In the Big Easy, businesses were always opening late or closing early for one reason or another. It wasn’t the way I preferred to operate, but it was the way of life here, and I’d gotten used to it.
“Hey there, pretty lady,” a deep tenor voice called out from the shady depths of Three Georges Jewelers. This George was always trying to hawk CZ jewels and faux baubles to unwitting tourists. I never bought into George’s ploys, but I couldn’t avoid him. He was too charming.
“Hi, George. Planning to cheat anyone out of their hard-earned dollars today?”
“All day long, my dear. One of these days, you’ll have one of my beauties shining on your finger. Send your beaux my way and I’ll set them up with something perfect.”
“I’m sure you would, but there is no beau for me today.”
“A pretty lady like you? I’m shocked!”
He called everyone a pretty lady. Even some of the men.
I wound my way through the Quarter to where the bus picked up shoppers and business owners and shuttled us to the middle of Magazine Street. Everyone I encountered was in a jovial mood, and I remembered why I fell in love with New Orleans.
As I twisted the key in the lock at Bits and Pieces, balancing a tall to-go cup of coffee in the crook of my elbow, Allyn roared into the driveway on his Harley.
“You’re late.” He gracefully dismounted the bike. “Pull an all-nighter like me?” His Hollywood starlet shades covered half his face. His hair was orange today.
“No, I didn’t, thank you. You’re one to talk—you’re late too.”
“Can’t make an entrance if I’m always on time.” He hopped up the front steps and grabbed my cup of coffee just before it slipped from my arm.
I pushed the door open and the welcome scent of gardenias drifted past us. We carried a line of hand-poured soy candles in the shop with such pleasing fragrances. Light, not overpowering. I designed Bits and Pieces to make people want to stay for a while. We even kept a Keurig in the back and pralines in a dish by the cash register.
I was in love with everything I’d tucked into the old shotgun house—from restored furniture to antique silver to vintage linen pillows embroidered with the ever-present fleur-de-lis. I’d found much of it at antique markets and estate sales. Even a few garage sales. I didn’t limit myself to specializing in one particular type of item—that’s why I named it Bits and Pieces. A little bit of everything.
Invigorated by the sunshine and the freshness of the spring air, I propped open the front door and we began the day. I set the music to Madeleine Peyroux while Allyn tinkered with one of the vignettes he’d set up in a side room. In deference to his constant harping that I needed to allow a bit of Southern Goth into the shop—to appeal to the legions of Anne Rice and voodoo fans in the city—I gave him some leeway.
I figured New Orleans had enough mix of high and low, uptown and downtown, that I needed to relax my rules a bit. However, I did draw the line at voodoo dolls. Instead, he scattered tiny white porcelain skulls throughout the shop. Several of my customers bought them to use as unconventional hostess gifts.
The day went on as it usually did. Being the middle of the week, most of the customers breezing in and out were locals. Weekends were for the tourists. A few regular clients had hired me to redecorate their houses, and one popped in to show me photos of sideboards she wanted me to look for the next time I went scavenging. A student from the New Orleans Academy of Fine Art brought by a selection of framed photographs for me to display. Allyn picked up sandwiches from Guy’s Po-Boys.
As we neared closing time, Allyn ducked into the back office to check a few voice mails that had slipped in while the shop was busy earlier in the day. After a moment, he motioned to me from the hallway.
“Some lawyer called. He said he needs to talk to you about a Mrs. Van Buren?” He shrugged. “Asked you to call him as soon as you can.”
It had been over a week since I’d talked to Mags. We usually talked on Sunday afternoons, but I’d missed our last call because of a water leak at the shop. Instead of hearing the latest Sweet Bay gossip, I’d spent the entire day with buckets, soaked towels, and a cranky repairman. By the time I made it back home and showered, it was too late to call. She left a message on my phone the next morning, but we had yet to catch up with each other.
My customer glanced at me, then at his watch. Not wanting to appear distracted, I shook my head. “I’ll have to call him back a little later.”
“Sure thing, Boss.”
As the customer slowly circled the shop, scratching his chin and considering his purchase, I fought a strange urge to jump in my car and drive back to Sweet Bay to see Mags. I laughed under my breath at the impulsive idea. I couldn’t just drop the strings holding my life together and take a break, but I still longed to hear her voice with a force that surprised me.