, and ad layouts and so on,” she agreed.
She didn’t want him to leave, she realized.
What the hell was it about him that appealed to her so strongly? She wanted to touch him, make sure he was real, stroke the contours of his face, feel his heart beat under her palm.
He tapped the table near the sketch. “I’ve seen her. It’s an incredible likeness. There’s a touch of magic to her, and you’ve captured it.”
“Thanks.” She hesitated. “So you…know her?”
He shook his head. “I saw her when I was walking around. She’s so unusual, so arresting, that you feel compelled to look at her. You’ve caught all that in this sketch.”
“Thanks,” she murmured.
“So you all had your fortunes told?”
“Yes.”
“And?” His tone was teasing, his smile captivating.
And yet, despite his teasing tone, did she sense a note of seriousness behind it? Did he suspect that she had seen a strange vision?
Of course not.
“We’re all going to live long, happy lives,” she lied.
“Wonderful So where are your friends now? Did they get lost in New Orleans?” he asked, a slight frow creasing his brow, though he still spoke lightly.
“They’re not lost,” she said, then added, “I’ve simply misplaced them.”
“Worrying nonetheless,” he said
“It’s broad daylight, and there are tons of people around,”
