You're Still the One (14 page)

All through the reading, Grant never let go of her hand. Could he feel how sweaty her palms were? Even so, she was grateful. The old woman was not easy to look at. It wasn’t her hard, wrinkled face—in fact, Rebecca found the woman beautiful—nor was it her distracting eyes, one blue and one green; rather it was just a strong vibe the woman gave off. Rebecca couldn’t quite put her finger on it. It was as if the woman were trapped, and she was silently begging them to free her. A quiet desperation clung to her, and it made Rebecca want to flee.

She never would have even found this little Voodoo Shop, let alone entered it on her own. Grant, who came over to her table the minute he finished his set, and turned her world upside down with his smile, chiseled face, and Southern drawl, was on a mission to help her win the scavenger hunt. And so here they were in this tiny, creepy little shop, sitting at a card table across from the saddest woman Rebecca had ever seen. A single candle flickered in the middle of the table as the woman shuffled a deck of tarot cards. Then her eyes flicked to the rose Rebecca had laid on the table in front of her. Grant bought it from a man who sold them out of a bucket. No one had ever bought Rebecca a rose before. No matter what, she was going to keep it forever. The rose seemed to stop the woman in her tracks. She went back to staring at Grant and Rebecca, and suddenly flung the cards across the room. They rained down on shelves filled with little straw dolls, and worry beads, and incense, and books of potions. They dropped to the floor near their feet. One stuck to the dirty window beside them. Rebecca jumped and Grant squeezed her hand, although he, too, was clearly startled. The woman leaned forward.

“What time is it?” she said.

“Half past eleven,” Grant said.

“It’s not too late then,” she said. Rebecca and Grant looked at each other. He raised his eyebrow and gave her a smile. It bolstered Rebecca’s courage. This was probably a show. The old woman probably threw her cards at everyone.

“Too late for what?” Rebecca said.

“Stay away from the cemetery,” the high priestess said.

Grant was delighted. “You’re good,” he said. “It’s our next stop. How did you know?”

Rebecca wondered the same thing. Had she seen the list? Impossible; it was tucked inside her purse. The high priestess, as the woman had introduced herself, stood and leaned over them. And even though she couldn’t have been much over five foot, Rebecca was terrified. She gripped Grant’s knee, and he placed his hand on top of hers protectively.

“I’m warning you. Do not go anywhere near a cemetery.” This time, she was only looking at Rebecca. “Are you listening?”

The high priestess wasn’t shouting; in fact, her words came out in a strangled whisper, so why did Rebecca want to slap her hands over her ears? “It’s just a scavenger hunt,” Rebecca said.

“Then go. Get out of my shop.”

Grant stood and put his arm around Rebecca. They had already paid; the woman had insisted on it up front. “I hope you have a very nice evening,” Grant said as they headed for the door.

Rebecca was almost free when she felt bony hands on her shoulders. The old woman whirled Rebecca around, keeping a firm grip on her. Up close Rebecca could see a milky white film covering her mismatched eyes.

“Whatever you do,” the high priestess said, “do not kiss before midnight. If you do, you will be cursed. I promise you. You will be cursed.”

Rebecca glanced at Grant, who was struggling to open the door. That was odd—it had been wide open when they entered.

“Listen to me, little one. If you steal a kiss before midnight, you will be cursed. It will be the best and the worst thing that’s ever happened to you, but you will still be cursed. It will follow you, and follow you, and follow you. It will torment you.”

The relief of getting out of there was nothing like Rebecca had ever known. She was so angry at the reading, so mad at herself for allowing the woman to scare her to death, fall for her scam. No matter what, she was going to that cemetery and she was going to kiss Grant Dodge before midnight. This weekend was all about adventure, all about taking risks. Some little old lady wasn’t going to stop her.

And when she did indeed steal that kiss, one minute before the clock struck twelve, she couldn’t believe how good it felt. So good that she let his lips and hands trail all over her body, and once they started, it kicked up a storm of passion so overpowering that there was nothing they could do to stop it.

 

 

In some ways, the old woman had been right. Miles was conceived that night and he was hands down the best thing that had ever happened to her. But she also lost Grant. And she’d never come close to feeling with any other man what she felt with him that sultry, magic-filled night. She was married for a time, to a very nice man named Jim. But she didn’t feel passion, she didn’t feel need, she didn’t feel magic, or longing. Jim was willing to do without it, but Rebecca just couldn’t.

Whatever you do, do not kiss before midnight
. As silly as it was, Rebecca couldn’t help but wonder. Would things have turned out any different if she’d waited those sixty little seconds? Would Grant Dodge still be hers? And what about Miles? Would he know his father? Would Miles exist at all? It was too much to contemplate. She was here to find Grant and face whatever consequences came her way. Even if it meant losing the two men she loved most in this world. But if the other predictions of the high priestess had come true, then how could she ignore the last one?
The curse will follow you, and follow you, and follow you. It will torment you.
Well, not if Rebecca had anything to say about it. Twenty-one years was long enough. She would not have this threat hanging over her head for one more second of one more day.

Her hotel, situated right in the middle of the French Quarter, was a delightful mix of French and Spanish architecture. It was only four stories, with a gray stone facade and a series of balconies framed with ornate iron gates. Multiple baskets, swollen with colorful peonies, hung from the balconies. The interior lobby looked more like an old Southern mansion than a hotel. With its high ceilings, crystal chandelier, and red velvet treads on the winding staircase leading up to the first floor of rooms, it was both regal and welcoming. A wall of windows formed a horseshoe shape around a courtyard complete with private garden, fountain, and small swimming pool. Rebecca could see herself easily enjoying the weekend in just the hotel alone. Of course that wasn’t going to happen. Now that she was here, she was itching to walk around, reminisce, hit the jewelry shops. She would have to carefully pick out which pieces to bring, and which to wear. Strangers often stopped her to remark on her jewelry, and several even purchased pieces from her when she told them she’d made them herself. Rebecca had so many favorite pieces, it was hard to pick. She loved gems, and brooches, and beads, and brass, and silver, and copper, and coins, and lockets. It was such delicate work, but she loved the feeling that came over her whenever she worked on a piece. The concentration it required left very little room for anything else, including worrying. Hours would pass quickly whenever Rebecca was bent over her black felt work space. She sold most things online, and when she had the house, friends came over and purchased custom-made pieces.

It was a nice little living, but her dream was to someday open a shop of her own. She knew she would love the face-to-face interaction with her customers. She wanted to watch them try on different pieces, and be able to recommend what she thought would work for them. Jewelry was more like clothing than most people realized. Everyone had certain things that looked better on them than others, but not everyone was able to recognize this. And she’d always imagined what her store would look like. She would have fresh-cut flowers, and approachable displays with little handheld mirrors on each table. She would have a chandelier, and hopefully a little fireplace, and gift boxes with her logo: a replica of the first locket she made, along with the name in fancy cursive:

And as she walked the streets of the French Quarter, she couldn’t help but imagine owning a little shop here. She loved the warm air and the easygoing smiles of most everyone she passed. Artists were everywhere. Selling their paintings on the street, playing their music on the corner, giving fortune readings from fold-out chairs. Imagine owning a little shop in the French Quarter. Imagine living in one of those apartments with a sweeping balcony. Imagine the noise, and the music, and the food, and the visitors all the time. Most people probably wouldn’t be able to fathom it. Her circle of friends thought of New Orleans as nothing more than a fun sideshow, a circus blowing through town. Fun to visit, but sooner or later the tents must come down. And of course there was poverty, and hurricanes, and drunken debauchery.

But Rebecca knew she would thrive on it. Buffalo, New York, had been a decent place to raise a kid, but she never really felt at home there. Not the way she did here. Imagine warm weather most of the year. Buffalo winters were brutal. Rebecca wasn’t one for bundling up and shoveling sidewalks and scraping ice and snow off her car, which she didn’t want to drive in bad weather anyway. If she lived here, right in the French Quarter, she wouldn’t even need a car. The possibilities followed her all the way back to the hotel.

After a swim and a brief nap by the pool, Rebecca took a long shower, then brewed herself a cup of coffee and curled up in an armchair in her robe. She loved this most of all about going on vacation, a few stolen moments where doing nothing was the only goal. Not that her mind took a break; it hardly ever did. She mulled over the rest of her day. She would take her time getting ready for the evening, then dress, pick out a few of her best jewelry pieces, and head back to the shops. She would wander until she was absolutely weak with hunger, then find a cozy little spot for dinner. Then, and only then, would she go in search of the little Voodoo Shop. The chance it was even still there was slim. The high priestess, as she called herself, was an old woman back then. She’d probably passed years ago. At least it would be over and done with. Rebecca could cross it off her list, and she could stop obsessing on the so-called curse. If the high priestess was dead, Rebecca would firmly take the position that all curses had died with her. Maybe she’d even visit her grave, say her own little adieu.

She dressed in a light wrap-around skirt, black tank top, and slip-on sandals. The heat outside was cloying. She put on one of her best necklaces, a string of gray pearls with a black onyx stone front and center. Rebecca loved chunky jewelry, although she made daintier pieces for those who didn’t. She put on a pair of large sunglasses and was out the door.

The minute she stepped outside, she received a text from Cathy.

Are you there? Have you seen him?

Rebecca laughed, as she could imagine Cathy going crazy with curiosity. Rebecca texted back immediately.

Yes and NO.Waiting for you.
!!!!!!!!

No use going into anything longer in the text. Like the fact that finding a boy she met twenty-one years ago was going to be a long shot at best. At least Cathy would be around to console her. Rebecca soon lost herself in a series of shops. In the cute little boutiques, she didn’t even need to spend money to enjoy herself. Just feasting her eyes on all the offerings was thrill enough. Even the touristy shops with their Mardi Gras masks, bottles of hot sauce, and voodoo dolls were fun. Who didn’t relish a red-feathered boa, glittery eye mask, or can of alligator meat?

Next she feasted on paintings and photographs done by local artists. From the Garden District, to the plantations, to the swamps, to Mardi Gras, to the colorful French Quarter, New Orleans held a plethora of subjects to photograph and paint. If Rebecca ended up with a shop here, she’d love to hang some of these on her walls.

Finally, Rebecca was ready to scout out the jewelry shops. A few of the touristy places sold jewelry along with their other wares, but she wouldn’t consider them competition. In addition there were a few shops that were much fancier in origin, selling diamonds and other high-priced gems. Also, not her competition. She soon hit on a boutique that was exactly as she imagined hers would be. It was a modest space, but clean and inviting. The jewelry was on display on little tables all over the store. But when Rebecca went to touch a bracelet, the girl behind the counter flew out from behind her perch, her voice raised in alarm.

“No touching!”

Rebecca’s fingers were poised to do just that. She let them dangle there for a minute before turning to the young girl. “Customers aren’t encouraged to try things on?”

“Absolutely not. The artist would kill me. She says the oils from our fingers will smear the stones.”

“Ah,” Rebecca said. At her shop, things would be different. Customers would be encouraged to try things on, not scolded. Keeping her hands to herself, Rebecca surveyed the rest of the inventory. Like hers, the pieces in here were all handmade. There was a section of New Orleans jewelry with the fleur-de-lis theme, voodoo offerings, and even an alligator bracelet.