… you take such good care of me, baby. And maybe that’s why I decided to do this, to make these plans. I guess it was a way to protect you from the inevitable. The way you loved me… the years I’ve had with you was more than I ever deserved after the life I’ve lived.
I’m planning our tenth anniversary, and I’m just now realizing that what I’m doing is pretty fucking selfish. Planning anniversary gifts for you to get after I’m gone? Selfish. Very selfish of me to need you to remember and feel my love for you after I’m gone.
But no matter how brief, our love is beautiful. I want you to remember that one last time then let me go…
I should be more afraid of what happens next, and in a way, I guess I am, not for myself, but for you. Finally writing this down has granted me a sort of unexpected peace. Funny, but knowing the end just makes me remember the beginning. Cancer has a way of doing that. Bringing things into sharp focus. Things I fucked up. Things I wanted but kept putting off. A future that I took for granted that now will never be. Yes, things are more clear to me now.
* * *
Carlotta hadn’t committed to staying, but she unpacked anyway and showered before heading to the little cafe on the corner. There were plenty of open tables outside, but it was hot as sin, so she decided to eat at the bar, where it was a few degrees cooler. She plucked the drink menu from the napkin stand and scanned the offerings.
“Hey, darlin’. What can I get you?” the bartender asked. She was a cute little thing. Brunette, with a pixie cut, pierced and tattooed. Big, blue eyes.
“I’m not sure… what do you recommend?”
“You here to eat or drink?”
“Both.”
“In that case, I recommend the oyster po’boy, fries, and a spiked lemonade.”
“Sounds great,” she said as she slid the menu back into the napkin holder.
“You want that po’boy dressed?”
“What does that mean?”
“Lettuce, tomato, mayo…”
“Yes,” Carlotta said with a little laugh. “I’d like it dressed.”
“If you need anything, my name is Violet.”
The bartender nodded and went about the business of entering Carlotta’s order.
Carlotta spun on her bar stool and looked to the left and right of her, scanning the bar for lonely individuals like herself. She found none. Most everyone was paired off or with a group which immediately made her want to dive back into her protective shell. But then she thought about Evelyn’s advice. It seemed simple enough — make conversation, do something reckless, kiss a stranger.
Except it wasn’t. Not for her.
She was never really a joiner. She opened up when she was comfortable with people, but she was never the type to walk up to folks and introduce herself. The fact that she met and married the frontman of a jazz band was actually quite unbelievable, but he’d had more than enough personality to make up for her lack of one.
The bartender delivered Carlotta’s spiked lemonade. She brought it to her lips immediately. Tart and sweet with a generous slug of what tasted like bourbon. It was refreshing. She drank a bit more and leaned her elbows on the bar.
“Hey, Violet. It’s my first day here. What should I get into?”
Violet recommended a stroll down Royal Street since she liked art and wanted to do a little shopping. “With a body like that, you need to definitely stop by Trashy Diva to get something nice to wear. Then you should end the night at the Blue Nile on Frenchman Street.”
Then she sent Carlotta on her way with another boozy lemonade to-go.
She quickly discovered a boozy lemonade to-go could be found almost everywhere in New Orleans and took full advantage. Before long, she was sending Evelyn those photos she’d asked for and stopping at Trashy Diva — both the lingerie and the clothing store to pick up a few things. Meandering in and out of shops and through the French Market, she found her way to Jackson Square. After a coffee and some beignets at Cafe Du Monde, she made a loop around the square to check out some of the art vendors before heading back to Marigny.
In front of St Louis Cathedral, she passed a group of tarot and palm readers peddling their services. She’d never given much thought to tarot readings, but something slowed her step.
“Hey, Lotta,” one of the women said, waving her forward.
Stunned, Carlotta stopped abruptly and made a beeline for the woman. “What did you call me?”
“I didn’t call you by name. What did you hear?”
“I don’t know. I could’ve sworn that you called my name. Well, it’s not really my name. It’s a nickname, but only my…”
Knowing dawned on the other woman’s face. Of the three, she was the least stereotypically dressed and had a look about her that translated as nurturing or safe. The woman gestured for Carlotta to sit and placed her hands on the table between them. The woman’s hands were palm up, wordlessly inviting Carlotta to take her hand. When she did, the woman closed her eyes and pulled in a deep breath as she closed her hands around Carlotta’s. They were soft and … hot. Hot like she had a fever. She’d read that about people who had psychic abilities, but this was her first time experiencing it.
The woman opened her eyes and smiled at her. “So…first things first, I’m Florence. Everyone calls me Flo. And what’s your name?”
“Carlotta…but you can call me Lotta.”
“Hi, Lotta. Is it okay if I call you that?”
She nodded.
“Okay, good. So first, I want to tell you that tarot readings do not predict the future. However, a reading from me will be a bit more detailed because I’m what people call a medium or a seer. Meaning I can communicate with those in the spirit realm, and they inform the reading.”
Carlotta had no idea what all of those words meant, but they sent a sharp shiver of fear through her that the seer’s kind, nurturing, warm touch soothed.
“And that’s what you want to release? Or rather… who? The one who gave you that nickname?”
Her throat was already closed so tight that she couldn’t speak, so she nodded instead.
“Okay.” Flo gave Carlotta’s hands one last squeeze, then reached for a little spray bottle. “It’s just Florida water. A wash to remove negative energy and provide spiritual protection for the wearer." Florence sprayed it over and around her person, then on her hands which she rubbed together before setting the bottle down again. “Have you ever had your cards read?”
Carlotta shook her head no.
“Hm. You know what? I think I want to use a different deck.” Flo wrapped the deck she’d used for her other readings in a white handkerchief, then dug another out of her bag. “I usually use a tarot deck for readings, but my Auntie taught me how to read with a regular playing card deck when I was little. Something tells me that deck might work well for you.”
“Playing cards?”
Flo smirked as she lit a tobacco pipe, puffed on it to get the smoke going, and then exhaled that smoke over the new deck, herself, and wafting it over Carlotta. “There are fewer cards in a playing card deck — fifty-two to the seventy-eight in a tarot deck. I think it gives a more straightforward reading. The answers are black and white. Yes or no. Does that sound like the kind of reading you want?”
“Yes,” she said with an eager nod. She needed definitive answers.
“Good. Let’s see what he has to say.”
That statement startled her because she’d spent most of the morning ruminating on a conversation between her and her dead husband. “You can… feel him here? See him?”
Flo looked up at Carlotta as she began to shuffle the cards. “Can you?”
“I always feel him,” she said with a shrug.
Flo looked over Carlotta’s shoulder and squinted as she shuffled and stacked and shuffled and stacked. “See and feel are subjective, but a presence sat down with you. Hell, he’s all over you.” She shuffled quietly for a moment, then smiled. “You wear him like a blanket or your favorite t-shirt that smells of his favorite cologne and holds you like a long, low note from a trumpet can cradle you in the middle of a song.”
Wrecked. That description of John Paul wrecked her because they sounded so much like words he might’ve written in a song or whispered in her ear while they slow-danced in the kitchen.
Flo offered Carlotta a tissue and then stacked the cards square one last time before beginning to deal them out. The first card made her smile.
“What was your husband’s sign?”
“Leo.”
“Well, that makes sense because after acknowledging that he was here, he felt the need to tell us again…” She tapped the card: King of Hearts. “Your husband wants me to be sure that I mention that his love for you is the stuff of legends and that he was generous with it, and he understands why you miss it.”
Carlotta rolled her eyes and laughed.
She pulled the next card: Five of Spades. That made the corners of Flo's mouth pull down, and she immediately pulled another: Queen of Hearts. And then still another: Eight of Diamonds.
“He wants me to tell you that he knows that you’re still suffering from his long illness and the loss of him. But…” her brow furrowed. “He can still see the passionate and beautiful woman he met all those years ago. And there’s something about panties you left somewhere?”
Her face heated with embarrassment. They met at a concert in a tiny, intimate venue in Charleston, and he’d pulled her on stage to sing Ella Fitzgerald’s Summertime. That led to a long night of talking at a bar where he repeatedly tried to get her to go back to his hotel room. She rejected him, but in a bold move that she still couldn’t believe she executed, she left her panties along with her phone number in the jacket he wore that night. But that wasn’t the significance of that statement. No one but John Paul and Carlotta knew what happened that night. It was part of the story they kept to themselves. That solidified the fact that John Paul was definitely here. She wasn’t channeling someone else. This wasn’t a scam. She wasn’t faking it.
He’s really here. I feel him because he’s here.
“He also says things will get better for you when you stop letting his death hold you back. He wants you to take a chance on happiness.”
Carlotta sputtered out a wet laugh and dabbed at her snotty nose. “That’s easy for you to say, John Paul. You’re not the one who has to live without you.”
Flo gave her a sympathetic smile as she pulled another card: Ace of Spades. “So this card is the death card in a playing deck, but for you, death is about transition. He’s telling you that it’s time for something new, something different…” she plucked another card from the deck. “And this…” she chuckled to herself and shook her head. “With this Nine of Hearts, he’s saying you’ll have everything you need and wish for if…” another card: Two of Hearts.
Carlotta grunted because she didn’t need to know anything about cartomancy to know what a Two of Hearts meant. “New love? He can’t be serious.”
Flo sighed, and her shoulders slumped. “Is that beyond the realm of possibility? Because he seems worried about you. He wants you to love and be loved again but worries that you won’t ever move on if you spend another year grieving him.”
Carlotta nodded. She cried quietly and nodded because, of course, that was what John Paul wanted for her. “If…” she paused and cleared her throat. “If I move on, will he… will I still be able to…”
“He’ll always be with you, Carlotta. And 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. When those things happen, talk to him. He’s trying to comfort you.”
Carlotta mopped up her face with the nearly disintegrated tissue.
“I think I have…” Flo reached into her bag again and dug around for a moment. “Ah! Yes!” She pulled out a flashy string of beads with flecks of black and opalescent white. “This is the rainbow moonstone. She draped them around her neck. They were heavier than she expected.
“Wear it next to your skin. It will help you soothe the wound of losing him and maybe help you find joy again.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“There’s a card with my phone number on it. If you have any questions or want to talk about your reading a little bit more, don’t be afraid to reach out.”
“Thank you so much. Will do.” Carlotta touched the moonstone necklace as she stood. The beads felt cool and slippery against her skin. She was surprised to feel… lighter.
It was midafternoon and twice as hot now. The sun was a whole ‘nother thing down here. It felt closer. Like it was literally sitting right on her shoulder. The light it cast was bright and yellow as sassafras. It lit the streets with a dreamy glow. Those cobbled streets held on to that heat, and she felt it through the soles of her sandals as she continued her stroll back to Marigny. A band played a big, brassy jazz song she didn’t recognize, and drunk tourists danced along. She felt good. The tears were still wet on her cheeks, but she felt good. The sun felt good. She felt good. This was good. The best she’d felt in a while.
And tomorrow was her tenth anniversary.
She would pick up her gift and then have a nice dinner to celebrate.
“Hm,” she grunted with a smile. “Your little plan is working, John Paul.”
* * *
After stopping by the shotgun house for a quick shower, Carlotta made her way to the Blue Nile wearing a slinky, black silk slip dress and a bra that had to be some sort of architectural miracle that she would have never worn if she wasn’t half drunk when she tried it on. No matter. She’d upgraded from boozy lemonade to Sazeracs and was feeling lovely.
It was still early, so a cover band was working their way through requests on stage. They weren’t half bad, but the crowd was getting thick, pouring in to see the headline for the night. She hadn’t thought to look up the schedule online, but she would rather be surprised.
Weaving through the few scattered high-top tables to get to the stage, dug a ten-dollar bill out of her sweaty cleavage. But before she dropped it into the tip jar, she scribbled out the title of one of her favorite songs by J.P. Mercier and Dem Boyz with a sharpie the musicians provided. The trumpet player read it, then smiled and said, “I got you, sis.”
Assuming they would play her song next, Carlotta took a couple of steps back from the stage and immediately bumped the table with her ass. Nearly upsetting the occupant’s drinks.
“Oh! I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed, mortified that it might start an altercation. It had been years since her college bar-hopping days, but she knew a spilled drink could start a fight. She grabbed the glass to steady it and spilled more of its contents in the process. “Shit, I’m so sorry. Let me buy you another drink.”
“Nah, you good,” the man drawled, and that was what finally made her look up.
Young and pretty. Too pretty. His features had that sort of ambiguity so many people had down here. Neither Black, white, or Indigenous, but some gorgeous combination of the three. His rich brown complexion reminded her of Georgia red clay at the edge of a riverbed. He had smiling eyes. Dark brown, crinkled at the corners, and full of mischief. His hair was in those freeform locs that looked soft and silky. They lay against his shoulders, and she had to actively resist reaching out to touch one. His chin was covered with a least a week’s worth of sexy, reddish brown scruff. And that accent… This man was no tourist. That was an authentic Lou’sana drawl.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?” Carlotta asked again. Her head had gone all fuzzy. Probably from all the drinking. She was dehydrated. Yes, that was it. She’d get a bottle of water when she went to the bar to buy him a drink. She needed to hydrate to ward off what was sure to be a massive hangover. That swoony feeling had nothing to do with this man’s smile. Or the familiar cadence of his voice that reminded her so much of her husband. Nothing at all.
“I said, what song did you request?”
Resting her weight on one hip, she gave him an assessing look. “Why don’t you try to guess?”
His eyes raked down her body in an unmistakably lewd way, and he didn’t try to hide it. “Something by Prince?”
“Good guess!” she lied, realizing that she was actively flirting now. It felt creaky and slow, like her lower back after sitting at her desk for too long, but she was doing it. “What song, though? Prince has a huge catalog. Song choice says a lot about a person. Don’t you think?”
“You’re right.” He pursued his lips in thought. When he landed on a title, that smile appeared again. “Hmm… I think I know what it is, but I’m afraid it will get me slapped. How ‘bout this…” He moved in close. His breath smelled minty and sweet. “You hang close to me and when your song plays. I’ll let you know what I guessed.”
Carlotta narrowed her eyes at him. “Feels like cheating.”
His pink tongue flicked out to moisten his bottom lip. “Is it?”
“Mmm, yeah, I think it is.”
“Okay, I’ll let you buy me that drink and explain how that could possibly be cheating.”
“Oh, now you want the drink,” she asked with a raised brow.
He laughed and dropped his hand to her lower back to guide her toward the bar. She was sweaty from all the dancing and worried that he could feel that. But that feeling was quickly chased away by the blossom of arousal she felt. It was an echo of what she remembered, but there was something.
The bar was far more crowded than it had been when she came in the door. The too-young and too-pretty man kept his hand on her as they navigated the crowd as if he were afraid he might lose her.
Was it ever easy like this for her before? Had men ever sought her out this way? Other than John Paul wooing her like the Pied Piper with his trumpet, she didn’t remember being pursued like this. Her memory was probably shoddy from spending so much time in the glow of John Paul’s love, but it was strange for this to happen so easily after years of celibacy that she had to question what was different. Is it the dress? Or was it Evelyn’s pep talk? Or maybe the letter from John Paul that had encouraged me to move on and be open to love?
She glanced at the man and caught him looking down the gap at her neckline. Sweat trickled there as if to draw his attention.
Okay, maybe it’s the dress. Maybe not just the dress, but the dress helps.
The cover band began to play the first chords of the next song request. He squeezed her waist and pointed upward as if to say, “is this your song?”
It was a Prince song, one that she loved but not one she would have chosen. Carlotta scrunched her nose and shook her head no.
“Didn’t think so, but I had to ask,” he said. “That wasn’t my guess, by the way.”
She gave him a skeptical side-eye, then laughed. “Get off? That sounds like it was probably your song request. Not mine.”
“You’re not wrong,” he said, but he had to shout because the band was really going now.
Carlotta tried to buy him a replacement drink, but he refused it, then guided her back to the table at the corner of the stage. Awkwardly, she sipped her drink while leaning against the table, attempting to look casual. She assumed he would take the space opposite her. But she was startled when she heard his voice near her ear.
“Let me see what them hips do.” He grasped her hips and guided her into the cradle of his. She looked over her shoulder, surprised at his boldness, but her belly did a lazy somersault when he smiled. His lopsided smile sported a chipped tooth. She liked that for some reason.
Carlotta gave him a shaky smile and started to dance.
Her moves were slightly hesitant at first. His hands bracketed her waist, thumbs right at the small of her back. The tips of his fingers skimmed the place where her panties met her hips. Her silk slip dress felt damn near non-existent under his touch. This was way more intimacy than she’d had with a man in years. The things her hips wanted to do seemed indecent for a married woman.
But I’m not married. I’m widowed. And isn’t this what I’m here to do? Be indecent?
That loosened her spine. The more she worked her hips, the more she felt him. When he found the perfect counterpoint, she realized that she would absolutely do more than dance with this man if properly persuaded. Was that what John Paul meant when he said, a woman like you who loves the way you do, deserves to know love again in his letter? Carlotta didn’t intend on falling for this young man, but opening herself up to that possibility was a solid start.
His hand tightened on her waist and leaned in close, curling over her back a bit. Carlotta felt his breath against her neck and closed her eyes, delighting in the way it sent little shivers over the surface of her skin.
The band began to play John Paul’s song. The song’s melody was a slower tempo changing their dance from something fun into a slow grind befitting a speakeasy.
“Is this ya song?” he asked.
Carlotta turned to him because she wanted to see his reaction when she nodded yes.
“I know you lying! What you know 'bout J.P. Mercier ‘N Dem Boyz?
She smiled. “You’d be surprised.”
His eyes traced the shape of her lips, and she realized that he was still holding her hand when his thumb stroked down the length of hers. Sitting this close, she noticed the sliver strands threaded through his dark locs. There was a scar in his right eyebrow and one that bisected his top lip under his mustache. So he was a fighter or used to be. Maybe not so young or perfect, but definitely still pretty.
“So…” he began, in a low, melodic tone that made her nipples tighten. “What do you think about skipping the part where we flirt over too many drinks and get right to the part where I’m walking you back to your hotel where I can spread you out and put my mouth between your legs? Because any woman who loves this song by J.P. is bound to be someone I want to wake up next to.”
Stunned, Carlotta blinked as if she had misheard him. When she realized she didn’t, she recoiled. It was as if someone had doused her with a bucket of cold water. And his face fell because he immediately realized he’d said the wrong thing.
“Oh, shit. I apologize, baby. I just thought we were vibing—”
“Don’t call me baby,”
“I didn’t mean it like that.” He smiled nervously and shrugged. “It’s a New Orleans thing. But I apologize for what I just said to you. I thought we were vibing—”
“We were,” she said and realized at that moment that she was deeply disappointed that he’d chosen to be so direct, so crass, without bothering to ask her name. All while John Paul’s song was playing. Right when the band leader was singing her dead husband’s words.
The moment I knew you
I felt like I’d always known you.
The moment I loved you
I knew I would always love you…
The band leader’s voice wasn’t nearly as evocative as John Paul’s, but the words always hit her no matter who sang them. This time, they just made her question what she was doing.
Carlotta backed away and gave him a tight smile. “You have a good night,” she said, then turned to leave.
“Hol’ on,”
She waved him off, but the young man followed her outside anyway. She wished he hadn’t because she was feeling emotional again. It was her fault. Never should’ve requested that song. Never should’ve danced with him. Never should’ve gone to the bar alone.
“C’mon, baby. Come back inside. I was way outta line. Let me give you one more dance and make it up to you.”
“Really, it’s okay,” she said.
“Damn… I feel bad for coming at you like that. Can I walk you back to your hotel?”
Carlotta rolled her eyes. “Seriously?”
Even after her blatant rejection, he was still trying to get between her legs? She looked around at all the bar hoppers, fellow tourists, and weekenders. Took in the bright lights and sound of live music pouring out nearly every bar for two blocks. This was exactly the kind of night she and John Paul would have stayed out to meet the dawn. Plenty of joy here.
Just not for her.
“Don’t stress yourself. It’s not your fault. I really shouldn’t be here,” she said, then turned and walked away.
By the time Carlotta made it to the side street that led to the shotgun house in Marigny, tears were streaking down her face. Was this how dating would be? A crude overture from a stranger in a bar who wanted to go down on her without asking for her name? She knew she should feel flattered, but all she felt was a sudden, deep longing for her husband’s charm. She missed the way he would whisper in her ear and parade her about as if she were the prettiest thing that was ever his. He made her feel like a thing to be cherished. Something she worried that she would never feel way again.
Carlotta locked all windows and doors, lit some candles, and ran a bath in the big clawfoot tub. There was a small bottle of bubble bath on the shelf. She added it to the water and got undressed. A cool bath would have been better, but she was bone and soul weary and needed to relax.
When the tub was full, she sank into the steaming water inch by inch until she was chin deep.
“So the first night out alone was a bust…big surprise,” she said aloud to the empty house. “I miss you, John Paul. I don’t know how to do this.”
A barely audible sound whispered through the room. The sound of someone shushing, or maybe it was just the air conditioning kicking on. Carlotta closed her eyes and quieted as if it had been a kiss on the forehead. Alone is what you are, Lotta. Might as well get used to it.