The House on Prytania (Royal Street #2)(61)
Author: Karen White
“If you would bother to look at your itinerary and the map I provided, you would see that we’re headed to St. Louis Cathedral. We have a private tour that starts at ten o’clock. Mimi arranged it for us, so I thought it would be nice if we arrived on time. If I thought you’d want to get out of bed two hours earlier to allow us the extra time to take the streetcar and then walk all the way from Canal Street, I would have suggested it.”
Sarah pressed her head back against the seat with a heavy sigh. “I probably could have gotten up earlier if you hadn’t stepped on me and woken me up in the middle of the night. Whatever it was you were doing, I’m sure it could have waited until morning.”
“I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to step on you. I was looking for something in the monogrammed-pillow pile and didn’t see you.”
I felt both Jolene and Sarah waiting for me to explain. Instead, I pulled out my copy of the itinerary. “Since it’s another beautiful fall day, I thought we’d walk around a bit before we head to Muriel’s for lunch to meet Jaxson and his uncle Bernie. But that means we can’t dawdle at the cathedral.”
Jolene grinned at my unintentional use of one of her words. Her expressions and sayings were like tiny viruses spread between people living in close quarters. It was bound to happen.
“Muriel’s, uh, has some well-known memories, but Uncle Bernie selected it. Since he’s doing us a favor, I didn’t want to argue.”
Sarah leaned forward, her arms resting on the seat back. “You mean it’s haunted.”
“Supposedly haunted.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I came prepared.”
I turned to look at Sarah. She had taken off her coat and was touching a navy-, green-, and gold-jeweled brooch in the shape of a peacock pinned to her soft pink cardigan. I recalled seeing the brooch in Melanie’s jewelry box many times. “That belonged to Grandma Sarah.”
“It did. Mom said I could have it.”
“Oh.” I sat back in my seat, quelling the small thread of envy looping around my stomach until I remembered Sarah telling me that she spoke with Grandma Sarah as a coping device when spirits were near.
“I’ve got the rubber bands, too, so I’m good to go. I read that New Orleans is more haunted than Charleston, so I figured I’d better be ready.”
“Well, whatever your reasons, I think it’s wonderful to see a girl your age wearing vintage jewelry. It makes you unique, which is the highest form of compliment I could give a person.” Jolene gently touched her own set of pearls.
“Anyway,” I said, “if we stick to the schedule, we’ll have time to head across the square to Café du Monde and get beignets.”
“That’s why I wore pink,” Jolene said. “It hides powdered sugar a lot better than navy blue.”
I looked down at the navy sweater Jolene had strongly suggested I wear instead of the T-shirt JJ had given me for my birthday. She said it was because black wasn’t my color, but I think it had to do mostly with the words printed on the front: WHAT HAPPENS IN THE FIELD STAYS IN THE FIELD. Jolene made it clear that the problem wasn’t just the suggestive nature of the wording, but mostly that no grown woman should be wearing any sort of printed T-shirt except while playing a sport or painting. And, she’d added, even then, pearls would be an appropriate accessory.
“Do they do to-go boxes?” Sarah asked. “I thought I could take some beignets back home for Mom. You know how much she loves doughnuts.”
Melanie’s doughnut obsession was legendary, but I realized that Sarah’s question probably had a lot to do with missing our mother. We’d said good-bye to Jack, Melanie, and JJ earlier that morning, both Melanie and Jack separately pressing wads of cash into my hand. Dad said his was to cover entertainment costs for my sister and that I should bill him for the rest, and Melanie said hers was for just-in-case necessities (which I took to mean coffee and doughnuts) and to give what was left over to Trevor’s computer fund.
Although I knew Sarah was excited to be spending the week with me, I was well aware of the constant tug on the heart from the ties of home and family. As I’d discovered, it was always comforting to know they were there, but it took Herculean strength to move in the opposite direction.
“Good idea,” I said. “Let’s plan to come back before you leave so we can make sure they’re fresh.”
We found parking in a garage and walked the short distance to Jackson Square and the iconic Spanish-style stucco cathedral with its triple steeples towering above the neighboring Cabildo and Presbytère buildings. Despite the cathedral’s being the most recognizable landmark in my new city, I had yet to visit it. For obvious reasons, I rarely ventured into the heart of the French Quarter, with its high density of bars, although to visit a historic church seemed a valid excuse for a preservationist. Especially a church of such historic significance, one that had been destroyed and rebuilt multiple times. It’s what old buildings and I had in common.
As we walked across the flagstones toward the front gate, Sarah’s pace slowed. “Is something wrong?” I asked, noticing her index and middle fingers plucking at one of the bands on her wrist.
She pressed her lips together, remaining silent as a tour group filed through the door ahead of us. I glanced at my phone. Ten minutes after ten o’clock. Meaning we’d need to hurry to keep on schedule. But I knew that I couldn’t rush Sarah any more than I could tell her to just ignore whoever was trying to speak to her.
“How old is this place?” she asked.
“Seriously? Have you not even read the notes I attached to your itinerary?”
She gave me a blank stare and I shook my head. “I should make you look it up, but it’s too late. The short answer is that the original church on the site was built in 1727, then destroyed by fire in 1788. Since then, it’s undergone various restorations and additions.”
By the grim look on her face, I knew I hadn’t answered the question she’d intended to ask. “So, is anyone buried here?” Snap snap snap.
The door had opened again and a familiar woman, dressed in the same matronly, conservative outfit she’d been wearing when I’d first met her at the Past Is Never Past, looked at me with recognition. “What a nice surprise,” she said. “When I heard Mrs. Ryan had set up a small tour group, I didn’t expect to see you.”
“Mrs. Wenzel,” I said, recalling her name only because I’d seen her; her sister, Honey; and their bird, Zeus, twice in the same day—not something easily forgotten. “It’s good to see you again. I’ve brought my friend Jolene and my sister, Sarah.”