The House on Prytania (Royal Street #2)(62)
Author: Karen White

 

They greeted one another, while Sarah shifted uncomfortably.

 

Addressing Sarah, Mrs. Wenzel said, “In answer to your question, since 1721 there have been numerous people laid to rest beneath the cathedral, all but two graves unmarked, and most of them unknown.”

 

Sarah nodded in acknowledgment, her gaze focused behind Mrs. Wenzel. “Did any of those people wear long dark robes when they were alive?”

 

The older woman frowned. “Many were clergy, yes. But not all. Why do you ask?”

 

“Oh, no reason.” Sarah turned to me, her smile more of a grimace.

 

“You still want to go on the tour?” I asked.

 

She patted the pin on her sweater. “I’m good.”

 

“Will Mrs. Ryan be joining us?” Mrs. Wenzel asked.

 

“I’m afraid not.”

 

“Oh.” Her face fell. “This is a disappointment. I was hoping that she’d be with you. It’s why I volunteered to give the tour. I’m a docent, but I usually don’t give tours—just answer questions.”

 

“Yes, well, we do appreciate it.” I looked beyond her to give her the hint that we were ready to get started.

 

Instead of moving, she said, “I hope you will tell Mrs. Ryan how much you’ve enjoyed the tour.”

 

I didn’t point out that we had yet to take the tour, instead just smiled and nodded and took a step closer to the door, making room for yet another group to go ahead of us.

 

She continued. “Honey and I are hoping for invitations to her fund-raiser party. My sister and I have only been volunteering at the cathedral for a few months, but I think that should count, don’t you?”

 

I vaguely remembered Mimi talking at dinner about a fund-raiser that she would be hosting at her house to benefit the cathedral. There had also been mention of costumes, making me think it was a Halloween party.

 

When she still hadn’t moved, I thought if I feigned interest she might actually then give us the promised tour. “It’s a Halloween costume party, right?”

 

Mrs. Wenzel looked offended. “Of course not. It’s a Catholic institution. The party is scheduled for November first.”

 

She looked at me as if I should know what that meant. I took the safe route, deciding that remaining silent was probably better than admitting I wasn’t Catholic.

 

“Then it must be for All Saints’ Day,” Jolene said, her voice appropriately reverent and earning her an appreciative smile from Mrs. Wenzel.

 

“Yes, that’s right. I believe the costumes you were referring to should be saint related.”

 

“Ah. Like, dress as your favorite saint,” I said, for which I received a tight-lipped look from our guide.

 

Jolene looped her arm through Mrs. Wenzel’s, leading her—finally—through the door. “I can’t wait to hear all about this beautiful church. I understand that Pope John Paul II stood right here, under this very same roof?”

 

That earned her a wide smile from the older woman. “That is correct. In 1987, the pontiff graced us with a visit.” She detached her arm from Jolene’s. “If you would please follow me, we can begin our tour.”

 

“How did you know that about the feast day?” I whispered to Jolene as we followed our host into the vestibule.

 

“My best friend in sixth grade was Mary Lou Bianca, one of the Delta I-talians. She taught me everything I know about Catholic feast days. She even did a diorama presentation with clay figures about them for her history project. I think she got an A. Or maybe it was a B, but the teacher raised her grade for effort. I mean, all those halos she’d made from clay. And they all had little eyes and noses and hair.” She frowned. “Wait, where was I?”

 

Feeling the weight of Mrs. Wenzel’s disapproving stare, I held my finger to my lips. Finally taking the hint, Jolene dutifully directed all her attention to our guide and was thankfully silent for the rest of the tour. The only sound besides hushed voices and the steady tromp of feet on the black and white marble tiles was the constant snap snap snap from Sarah, who stayed close to me.

 

“The Cathedral-Basilica of Saint Louis King of France is the official name, but the structure that we are currently standing inside is most commonly known as St. Louis Cathedral, the oldest Catholic cathedral in continual use in the United States. It is the third church to have stood on this site since 1727.” I only half listened to Mrs. Wenzel discussing the long and storied past of the cathedral and its relevance and importance to the city and people of New Orleans, my attention drawn toward the soaring ceilings and the filtered light flooding through the stained glass windows.

 

During my pursuit of my graduate degree, I’d studied many historic buildings in all stages of existence, from hopeless to monuments of careful preservation. My favorite structures had always been sacred spaces, whether they be the tiny praise houses on the barrier islands surrounding Charleston, or the grand churches like St. Michael’s, with its Tiffany windows, on Broad Street. A sense of peace saturated these places, a welcome respite from whatever internal battles I was facing. Even now, surrounded by tour groups and worshippers alike, I felt my blood slow, and a lightness edged out the heavy sense of anxiety over the entities in my house, and about my impending visit to the Sabatiers’ beach house.

 

“If you will look at the central nave ceiling,” Mrs. Wenzel was saying, and the three of us dutifully tilted back our heads, “you will notice that its infrastructure is deteriorating in places. Much of the plaster key is damaged. It is one of the vitally urgent repairs for which our current capital campaign is raising funds.” She smiled. “Mrs. Ryan’s fund-raising event should be a huge help for the ceiling repairs and other much-needed work.”

 

We continued to follow our guide as she talked about the history of the building and the people buried beneath our feet, about the stunning stained glass windows, the sculptures, and the architecture. She began to warm to me as I spoke with knowledge about old buildings and the importance of preservation, a topic that was apparently very dear to both of us.

 

We had reached the end of the tour and were standing by the main entrance when another tour group entered and I recognized the guide from Love Cocktail Challenge in City Park I’d gone to with Michael. It was the night when I’d discovered his betrayal and had attempted to erase all memories of it, but Patricia Casey (T’ish to her friends) had stuck with me. It could have been her thick New Orleans accent, which was a perplexing mix of Southern and Brooklyn, or it could have been the unique spelling of her name. Either way, I’d found her memorable, which was why I recognized her and called out a greeting.