think she has any idea that Blythe works here. She wants to interview her about her Web-cam work. She probably doesn’t even know Blythe’s name. Online she’s called Psyche, after the Greek goddess.”
“I hope her past doesn’t wind up being a problem for her with patients one day,” Nina mused.
“It shouldn’t,” I said, thinking of the mask, certain I was right.
Saturday
Thirteen days remaining
Twenty-Two
T he ride in from the airport led me to expect far more hurricane devastation than I found in the French Quarter. “It’s enchanting,” I said as the taxi drove down the tree-lined street, past the row of ornate town houses with their iron balustrades and architecture that belonged to another era. My window was down, and the warm air blowing in felt exotic after the freezing temperatures in New York. “It’s not like any other city, is it?”
Noah smiled. “No, it isn’t. It’s crazy and lazy and has a rhythm, taste and texture all its own. But I don’t want to tell you what it’s like. That’s why you’re here. To find out for yourself.” He squeezed my hand.
Noah had picked me up that morning after calling the night before and telling me to be ready at seven-thirty and to pack for two days in mid-seventy-degree weather. It wasn’t until we got to the airport that I found out we were going to New Orleans. He was due in court there on Monday and thought we’d spend the weekend together; I’d go back Sunday evening, and he’d stay on.
We got out of the taxi on a small side street, which lookedas if nothing had changed there for more than a hundred years, and walked into the Saint Dennis hotel.
We’d stepped into what, to my untrained eye, looked like a perfectly restored mansion from the late 1800s. The lobby had tall potted palms, velvet settees and high windows with organza curtains that pooled onto the polished parquet floors. The scent of lush flowers perfumed the air. I stood still and breathed in for a few seconds.
“It’s magnolia,” Noah told me. I smiled because he knew what I was doing.
The concierge rang for a bellman, who took us in a mirrored elevator up to the third floor. Our room was decorated as authentically as the lobby, and while Noah tipped the bellman, I took a quick inventory. The king-size bed was covered with a heavy lavender damask spread, an antique writing desk stood in the corner and lovely prints of belle epoque New Orleans street scenes hung on the walls. A huge bouquet of freesia, roses and iris rested on the fireplace, gracing the room with its perfume. But it was the small balcony—with its wrought-iron railing, wicker chairs, ivy-covered trellis, pots of geraniums and enchanting view—that charmed me.
Three floors below us was a small courtyard, overgrown with lush, leafy trees, the flower beds studded with dark purple, lavender and blue blossoms. Occasional bursts of yellow. There was a stone fountain of an angel, with water spilling out of the shell she held.
I stood there with the water splashing in the stone basin and a lilting jazz tune coming from somewhere, enjoying the scent of humid green air and a breeze that was as warm and gentle as Noah’s touch when he came up from behind and wrapped his arms around me. We stood like that for a moment, and then he dropped his arms.
“Let’s take a walk. I can’t wait to show you New Orleans.”
On the plane, sitting beside him while he slept, I’d imagined that we’d fall onto the bed as soon as we’d closed the door behind us. I’d imagined the room—how wide the bed, how soft the pillows, how fresh-smelling the sheets. We would close the shutters but leave the windows open so that the light wouldn’t be too harsh, and so the fresh air could tumble over us. In my mind, while the plane sailed over the clouds, Noah and I undressed quickly, and in the cool, shaded room pressed up against each other, fitting our bodies together, not losing a beat, our breath quickening, wiping out
“I hope her past doesn’t wind up being a problem for her with patients one day,” Nina mused.
“It shouldn’t,” I said, thinking of the mask, certain I was right.
Saturday
Thirteen days remaining
Twenty-Two
T he ride in from the airport led me to expect far more hurricane devastation than I found in the French Quarter. “It’s enchanting,” I said as the taxi drove down the tree-lined street, past the row of ornate town houses with their iron balustrades and architecture that belonged to another era. My window was down, and the warm air blowing in felt exotic after the freezing temperatures in New York. “It’s not like any other city, is it?”
Noah smiled. “No, it isn’t. It’s crazy and lazy and has a rhythm, taste and texture all its own. But I don’t want to tell you what it’s like. That’s why you’re here. To find out for yourself.” He squeezed my hand.
Noah had picked me up that morning after calling the night before and telling me to be ready at seven-thirty and to pack for two days in mid-seventy-degree weather. It wasn’t until we got to the airport that I found out we were going to New Orleans. He was due in court there on Monday and thought we’d spend the weekend together; I’d go back Sunday evening, and he’d stay on.
We got out of the taxi on a small side street, which lookedas if nothing had changed there for more than a hundred years, and walked into the Saint Dennis hotel.
We’d stepped into what, to my untrained eye, looked like a perfectly restored mansion from the late 1800s. The lobby had tall potted palms, velvet settees and high windows with organza curtains that pooled onto the polished parquet floors. The scent of lush flowers perfumed the air. I stood still and breathed in for a few seconds.
“It’s magnolia,” Noah told me. I smiled because he knew what I was doing.
The concierge rang for a bellman, who took us in a mirrored elevator up to the third floor. Our room was decorated as authentically as the lobby, and while Noah tipped the bellman, I took a quick inventory. The king-size bed was covered with a heavy lavender damask spread, an antique writing desk stood in the corner and lovely prints of belle epoque New Orleans street scenes hung on the walls. A huge bouquet of freesia, roses and iris rested on the fireplace, gracing the room with its perfume. But it was the small balcony—with its wrought-iron railing, wicker chairs, ivy-covered trellis, pots of geraniums and enchanting view—that charmed me.
Three floors below us was a small courtyard, overgrown with lush, leafy trees, the flower beds studded with dark purple, lavender and blue blossoms. Occasional bursts of yellow. There was a stone fountain of an angel, with water spilling out of the shell she held.
I stood there with the water splashing in the stone basin and a lilting jazz tune coming from somewhere, enjoying the scent of humid green air and a breeze that was as warm and gentle as Noah’s touch when he came up from behind and wrapped his arms around me. We stood like that for a moment, and then he dropped his arms.
“Let’s take a walk. I can’t wait to show you New Orleans.”
On the plane, sitting beside him while he slept, I’d imagined that we’d fall onto the bed as soon as we’d closed the door behind us. I’d imagined the room—how wide the bed, how soft the pillows, how fresh-smelling the sheets. We would close the shutters but leave the windows open so that the light wouldn’t be too harsh, and so the fresh air could tumble over us. In my mind, while the plane sailed over the clouds, Noah and I undressed quickly, and in the cool, shaded room pressed up against each other, fitting our bodies together, not losing a beat, our breath quickening, wiping out
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