Cool air hit the middle of Carlotta’s back right before John Paul nestled in close, notching his knees behind hers. She wiggled into his warmth, and his dick, hard and thick, nestled against her ass.
“Good morning, my love,” he rumbled in her ear before he pressed a kiss against her neck. His hand slid down between her thighs and parted them to make room for him to slide inside.
“Hmm…” she smiled. “Good morning—”
The words were out of her sleeping mouth before she even knew she was speaking. Sounds from the outside world, the real world, filtered in. Carlotta refused to open her eyes, though. Instead, she held on to this dream, this morning visitation from her husband.
She rolled onto her back and slipped her hand down the front of her panties. Her pussy was slick to the touch from just the memory of him.
“The memory of me?” John Paul asked, with mischief in his voice. Braced over her now, he drove in deep, making her breath catch with the way he stretched and filled her. “You sure it ain’t about what that young man said to you at the bar? How he would spread you wide and lick this pussy I’m buried in right now?”
Carlotta came with a startled gasp. The quick and sweet pleasure spread from the place between her thighs and warmed her whole body. With a smile, she opened her eyes, expecting to see her husband smiling back at her, but only finding the slow, paddling blades of the ceiling fan on the water-stained ceiling.
This dream was one that woke her many a morning. Visions of her and John Paul in their morning bed, sunlight brightening the room, his kisses on her skin. Dreams so vivid that she felt him slide inside, felt his fingers on her clit as he fucked her awake. In the four years since he died, her husband was still the first thing on her mind and the last thing at night.
But not quite the flavor of what she’d dreamed up this morning.
What was that John Paul said? That she was wet because she was thinking about that too young, too pretty man?
“Is that what you said?” she asked, then shook her head at herself.
Was she really debating the imaginary words her dead husband said about a man she’d danced a little dance with?
But this was probably the reason why John Paul wrote that letter. When her friend said she was worried about losing Carlotta, she didn’t mean that she was concerned about losing her to depression — though that threat was very real. She feared that her friend would lose her mind.
And she should be because Carlotta was worried too.
Loving and living with a musician meant her life was always full of sound. That’s the one thing that people knew, but honestly had no frame of reference when it came to musicians; they’re never quiet. And if they were, you should worry. John Paul got quiet toward the end, but being married to him before he was diagnosed with liver cancer meant she always knew when he was home. He was always singing, humming, whistling, playing his trumpet, or just fingering the pistons on his horn while he paced. Once he was gone, Carlotta couldn’t get used to the quiet. He’d filled their home with sound, and his absence made the quiet deafening.
So she started talking to him.
Carlotta knew it was all pretend, but once she started this line of magical thinking, she couldn’t stop. And she probably never would have if Evelyn hadn’t walked in on her having a conversation with her dead husband.
She’d agreed to treatment — talk therapy twice a month and an anti-depressant that helped balance everything out. But sometimes, and only when she knew she was completely alone, she gave in to the need to talk to him. It was mostly when she felt stressed or missed him so much she ached. In those times, she spoke to him as if he could and would respond.
Throwing off the covers, she went into the bathroom, thinking about those words that had materialized in the midst of her sex dream about John Paul. Thought about it while brushing her teeth.
“You were attracted to him, Lotta.”
His voice resonated in her head as if he were in the room with her. From there, it was easy enough to look up and imagine his face over her shoulder. Leaning against the doorjamb with his arms crossed over his chest and a mischievous smile on his clever mouth. Shirtless, of course. They’d just made love, after all.
“You think you know everything,” Carlotta said.
“About you? Shitttt…. I’m definitely a subject matter expert.”
“Can’t argue with that.” She spat and leaned over the sink to rinse her mouth out.
She was deep in the daydream now because she could feel him as he stepped behind her and slid his hands around her waist.
“It’s okay, Lotta baby. It’s what I want for you.” Phantom press of his lips against the curve of her neck. “After all… you can’t keep making love to the ghost.”
She closed her eyes and sighed. John Paul was right. She knew he was right.
“Whatever,” she said. It didn’t matter if she was attracted to that man last night. He’d ruined it with that rude proposition. “He didn’t even ask my name,” she murmured before washing her face.
But would she have taken him up on that offer if he had?
Carlotta’s phone rang in the other room. She cursed under her breath, knowing it was Evelyn. She meant to check in with her last night but felt so pitiful that she forgot.
“Hey, Ev,” she said, a little breathless from rushing to grab her phone.
“So what went down last night? Did you have fun? You must’ve had fun in that dress.”
“Define … fun.”
“Oh no…”
Carlotta filled her in on the events of her day, which she realized was mostly great until she got to how she ended it at the Blue Nile.
“I don’t understand,” Evelyn said when Carlotta was done. She sounded genuinely confused.
“What part don’t you understand?”
“You said that you got wet for this man from a little three-minute dance but didn’t follow through because … checks notes … you didn’t know his name, and he didn’t ask for yours? Is this not the ideal arrangement for you? You’re not trying to fall in love, Carlotta. You’re just trying to knock the dust off.”
A surprised cackle burst out of her. “Why are you like this?”
“I’m serious, Carl! Seems to me that you’re operating against your best interests.”
“If those were my interests, I would agree with you, but since they’re not—”
“Bullshit. You were into him.”
She sighed and then giggled because her friend was right. “Yeah, maybe I was—” Her phone vibrated, signaling an incoming text. “Hold on a sec.”
It was an unknown sender, but she recognized the number. It was from the seller who made her anniversary gift.
Carlotta huffed and shook her head. John Paul was really thorough with this one. This unknown number only led back to a Google number, and it wasn’t attached to a business. No amount of amateur sleuthing had given her the slightest clue as to what this gift could be, which excited her but made her queasy and wary at the same time. She confirmed the meet-up and brought the phone back to her ear.
“I’m back.”
“So, are you gonna go back to the Blue Nile and see if you can find that man again?” Evelyn asked.
“I don’t know, but if I do, it won’t be tonight. I doubt I’ll be in the mood considering…”
“Oh… right.”
A tense silence stretched between them as Evelyn realized what day it was. “I never know what to say to you on this day,” she said finally.
“Happy Anniversary has always worked just fine.”
Evelyn sighed, and the tension did dissipate a little. “I love you, Carlotta. Happy anniversary.”
“Thank you, Evelyn. And thank you for being such a good friend to me over the years. I know I’ve been leaning on you more than I should and—”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”
“I know you would. And I love you for it.”
“Okay, enough of this sappy shit. Call me when you get your gift. I’m dying to know what it is.”
“I will. And, hey…”
“What?”
“If I run into that man again, maybe I’ll give him a chance.”
After walking down to the cafe for coffee and breakfast pastry, she decided to spend her anniversary in bed. It wasn’t too different from how she might’ve spent the morning with John Paul. In bed, trying to see how many orgasms she could have before she was forced out by thirst, hunger, and/or exhaustion. There were no tears this time, which surprised her. Nothing but happy memories of him and being together. She basked in them. Let the memory of his silken embrace comfort her. She read and reread his letter. Internalized his hopes and dreams for her. His prayers for her future happiness. It was a gift to have known his love, and that was the feeling she carried with her to pick up her anniversary gift.
At around three-thirty, she drove to the address in the Ninth Ward. It was the second oldest neighborhood in Orleans Parish and was also where John Paul grew up. It was one of the worst hit neighborhoods during Katrina and the floods that came afterward, and as she drove through the neighborhood. She saw some remnants of that devastation along with the effort to rebuild.
The GPS led her to a double-barrel shotgun house that sat a ways back from the road. A long, newly paved driveway led to what seemed to be a converted garage that had a sign over the door that rear, E. Walker Prints.
That was decidedly vague.
Carlotta parked her car on the curb, grabbed her bag, and made her way down the driveway to the door of what she assumed was the artist’s workspace. The garage doors were rolled up, and music played from inside.
“Hello?” she called out as she stepped across the threshold. “Is anyone here? I’m Carlotta Mercier, and we had a four o’clock appointment?”
“I’ll be right there!” A voice called out from somewhere in the back.
She clasped her hands and looked around, unsure if she should venture any further as this looked like a more personal workspace than a professional one.
A door opened at the back of the space, and a man emerged—a man who looked just like the young man she met at the Blue Nile last night.
“What the fuck?” Carlotta cursed under her breath.
She wasn’t sure how she was supposed to feel at this moment. Stunned? Was she creeped out? She’d joked with Evelyn about how she would react differently if she saw him again, but she never truly expected to see him.
“I don’t understand—”
“Are you—”
They blurted in unison. He gestured politely for her to continue. Carlotta took a deep breath.
“Did you know who I was last night?”
He at least had the good sense to look embarrassed. “I thought you looked familiar, but I was drunk and didn’t put two and two together until I got home. When I woke up this morning, I thought I’d imagined it. But here you are, standing in my driveway. Shit, I’m doing it again.” He pulled a rag from his back pocket and wiped his hands before holding out his right one in greeting. “I’m Enoch Walker. It’s good to finally meet you, Mrs. Mercier.”
Swimming… her head was swimming. The phone call with Evelyn that morning, the reading from the tarot lady in the square… Carlotta wasn’t one to look for patterns or signs, but the synchronicity of all of these things happening in this condensed way didn’t feel happenstance. It didn’t feel like a coincidence.
John Paul…is this you? Are you doing this?
Hesitantly, she shook Enoch’s hand. The size of it and the way it engulfed hers made her think of how they’d felt on her waist last night, and that brought up the memory of how she’d incorporated him into her sex dream. How would those hands feel under her clothes?
Get yourself together, Lotta. With a shake of her head, she gave his hand a quick squeeze and business-like pump before releasing it.
“Mrs. Mercier… I wanna say how sorry I am for—”
She dismissed his apology with a wave. “Now that you know who I am, I guess you understand why I responded the way I did. Or maybe you don’t, but either way, you don’t need to keep saying your sorry. It happened. You apologized, and now it’s over.”
“Yes, but if I had taken half a second to ask your name instead of letting my —”
Her eyebrows arrowed upward. Was he about to be crude in the middle of his apology about being crude?
Enoch cleared his throat. “My libido,” he stammered. “If I’d asked your name instead of letting my libido lead the conversation, I would’ve known you were J.P.’s wife. It was bad enough to have disrespected you that way, but it’s something else entirely to know that I’d done that to the wife of one of my favorite jazz musicians and a man I admired.”
Ah. Now she understood it. This apology was less about her and was more about some fidelity to the memory of her husband. That made her a little angry, to be honest.
“Widow,” she murmured under her breath. She usually felt uncomfortable wearing that label, but she affixed it to her chest now, and it felt more appropriate than ever.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you. What’s that you said?” he asked.
Carlotta took a couple of steps closer. She tipped her head back to look up at him. “Widow,” she repeated. “You called me John Paul’s wife, and truthfully, I probably will always be his wife in spirit. But he’s been dead four years now, so it would be more appropriate to call me his widow.”
“Right,” he agreed, his voice and demeanor solemn. “Come with me. I have his gift for you.”
Enoch gestured for her to follow him inside. The building was once a two-level, two-car garage, but it had been expertly repurposed with a set in the back with several cameras and drapes around ornate furniture. Drop cloths draped and hung all around, softening corners and walls. Low, lush couches starred as centerpieces to plush setups featuring standing candelabras and rugs. Various apparatus littered the open space; pedestals, a long, low shiny credenza, and pretty chairs up on tip-toe; plenty of things for a model to lean and pose against.
“So you’re a photographer?” she asked.
“Yes, I’m a photographer that specializes in tintypes. I have a catalog somewhere…” he looked around, then snapped his fingers. “I think it’s upstairs. Excuse me for just a second.”
Enoch hustled toward a door at the back of the studio, which must lead to an office or something upstairs because she heard him running up them. Carlotta wandered around for a bit; picking up small items; curious, carved boxes, polished statues of strange, monstrous little creatures in varying sizes. She examined them closely, hoping to get some clue as to what this surprise gift from John Paul entailed and what she would be asked to do. Was it a photo shoot? Would he want her to wear a costume? Would Enoch put her in a suit or period dress? As absurd as those ideas sounded to her, she didn’t put it past John Paul to plan something like that because it was completely out of her comfort zone. If there was one thing he loved, it was introducing her to new things and experiences.
She heard Enoch bounding down the steps to the first floor before he reappeared with a big, leather-bound portfolio.
“Sorry about that. I usually keep this catalog down here, but I recently added some new images to it and forgot to bring it back down. Please, have a seat. You can look through this while I set up your gift.”
“What do you mean? What needs to be set up? I’m not dressed to take photographs…”
Enoch laughed, and Carlotta had to bite her lip to keep in the involuntary reaction that smile triggered in her body. So maybe she would lean into this attraction. It seemed to want to ensure it was acknowledged without her permission.
“He really did keep all of it a secret…” he shook his head. “You’re not taking any pictures today, Mrs. Mercier. J.P. sent me the photos to use for the tintype.”
She frowned. “Photos? What photos?”
“Candids mostly. You’ll be pleased. I promise.”
“Will I?” she asked and realized too late that the two-word question was loaded with innuendo. Innuendo that he definitely heard because he turned away so quickly that he bumped into one of those shiny credenzas and sent a stack of photography supply catalogs toppling to the floor.
She didn’t even have a chance to feel embarrassed for him or herself because he was so flustered and all of his flustered gesturing made her cover her mouth to hold in an eruption of giggles. Enoch cursed under his breath and bent over to gather up the glossy-covered periodicals. They might as well have been a bunch of slippery eels the way he struggled to get them into a pile and pick them up. His broad back stretched the t-shirt as he reached and grabbed the catalogs into a haphazard stack that fell apart the moment he took his hand off it. He placed the pile on the table only for them to slide off again, making him curse louder.
“Here,” she said, pushing to her feet and crossing the room. “Let me help.” Squatting demurely in her short dress, she stacked a few of them into a neat pile. “You’re just trying to do everything too quickly. There’s no rush. We’re good. You don’t need to be nervous.”
“I’m sorry. You don’t have to —”
“Has anyone ever told you that you apologize too much?”
“I…I’m not usually this clumsy and apologetic. I’ve also never embarrassed myself the way I have with you so…” He pressed his lips together as he made a neat stack of the catalogs and gestured for her to add hers to it. She raised a brow to ask if he was sure, and he gave her a reassuring nod. Carlotta added her stack to his then they both stood. He placed them on the table.
They were standing close now, and she could smell him. “Wait… are you wearing Tuscan Leather?” she asked.
He frowned and looked a little confused. “Uh, yeah. Why?”
You’ll know when he’s trying to communicate with you. He’ll appear in your dreams. You’ll smell him. You’ll catch his favorite song in the wind.
Was John Paul really trying to communicate with her right now? Was that what was going on here? Was he trying to tell her something about this man? Carlotta smiled and shook her head.
Smooth, John Paul.
“It’s one of my favorites. Smells nice on you,” she said, barely resisting the urge to tell this nervous young man that her dead husband wore the same scent. “I’ll just…”
She turned and made her way back to the couch and the portfolio. The moment her back was to him, a memory of John Paul enveloped her. A memory attached to the scent that was so heavy in the room right now. In her mind, she saw John Paul spraying that cologne across his bare, muscled chest. A bright, white towel hugged his narrow hips—an even brighter smile aimed at her when he caught her watching.
When Carlotta settled on the couch, she was smiling at that memory of him — beautiful, fit, and healthy and giving her that singular attention that she so missed.
Realizing she had checked out for a second, she glanced up and caught Enoch staring. For a moment, she worried that she might have spoken to John Paul out loud. But when he bit his bottom lip and turned away, she knew that look was about something else — the something they’d felt in that bar last night. He straightened his shirt and resumed his task. She watched secretly, admiring his musculature now that he was a little less nervous.
Enoch was taller than John Paul. Broader, too, and not as narrow-hipped. Her husband always had a hungry look about him, no matter how much she fed him. It was clear to her by his height and breadth that Enoch Walker missed no meals. He looked well cared for. Did he have a woman? Was she waiting for him in that little house this studio sat behind? Something told her he didn’t, but she couldn’t be sure because who would let a single man as fine as he was remain single?
And what was this train of thought she’d barreled down?
She was interested in him.
Yes, very interested.
And yeah, he was no John Paul, but she liked the look of him. Liked the way his locs swung free, getting in his way as he set up a display easel. Liked how he got frustrated with those locs and tied them back by making a knot out of them. Liked the soft grunt he made when he picked up a heavy art piece and set it on the easel. Yeah, she liked the look of him very much.
What did he see when he looked at her, though?
After four years of eating and drinking her feelings and yo-yo dieting, Carlotta didn’t look or feel like her former self. There were more and deeper curves on her body than there ever were before. Her ass sometimes felt like it had its own gravitational pull, and sometimes she felt as if someone had put her mother’s arms on her body. But her skin was smooth and soft. And her hair had finally recovered from the stress and grief-related alopecia she suffered from those first couple of years enough that she could now wear braids. Her body felt very foreign to her, but she finally felt like she didn’t need to apologize for it.
But now she wondered, did he like the look of her, too?
She cleared her throat and redirected her attention to the portfolio in her lap. Opening the cover, she found a short description of Enoch and his work, a brief artist’s statement, some notes about his education, and his more successful exhibits. And then… his work.
Carlotta didn’t know much about photography and even less about tintypes. The first page was a brief description of the process and some beautiful landscapes of the shores of Lake Pontchartrain. Ones she was sure she’d seen before. As she continued to turn the pages, she realized where she had seen them. They were images taken after Hurricane Katrina.
“Oh, wow,” she murmured. “Weren’t these images featured in Times Magazine?”
“Uh, yeah. Like two years after Katrina. It was a collection of photographs from local news sources and photographers, as well as some of my images. John Paul saw them, shared them with his publicist, and the next thing I knew…Time Magazine was calling.”
Carlotta let out a soft gasp and looked up at him. “John Paul did that?”
He laughed. “He never told you about any of this?”
“I—”
“You know what? That actually makes sense. He was never one to brag about the selfless things he did for us folks back home. It just wasn’t his way.”
She nodded. Her husband had a big heart. His love for her proved that, but at his memorial service back in Greenville, it became apparent to her that she didn’t know about most of the charity and volunteer work he did. John Paul regularly taught guitar lessons to kids and helped them through rough patches in school. A local family lost their home in a terrible fire, and he pitched in to get them a beautiful modular home. He played for the senior citizens at Oakridge Active Living on the holidays. They all showed up for the memorial service to say a kind word. And now, to find out that he was doing the same in New Orleans?
“Too good. You were too good for this world.” She looked down at the portfolio. “God, I miss you,” she whispered. The image went blurry as her eyes filled with tears.
A shadow fell over her, and she looked up at him. “We all do.” He held out his hand. “Come ‘ere. Let me show you your gift.”
Carlotta closed the portfolio and looked at his hand for a moment. It wasn’t that she was unsure about touching him. She wanted to touch him. Wanted it desperately. It was that want and how she was overwhelmed by the mere thought of touching her palm to his frightened her a bit. Tentatively, she slid her hand into his, bracing herself against the electric feeling that followed. The jolt of it went straight to her pussy, and she had to stifle the soft moan she wanted to let out as she stood.
“The commission for this piece came in about a year ago,” he explained as he guided her towards the easel. “Somebody just showed up at my door with a certified letter from Miller, Miller, and Calhoun. I knew that was J.P.’s lawyer, so I opened it immediately. I thought… hell, I don’t know what I thought. I was just surprised to hear from them. And even more, surprised when I opened it to find a personal request from him.”
They were standing in front of the draped portrait now.
“Was it a letter? A handwritten letter from John Paul?”
“It was.”
“He sends them to me twice a year.”
“Then you know how unsettling it is to receive a letter from a man you know ain’t with us no more.”
Carlotta smiled and shook her head at that.
“What?”
“No longer with us,” she echoed. “I’ve always thought that was a strange phrase. Especially since I always feel like he’s with me.”
He gave a soft, amused huff. “You’re right. It is a strange phrase considering that a lotta folk down here believe our dead are always with us.”
Carlotta looked up and him and was met with his intimate gaze. Her heart thumped loudly in her chest. “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she finally managed to stammer.
Enoch blinked. “Yes! Right! Um, so yeah. He sent me a manila envelope full of pictures and a letter that explained what he wanted, but mostly it was about you and the love y’all shared.” His voice quivered, and he paused for a moment to regain his composure. “I’d wanted to work with him for years, you know? He grew up around here. Getting this letter and this commission from him was an honor. It was an honor to create this image of his lasting love for you. I hope you like it.”
Enoch tugged at the drape, and Carlotta steeled herself for what she was about to see.
“Like I said, he sent me a bunch of candids, but I had to choose the ones that had enough contrast to hold up to the process. And these were the best in the bunch. Starting with a digital photo doesn’t produce as good an image as using my 4x5, but… I think these turned out well.
He paused for a moment, and Carlotta could feel him staring at her, waiting for her to react. When she didn’t, he started talking again.
“But anyway, about the piece. It’s a sort of mixed-media thing I’ve been playing around with. During the cleanup, I salvaged the wood from piles of debris outside of historic buildings and hurricane-damaged homes. Some of this wood is from a church in the lower ninth. I found those pieces of tin tiles in a pile of debris, too. I liked the turquoise patina. It reminded me of the color of the ocean in the original photos.”
He was rambling because he was nervous about her reaction. Carlotta wanted to respond to set him at ease, and she tried, but it was like her mouth and brain were no longer connected. The photos Enoch chose were from their honeymoon. They went to the Turks and Caicos and had one of those private bungalows that encouraged couples to be naked at all times, and it was the first time Carlotta had ever felt safe doing something like that. After a few days, nudity felt better and more normal than being clothed, and she learned to trust her new husband with a camera.
These were the pictures he took. Her lounging by the pool, her body lean and youthful as she stretched herself in a patch of sun like a cat. Her face was in deep shadow in most of them, but her body was in stark relief, or maybe that was just how Enoch edited the photo. Her nipples, the defined muscles of her belly and thighs, and the dark cleft of her pussy were all shaped and defined by the shadows the tintype process created. And then there was John Paul. Just as naked. Just as young and beautiful. They’d been together for a few years before getting married, but that honeymoon was the first time she’d allowed herself to believe that she was safe. That she was loved. That he would always be there for her, and she would be the same for him.
“Did I fuck up?” Enoch asked, a panicked edge to his voice. “I fucked up, didn’t I? Were these too intimate? Shit, they were, weren’t they? I can—”
“If you say you’ll trash this and make me something else, I might do you bodily harm,” Carlotta said. She huffed out a nervous laugh. “I guess I understand why you didn’t recognize me.”
“Your face was pretty deep in shadow in most of these shots. The ones that weren’t… well, your hair was shorter.”
Enoch ducked his head. He looked embarrassed and a little guilty. She figured he must have spent countless hours looking at these nude photos of her. Photos John Paul had taken of her when they were newly wed, and he was healthy, and they thought they had nothing but time. A low ache had built under her breastbone. She tried to breathe through it. Rubbed at it to try and soothe it. She even tried to laugh to cover it up, but ultimately, nothing stopped that wail from roaring out of her.
“Oh, honey,” Enoch said, reaching out to touch her hand.
Carlotta kept trying to laugh and cry at once. She knew she probably looked like she’d finally lost her mind, but she couldn’t stop. “I’m sorry. It’s beautiful. Truly. I’m so grateful that he thought of you to create this. I love it. It’s just…”
“You miss him,” he finished for her.
Carlotta tried to pull it together… but that ache. The wailing was the only thing that seemed to relieve it a little. She could feel that he was frustrated with her tears. He didn’t seem to know what to do about them. He squeezed her hand gently, over and over again, until finally, he asked, “Can I hold you?”
Even under the heavy wave of her grief, she reacted to how he’d asked for consent to touch her. He didn’t ask if she needed a hug. Enoch asked if he could hold her, and she answered by stepping into his offered embrace. And when his arms came around her, she gave in. She let him take her weight and cried. Arms tight around her, Enoch held her together and let her fall apart.