I pour myself a bowl of cereal and settle at the kitchen table with my laptop, determined to find out more about Glory’s death. I Google her name, but nothing appears. I try suicide + Carrefour, thinking that maybe Glory’s name wasn’t printed in the paper because she was a minor. But I strike out there too.
I backspace again and this time, I type in Carrefour newspaper. But when I press enter, I’m only hit with a long list of meaningless options that have nothing to do with this place.
I’m still staring at the screen, trying to decide what to search for next, when I hear Boniface’s voice from the back garden. I look out the window and see him talking to two women wearing expensive-looking black dresses and heels that make their legs look miles long. I recognize them immediately—not just from my foggy memories, but also because they look exactly like their daughters.
Annabelle Marceau and Scarlett St. Pierre. I haven’t seen them since the night they accompanied the police chief to deliver the news that changed my life. Honey, your mama killed herself. Drove right into a tree.
Boniface’s eyes meet mine through the windowpane, and as he approaches the back door, I see him grimacing.
“Eveny, we have a couple of visitors,” he says. He lingers uncertainly for a moment before walking back toward the garden.
“Ms. St. Pierre, right?” I say, smiling at the one whose honey blond hair cascades over her shoulders just like Chloe’s. “And Ms. Marceau?” I ask, glancing at the one who looks like a slightly older version of Peregrine, but with short, spiky black hair.
“I knew she’d remember us, Annabelle,” trills the blonde. “And I’ll be damned if you are not just the spitting image of your mother!”
“Thanks,” I say awkwardly. “Want to come in?”
“Don’t mind if we do,” Peregrine’s mother says, already sweeping past me like she owns the place. “It’s been ages since we stepped inside this house, hasn’t it?”
Chloe’s mother hands me a white cardboard box wrapped in an intricately tied purple ribbon. “This is for you, sugar,” she says. “It’s a coffee cake.”
“We baked it for you last night,” Peregrine’s mother adds. “A little welcome-home treat!”
They stand there smiling at me for so long that the silence grows uncomfortable. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” I finally ask, trying to be polite. I turn and walk toward the kitchen, and they click-clack after me in their impossibly high heels.
“Have a seat,” I say, gesturing to the kitchen table. I pull out a filter, line the coffeemaker with it, and scoop in several tablespoons of Folgers.
“Don’t you have any chicory coffee?” Chloe’s mother asks.
“Just the Folgers,” I tell her as I add water, push the start button, and grab three mugs from the cabinet. “This cake looks delicious,” I tell them.
“Oh, it is!” Chloe’s mother bubbles. “It has rosemary to ward off evil, cloves to help foster friendship—with our daughters, of course—huckleberry to help you remember your dreams, and just a pinch of cinnamon to help promote good taste, because, let’s face it, you’re in Carrefour now.”
“Okay. . . ,” I say slowly.
“Of course it’s nothing like the cakes your aunt bakes,” Peregrine’s mother adds. “We can’t wait to have her little bakery open! What’s she calling it?”
“Sandrine’s Bakeshop. After my mom.”
“How lovely. I remember your mama and your aunt baking up a storm when we were your age.” She gets a faraway look in her eye and adds, “We miss her so much, Eveny, we really do.”
“Yeah. Me too.” I pour three cups of coffee and ask if they want cream and sugar. They decline.
“So, Eveny,” Peregrine’s mother says a moment later as I hand steaming mugs to them. “All those years you were gone, did your aunt tell you much about Carrefour?”
I shake my head.
The women exchange looks. “I see,” Peregrine’s mother says. “So she hasn’t explained any of the . . . customs of the town or anything?”
“Customs?” I ask blankly.
“Oh, Annabelle, stop putting Eveny on the spot,” Chloe’s mother says quickly. She turns to me. “I think what Annabelle is wondering is whether you’d heard of the Mardi Gras Ball. It’s coming up in about a month you know.”
“Sorry, doesn’t ring a bell. My aunt and I didn’t spend a lot of time talking about this place. I think it reminded her of my mom.”
“Your aunt never was a big fan of Carrefour,” Chloe’s mother says with a sigh. “But we’ll change that yet, right Eveny?” She claps her hands in a way that reminds me of a preschool teacher trying to coax a child into singing along.