She shook her head. “No. It’s not been used for its original purpose. It’s just . . . not all right.”
“Actually, in the Marigny it’s pretty much par for the course. Did you notice the goat with a rhinestone collar in the yard on the corner? I’m assuming that’s what the homeowner uses as a lawnmower. I think the whole vibe here is cool. It’s pretty eclectic, and I’m excited about the neighborhood music scene. I’d like to get back into writing music again, and I think I’d be a good fit here. And my office is downtown on Poydras, so it’s an easy commute. I could even bike it.”
At Melanie’s look of alarm, I quickly added. “Or take the streetcar. Or even Uber it if it’s dark.”
She relaxed. “Or you could learn to drive. I’m sure . . .”
“No,” I said, shutting her down. “I tried once and just missed getting killed and being sued for everything we own. No thanks.”
I struggled to draw in a deep breath in the sticky air of a New Orleans July. I glanced at Melanie, whose hair had already frizzed out into alarming proportions. “Just like Charleston,” I said, trying to wipe away the look of worry on her face.
She gave me her “mom look,” the one that told me she knew that I didn’t believe it, either. That despite the tropical climates that wilted less-sturdy souls, Charleston and New Orleans were merely distant cousins with traces of common ancestry apparent in their architecture built to accommodate scorching temperatures and the always-present threat of hurricanes.
Their separateness was evident in their respective monikers: the Big Easy and the Holy City. The aura of New Orleans was best described as feral; Charleston’s refined and graceful. My new home embraced decay, painted it in neon colors and put it on the front porch. In Charleston, they threw a lace doily over it. Charleston had palmetto bugs. New Orleans had flying cockroaches. Each city had a place in my heart. One a place from which to return, and one a place to go.
“Hello? Anyone here?” A male voice came from the kitchen.
Melanie and I looked at each other. “It must be the owner,” Melanie said as she delicately stepped across the broken bricks toward the kitchen. “We’re out here!”
I held back, the voice vaguely familiar. And not in a good way.
“Oh,” the voice said, this time from the doorway. “It’s you.”
“Oh,” I repeated with the same lack of enthusiasm.
Melanie began to speak, stopping suddenly as her gaze fixed on something beyond the doorway, her eyes widening just before a loud crash erupted from somewhere inside the house. An icy blast of air whipped through us, raising gooseflesh over my entire body, as a woman’s scream pierced the quiet afternoon.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Karen White is the New York Times bestselling author of more than twenty-five novels, including the Tradd Street series, The Last Night in London, Dreams of Falling, The Night the Lights Went Out, Flight Patterns, The Sound of Glass, A Long Time Gone, and The Time Between. She is the coauthor of All the Ways We Said Goodbye, The Glass Ocean, and The Forgotten Room with New York Times bestselling authors Beatriz Williams and Lauren Willig. She grew up in London but now lives with her husband and a spoiled Havanese dog near Atlanta, Georgia.