October 11th
I leaned so close to the vanity mirror, my nose nearly touched it. The natural light poured through the open curtains, directly onto the cheek I was examining. Like magic, the crow's slash had stopped hurting overnight. What's in that ointment? Regardless, there was a disgusting scab forming from the base of my neck almost to my eye. Thank God the crow didn't tear another inch. I could've been blinded in one eye. The scab was gross, but at least now I could lose the bandage. My hand dressing was downgraded to a couple of large Band-Aids.
In better news, listening to my father and not staying up all night meant signs of life were slowly coming back to my face. No more bloodshot eyes, and the puffy, dark circles from switching time zones had mostly faded.
After showering, I slathered on an assortment of fancy French crèmes my mother had stocked my dorm room with. She must be doing something right, to stay so young looking. As I breathed in the lavender moisturizer, I wondered if she used the same scent. Too lazy to do much else, I ripped a brush through my tangles, spritzed in some leave-in conditioner, and hoped my mop of brown waves would dry in a decent manner.
Black leggings. Gray T-shirt. Shit-kickers. Long chain with the sun charm.
It was unsettling that my old routine felt only vaguely familiar. When will things start to feel normal again?
My brush handle spun, knocking something off the vanity that hit the floor with a clank. It was the silver medallion I'd found in the disintegrated lace. In the morning light, I could now see there was something underneath the impression of the burned star. Initials. I breathed heavily on the silver and rubbed it with my towel, vowing to clean it properly later in my father's studio.
The letters ASG had been etched in a sweeping calligraphy that matched the ornate border.
I flipped it over to see if I'd missed anything else last night. Blank. Then I found myself slipping it onto the silver chain next to the sun charm. My collar slouched off one shoulder, revealing the gris-gris ribbon.
Who was ASG?
***
My father looked depressed, blindly dumping stuff into a large garbage can. I stood in his doorway, holding my second café au (powdered) lait, wondering whether I should stay and help him.
"Morning," I said.
"Hey, baby." He walked over and took a hard look at my injured cheek.
I looked around the room as he moved my chin around and decided that having to unexpectedly throw away piles of your own work was something an artist would want to do alone. "I'm gonna go for a walk, check out the grocery situation, and swing by Café Orléans. I didn't get a chance yesterday."
"All right, let's go for a run when you get back, before it gets too hot?"
"Ugh, sure." It had been weeks since I'd done any real physical activity.
"That's the spirit, honey."
I smiled and left the coffee for him on his workbench.
In the foyer, I stopped to grab my bag, but before I could reach my keys, they shot up into my palm.
I stopped short.
Instinctively, I looked around to see if anyone else had just witnessed the strange occurrence.
Breathe.
My eyes slipped shut as phantom ticks from the grandfather clock pounded in my chest. I racked my brain for a reasonable explanation, but nothing came to mind. I felt strangely at odds, like my subconscious was trying to fight back—fighting the part of me that was desperately trying to suppress yesterday's memories as if they were a bad dream.
"Oh, good call," my father said, coming up behind me. He kissed my cheek good-bye before skipping up the stairs.
"On what?"
"On winding up the clock," he yelled down.
"But I didn't . . ."
When I turned around, the pendulum was swinging in the grandfather clock. The ticktocks were no longer phantom. For a moment I stared at the second hand swiftly ticking around the circle. My fingers tightened into a fist around my keys. The metal felt warm.
". . . but I didn't touch the clock," I whispered.
Trying not to go into a full-on panic attack, I dropped the keys into my bag and did what any reasonable person would do: ignored it and hustled out the door.
My nervousness transferred from my shoulders down to my feet, which carried me down the block at a nonsouthern pace. I misjudged the hop onto the curb and stumbled.
"Adele? You okay?" Felix Palermo yelled, witnessing my spastic moment. He sure has good eyesight for someone pushing eighty. The old man was hunched over a broom, next to a pile of window shards. I hurried across the street, eager for the distraction.
"Hi, Mr. Felix!"
"If it isn't little Miss Addie Le Moyne."
Behind him, a couple of younger guys I didn't recognize exited the little corner store, carrying a moldy refrigerator. Palermo's Italian Delicatessen was not in good shape, but I tried not to let the shock show on my face.
The guys dropped the fridge near the curb and quickly retreated back into the deli.
"When did y'all get back?" I asked, giving the old man a hug.
"We snuck back a few days ago, but it wasn't till yesterday I found a couple boys to help us start haulin' out the trash. They're staying in the top-floor apartment, trading labor for rent. If ya ask me, I'm getting the better end of the deal—the apartment doesn't even have electricity. But they're over from the motherland, lookin' for some missing relatives, so they've got bigger problems."
"We're running a generator," I said. "I don't think anyone in the Quarter has electricity yet."
"We got a few feet of water. It poured in the storefront window where an old Chevy pushed through. It's still beyond me how the boys managed to get the car out last night. Must be nice being young. Looters trashed the place." He sighed. "I suppose I can't really blame them. People need to eat. This hurricane, Addie, I don't know. I've been through Betsy and Camille and at least a couple dozen more, but something's just not right."
I understood what he meant. Something felt off. I'd tried to convince myself it was just a mix of being away for so long combined with shock, but I couldn't shake the feeling that something else was different. Something had changed.
He gestured to the store. "You go in there and take anything you and your pop need. That is, if there's anything left."
"I can't just take stuff—"
"Adele, you go salvage anything you can. And don't you worry about it. I'm filin' an insurance claim tomorrow. Capisce?" He gave me an exaggerated wink.
"Capisce." I smiled and walked toward the entrance.
"And be careful in there, Adele! It's a goddamn mess."
I yelled, "Okay," over my shoulder and stopped at the entrance. The enormous retro letters that spelled out the store's name, usually lit up in red, white, and green, had come loose. "PAL" still seemed secure, but "ERMO'S" now hung at a dangerous ninety-degree angle. I hurried underneath. The whole city was starting to feel like one giant booby trap.
***
Flies buzzed around mounds of brown-colored mush that used to be fruit but now reeked like rotten grass. I covered my nose and mouth to mask the smell, in an attempt to control my twitching stomach muscles, but then hurried to the other side of the store, extra careful not to step on anything that would require a tetanus shot after.
Sauntering down the remaining aisles, I assessed my options, scared of anything not preserved in glass, aluminum, or a vacuum-sealed bag. Most of the nonperishables had already been cleared out. I grabbed a can of steel-cut oats as if it were gold and then a couple sacks of red beans 'n' rice. Will bigger supermarket chains look like this too—empty shelves with rotting inventory? Will we have to ration these oats? Surely the government will intervene if it comes to that . . . right?
I scooped up two cans of tomato soup. The empty shelf space gave me a view to the other side of the room, where the guys were ripping commercial freezers from the wall. Neither seemed to be breaking a sweat.
Impressive.
One had light blond hair, and the other's was nearly black, but there was something very similar about them. They must be brothers, I thought, watching them from between the jars of pepper jelly and dusty cans of minestrone. Even their movements were synced; each carried out the manual labor with a strange amount of grace. Over from the motherland? Mr. Felix must have meant Italy . . . Their slickly styled hair seemed very Italian to me. Flashbacks to my European days suddenly made me feel very underdressed.
The dark-haired guy was closest to me, but all I could see was the back of his head. He wore dark jeans and a black leather jacket, and even from behind, he seemed more focused on the task at hand than the blond, who appeared bored, his thin lips in a near pout.
The blond looked to be in his midtwenties. The cuffs of his pale-blue denim jeans were turned up, and a pair of tan leather suspenders that buttoned onto his waistband, making them look old-timey, stretched over his shoulders. He had the most perfect skin I'd ever seen, but his aquiline features combined with his lackadaisical demeanor made him come across as some kind of naughty prince.
"How long do we have to do this, Brother?" he asked.
"Until we've acclimated. Or until everyone is reunited, I suppose." The dark-haired brother's English had only a hint of a foreign accent, while the blond's was much thicker.
"I assumed finding everyone would require some brute force, but this wasn't exactly what I had in mind," the blond said as he jerked the refrigeration system from the wall.
"Stop whining. Like you couldn't do this in your sleep."
"Don't mention sleep around me."
His brother softly chuckled.
My chest stung. How could you sleep if you were missing loved ones?
Suddenly the blond's tone became serious. "We have to find Giovanna . . . I can't stop thinking about what might have happened to her—"
"Gabriel, she hasn't been seen since . . . You need to prepare yourself for the idea—"
"We will find her, Brother. I don't care what it takes."
Out of nowhere, the cans of minestrone betrayed me by flying off the shelf onto the floor in a series of loud crashes. I watched in horror as a can rolled all the way over to the boot of the blond.
"Well, whom do we have here?" he asked, overjoyed to have a distraction from the labor.
I was mortified, caught spying on a private conversation. And not just any conversation, but one between two beautiful foreigners. What were the odds . . . at Palermo's of all places? I tried to walk casually to the other side of the shelf, as if I were just doing the daily shopping.
"Hi, I'm Adele."
"Adele?" The blond looked at me with an eagerness that made me slightly uncomfortable. From my hiding spot, I hadn't realized how tall they were, both over six feet.
"Yeah, Adele Le Moyne." My attempt to offer a hand failed because I was holding too many things, so I resorted to a half nod, half curtsy. Blood rose in my cheeks.
"Buongiorno, Adele. I am Gabe . . ." The blond's light-green eyes sparkled against the grim backdrop of the store. "And this is my youngest brother, Niccolò."
Niccolò nodded at me and then casually leaned against the wall with one foot up, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets. It was like he was watching his brother watch me.
"Bienvenue. Nice to meet you both." Is a welcome appropriate under these circumstances?
"The pleasure is entirely ours," Gabe said, looking down at me with a dramatic smile. The outline of his well-defined chest was easy to see through his fitted white T-shirt, which he'd somehow managed not to dirty at all.
I scrambled to think of something to say. "Mr. Felix said you're over from Europe. Italy?" I placed my bags on the ground.
"Sì, we are looking for our family. We have three missing in action, including our sister. Maybe you know them?"
There was something about the way he asked that reminded me of a mafioso casually inquiring about his next victim. My knowledge of the Mafia, of course, came only from watching The Godfather movies repeatedly with my father.
As I listened to Gabe describe their missing relatives, I couldn't help but notice Niccolò's gaze shift to me. He had the same light-green eyes as Gabe, only his made me think of a cat preparing to pounce on a toy. My fingers went to the chain around my neck as my eyes flicked to his—never for more than a few seconds at a time. He was just as attractive as his brother but with more of a James Dean vibe about him.
Wait, do I know this guy?
I blushed when I realized there was no way I could have met a guy this attractive and then simply forgotten about him.
His lips moved into a slight smile, as if he knew I was trying to figure it out.
Then I noticed the silence. Gabe had stopped talking and was looking at me, obviously expecting me to answer a question.
"I'm sorry," I stuttered. "What's the name?"
"Me-di-ci," he repeated.
"Leave her alone, Gabriel." Niccolò finally spoke. "She doesn't know anything." The softness of his voice surprised me.
"It's okay," I squeaked, dropping the chain. The charms bounced against my stomach as I turned back to Gabe. "I'm sorry, I was paying attention. I just . . . got distracted." I tried not to smile, knowing Niccolò was still looking at me. "I don't know any Medici. I'm sorry," I repeated, desperately wishing I knew something, anything, about their family. "Three people. Your sister? That's horrible."
Gabe let out an exasperated sigh. "Don't worry, little lamb, we won't rest until we find them." He walked across the room and stood right outside the doorway, staring down the street like a posted guard.
"What happened to your face?" Niccolò asked.
"Um, a bird attacked me." I was not thrilled for the attention to switch focus to my giant scab. "I know, random."
"What kind of bird?" he probed in a serious tone. I had a hunch it was only a slight variation from his natural disposition.
"A crow . . . I think. It was really dark in the kitchen."
"A crow? In your home?"
He seemed to mull over the idea as he slowly approached me.
My mouth moved, but I no longer heard the words coming out . . . something about how great the city was under different circumstances. My brain ping-ponged between wondering where I knew him from and wondering whether I should stay and continue embarrassing myself with my pathetic attempts at conversation. Unfortunately, he said nothing to interrupt my rambling as he moved closer, although his focus was so attentive on my wounded cheek, I questioned whether he was even listening.
He stopped directly in front of me. "It is an amazing city. Luckily we've been here before."
My throat tightened. "Oh good."
He was so close I could smell him over the lingering stench of putrid produce: leather and soap. The scent reminded me of Émile. Probably because Émile was one of my few points of reference when it came to male scents.
He raised his hand to my face, and I prayed I wasn't showing any outward signs that my knees were about to buckle. Careful not to touch the wound, his fingertips grazed my cheek, sending chills into my hairline. Surely he must have noticed.
He took a deep breath and whispered, "Lavender."
His hand swept along my neck as he delicately picked up the thin silver chain, following the tightly woven links all the way down to the two charms dangling at my waist. He brought the medallion up to his face, pulling me even closer. I strained to keep my balance and not bob into him as he flipped it over, keenly examining both sides. My gaze nervously wandered out the window to the broken Palermo's sign hanging over the door, where Gabe was still standing sentry.
"Pretty necklace. Where did you get it?"
We were standing so close I could barely breathe. I tried to turn sounds into words, but nothing came out of my mouth easily, for a change.
"My dad—"
A loud screech of scraping metal interrupted us. "Look out!" I screamed to Gabe.
The latter half of the massive sign tore free and plummeted toward him. My arms shot around my head, and I ducked, anticipating the crash . . . but a few beats of silence went by instead.
What the hell?
I cautiously opened my eyes to find them each holding one end of the broken neon namesake. The sign was so old it must have been extraordinarily heavy, but they rested it on the floor as if it were a kitten. They both brushed their hands and turned to me with a look of bewilderment plus a hint of suspicion. Which was strange, because that's exactly how I was looking at them.
"Are you okay?" I asked, hurrying over.
"You saved me," Gabe said.
"No . . ." I balked.
"Your warning . . . I am forever in your debt." Gabe gallantly kissed my hand. Niccolò remained stoic.
The metal screeched again.
I looked up just in time to see the lonely letter L dropping from above us.
Before I could blink, Gabe jumped up and knocked it aside. Niccolò jerked my arm, pulling me out of the way as it crashed onto the slate sidewalk in an explosion of glass and plastic.
Air wheezed from my throat. Gabe looked me straight in the eyes and smiled.
"I guess you're even now," Niccolò said.
They both just silently stared at me, seemingly undisturbed. Rampant insecurity took over. I wasn't sure what to do or say next, so I fled back for my bags and gathered up my loot. Their gazes continued to burn through me—whether with disbelief, admiration, or scorn, I had no idea.
Trying to be nonchalant on the way out, I grabbed a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a large box of salt, and a couple boxes of baking soda.
"Well, it was nice to meet you both."
"Until we meet again," said Gabe. "Arrivederci."
"And welcome to the neighborhood." I looked at Niccolò. "I wish it were under better circumstances."
"Me too." The corner of his mouth crooked. "Ciao, bella."