Elijah breaks the circle and faces Matt. “You don’t own this water.”
Matt doesn’t miss a beat, smiles smugly and crosses his arms about his chest. “Mayor, we’ve had this discussion before. I own this land and everything on it, so you and your prayer circle, or whatever the hell this is, needs to go back to where you came from.”
“Actually, you don’t own this land.” Frederick steps forward and walks within feet of Matt and his men. It’s now that I notice Frederick has his own set of tools.
“If it isn’t crazy Old Man Frederick,” Matt says, and his men laugh. “Gosh, Elijah, I hope you’re not listening to this insane old coot.”
Frederick raises a crowbar and is about to show Matt what an old coot can do, but Elijah puts a hand to Fred’s chest.
“Brock Parker’s heirs own this land,” Elijah says. “Not you, Matt. You think you have us fooled. We also know about Bayou State Transport and the illegal dumping, not to mention the accident that happened on Easter weekend.”
Matt’s eyes enlarge and I swear I can see him grit his teeth.
“I’m one of Brock Parker’s heirs, Elijah, and I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Now, it’s Elijah’s turn to smile smugly, only he does so on the side of right.
“No worries. I have lots of documentation to prove what you’ve been doing, plus I’m sure the other heirs would love to know how you’ve decimated their property to the point of it being worthless. In fact, I have their numbers right here. Want to call them and see what they think of us trespassing on their property?”
For the first time since I’ve met him, Matt appears worried. He doesn’t say anything for the longest time, then turns to his men and nods for them to move off.
“I’m going to the authorities,” Matt says softly. “And we’ll just see about this.”
Elijah doesn’t falter a bit. “You do that.”
Matt, also, doesn’t back down. “Your days are numbered, Mayor.”
Elijah laughs. “Considering these nice people here vote for me, I’d say you’re probably wrong there.”
Matt huffs and heads off, but he has the last word. “I’ll see you in court.”
As we watch the men walk off into the woods, everyone cheers. There’s laughter, the patting of Elijah’s back, nods in my direction. But after a few moments, we all turn serious, no doubt wondering what the future will bring. I look at Sirona to start the ceremony once again, but she looks back sadly. And suddenly, I realize there’s one more action to take before we bless the waters.
“Hey, old coot,” I yell to Frederick. “How about we use that crowbar on the springs?”
Frederick doesn’t miss a beat. “Why did you think I brought it?”
We head over to the spring head where a round piece of concrete marks the spot. Frederick hands off two other tools — a pickaxe and a shovel — to other men and the three begin tearing the concrete apart.
“Hurry,” the skinny teenager says, gazing at her cell phone for information. “Sundown is almost here.”
After ten minutes of hard work, the men finally break the concrete and others rush over to begin pulling apart pieces. There’s more blockage underneath and I can almost feel the collective sigh as we spot this.
“We need to hurry,” Elijah says.
Everyone picks up the speed and the pieces are thrown every which way, while one of the men shovels dirt out from underneath. More pickaxe and crowbar delivery, followed by removal of dirt, concrete and metal. As the sun slips below the tree line, I wonder if we’re going to make it. We’re so close.
Just as darkness settles and I expect to see dead Confederates greeting us, someone yells and water comes pouring forth from the ground. Frederick holds his crowbar to the sky and howls, the other men splash the water on to each other, and the crowd descends to the springs for their own baptismal. We relish the clear water like thirsty travelers in a desert, even though there must be toxicity in its composition. It’s our springs, and we own this moment.
Finally, Sirona holds up her hands to quiet the crowd.
“We still have to bless the waters and ask the departed to return to their resting places.”
Everyone forms a circle and we all hold hands once more.
“But the work here has only begun,” Elijah says before we begin. “We have to fight this. We have to make the responsible parties pay for the damage done to our springs, our lake, and our drinking water.”
“I have a friend who’s a lawyer in these kinds of things,” a man offers. “I’ll talk to him about pro bono.”
“We need to do a title search,” another suggests. “I can help with that.”
“I have all kinds of documentation on the property, including how my grandfather was cheated,” Frederick inserts.
“And we must hire someone to do an independent water assessment,” Elijah says. “It’s all going to cost money. Are you all with me?”
There’s nodding and agreement all around along with a few “hell yeses,” and I’m warmed by the collective optimism. Without logic seeping in, I’m convinced this small group of people will put Matt behind bars — or at least stop his destructive actions and put Bayou State Transport out of business. In time, this lovely spring will return to its sacredness, offering people healing powers and solace.
TB approaches me and smiles, seemingly as happy as I am at the turn of events.
“You see how the collective consciousness can move things?” he asks me as I take his hand. “There’s so much positive energy now. I’ll bet we clean up this water right here today.”
He’s beaming with hope. I’m not convinced our thoughts and words will heal this toxicity, but heck, it’s worth a try. I do know that love, gratitude, and hope are as powerful as the anger and meanness Eric had taught me, but the end result brightens the world instead of promoting shadows. And dang, it feels so much better.
We all hold hands again, and Sirona moves to the center, raising her arms again to the skies and speaking words none of us comprehend but understand nonetheless. The words and the hopeful thoughts running through our consciousness vibrate deep into our souls.
As the sun sets over Lake Lorelei, named for the German siren who sang love songs on its European shores, we pray for the return of the departed, thank them for their assistance, and ask them for peace in the afterlife. With one last thought, we bless the waters that run through us all.
As dusk settles around us, no ghosts appear.
Chapter Sixteen
“So, what’s supposed to happen?” Elijah asks me as we join the crowds gathered on the shore of Blue Moon Bayou.
I explain again the myth of falling in love with the first person you see upon the rising of the blue moon. I know I’ve told Elijah this when I had called yesterday and invited him to join me.
“But, there was one earlier this summer, right?”
“In May,” I answer, which seems so far away considering everything that has happened. “Despite the fact that most people think blue moons happen infrequently, hence the term ‘once in a blue moon,’ they occur every two to three years or so. Sometimes, like this year, they happen twice in a year. And yes, we had one earlier this summer.”
“Cool.”
I love odd Southern traditions, and I gaze around at the crowd of people enjoying family, tradition, and, bien sur, fabulous food. I smile at myself for remembering a French expression from my LSU days, something to impress residents in my new home in Cajun Country. But who am I kidding, I speak French to these people and they roar with laughter.
I look over at Elijah, who’s not enjoying the moment as much as I am. I slip my arm through his and give him a friendship squeeze.
“You think I’m crazy, is that it?” he asks me. “For falling in love with an immortal woman who lives inside a lake?”
“Well, now that you put it that way.”
We both laugh but it’s a half-hearted one. After our communal prayer at the springs, Sir
ona disappeared. Elijah threw himself into hiring the pro bono lawyer and working through the information I gave him, so he routinely claims he’s too busy for anything else, including a love life. Of course, I know better. And, I know something he doesn’t.
“She does travel, you know.”
Elijah looks at me questionably.
“Remember when the two of you came to visit me?”
As if on cue — maybe goddesses can do that — Sirona takes the opportunity to join us, sitting beside Elijah on the ground and smiling. Gone is the crystal on her forehead and that awful snake on her arm, but I feel happy just being in her presence. Elijah, on the other hand, lights up like a fire. He may be mortal, but his aura is shooting out beams like a god.
I quietly excuse myself. Who knows where that relationship will lead; I’ve had friends in worst situations. Well, maybe not as tricky as loving an immortal with fins, not to mention one who can change her appearance. But really, love is all about the here and now. If there’s one thing I’ve learned seeing ghosts is that life’s too short. Grab all the happiness while you can.
I head over to Annie Breaux’s tent next to The Mortuary B&B where my family has gathered for the event. For once I was right that my mother would love this crazy tradition. She insisted on coming back, interviewing residents, and writing a paper on the phenomenon. She and Annie are deep in discussion.
“I can’t believe mom likes this nonsense,” Portia says to me as I approach. She’s got a plate piled high with corn macque choux, smothered chicken pieces over rice, potato salad, and barbecue ribs.
“Sorry, you’re having such a bad time,” I reply, gazing down at her plate.
She shrugs. “Have to entertain myself somehow.”
“You might want to pace yourself. Annie’s wild blueberry pie and pecan tarts are to die for.”
Portia has already started shuffling Cajun goodies into her mouth, but she manages to utter, “Good to know.”
Sebastian couldn’t make it, but I’m not surprised. He’s on to a new adventure, this one in Santa Barbara, California, at some swanky farm-to-table restaurant attached to a winery. He invited me to come visit — even offered to pay for the plane ticket — and I’m so there. I’ll do anything to escape the oppressive heat of Louisiana in mid-summer.
Still, life is good. The dam holding back my paychecks from clients finally broke and I’ve paid this month’s bills, including putting new brakes on the Toyota, plus have savings in the bank — a tiny savings but at least there’s something in there besides air. A press trip to Florida looms on the horizon and I picked up three travel assignments this week alone. If it wasn’t for the orphan on the banks of Blue Moon Bayou, I’d say even the ghosts are leaving me alone at present.
Portia pauses in her culinary enjoyment and swallows hard and I have a feeling where this sudden change is going.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, more because I hate having heart-to-heart talks with my sister, who I’m sure doesn’t have one. “I know you didn’t mean what you said the other day.”
She exhales and gazes down at the bayou. “I really didn’t, Vi. I’m just so angry these days.”
This makes me laugh because one, my sister always appears aggravated and obstinate and two, for once I know exactly what she means.
“I’m sure it’s the stress of Katrina, the constant unknowns regarding New Orleans, and now mom has Parkinson’s. We’ve had enough anxiety and trauma to last us a lifetime.”
Portia nods and resumes eating, but between bites she manages to appear almost sweet.
“Still, I’m sorry I said it. I can’t imagine anything worse than what you’ve gone through.”
An acknowledgement of my pain. Miracle of miracles. I look to the sky to see if it will snow. Usually, I would act the typical little sister and make light of it, gush about how I’m sure she has gone through similar hardships, but the truth is, I’ve been to hell and back and it’s nice hearing my sister admit as much.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Portia. “Have to say hi to someone.”
Portia grabs my sleeve and looks around to make sure mom is not within hearing distance. “Okay, but come to New Orleans soon, will ya?”
I sigh because I thought we were done with this argument. “I’ve been coming in more often and spending time with mom.” And seeing way too many dead people in my hometown. “I’ll be in again soon.”
“It’s not that.” Portia takes a sip of her beer and burps softly. “I need to talk to you alone.”
This worries me. “I thought mom was doing well.”
She waves me off. “She is. It’s about dad.”
A dread travels from the bottom of my feet to the top of my head and my look must have mirrored that for Portia waves me off again. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not as bad as all that. Just come in soon, okay?”
I think about what news Portia could possibly impart about our absent paterfamilias as I make my way down to the bayou’s edge. Abigail waits for me there, still wearing her trademark overalls. Of course, what else would she be wearing considering she’s dead?
“Are you all right?” she asks me, something I’m not expecting.
“Yes.” For the first time this summer I am, despite whatever news Portia has waiting for me. “But, I have to ask, what do you need?”
“Me?” Abigail looks surprised.
“Do you need help getting to the other side?”
Abigail acts like she doesn’t know what I’m talking about.
“You know, not be a ghost. Enter heaven.”
Abigail spits. “Hell no. I never want to see my sorry excuse for a mother again. Or those horrid farmers who took me in.” She looks around at the bayou and the happy people waiting for the blue moon to rise. “I like it here.”
I smile and nod, and am also grateful there’s nothing crazy I need to do for yet one more apparition. At least not this week. “Good. I wish you well.”
Abigail is fading but she asks again. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, why?”
I can barely make her out now.
“She just wanted to make sure.”
“She?”
Abigail fades and I wish she were real and I could grab her sleeve like Portia did me.
“She?” I practically yell.
A panic fills my chest and I have trouble breathing. I must know what Abigail meant.
“Abigail?” I call out too loudly.
“Who are you looking for?”
I turn and find TB at my side, the last person I expected to see today. The surprise of him being here allows me to exhale and resume a steady breath.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, but this time without the terse tone because I’m happy to see him.
TB slips his hands into those ragged jean pockets and I can’t help noticing how that denin stretches over just the right places.
“That lady I was working for when you came to Lake Peigneur, the one with all the antiques? She called me back to do a bunch of odd jobs.”
“That’s great.” I find myself smiling broadly. “Stinky will be pleased,” I add, hoping to cover up the excitement building inside of me.
TB shrugs. “Mrs. Smith loves to make me apple pie and lemonade, show me her old photos. I’m not even sure she needs all that work done.”
I can imagine how much Mrs. Smith loves TB, a sweet man who will sit and listen to old people’s stories and honestly show interest. He’s really a great guy.
“Portia called and told me y’all were meeting here so I thought I would come and say hi.”
He’s unsure of my reaction, I realize, and I hate that TB feels that way around me. Despite everything, including the fact that he may be in love with a real estate woman who loves merlot, he’s my best friend. The announcer calls out that the blue moon is about to rise so I link my arm through his and TB and I head over to Annie’s tent, where I make introductions all around. After some small talk, the announcer yell
s out that we’re seconds away so we all get comfortable in lawn chairs facing the bayou.
“I thought you’d be in New Orleans with Cookie this weekend.” Dang, I really didn’t mean to bring her up. Not today.
“Who?”
“The real estate lady.”
TB does a smile-frown and I’m sorry I asked. I have no right to mention women he’s slept with, make him feel guilty, girls throwing rocks at glass houses and all.
“It was nothing, really,” TB says. “It was, what did you call it? A moment where liquor was involved.”
“Oh, there was wine with the cookies?” Stupid me trying to make light of this. “You must like her, though, since you spent the night before Lake Lorelei with her.”
I didn’t mean to get that personal but deep down I really want to know. TB starts rubbing his palms on his knees and squints as he gazes out over the bayou. Either I’m making him uncomfortable or he’s not telling me something.
“She lives in New Orleans, Vi.”
“I figured.”
“Did you think I drove to New Orleans and back before we went up to the lake?”
Honestly, I didn’t think about the logistics of that five-hour round trip. All I was focusing on at the time was TB in love with some woman with a well-paying job and no baggage. At least, I assumed as much.
“I don’t understand,” I say, because I hope to God that Cookie wasn’t waiting back at TB’s hotel. In my head, I admonish myself. I have no right to TB. In fact, if the man had any sense he would run screaming from having any business with my sorry ass.
“I didn’t know you were coming in that day so I let my boss get me a hotel room for the night.” TB’s still looking guilty.
My heart drops thinking that Cookie drove over from New Orleans. That would mean something solid is between them.
“Well, you don’t want to waste a good hotel room.” I cringe, not what I meant to say.
TB picks up a long stretch of Saint Augustine grass, the kind that snakes through the lawn and is as tough as rope. Sebastian and I used to pick these and make crowns out of them, pretend we were magical twins.
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