That Old Black Magic

by Mary Jane Clark

  “And to top it all off,” Gabe continued, “the role you’re reading for is opposite Tatum. It’ll do wonders for your reel. So do you actually think you want to ask them to change your audition slot?”

  Piper immediately agreed. While she was eager to do well with Bertrand at his bakery, acting was her priority. And this could be big. Huge.

  She’d make it work.

  Chapter 12

  As she walked slowly back toward her apartment, Piper stopped to admire the vintage charm bracelets and watches in a jewelry-store window.

  She wandered into a gift shop filled with souvenirs of the city. Miniature Mississippi River paddleboats and plantation homes lined the shelves, along with hats, T-shirts, key chains, shot glasses, plates, and magnets. Piper purchased a couple of postcards to send to her parents and Jack.

  Next door a haberdasher’s shop displayed wide-brimmed, cream-colored hats designed to ward off the blazing southern sun. Piper wondered if Jack would wear something like that. She didn’t think so.

  Spotting a large blue sign with a yellow palm painted in the center affixed to a storefront across the street, Piper went to get a closer look. The sign listed the services offered: tarot-card, crystal-ball, and palm readings. Oils, brews, charms, incense, and candles were also for sale.

  Piper took a deep breath as she pulled open the door.

  Thick damask curtains draped the front window, preventing daylight from entering the space. It took a couple of seconds for Piper’s eyes to adjust to the dimness. Then she saw the large figure sitting at a candlelit table in the corner. A heavyset woman dressed in a flowing purple caftan was staring intently at Piper.

  “Hi,” said Piper, feeling vaguely uncomfortable. “I’d like to have a reading.”

  The woman nodded but said nothing. She raised her hand and pointed to the chair across the table. As Piper walked toward the seat, the woman’s eyes followed her.

  “What kind of reading do you want?” asked the woman.

  Piper shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. I’ve never done this before. What do you suggest?”

  The woman’s eye twitched as she continued staring at Piper. While considering her client, the woman rubbed a large brown mole on her cheek. Piper was close enough to see the errant black hairs protruding from the woman’s upper lip.

  “I can give you a psychic reading. I am a spirit guide, a medium between this world and the next.”

  “Whatever you think,” said Piper. “Do you use cards or my palm or . . . I don’t know, a crystal ball?”

  “We don’t need any of those. I’m already getting very strong feelings.”

  “Okay,” said Piper, thinking she had made a mistake. This was all so silly. But she’d come this far. Having your fortune told in New Orleans seemed like something everyone should do at least once in life.

  “Who is ‘J’?” asked the woman.

  Piper shook her head, already disappointed. “I don’t think I know anyone named Jay.”

  The woman’s eyes were closed now. “It’s a female spirit. She’s holding flowers in her arms.”

  Piper watched as the woman sniffed at the air.

  “I smell magnolias. Why do I detect the scent of magnolias?”

  Magnolias. In Piper’s mind they were associated with one person.

  “That could be my Aunt Jane,” said Piper, startled at the thought of her mother’s sister, whom she had loved very much. “She lived in Virginia until she died a few years ago. Aunt Jane spent hours and hours in her garden. She had the most beautiful old magnolia tree.”

  The woman nodded. “That’s the ‘J’ I was seeing. She says you recently went through something hard. Something traumatic for you. You were very frightened. You couldn’t move.”

  Piper’s jaw dropped. How could this woman sitting across from her know about the puffer fish?

  “Aunt Jane wants you to know that you must take care of yourself. She says you aren’t completely well yet. You still have a way to go.”

  It was true, thought Piper. Though she had improved in the weeks since being poisoned, her physical stamina wasn’t what it had been. Nor was she sleeping well. Piper also found herself anxious and irritable sometimes.

  “What else is she saying?” asked Piper, eager to hear more.

  “She says you are very talented. There is something you want very much, and you are going to get it.”

  Piper sat up straighter, the little hairs on her arms rising. How could this woman know about the role she was auditioning for? Her mind raced, and she thought of her father and how he would mock the idea that this woman could have psychic abilities. Yet here she was, telling Piper specific things that she could never have known otherwise. It was incredible.

  “Aunt Jane is saying you must be careful. It will not be easy, and you are going to have to give more than you have ever had to give, and it may take you to places you may not be ready to go.”

  Chapter 13

  Aaron Kane was suddenly conscious of his wrinkled suit, receding hairline, and ample girth. Working in radio, he’d never had to pay much attention to his appearance. His audience couldn’t see him. But now, standing in the office of the program manager and listening to the bad news, Aaron wished he looked better, younger, trimmer. He’d be more self-confident, more able to convince his boss of his worth.

  “You’re not setting the world on fire, Aaron,” said the manager. “Far from it. The ratings are down again this cycle.”

  “It’s just temporary, J.D.,” said Aaron with more conviction in his voice than he actually felt. “I admit, we may have spent too much time the last few weeks on police malfeasance, but I was planning on getting off that topic anyway. Tonight I’m going back to Katrina rebuilding.”

  “Do you hear yourself, Aaron?” asked the station manager. “It’s the same old, same old. Some say that talk radio as we know it may be on the way out—and the simple reason for that is that the demographic is aging. You’ve got to get younger listeners to tune in, talk about things they’d be interested in. Talk about a variety of topics, connect with people, have some fun on the air. You can’t keep on doing the same old thing.”

  Aaron stood silent, his expression sullen. He fought to keep his pudgy fingers from his mouth to gnaw at the nails.

  “You’re not skating where the puck is going, Aaron. You’ve got to do something different, something unpredictable and smart, something that makes you stand out from the pack.”

  “Any suggestions?” asked Aaron.

  “That’s your job, buddy, because, as I’ve told you before, if those ratings aren’t up next go-round, don’t count on your contract being renewed.”

  Chapter 14

  On the flagstones around Jackson Square, tarot-card readers, jazz musicians, and clowns entertained the visitors who strolled by. Artists, eager to sketch portraits or caricatures, waited along the handsome wrought-iron fence that lined the park. Tourists wandered in and out of shops selling candy, clothing, souvenirs, and ice cream. Charming Creole-style cottages with jalousie-shuttered windows stood flush against the sidewalks.

  In the middle of the square, twenty tourists were gathered at the foot of the impressive statue of Andrew Jackson astride a rearing horse. Falkner chose Jackson Square as the meeting spot for his group because of its local color and liveliness. It set the mood for his walking tour of the French Quarter.

  “This square started out as a muddy field in the early French colony,” explained Falkner. “Troops were drilled here, criminals were placed in the stocks, and executions of disobedient slaves were carried out here. Behind me there are three eighteenth-century historic buildings that were the city’s heart in the colonial era. The center of the three is St. Louis Cathedral. The cathedral, with its tall Gothic spires, was designated a minor basilica by Pope Paul VI. To its left is the Cabildo, the old city hall, where the final version of t
he Louisiana Purchase was signed. It’s now a museum. To the cathedral’s right is the Presbytere, which originally housed the city’s Roman Catholic priests and later became a courthouse. Now, if you’ll follow me, we’ll go see the inside of the cathedral.”

  Falkner led the group across the square. Despite the cool linen shirt he wore, perspiration seeped from his body as he stood on the church steps and turned around to face his followers.

  “The cathedral, properly known as the Cathedral-Basilica of St. Louis King of France, is the oldest Catholic cathedral in continual use in the United States. It’s also one of our most visited landmarks and most photographed sites.”

  A tourist spoke up. “I heard that the Bourbon Street sign was the most photographed.”

  “I’ve heard that, too,” said Falkner. “But the cathedral is right up there in the icon department. It makes sense. In New Orleans we know how to party hard, but we also know how to repent for our debauchery later.”

  The tourists chuckled as Falkner pulled the cathedral door open. “Now we’ll go inside,” he said. “Since there is no Mass taking place now, you can take pictures. Wander around on your own for a while. I’ll meet you out here on the steps in ten minutes.”

  The group straggled into the coolness of the church. Some sat in pews to take in the beautiful architecture, the stained-glass windows, the painted ceilings, and the ornate religious decorations. Others strolled down the aisles, admiring the Stations of the Cross, stopping to light candles and say prayers. Falkner was waiting for them when they emerged into the heat again.

  “Come on. I want to take you around to the back, to see St. Anthony’s Garden,” he said.

  Delicate bell clangs marked the half hour, and a mockingbird called through the still air as the group entered the garden. The green space was dominated by the tall white statue of a man with arms raised in welcome.

  “St. Anthony is known as the protector of childless women and finder of lost things,” explained Falkner. “This area has had many functions over the years. It was a place for gatherings, markets, meals—even a dueling ground. Père Antoine, one of the cathedral’s popular pastors, used the space as a kitchen garden to feed his monks. He also worked with voodoo priestess Marie Laveau to assist the large slave population, especially women and children.”

  “A Roman Catholic priest collaborating with a voodoo priestess?” asked one of the tourists, mopping his brow with a handkerchief.

  Falkner nodded. “They had more in common than you may think. They both had a desire to heal, sooth, and do good works. They were both very spiritual people. Marie Laveau blended voodoo with Catholicism, especially regarding the saints. Now, if you’ll follow me out through the iron gates, we’ll travel down Royal Street.”

  Falkner pointed out an antique shop that once had been Antoine Peychaud’s pharmacy. “Peychaud mixed brandy and bitters and served the potion to his customers in an eggcup, or coquetier. It’s thought by some that a mispronunciation of coquetier gave us the word ‘cocktail.’ The very first cocktail, then, was born here. Thank you, Antoine!”

  He pointed out beautiful buildings, carefully maintained, occupied now by elegant stores and restaurants. He called the tourists’ attention to the fine oak-leaf ironwork embellishing buildings constructed in the 1800s for a sugar planter. He indicated a small gift shop where Mardi Gras paraphernalia was sold all year long.

  “You can go in there later and get any masks, beads, Mardi Gras snakes, krewe costumes, and posters you want to bring back home,” he said. “But how about we wrap up our tour by going for a muffuletta, the sandwich that had its birthplace in New Orleans?”

  The tourists enthusiastically followed him into the shop. Falkner smiled at each one as they passed him on the way to eagerly place their orders at the counter. Too few pressed cash into his hand. He went to the restroom at the rear of the store and counted his tips. Pathetic.

  Falkner returned to the front, waited until the last of his group had purchased their sandwiches, salads, chips, and drinks. Then he signaled to the owner that he wanted to talk with him.

  “I bring a lot of business to your store, Mike. I’m asking you one last time. Will you show me some monetary appreciation or not?”

  “You aren’t the only tour guide that brings in customers, Falkner. I’m happy to provide all of you guys with a free lunch, but I’ve explained it to you before: I’m not going to start paying you to steer business my way. I can’t afford it.”

  Falkner shook his head ruefully. “I’d say you can’t afford not to, Mike.”

  Chapter 15

  It took them a good twenty minutes to drive from the French Quarter to the Garden District. After parking the car, Bertrand, Marguerite, and Piper walked through a gate, passing by rosebushes rimmed with little white lights. Piper held up the hem of her long, flowing cotton skirt as they climbed the steps to the porch of a lavender-painted, double-shotgun-style house. As they entered through the front door of Bistro Sabrina, Piper felt slightly uneasy that Bertrand held her arm instead of Marguerite’s.

  A willowy, red-haired woman dressed in a sleeveless black sheath looked up from the reception desk. She immediately smiled when she saw them.

  “Marguerite, Bertrand, welcome,” she said, walking around from behind the desk. “It’s so good to see you.” She kissed both of them on the cheek.

  Piper noticed that Bertrand’s eyes swept over Sabrina’s figure the same way they had swept over Piper’s earlier that day at the bakery.

  “Sabrina Houghton, we’d like you to meet our guest baker, Piper Donovan,” said Marguerite. “Piper will be helping Bertrand for a while. Her family has a bakery in New Jersey, and she has made some fabulously creative wedding cakes.”

  Piper shook the woman’s hand. “So nice to meet you, Sabrina.”

  “Wonderful, Piper. I can’t wait to hear your ideas,” said Sabrina. “After dinner Leo and I should be able to sit and talk with you about them. We’re so excited.”

  “Actually, I want to hear about your preferences and your fiancé’s and then envision your wedding,” said Piper. “Any thoughts I might have will reflect yours.”

  Bertrand glanced around the reception area and over Sabrina’s shoulder, getting a view of the packed bar. “Business is good, n’est-ce pas?”

  Sabrina nodded, raising her voice to be heard above the din. “Thank goodness, yes. It’s never been better. We’re packed tonight, and we’re booked solid for the rest of the week and through the weekend. That Times-Picayune article a couple months ago really put us on the map.”

  Sabrina led them through the bar area, which had once been the parlor of the house, and into the dining room. Draping velvet curtains hung from the elongated windows, and fresh flowers in crystal vases decorated the mantelpiece of an exposed-brick fireplace. The walls were lavender, with the ceiling painted the much darker shade of aubergine. The room was cozy but not cramped, with snowy white cloths spread over the tables. Gleaming silver candle holders of different designs stood in the middle of each one.

  As soon as the three were settled into their seats, a waiter came to the table and introduced himself.

  “Good evening, my name is Patrick, and welcome to Bistro Sabrina. May I bring you a cocktail?”

  “I read that New Orleans is the birthplace of the cocktail,” said Piper. “So I think I’ll have one. Any recommendations?”

  “Legend has it that the first true cocktail was the Sazerac,” said Patrick. “Would you like to try one?”

  “What’s in that?” asked Piper.

  “Our bartender makes it with rye, bitters, sugar, and a splash of absinthe.”

  “Whoa.” Piper glanced at Bertrand and Marguerite for their reactions.

  “Oh, go ahead, Piper,” said Marguerite. “Try it.”

  Bertrand nodded. “Yes, it’s a fitting start to your visit to our city.”

&nbs
p; Piper laughed. “Okay. Sold. I’ll have a Sazerac, please.”

  When their drinks arrived, Bertrand offered a toast to Piper’s visit.

  “You’ve been so welcoming to me,” said Piper. “I know I’m going to love it here. But already I have a favor to ask of you.”

  She explained that she had an opportunity to meet and audition for a casting director. “I know it’s not great timing, being that tomorrow is my first day of work and everything,” said Piper. “But I’ll come right back afterward and work extra hours at the end of the day.”

  If Marguerite and Bertrand were annoyed, their facial expressions didn’t reveal it. They plied Piper with questions about her acting career. She gave them a brief history so far, including the stint on the daytime drama A Little Rain Must Fall.

  “Oh,” said Marguerite, making the connection. “So that’s how you came to make the wedding cake for the soap star Glenna Brooks?”

  Piper nodded. “Yes, Glenna and I became good friends, and when she remarried, she wanted my mother to make her wedding cake. But my mother has macular degeneration and isn’t able to manage the intricate decorating anymore. She suggested that I try. She likes that it gives me another focus between acting jobs.”

  “Smart lady,” said Marguerite. “And from what we saw on your Web site, you certainly have a talent for it.”

  “I appreciate that.” Piper smiled. “I do enjoy it,” she said. “I guess I hadn’t realized how much I’d picked up from watching my mom and helping her at the bakery over the years.”

  As she sipped her cocktail, Piper had time to study the couple. They seemed very comfortable with each other. She also noted that Marguerite was quite attractive. Now, with makeup applied for the evening out, she looked far different from the plain-looking woman Piper had met at the bakery earlier in the day.