Maggie Beaulieu got out of the cab at Magazine and Canal. For the fifth time, she checked to make sure she had the tote bag. Last night, she dreamed she left it at a Seven Eleven near the airport by accident.
Wish fulfillment, Maggie?
No. Definitely not. This might not be the most pleasant task she’d ever undertaken, but she’d do it and she’d do it right. Uncle Claude was depending on her to take care of things. He’d chosen her over all the other cousins. She’d show him he’d made the right decision.
Not that any of the other cousins had been all that eager to do it. On the other hand, they hadn’t been all that enthusiastic about Maggie doing it either.
You sure about this, honey? It’s a lot of responsibility. Don’t you think maybe we should do something a little more normal?
Maggie sighed. She’d have loved normal herself, but that wasn’t what she’d been asked to do. No, if Uncle Claude wanted normal, he would have said he wanted normal. Instead, he’d said he wanted Maggie. She took a deep breath and blew it out, probably the first of many deep breaths she’d be taking over the course of the evening. With any luck, after tonight, everyone else would agree that Claude had made the right decision after all. Or if not exactly the right decision, at least not the wrong one.
She started a brisk stroll down Decatur Street, doing her best to look like someone just out for a evening’s walk along the riverside. If nothing else, maybe after she’d done what she’d set out to do she could go to the French Market for a couple of beignets and coffee.
Oh yeah, Maggie. Let’s pretend this is just like any other delivery. Maybe you could go over to Royal and have a Hurricane.
She hugged the tote bag closer to her side. Okay, so maybe this evening’s adventure wasn’t typical. But she’d try to behave as if it were. Couples walked past her arm-in-arm, most of them smiling blissfully. Music echoed from some of the clubs, saxophones and guitars. A humid breeze slid over her cheek, smelling faintly of decay and the river.
The river. Time to move toward the riverside.
A group of women careened up the street, tottering on stiletto heels, their pastel sun dresses slightly wilted from the heat. Three of them had stacks of multi-colored metallic beads around their necks. The fourth wore a plastic crown with the number thirty at the peak. All of them carried paper cups.
Maggie detoured around them a little wistfully. She’d love to have a birthday party in New Orleans herself, tottering through the French Market with a glass of Voodoo Juice. Actually, she’d love to be doing just about anything other than what she was actually doing.
You could have said no. Nobody would have blamed you.
They wouldn’t have blamed her, but they wouldn’t have done it themselves either. And somebody had to do it. They owed it to Uncle Claude.
She did the deep breath thing again. Time to move on. It wasn’t like she had all night.
She headed up St. Louis toward Woldenberg Park. She sort of remembered walking along the sidewalk above the river there with her mother. Not that they’d ever gotten close to the water, even when they went to the park. She’d have to try to figure out her strategy once she got down there.
She sighed again. “Listen Uncle Claude,” she murmured. “I really do appreciate your having faith in me and all, but are you absolutely sure you wouldn’t like to just go back to Houston?”
####
Derek Bartel stuffed the collection of coins and folding money into his pocket before sliding his fiddle back into the velvet-lined case. The money wasn’t as much as he’d hoped, but it wasn’t bad for a weeknight.
Around him, tourists still strolled across Jackson Square, pausing to take pictures in front of St. Louis Cathedral. The metal-painted man who imitated statues stood frozen in place as a pair of children giggled in front of him.
Dolan had found a prime spot for their trio tonight on Chartres. People walking by could pause to listen for a few minutes before moving on, hopefully after dropping a couple of bucks into Derek’s fiddle case.
Dolan, the keyboard man, was breaking down his equipment. He’d already split the take from Derek’s case, probably raking off a little extra for himself when he did it. But since Dolan was the one who organized the group and found the spot for them to set up, Derek figured he deserved a little more for his trouble.
The bass guitarist, Peebo, didn’t feel the same way. “C’mon man, hand it over. I got rent to pay, same as you.”
Dolan grimaced, then handed him another couple of bills. “Take was thin tonight.”
Peebo shrugged. “Better than nothing.” He hoisted his case to his shoulder and turned up Chartres. “Later, dudes.”
Derek picked up his own case, watching Dolan fold up the tablecloth he’d spread in front of them to catch any overflow from the donations. “We doing this again tomorrow?”
Dolan shrugged. “Could be. Come on down anyway. If Peebo don’t show up, you and me can try doing some stuff on our own.”
Which meant he probably wouldn’t pass the news on to Peebo. Looked like they were about to become a duet.
Oh well. Derek didn’t like confrontations. He wasn’t somebody who sought out trouble. He thought of himself mostly as a live and let live type. Mostly. “Good enough.”
He tucked his case under his arm and headed down St. Peter toward the river. It was a fair hike to his apartment, but the evening was clear and fairly cool, and walking saved bus fare. He only used his car for trips outside the city these days, whenever he could pick up a gig. Good for the environment. Also good for his own chronically thin wallet.
The street lights cast glowing pools along the sidewalk, leaving shadows in the doorways of the closed shops and cafés. He could still hear music from the clubs along Decatur, soft echoes of saxophones and guitars.
A block away, the cast iron lamps of the Moonwalk and Woldenberg Park glowed enticingly. Great place to go strolling with somebody, as several couples seemed to have discovered that evening. On an impulse, he crossed the street and climbed the steps to the raised walkway along the riverside. Might as well enjoy the cool evening air as long as he could.
Ahead of him, he saw another solo walker, female, carrying a canvas tote at her side. She wandered slowly along the river, gazing out across the water, her dark hair catching reflected gleams as she passed the light posts. Something about her made him pause.
So slow. So sad. Just like Juliette.
He closed his eyes for a moment. He hadn’t thought about Juliette in years—it wasn’t like she was always on his mind. Still, now that he had thought of her, he started watching the woman with the tote bag a little more carefully. He slowed his own steps to stay behind her, hoping she wouldn’t decide he was a particularly inept mugger. She seemed to be looking down at the dark river water beyond the high bank, her steps slowing even more, her shoulders rounding with fatigue.
Don’t bother her. Not every sad person is looking to hurt herself. Live and let live, remember?
But even saying that to himself started a train of thought he couldn’t seem to stop.
What if she’s looking for a good place to jump, a place where no one will see her? The thought drifted through his mind as she paused for a moment, gazing toward the far bank. Maybe a place like the very spot where she was currently standing.
And if she decides to do something like jump, I’m the only one here. I’m the only one who can talk her out of it.
Well, crap.
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