by Mia Sheridan
She had a few friends in the neighborhood who’d helped her over the years when she could pay them a little bit. They’d painted, laid new carpet, patched the places that had the worst of the water damage. She knew it still needed a lot of work, but it was livable, and she’d get more done as she was able.
“He’s paying for the work, ma’am. He already gave me a deposit, and told me to let you know the rest would be taken care of. I’m here today to make a list of what needs to be done, with your approval of course. My team can get started on the repairs day after tomorrow.”
Lucille was stunned. She’d told Jonah Chamberlain she didn’t blame him for what had happened to Amanda, or for any of it, and that was the God’s honest truth. He didn’t need to feel indebted to her. But she’d heard the intense pain in his voice, and she’d heard the sincerity too. The thing she’d prayed so hard to hear in her own daughter’s voice and never received.
She had a notion that accepting this gift would go a ways toward helping the young man move past whatever he still blamed himself for. And lord, but she also couldn’t deny the spark of excitement that pinged through her now. “He’s going to pay for all of it? The whole bill?”
“Yes, ma’am. Every cent. He said the damage might be extensive.”
“Well . . . it might be.” Truthfully, she had no idea. She’d only been able to afford cosmetic fixes, but she could smell the mildew that festered somewhere. She could smell it better than anyone.
“Then it’d be best if I got started right away.”
Lucille opened the door all the way, a tinge of sunshine finding her face, a ray that must have cut through the scent of gloom she’d caught in the early morning air. “Did he tell you about my disability?”
“Yes, ma’am. I won’t disturb a thing. I’ll let you know where I am at all times, and I’ll explain what I find when I’m done.”
“That’s good. Otherwise I’d have to hang a bell around your neck like a cat.” He chuckled and she paused before adding, “I hired a contractor once when I could afford one. Gave him every cent I had to my name to make this place livable again. He stole it.”
There was a pause before Neal McMurray said solemnly, “I’m so sorry about that, Mrs. Kershaw. I can’t understand it. How a person can kick another who’s down is beyond me.” The sincerity in his voice was clear, the same sincerity that had been clear in Jonah Chamberlain’s voice the night before, but without the hue of pain.
Lucille nodded curtly, turning her head so he didn’t spot the tears suddenly burning her eyes. “Well then, I’ll let you lead the way.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
August, 1861
Homer winced as Angelina’s mama rubbed the ointment into his abraded palms, his expression relaxing into relief almost immediately.
“Better?” Mama Loreaux asked as she worked the herb-filled ointment into Homer’s raw, bloodied skin.
“Yes, ma’am,” Homer said as she slipped some cotton gloves over his hands, the gloves Angelina had sewn herself.
“Sleep with those on tonight and by the morning, you gone be healed right up.”
“You a gem, Mama,” Homer said, offering her that gentle, gap-toothed grin of his that never failed to elicit a smile from Angelina. He looked shyly at her, his smile dipping slightly. He bowed his head. “Miss Angelina,” he said. “You sleep well.”
“You too, Homer. Come see us tomorrow if you need another treatment.”
“I surely will.” With another tip of his head, he left their cabin, the screen door closing softly behind him. Angelina went to stand in front of it, watching him walk into the darkness and wishing for a breeze, even a slight one. But the night was still and breathless and Angelina stared out, the desolation she’d put aside while Homer was there, now filling her once more.
Night after night they came to her mama, seeking relief for lacerations and bloodied hands, for muscle aches and pain of every type. Those were the easy visits, though. Those were the ones that could be soothed with ointment or herbs, with Mama’s special oils, or strong-smelling tinctures.
It was the pain that couldn’t be mended that pierced Angelina’s soul—the loss, the heartache, the deep, deep sorrow.
Somewhere far beyond, under the same moon that was filtering weakly through the trees above her, John was fighting a war. He was fighting against the side that would see an end to the injustices that she witnessed every day of her life, an end to the misery and suffering, an end to the threats of women like Delphia Chamberlain who ruled and ruined lives.
She loved him, she didn’t want to fault him for things he couldn’t control, but the lonelier she became, the more fearful and hopeless, the more her resentment grew.
Her mama glanced at her, putting the satchels of herbs back into the leather case she kept them in. “You think too much, you gone give yourself a headache.”
Angelina laughed, though it didn’t hold much humor. “I wish I could stop, Mama. If you have an ointment for that, please apply it immediately.”
Her mama gave her a sharp look, thinning her lips. “You make yourself stop, girl. All that thinkin’ an dreamin’ ain’t gone come to no good.”
Her mama was right, of course. It had already come to no good. She’d fallen in love with a man who’d made her life dangerous and uncertain. Delphia Chamberlain’s threats sat heavy upon her shoulders, threats that not only included herself, but her beloved mama as well.
She had kept her head down since that awful day in the parlor. She walked through her days weak with hopelessness, foggy with fear. She had no earthly idea how anything could be made right.
Angelina eyed her mother’s case. “Mama, how do you curse someone?”
Her mother had shown her how to blend herbs to create medicines, how to make tinctures and oils that soothed and cleansed, and how to apply ointments that cooled and healed, but she’d never shown her the other rituals she performed when Angelina was gone from the cabin, the rituals she knew had been passed down from her grandmother and great grandmother before her mother had been shipped to Louisiana across a vast sea.
“I smell the smoke sometimes when I come back to the cabin. I know you still practice the old religion.”
Her mother didn’t look at her as her hands continued with the work of returning the items to her case. “You don’t need to know any a that. They call me a witch, say it devilry what I do. I never wanted that for you. I can’t help what I already know, but I sho enough can keep you from knowin’ it. Safer that way.”
Safer.
But nothing in their lives was safe. Was safe supposed to feel this way? Did her mama feel safe? Did any of the slaves on their plantation feel safe, no matter how good they acted, no matter how hard they worked, no matter how many rules they followed? Angelina didn’t think so.
“And anyhow,” her mother continued, “curses are only fueled with a whole soul a fire behind ’em. They do not work just because you wishin’ they would.”
“I do have a soul of fire behind my wish,” Angelina insisted. She wished Delphia Chamberlain would die a thousand miserable deaths. She would deserve every one of them.
“And for every ounce a hate that fuels a curse, there gotta be a equal amount a love.”
Angelina watched her mother, weariness overcoming her. It all sounded confusing and complicated, and unlikely to work.
Maybe she hated Delphia Chamberlain as equally as she loved John, though she didn’t have an idea on how to measure that. But it couldn’t just be about love and hate. Surely there were words involved, the whispery chants she heard her mother saying as she passed by the window of their cabin sometimes, the wispy vapors of whatever she had burned, drifting over the sill.
But her mother had never shared it with her, and she doubted she could convince her to begin now. And in any case, she wasn’t even sure she believed in any of that.
If her mother knew how to curse people, why hadn’t she cursed her father before he made her pregnant with a baby she n
ever asked for on the dirt of the cellar floor? Why hadn’t she cursed the men who put her in shackles and shoved her in the vomit-scented hull of a slave ship? Why hadn’t she cursed the group who had strung Elijah up and left his body to rot in the sun?
For every ounce a hate that fuels a curse, there gotta be a equal amount a love.
Whatever that meant.
Angelina sat down heavily on the bed.
“It that man who started this,” her mother stated, her expression hard, her eyes filled with worry as she looked upon her forlorn daughter. “If he really love you, he would not put your life in danger.”
But how could he love her without putting her life in danger? Would the war really emancipate slaves? It seemed so far-fetched and inconceivable. Absurd. Could the world ever really change that much?
Doubt prickled her skin. She wanted to insist that John did love her, that his promises were real and true. But she saw him in her mind’s eye, the way his gaze had shifted away when they’d spoken about him fighting for the side that would never set her free. There had been something he’d refused to say to her and the memory only increased her doubt that their love would ever win in the end.
“Yeah,” her mama murmured, the glint of something fierce in her eyes. “He nothin’ but danger. Nothin’ but danger.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Clara pulled her light jacket around her, inhaling the fresh, pure scent of an evening washed clean by a day of rain.
The familiar sound of Mrs. Guillot's voice drifted to her on the breeze, and she smiled with pleasure as the sweet sound rolled through her.
Long my imprisoned spirit lay,
Fast bound in sin and nature’s night;
Thine eye diffused a quick’ning ray—
I woke, the dungeon flamed with light.
Clara let herself in the gate, stepping past the tabby cat that sat cleaning himself on the stone path.
Mrs. Guillot stopped singing, her face bursting into a warm smile as she spotted Clara. "Well, Clara, darlin’ girl, how are you? It’s been far too long since I’ve seen you."
"I'm good. I’ve looked for you, but you haven’t been on your porch recently when I’ve walked by. How are you?”
“I’m wonderful. I’ve been keepin’ some company with Harry,” she said, and Clara swore the pink in her cheeks deepened just a smidge. “And of course, now that the weather’s cooled down a bit, I spend more time indoors in the evening.”
“Yes,” Clara agreed. “The cooler weather is such a relief.”
"Isn’t it? I was just going to make myself a cup of coffee. Will you join me? I picked up some of that fall creamer. I’ve got pumpkin spice, peppermint, and, let’s see"—she put her finger on her chin as she rose from her chair—“oh! crème brûlée.”
Clara grinned. “How did you know I was a sucker for fall coffee creamer?”
Mrs. Guillot laughed as she opened her front door, holding it for Clara to enter behind her. “Who isn’t, dear?”
“No one I want to know.”
Mrs. Guillot laughed as Clara closed the front door behind them and entered the cozy room. The furnishings were older, but obviously well kept, with warm afghans on the backs of the chairs and plush throw pillows at each end of the two facing sofas. In the corner, a television was on, the sound turned down so low it could barely be heard.
“You take a seat and I’ll put the coffee on. I see you’ve been to visit Mr. Baptiste.”
Clara nodded, placing the bag containing zucchini and yellow squash on Mrs. Guillot’s coffee table. “Yes. He’s closing up for the season in a couple of weeks. I’ve been visiting him as much as I can. He’s such a nice man, and I’ll miss him when he’s not there anymore.”
“That he is. I’ll miss seeing him too. Make yourself at home, and I’ll be back in a few minutes. What kind of creamer would you like?”
“Pumpkin spice, please,” Clara said as she sat on the sofa, looking around the room at the different knickknacks Mrs. Guillot had displayed.
She glanced at all the photographs atop the side tables, and on the console that held the television, all the people Mrs. Guillot had loved and lost.
She heard Mrs. Guillot humming the tune she’d been singing when Clara walked through her gate. “That’s a lovely song, Mrs. Guillot,” Clara called to her.
“Yes, it is, dear,” Mrs. Guillot said, her voice carrying clearly from the kitchen right next to the living room. “It’s called And Can It Be. My mama, rest her sweet soul, didn't know how to read, but oh, did she know how to sing. Just like an angel. She taught me every hymn she knew."
"You sing them beautifully.”
“Thank you, dear. Oh, I forgot to mention that I bought a ticket for your opening night. I’ve been checking and when they went on pre-order, I snatched mine right up.”
“You did?” Clara asked, the delight clear in her voice.
What a sweet, sweet woman Mrs. Guillot was. And how wonderful to know that even though her father wouldn’t be at her opening night—the very first one he wouldn’t be able to attend and oh, how that knowledge hurt—Clara would have at least one person in the audience just for her. “Thank you, Mrs. Guillot. That means so much to me.”
“I can’t wait.”
The whir of a coffee grinder met Clara’s ears and she settled back into the sofa as Mrs. Guillot resumed humming, watching disinterestedly as a news program started playing.
After a minute, Clara sat up, blinking at a clip on the television. She grabbed the remote on the coffee table and turned up the volume, her fingers fumbling slightly in her haste to hear what was being said.
“I just love this story, Genevieve,” the male newscaster said to the female newscaster. “It seems this masked man is going around New Orleans doing good deeds for people in need. There have been a handful of stories from folks saying he’s part of the Brass Angels, which as you know is a group of volunteer crime-fighters formed after Hurricane Katrina.”
“A masked man?” Clara whispered, shocked. That’s what she thought she’d seen in the clip that had been part of the news story’s opening. The mask was eerily similar if not exactly the same to the one she’d seen Jonah in on two occasions now. Her heart sped up.
“Yes, Brennan,” the newscaster named Genevieve answered. “It’s so interesting. But the most fascinating part is he’s apparently not only helping people as part of the Brass Angels, but he’s actually donating money in some cases. A lot of money.”
Clara watched as a teary-eyed young woman sat next to an obviously sick little boy in a hospital bed as she told about a man who had approached her in the hospital courtyard, somehow known about the treatment her son needed, and handed over a cashier’s check for fifty grand, a check that contained no personal information except the bank where it’d been issued.
“I just want to thank him,” the woman said, a tear rolling down her cheek. “My son is scheduled tomorrow for the surgery I hope will save his life, and”—she sniffled, reaching for her son’s hand and squeezing it as the little boy looked at his mother with love in his eyes, a small smile on his lips—“and I just really would like to thank the man who made it possible.”
“News Eight has obtained the camera footage from the parking garage of the hospital, and if you look closely, you can see this masked man walking around a corner. Unfortunately, the camera on the other side was out of order at the time, but we’ve frozen the frame where this mystery man looks at the screen. If you are able to identify him, please let us know so this grateful mother and a host of others can thank him for his kindness and generosity.”
The screen moved to a grainy picture of a man looking up at a camera above him, his head tilted slightly as though he were peering out of one eye that was stronger than the other.
Clara’s heart gave a strong jolt and she put her hand over her mouth.
“A masked man who helps the hopeless,” Mrs. Guillot said from behind her before coming around and placing two coffee cups on the ta
ble, the delicious scent of coffee and pumpkin spice drifting to Clara and breaking her from her shocked trance. “Well, if that doesn’t beat all. Am I the only one in the room who finds that quite . . . alluring?”
Clara couldn’t help the startled laugh that bubbled up her throat as she turned to Mrs. Guillot. Alluring. No, no Mrs. Guillot was definitely not the only one. “Mrs. Guillot, I . . . I know him.”
Mrs. Guillot tilted her head, her eyes filling with surprise. “You do? Who is he?”
Clara shook her head. “I can’t tell. I mean, I didn’t know either, not until just now. He obviously doesn’t want anyone to know.”
Mrs. Guillot rested her hand on Clara’s. “Is he by any chance the man you weren’t sure if you were going to offer grace to from up close or from far away?”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Guillot nodded. “And what did you choose, dear?”
“Up close. Very up close.”
Mrs. Guillot’s lips tipped, and she gave Clara a knowing look. “I see.” She glanced at the television that had moved on to a different public interest story. “It seems it was a good call. Any man who acts the way that man is acting is very, very serious about redemption.”
She patted Clara’s hand again. “Now drink your coffee, dear. And then you go to that young man and offer him a little more grace. And this time, consider getting even closer.”
Clara’s eyes widened right before she laughed, throwing her arms around Mrs. Guillot and hugging her hard.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
“Hello? Jonah, are you there?”
He heard Clara’s voice and froze. She was at the side gate, her steady rapping shattering the quiet of Windisle. His heart jumped, excitement flaring inside of him, along with a spark of panic.
What are you doing here, Clara? He paused for the portion of a moment, letting a deep, long breath flow through him. Did he dare answer? Myrtle and Cecil were out on a rare date night to dinner in the French Quarter to be followed by a show, and he was alone.