31 comments/ 62348 views/ 33 favorites Redivivus By: tickledkitty This is an entry for the 2008 Halloween Story Contest. Please vote! ******* On October 25, 2003, I was left at the altar. Not literally, of course. My fiancé, Brad, was kind enough to telephone me the evening before and inform me that the wedding we'd been planning for over a year was not going to happen. "I'm sorry, Casey. I just can't do it," he whined. I was shocked, of course, and speechless. Since I said nothing, Brad continued. "I'm so, so sorry. I think you're a wonderful girl, and I only want the best for you in life. I hope you know that." Still, I said nothing, and he kept going. "I know you're probably mad at me now, but I hope with time we can become friends again." "What?" I finally gasped. "What are you talking about, Brad?" "Uh. Look, I know this is hard for you. I know you have a lot invested in this thing." "This THING? Are you out of your fucking mind?" Here's where I turned into Bridezilla. "This THING is our wedding, you asshole! I have spent the last year planning and making arrangements. I've spent hours and hours of my time and every dime I had—oh my God! Do you realize how much money we're going to lose?" "W-well, um, I was actually hoping I could get some of that back..." "WHAT?" I screamed. "Are you kidding me?" My voice echoed in my head, and from somewhere another voice, another calmer, more rational Casey was telling me to stop screaming and think. "No. I...I think I deserve some of it back. It's my money." "No, Brad. Fuck you." He was only worried about the money? "It's too late.' "Well, what about from the gifts? Won't you return the gifts?" I hung up on him then, shaking with rage, but didn't cry until five minutes later, when I called my mom. I opened my mouth to tell her what happened, but the words wouldn't come. She and my sister came over right away. Mom made coffee, and we all made phone calls. I didn't allow sympathy from anyone, saying I had a million calls to make and that I'd be in touch later. Three hundred guests and a few hours later, we all sat on my couch exhausted. The florist, caterer, reception hall, and minister had been contacted, but I wasn't able to reach anyone at the travel agency where we'd booked the honeymoon. It was after 10 p.m. by then, and I announced I'd have to call them in the morning. "Wait a minute, Case," said my sister, Amber. "I think you should go anyway." "To New Orleans? Oh, I couldn't do that." "You should go, honey," Mom agreed. "You've already got the time off from work, and what will you do here anyway? People will be calling. That little twit will be hounding you for money. You should get away and try to enjoy yourself. It might turn out to be a good thing." So I did. Two days later, I found myself in a room at the Place D'Armes Hotel. We'd specifically chosen the hotel for its charming and casual atmosphere, not to mention its location in the French Quarter. I was at a loss as I stood on the balcony overlooking a lovely courtyard. The excitement was over, and I was finally alone. All alone. I leaned on the ivy-covered wrought-iron railing, unsure of what to do next. I had nearly a week in this amazing city to get my head together and figure out what to do with the rest of my life. Tears stung my eyes, but I was tired of crying. I decided to take a walk and find someplace to eat. Having never been to New Orleans before, I'd researched this trip for months, poring over maps and pictures on the Internet and guidebooks. I figured I'd be able to find my way around. Actually being there was different though, so, armed with a small map and guidebook in my purse, I set off. Strolling down Decatur Street, I let the sights and sounds of the Big Easy envelope me. The very air there was so different from home. It was heavier, more sensuous, pregnant with foreign sounds and scents of humanity and food and the sea. I stopped outside the Café Maspero and peered through the open French doors at the diners inside. The guidebook said the café was known for its homemade soups and overstuffed sandwiches, both of which sounded wonderful to me, so I stepped inside. The tantalizing scent of food nearly caused me to faint. I hadn't realized how hungry I was; could not remember when I had last eaten. In spite of a long line, I was surprised to be seated rather quickly. I am one of those people who is exceedingly uncomfortable dining alone in a restaurant and pretended to immerse myself in my guidebook while I waited for my food. When it arrived, my face must have shown my astonishment at the size of the portions, because the waitress laughed and patted me on the shoulder and then refilled my iced tea glass. I was just tearing in into the second half of my enormous sandwich and licking my fingers, when I noticed a man watching me. He sat back in his chair, legs crossed, and held a pale gray fedora with one hand over his knee. His dark eyes squinted at me through the haze of smoke from his thin cigar, and when he saw me returning his stare, he inclined his head slightly and winked. The light shown on his slicked-back dark hair, and his eyes seemed to twinkle and dance with amusement. A pencil-thin mustache sat atop full sensuous lips that curled up at one side into a sardonic grin. He was wearing a gray pinstripe suit, which seemed rather formal for the casual eatery, but appeared, nonetheless, timeless in this place. Having been entirely engrossed in my food, I felt sure my table manners had flown out into the sultry night. My cheeks flamed, and I lowered my head, returned the sandwich to my plate, and wiped my hands and mouth carefully on my napkin. I tried looking everywhere except at the man for a few moments, but I needn't have bothered, because when I looked back in his direction, he was gone. A young couple were seating themselves at his table, and no trace of the man remained. Scanning the crowd for him, I realized I felt a bit disappointed. Though horrified that he'd caught me gobbling my food with abandon, I felt he hadn't been put off by my lack of grace. On the contrary, he had seemed interested? Odd. Had I imagined it? I'd always fancied myself ordinary and plain, with my mousy brown hair and nondescript features. In an odd way, Brad had endorsed my opinion of myself or, at least, never refuted it. So, this unexpected attention from such a handsome man induced a giddiness in me that I hadn't felt in a long, long time. Laughing at my own silliness, I finished my food and drained my glass. Feeling a whole lot better than before my meal, I paid my check and returned to the voluptuous New Orleans evening. I felt revived and almost buoyant as I sauntered along Toulouse Street and turned on to Chartres. To my delight, horse-drawn carriages clopped along the street, and I imagined people walking along that same street a hundred years ago. In fact, time seemed to pause and mix and weave itself together in such a way that I seemed to be walking in the past, as well as the present. More silliness, I thought. The low roar of people and music beckoned to me from Bourbon Street, but I wasn't in the mood for crowds. As I reached Jackson Square, the lonely, soulful singing of a saxophone wrapped itself around me like smoky silk, pulling me toward it. Mesmerized, I walked into the park and found the source of the music. A man with dreadlocks stood weaving and gyrating as he played, his silver saxophone glinting in the streetlights. The case from his instrument stood open before him, and a small crowd had gathered round. The mellow notes seemed to tell a story of life—love and sex, people, friends, happiness, grief, more love, and more sex. A young woman danced and swayed to the music, her diaphanous skirt floating and swirling about her long legs. She seemed the embodiment of the melody itself. I envied her the freedom of movement and lack of inhibition and almost wished I could join her. The song ended on a long, tremulous note, and the little crowd applauded and tossed money into the musician's case. I fished a few bills from my purse, adding them to the take, and was rewarded with a warm smile. "Thank you," I murmured, smiling myself. "My pleasure, chère. And thank you." Happiness and light accompanied me like unseen friends on the walk back to the hotel. This was new, this feeling of contentment in my own company. I didn't feel alone at all. A nearly tangible presence wrapped me in its arms and held me up. It made me feel protected and almost, well, loved. It made me feel like I'd be alright. It made me feel peace for the first time in a long while. I sat in the wicker chair on my little balcony and listened to the night sounds of the city. Brad intruded on my thoughts. He never had explained why he called off the wedding. The wedding. The huge loss crushed my heart with its weight. I'd been dreaming of my wedding ever since I was a little girl. My mother had been in the dressing room as I tried on wedding gowns all those months ago. She'd cried as she fastened scores of tiny pearl buttons down the back of the dress. I'd been planning on something more plain, but my mother's tears had convinced me this was the one. I'd never get to wear it now. It still hung, still covered in plastic, from a plant hook in the corner of my living room. The creamy satin shoes, the dainty veil, the wedding bands, the special wedding night lingerie—all wasted. Hot tears coursed down my face at the loss. I was thirty-four years old and truly felt like an old maid. I thought about the "belonging" wearing my engagement ring had always afforded me. I thought about the babies I might have had and the beautiful home I might have kept, and their loss hurt most of all. Then I realized something. I didn't miss Brad at all. Not a bit. He'd been cranky and petulant for the past few weeks, refusing to help me with anything. I wasn't sure at that point if I even liked him. But I had loved him, right? We'd had fun together, certainly, in the beginning. After a while, we became habit, I supposed. I remembered reading a magazine article that said a woman's chances of marrying after reaching the age of thirty decreased considerably. Had I been afraid I'd never find anyone else? I wiped my tears away with my hands and considered the possibility. I wanted babies, and time was running out. It seemed important to have them before I turned forty. Was Brad simply a means to an end for me? The thought was startling and not altogether flattering. As I turned to go back into my room and get ready for bed, a tiny orange glow from the courtyard below caught my eye. Someone smoking, I thought. It was dark, and I couldn't make out a person there. I shivered and closed the door, locked it, and pulled the shades. That night I had the most incredibly erotic dream. I don't think I remember all of it, and what I do remember are just impressions—what I felt, what I heard. It started with kissing, my lips tingling and parting, a warm, wet tongue probing my mouth, tasting and smelling of the sea, the clean sea air. The mouth, an extension of my own mouth, a part of me, recognized, cherished, ravaged me, took my soul and made it soar. It licked and kissed and sucked my neck, while large, warm hands stroked my body to a fevered pitch. I tried to open my eyes to see this dream lover, but they were stuck closed tight. Hands cupped my breasts, pinching the titillated nipples, rolling them between fingers and thumb, squeezing and kneading, as all the while, that hot mouth consumed my neck and lips. Those lips traveled down my neck to my chest, the tongue swirling the skin along the way, leaving a wet trail, then closing around a nipple. I tried to touch the face, hold the head against me, but my arms wouldn't move, were, in fact, leaden. The hands had stroked their way down to my hips, and I heard myself moan when fingers grazed along my wet slit, sliding up and down, spreading my juices over my lips, again and again. The hands pushed my thighs wide apart, and long fingers slid into me, stroking into my channel, the whole hand seeming to slip inside me, heating a path to my womb. I was gasping by then, and a sudden violent orgasm overtook me. As my body shuddered and jerked, the hands and lips never ceased their movement. As I climaxed, the mouth suddenly covered my pussy, drinking my essence, while the fingers continued to move inside me, pressing upward, finding my sweet spot. While the mouth closed around my clit and sucked it inside, the tongue rubbed it, the fingers fucked me, and I came again and again, panting and moaning, and possibly even screaming at some point. I awakened briefly, my naked body drenched with sweat, my limbs still leaden and exhausted, the damp sheet twisted around my legs. I fell asleep again almost immediately, and the mouth found my lips once more with a deep, lingering kiss and then was gone. When I woke next, pale gray light filtered into the room. I was lying sprawled on my stomach, my skin cold to the touch. Reaching to pull the covers over me, I winced as dozens of little aches assaulted my body. I felt as if I'd spent the entire night having wild sex. It was just a dream, Casey, I thought. Just a dream. I reached a hand down between my legs to touch my sex. It was still very wet and slightly sore. I swallowed, and my dry throat felt sore, as well. I lay there for a long time, trying to go back to sleep, but sleep wouldn't come. A warm shower eased the aches from my body and refreshed me. I dressed and walked to the Café du Monde for some of their famous beignets and a cup of café au lait. The powdered-sugar-covered pastry was delightfully fragrant of cinnamon and seemed to melt on my tongue, and the creamy coffee was a perfect complement. I opened my guidebook on the bar and tentatively planned my day. That's when I saw him again. The man from the restaurant the night before. Only this time he was wearing a cream-colored double-breasted suit. He was sitting at the bar drinking a cup of coffee, which he raised toward me, as if toasting, and he smiled and inclined his head, just as he had before. I smiled back and watched his smile grow wider and two dimples crease his cheeks. Lord, he was handsome. The way he looked at me brought to mind a line from Gone With the Wind, when Scarlett, referring to Rhett, says, "He looks as if he knows what I look like without my shimmy!" Goodness, being in this city certainly was bringing out the fanciful thoughts. Scarlett O'Hara, indeed. But wait. Hadn't Scarlett and Rhett gone to New Orleans for their honeymoon? I giggled at the thought and then realized the man was gone again. I caught a glimpse of his back as he headed for the door. Then he disappeared. With a sigh, I gathered my belongings and headed out as well. I spent my day meandering through the French Market, buying small souvenirs and t-shirts for my nieces and nephews. The heat and humidity seemed oppressive as I walked along the Moon Walk beside the Mississippi River. It seemed there were happy couples everywhere, sitting on benches, sauntering along hand in hand, standing close together gazing out at the sparkling water. They were everywhere, mocking me. I was supposed to be on my honeymoon. Again, I realized it wasn't Brad I was missing, but the companionship, a sense of belonging. This trip was beginning to seem like a bad idea. I wasn't enjoying wandering around by myself, and I certainly didn't relish the idea of barhopping on Bourbon Street alone. New Orleans had been Brad's idea anyway. He'd wanted to be there over Halloween, saying it would be almost like Mardi Gras. This was his trip. I wondered if I should just go home. Home. It suddenly sounded wonderful. Back to the cooler air and familiar faces. People who cared. I returned to the hotel early, having completely given up on enjoying my trip, with homesickness close on my heels. After a long shower and a good cry, I watched TV for a while, and then lay in bed listening to the faint night sounds of the French Quarter. My dream lover returned to my bed that night, this time holding me in his arms, and I could actually feel the warmth of his body, hear the beating of his heart. I felt the faint, whiskery burn on my chin and lips and cheeks as he kissed me. Warm, plump lips kissed my cheek and then pressed lightly against my ear, his hot breath bathing me in goose bumps. "Don't go," he whispered. "Please don't go." Wrapping my arms and legs around his body, I surrendered completely to him, opening myself, pulling him in, reveling in him, returning his kisses, matching his ardor. It seemed to go on forever. He was not a creature of mists and dreams, but a being of substance and life. The mattress shifted when he moved, and his weight crushed me into it. His breath warmed me as he held me against his chest afterward. When I awoke a seemingly short time later, it was light, and he was gone. I sat up and looked around, feeling bereft. The t-shirt and panties I had worn to bed were laying on the floor. Again, the delicious ache of lust, of being used and fucked and loved, assaulted my body. I rose and padded into the bathroom to examine myself in the large mirror. My lips were puffy and red, my skin flushed, and there appeared to be a faint love bite over my left breast. My fingers chafed over it, as if to erase it, but the vague purplish shadow remained. "You're losing it kid," I said to my reflection. I returned to the Café du Monde that morning, my craving for beignets overruling my desire to experience different restaurants. I even lingered over a second cup of café au lait, mulling over the night before. My dream lover's plea had convinced me to stay in New Orleans, at least for a day or two longer. I knew it was crazy, but somehow I had the feeling he wouldn't come to me at home. Somehow, I knew he was of this place. I wished he would let me see him. Maybe tonight. Having decided it would be good for me to spend more time with people, not to mention wanting to escape the oppressive heat, I spent the morning touring the Aquarium of the Americas. It was, indeed, cool inside, and there is something therapeutic and cooling about watching fish and other sea creatures, as well. The children there delighted me with their wonder and enchantment with the strange ocean beings. As I exited the building, there he was again. The man, sitting on a bench, reading a newspaper. Goosebumps sprang out on my arms. This was getting creepy. Strange, how welcome attention can become menacing in the blink of an eye. How did he always seem to be where I was? It was getting to be too much of a coincidence. I needed to confront him. Just as I moved toward him, a crowd of schoolchildren, obviously on a field trip, crossed in front of me, the adults with their group herding and calling to them to stay together and keep their hands to themselves. I couldn't get through, and by the time I reached the bench, the man had vanished. Again. Troubling thoughts filled my mind. I couldn't imagine why anyone would be following me or what this guy could want. Nevertheless, I pressed on, filling my day with activity by exploring a couple of museums, followed by dinner at my hotel restaurant. I was tired after being on my feet all day, and after a shower, retired early and fell asleep almost instantly. A sweet, acrid odor ticked my nose and awakened me some time later. Cigar smoke. I'd been sleeping so soundly, it took me a minute to orient myself and realize the smell was out of place. Sitting up, I pushed my hair out of my face, turned on the bedside lamp, and looked around. The door to my little balcony was open. I was sure I'd closed it. The smoke was wafting in through the doorway, curlicues circling and lifting on the light breeze. Annoyed, I marched over to the door to close it and realized with a start that someone was sitting there in the wicker chair right outside my room. I shrieked and clapped both hands over my mouth, as the person stood and turned to look at me. Redivivus It was him! The man. This time in shirtsleeves, his collar open. He turned and pitched the cigar over the railing and stepped into the room. His lips curled into that same cynical grin as his eyes raked over my naked legs, t-shirt, and untethered breasts. "Bonsoir, chère," he murmured. "My God. Who are you?" I asked, voice shaking. "Remy Delacroix." His smile grew wider, the dimples I remembered deepening, as he extended his hand to me. I ignored the hand, keeping my arms folded across my breasts, my hands tucked into my armpits. "How did you get in here?" Remy threw his head back and laughed, a deep rich laugh, and waved his hand back toward the door. "You brought me here." "N-no, I didn't," I stammered. "You did, chère," he explained. "You called to me across time and space to come to you." As Remy took a step toward me, I took a step backward and snapped, "I don't know what you're talking about." Holding up both hands, as if to surrender, to show me he meant no harm, Remy stepped back and then simply stood there with his head cocked to one side, staring into my eyes. He let his hands fall back to his sides. My shaking had become unbearable, my entire body quaking with the effort to control it and to breathe. I watched his expression change from amusement to concern as tears filled my eyes and spilled over onto my cheeks. I didn't know why I was crying. Remy's eyes seemed to take on a liquid quality of their own, and he reached out a hand to me once more, his mouth moving as if to offer me comfort. "No!" I spouted, holding my own hands up to ward him off before he could speak. "You have to get out. Please, just go." His eyebrows lifted, and the cocky smile curved his lips once more. "Comme tu veux," he said, and turning on his heel, strode quickly back across the room and out the balcony door. "Wait," I called. "You have to go out the other door." Silence. I ran to the balcony. He was gone. Thinking he might have fallen or jumped over the railing, I leaned way over and peered through the darkness. Nothing. No movement and no sound. Perplexed, I looked around the balcony for a place he could hide. Nothing. Feeling slightly sick, I darted over to the phone and dialed the front desk. I explained there'd been a man in my room, and he'd apparently gone over the balcony railing. A hotel security guard came up and examined my room and balcony, while another checked the courtyard below and the outside of the building with a flashlight. He tested the locks on the doors and pronounced them secure. "Is it possible you might've dreamed this, ma'am?" he asked. "N-no. Of course not. I talked to him. I smelled cigar smoke." "There's no sign of forced entry, no sign outside of anyone having fallen." He shrugged. "I don't know what else we can do." "Oh, so, you think I imagined it." He shrugged and smiled. "It's possible, but sometimes strange things happen here that can't be explained. Either way, I think you're safe. Call us if anything else happens." It took me a long time to fall back into a fitful sleep. My dream lover did not come. The gray light of dawn was seeping into the room when I awoke, headachy and thirsty. Sitting up, I rubbed my hands around and over my face. That man, Remy, had been in my room. Then he'd disappeared over the balcony railing. What the hell was going on? He must be nuts. Delusional. He said I'd called to him. What did that mean? He hadn't seemed to want to harm me, and when I'd asked him to leave, he'd gone. Still. It was creepy. I wondered if I should go to the police. Throwing back the covers, I shivered in the air conditioning. I turned it down and stepped out onto the balcony. My neck tingled as I looked over the edge. The walkway was clean, the grass still manicured, the bushes still perfect, and the trees still hung with moss, just as they'd all been before. A fat calico cat meandered across the walkway toward the aquamarine glow of the pool. There was no fire escape ladder and no way a person could reach another balcony from mine. No trees were close enough either. Maybe I was the delusional one. Maybe I was going nuts. Maybe all the stress had finally caught up with me. "Oh, no," I gasped and plopped down in the wicker chair. As if things weren't eerie enough, I remembered just then that I'd arranged to participate in a Halloween Voodoo tour of the French Quarter the day before. Yesterday it had sounded like fun, especially being part of a group. Today, however, I wished I could cancel. I'd already paid though. Great. "God, Casey," I whispered, thinking I'd better find someone else to talk to before talking to myself became habit. Beignets and café au lait. I grinned. That's what I needed. It was a good thing I'd be leaving in a couple days. If I stayed there, I'd end up big as a house. A big, fat lunatic who wandered around talking to herself, I thought, giggling. After breakfast, I went down to the Moon Walk, where the tour bus was boarding. The group of tourists chattered excitedly amongst themselves in the late morning sunshine. My longish, flowing sundress and sandals and wide-brimmed straw hat seemed out of place with their t-shirts and shorts and sun visors. Donning my sunglasses, I sighed and stared out the window as the French Quarter whizzed by. St. Louis Cemetery #1 was our first stop. As we disembarked the bus, our tour guide stressed the importance of everyone staying with the group. To illustrate his point, he read aloud the warning posted at the entrance. Redivivus As I turned again to see if I was still being chased, I collided with someone, and strong arms closed around me. A strangled sound escaped my throat that would have been a scream, had I enough air in my lungs. I looked up into the kind face of Remy Delacroix. "It's all right, chère," he murmured, holding me tight and smoothing my hair. I sobbed with relief and buried my face against his chest. Why being held by Remy made me feel safe was beyond me, especially when I'd felt threatened by him the night before. It must have been a familiar face in the crowd in this strange town on this strange day. Truly, being in Remy's arms felt comfortable and almost familiar. "It's all right," he said again. "Look." Lifting my tear-streaked face, I saw the black man from the Voodoo shop standing there holding my hat. I'd left it behind in my flight. Embarrassment flooded my cheeks with heat as I turned to take it from him. "Thank you. I'm so sorry," I blubbered. He was looking over my head at Remy with a bemused expression. He glanced down at me and smiled, looking much less sinister outside in the daylight. "You're welcome," the man said, patting my hand. "Take care." As I watched him walk away, I became aware of Remy's arms still holding me and looked up at him. "Well, I feel really stupid now." Remy reached into his pocket and pulled out a pressed handkerchief, with which he dabbed at my tear-streaked cheeks. With a watery smile, I took it from him and finished the job myself. We stepped apart, though his hand remained on my back. The handkerchief smelled wonderfully of the clean sea air and faintly of fragrant cigar tobacco. I held it against my lips and tried to remember where I'd smelled it before. Remy watched me, his expression expectant and patient, his hand still smoothing and soothing my back. Not sure what to do with the soiled hanky, I held it crumpled in my hand. "Well, I'm sure I look a wreck now." "Nah. You're beautiful," Remy said, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "I think you could do with something to drink though. Come with me." He took my hand, and we walked in companionable silence to a small sidewalk café with wrought iron tables and chairs languishing in the shade of a green striped awning. As we sat, I couldn't help but feel we'd stepped into the past and into a cooler place. A waiter, wearing a long white apron appeared almost immediately. "Iced tea?" Remy asked me. I nodded, and the waiter disappeared inside the building. "Thank you, Remy." It was the first time I'd said his name aloud, and it felt lovely on my tongue and lips. "For what, chère?" he asked, taking my hand and rubbing his thumb over the knuckles. I shrugged. "I don't know. Just for being there, I guess. I don't know what would've happened to me otherwise." Remy raised my hand to his lips and kissed it. Then he smiled. "I wouldn't let anything happen to you." The waiter arrived with a frosty pitcher of tea with mint leaves floating in it and two ice-filled glasses on a tray. "Will there be anything else?" he asked. "Not right now," Remy replied. "Thank you." Remy poured a glass for me, and I downed it quickly. The cool sweetness soothed my throat and calmed my stomach. Remy laughed and filled my glass once again. "Slower this time, or you'll be sick." Smiling, I clasped my hands in my lap and forced myself not to reach for the glass again right away. Leaning back in his chair, Remy crossed his legs and removed a silver case from a pocket inside his jacket. He took one of his thin cigars and a wooden match from it, struck the match on the bottom of his shoe, and lit the cigar. I watched, fascinated. "I don't think I've ever seen someone actually strike a match that way, except on TV," I said. He shrugged. "I like the old ways." "I can see that. I like that about you." "I like every little thing about you, chère." His eyes crinkled around the edges when he smiled. I'd never seen a man so self-possessed and easy in his own skin. Again, he wore a suit, cinnamon tan this time, his tie tucked inside his vest, and the gold chain of a pocket watch peeked out between the edges of his jacket. He also wore a gold signet ring on his pinky. "How come you look cool as a cucumber in this heat?" I asked. "I'm used to it, I guess. I lived here all my life." We talked about so many things, sitting there, and nothing at all, it seems. I can remember very little of it, and it all seems like a dream now. After we'd sat there for a long while, Remy offered me his arm, and we walked for ages. He pointed things out to me, told me the history, told me personal stories, funny anecdotes. He bought me dinner at another little place that I'd never have noticed on my own. Afterward, we strolled through Jackson Park, then sat close together, side by side on a bench, watching people pass by in the pink-tinged evening. Remy draped his arm around my shoulders and kissed me for the first time, there in the park. It didn't seem like a first kiss though. We kissed again, and this time our lips opened, and our tongues grazed, and I knew. I broke away and gazed at him in wonder. "It was you, wasn't it, Remy?" "What was me, chère?" "It was you in my dreams." He grinned. "I was in your dreams?" "Tell me." "Casey, they're your dreams. How can I tell you anything about them?" It was getting dark, and his face was in shadows, so I couldn't read his expression. I knew, though. He leaned in and kissed my cheek, then my ear, then down the side of my neck. My head rolled back, almost involuntarily, baring my neck to him. As he nuzzled, I clung to him, panting. He finally found my lips again before pulling away. "We should go before I end up making love to you right here," he said. Remy stood and pulled me to my feet, and we walked back to my hotel hand in hand. There was no question that he would accompany me to my room, just as there was no question that he would wait while I bathed. When I emerged from the bathroom, wearing only a silky short robe, he wasn't in the room. I found him sitting in the chair on the balcony. He pulled me into his lap and kissed me, one arm around my back, fingers entwined in my hair, and the other smoothing up and down my bare legs. He'd taken off his jacket and tie and vest and opened a few buttons on his shirt. Pulling the two sides of the collar open, I pressed a kiss to his throat, licking the salty sweet skin with the tip of my tongue. I moaned against his neck, as his hand slipped underneath my robe and squeezed my ass. More than anything, I wanted to be skin to skin with him, to feel his naked body against mine. I stood and held my hand out to him. He took it and followed me inside, closing the door behind him. Once inside, he pulled me close for another kiss, both hands squeezing my buttocks this time and holding me firmly against his hardness. Remy stepped back and reached between us for the sash of my robe. He untied it, and I shrugged, letting the silky fabric slide off my shoulders and puddle at my feet. In brazen wantonness, I stood naked before him, watching his eyes traverse the hills and valleys of my body. My nipples hardened as his gaze lingered over the mounds of my breasts, the pink buds drawing up and tingling, aching for his touch. I'd never been so immodest, so unafraid. "Tu es très jolie," he murmured. You are so pretty. Funny how I knew what he said, even though I didn't speak French. "Thank you." It came out as a whisper. I reached out to unbutton his shirt, carefully sliding each button free, one at a time, while Remy's fingertips glided up and down my back, my shoulders, my neck, my behind. His eyes watched mine, his lips slightly curved. When I reached his waist, the next button was tucked inside his pants, so I unfastened his belt and then his trousers and let them fall. We both smiled as I released the last couple of buttons and pushed the shirt from his shoulders. It, too, fell to the floor, leaving Remy wearing only silk underwear that buttoned at the waist. My hands paused there, fingers grasping the waistband. "Remy?" "Hmm?" "You are très jolie too." He laughed, throwing his head back and pulling me close. "Merci, sugar. Merci." The warmth of his skin against mine and the taste of his lips were intoxicating. As we kissed, he stepped neatly out if his trousers, then bent to swoop me up into his arms. He carried me to the bed and laid me in the center, then stepped back, unfastened his underwear and pulled them off. Climbing onto the bed, Remy pushed himself between my legs and lay over me, bracing himself on his elbows, the thick hardness of his cock nestled against my sex. My eyes drifted shut as he bent to kiss me. I wrapped my arms around his waist and pulled him tighter against me. I knew that mouth, that body. They were almost as familiar to me as my own. Our tongues curled together as we kissed, so that it was difficult to feel where mine ended and his began. Finally, Remy pulled back and kissed my chin, then my cheek, then the side of my neck. "Mmmmm, dèlicieuse," he said, licking my throat. His mouth trailed down my chest to the valley between my breasts, where he pressed a kiss. His hands pushed my breasts together from the sides, and he traced the tip of his tongue around one nipple before sucking it into his mouth. I moaned and writhed beneath him as his teeth clamped on my aching flesh and pulled. My hips thrust upward, tucking him even further into my drenched chasm. We ground against each other before Remy pulled back and slid into me, filling me with his hot flesh. I gasped at the tightness and wrapped my legs around his hips. I clung to him with my arms and legs and my mouth, my hungry body feeding on him, delighting in him, reveling in pleasure, drowning in desire. Remy rolled onto his back as we fucked, pulling me with him, still joined, so that I was riding him. He slipped a hand underneath me, his fingertips finding my clit and stroking it. I climaxed, quivering against him, squeezing his length inside me, my essence coating us both. Moments later, when Remy erupted inside me, I came again. His arms wrapped around me as I collapsed against his chest, his cock still inside me. I wished I could keep him there forever. As our bodies cooled, he slipped out of me, and I rolled to one side, still within the circle of his arms. He let go only long enough to pull the covers over us, and I slept. We made love again later, in the dark, but when I awoke in the morning, Remy was gone. "No," I whispered, frantically searching for my robe. I slipped into it and tied it around my waist. Then I saw him. He was sitting in the chair on the balcony again, fully clothed. "I thought you were gone," I said, stepping out into the morning sunshine. Remy held a hand out to me, which I took. He pulled my hand to his lips and pressed a light kiss to the back of it. Then he sighed and stared out into the courtyard, his eyes far away. "Remy?" I knelt at his feet, between his knees, laying my arms along his thighs. He looked down at me and smiled. It wasn't his usual exuberant, laughing smile. It wasn't even the wry grin. It was a smile devoid of all emotion. The smile people reserved for photograph poses. "You're leaving," I said, knowing, in fact, that he was already gone. "I'm sorry, Casey. I have to." "No. I won't let you." His eyes closed, and when they reopened, they looked weary. I noticed that Remy's black hair was shot through with silver here and there, which I hadn't seen before. "You don't need me anymore, chère." "Yes, I do! How can you say that?" I cried. He smoothed my hair back from my forehead with his palm. "Because it's true. You are stronger than you realize." "No. Take me with you," I sobbed. "I can't." "Please, Remy. Please." I buried my face against his stomach, my fingers clenched in the fabric of his jacket. "It's not your time yet." I looked up at him then, puzzled, yet comprehending in some small way. "There's nothing left for me here. Take me with you. Please?" Remy took both my hands in his and held them against him. He shook his head and looked away for a moment, then back. "Alright," he said. "Tonight." Later that afternoon, I was alone, trying to nap, when there was a knock on my door. A package had arrived for me. A note written in thick black ink on creamy linen paper was included: Casey, Wear this tonight. I will send a driver for you at seven o'clock. Love, Remy Inside the box was a deep green silk evening gown with a matching wrap and, much to my delight, a beautiful mask covered in the same fabric. It was the type that was held on a stick and was encrusted with rhinestones and gorgeous feathers. I supposed we must be going to some sort of Halloween party, and this was my costume. I spent the rest of the afternoon primping. My hair, I swept into an up-do, befitting the glamorous, old fashioned evening gown. Examining myself in the mirror, I felt like a movie star with my sparkling eyes, red lips, and generous cleavage. The plunging neckline of the gown and my upswept hair made my neck appear long and graceful. I was greatly pleased with the whole effect. Promptly at 7:00, the front desk called to announce my driver had arrived. Expecting some sort of car, I was surprised and charmed at the sight of a horse-drawn carriage. Happy and expectant, I rode through the liquid New Orleans night, gazing up at the stars and wondering about my new life. We left the French Quarter and entered the Garden District, which I had not yet seen. The crowded city streets gave way to wider, tree-lined avenues, the houses becoming larger and further apart, some with lighted jack-o-lanterns that winked at me in the darkness. The carriage came to a stop in front of a large, white two-story house with many floor-to-ceiling windows and white columns and a wrought-iron railinged veranda running along the second story. The windows were all lit, and I could see people moving inside. The driver helped me out of the carriage, and as I made my way up the front walk, I was struck with familiarity. I'd seen this house before. The tarot card. Of course. I paused for a moment as a chill licked up my spine and goose bumps sprang out on my arms. A house of lies. It was coincidence, surely. The card was just representational of typical New Orleans architecture. Shaking off my apprehension, I continued up the walk to the front door. It was opened by a uniformed doorman, and I was shown into a foyer. Remy appeared immediately and took me in his arms. "Bonjour, chère." He kissed my lips, then stepped back, still holding my hand and let his eyes rake over me. I held the mask to my face and struck a pose. "Beautiful." He kissed me again, then pulled me by the hand along a short corridor into a room that must have been an office or library and closed the door. "I have something for you. Come," he directed, motioning me to a chair in front of the desk. He sat behind the desk, opened a drawer, and removed a flat leather box, which he pushed toward me across the shining expanse of the desk. "For you, my beauty." Inside the box, nestled on a bed of black velvet, was an emerald and diamond necklace. Delicate yet substantial, it was the perfect complement to my gown. The large emerald in the center was teardrop shaped and gleaming with inner fire. It was obviously old and very valuable. "Oh, Remy," I gasped. "It's beautiful, but..." "It has been in my family for many years, and now it's yours." "I don't know what to say." Remy laughed, his deep, rich laugh, and came around the desk to fasten the necklace around my neck. He then led me to a mirror, where he stood behind me and nodded his approval. I smiled at his reflection and my own. "It's perfect. Thank you, so much." Turning in his arms, I kissed him. Then, linking my arm in his, I let him lead me to the party. That swirling, glittering night is all a blur to me now. There were candles and flowers and gracious, beautiful people everywhere, some masked, some not. Food and liquor flowed freely, and there was a band and servers, and my every need or want was anticipated before it was fully realized. I danced, mostly with Remy, but other times with nameless, faceless gentlemen, who made me laugh with their witty repartee. Indeed, I felt as if I'd known them all forever, been born to this life and this house. When it became too warm inside, Remy took me on a walking tour of his gardens. We kissed in the moonlight and magic, and I felt so happy, so complete. Once the party broke up, I followed Remy up the stately staircase to a large bedroom with tall windows, which a person could walk through to the veranda. We made love for what seemed like hours and hours on a huge old four-poster bed. When I finally drifted off to sleep, wrapped in Remy's arms, it was to the sound of his voice. "Je t'aime, mon ange, de tout mon cœur. Don't ever forget it." I love you, my angel, with all my heart. "Wake up, chère." I could tell it was morning by the light on my eyelids. I felt too warm and cramped. "Remy?" I opened my eyes and was blinded by a headache. Too much champagne, I thought. "How'd you get in here?" My eyes focused on Remy's face, except it wasn't Remy. The man who was talking to me looked a lot like him, but it was like looking at Remy through a distorted lens or a carnival mirror. I was lying cramped on an old moth-eaten chaise, still wearing my gown. My hair was still pinned up, albeit messy and loose, even though I'd taken all the pins out before I'd gone to bed with Remy the night before. I sat up and glanced around. There were some other men in the room. Four or five of them, milling about, watching me. They looked like construction workers. The room, Remy's bedroom, didn't look the same. The furniture was gone except for the ratty old chaise, and many of the window panes were broken. The cream striped wallpaper was tattered and dingy and missing in some spots. Yellowed rags and cobwebs that used to be curtains hung at the windows. "Where's Remy?" I asked. "Remy who?" "Remy Delacroix," I replied in my terrible accent. The man's face registered surprise. He stood and addressed the other men in the room. "Why don't y'all take a break?" They all shuffled out, glancing back at me and laughing, thinking, no doubt that I was a hapless drunk or a crazy person. I stood and tried to gather my belongings. My hands shook, and sweat had begun to pour off me. "Whoa, hold up there, ma'am. You don't look so good. Sit back down." "N-no. I need to find Remy. I need to go." I took a step and swooned, falling against the man, who gently pushed me back onto the chaise. He walked across the room to a cooler, from which he extracted a bottle of water and handed it to me. He crouched in front of me again and waited for me to drink, then said, "How 'bout you tell me how you got in here?" "Remy brought me. This is his house. Who are you?" "I'm Christian Delacroix. This is my house, and it was locked from the outside. I want to know how you got in." "I was invited by Remy. I came through the front door. There was a party last night." "A party? Here?" Christian looked perplexed. "Yes! Except it didn't look like this," I said, glancing around the room. I stood again and gathered my things. "I need to go. I need to find Remy." "Remy Delacroix?" I nodded and gathered up my things and tottered on my heels across the room. I needed to get away from this guy who was so like Remy but not. Redivivus "Wait," he said. "Remy Delacroix has been dead for 36 years. He was my great grandfather. He died in 1967, the day before I was born." "No, no," I stammered. "I saw him last night. I spent the night with him. He was here." "Where did you find that?" he asked, pointing to my necklace. I closed my hand around it, as if to hide it from his gaze. "He gave it to me. Last night." "That necklace is very old. It's a family heirloom that has been lost for years. I've seen pictures of it." I knew he was right. Hadn't Remy told me nearly the same thing? I also knew Christian was just as confused as I was. I took off the necklace and handed it to him and spun around, heading for the door again. "Wait!" Christian called. I kept going, so he grabbed my arm. "Wait a minute," he said. I turned to face him. "What's your name," he asked. "Casey," I replied. "Casey Flynn." "You're not from around here." I shook my head. "Where are you staying?" he asked. "The Place D'Armes. Please, let me go." "You don't look well at all, let me drive you." I protested, but it didn't do any good. Christian insisted on driving me in his pickup truck, a large, shiny GMC with "Delacroix Construction" emblazoned on the side. He'd said it was too far for me to walk, especially the way I was dressed, and I'd realized he was probably right. We didn't talk during the short trip. When he pulled up outside the hotel, he turned to look at me. "Are you sure you're alright?" he asked. He had a kind face, and it was so like Remy's. The general shape of it was very similar, but Christian's hair was a riot of short, dark ringlets. His nose was different, longer, and his eyes weren't the warm, velvety brown of Remy's. They were crystal blue with Remy's fringe of black lashes. Christian's mouth was different too, the lips not quite as full, but when he smiled at me, the same dimples creased his cheeks. "No," I said. "I'm not sure of anything. I'll be fine to walk inside by myself though. Thank you for the ride." With that, I opened the door and hopped out of the truck. Christian was saying something to me through the open window, but I pretended not to hear and kept on walking. I felt sick. I'd honestly thought I wouldn't be coming back here. I thought I was going with Remy, wherever it was that he'd gone. And he was gone. Completely. I could feel it. That electricity had gone out of the air. That dreamy sense I'd had of not being alone was...gone. New Orleans was just a place. A place where I didn't belong. I returned to my room, turned up the air conditioning, and stripped out of my clothes. I sat on the bed in only strapless bra and panties. "Remy?" I said. "Where are you?" As soon as I'd stepped inside the elevator, I started to cry and kept right on crying for a long time. Finally exhausted, I fell asleep. Late in the afternoon, the phone rang, jarring me from deep sleep into a disoriented stupor. It took me a moment to remember where I was and another moment to answer the phone with my sleep-thickened, sticky voice. "Hello?" "Miz Flynn?" "Yes?" "This is Christian Delacroix. Uh, we met earlier today?" "Yes." "I wondered if we could talk for a bit." He paused and cleared his throat. "I mean, about what happened this morning." "Look, I gave you the necklace. I don't have anything else. I..." "Oh! No, no, ma'am. I know, and I—I'm sorry. This is awkward. I just wanted to talk with you. I won't take up a lot of your time. Please. I wasn't accusing you of any...uh, anything wrong." I don't know why I acquiesced. I was going home the next morning and needed to pack, and I'd much rather have been alone; but we agreed to meet in the hotel lobby in an hour. I found Christian sitting in a wingback chair, staring out the window. He was wearing a sport jacket over a polo and khakis, which didn't suit him quite as well as the rugged work clothes he'd worn that morning. There's just something about a man wearing a tool belt. He stood as I approached and smiled his sweet, dimpling smile. "Hey there, Miz Flynn. Thanks so much for coming. You look a lot more comfortable now," he said, taking in my simple pale blue dress and sandals. "Thank you. Please call me Casey." "Casey." He seemed to be trying it on for size, and I liked the way he said it with his slight drawl. "I'm Christian." He pronounced it the American way, which surprised me, as when he'd said it before, he'd pronounced it with more of a French accent. Despite my sadness, I couldn't help smiling back at him. There was something infectious about that smile, those sparkling blue eyes. We shook hands, and his felt big and warm and slightly damp and somewhat callused on the palm. I sat on a loveseat across from Christian's chair and crossed my legs. His eyes traveled the expanse of my legs and back up to my face as he sat again. He leaned forward with his elbows leaning on his thighs. "First of all, Casey, I wanted to apologize again. I don't think I handled the situation very well this morning." I shook my head. "No, it's fine. I don't know how else you could've handled it." "I was shocked, seeing you there. Do you know, ol' Remy had a masked ball there every Halloween when he was alive? I remember the old folks talking about them when I was a kid. So, there you were all dressed up with your mask. I thought maybe you were a ghost. "And the necklace! That necklace was supposed to have been my granny's on her wedding day in 1942. It was lost though, or so she and Granddaddy were told. It had belonged to Granddaddy's mother, and on back. There's a painting of Remy's mother, Annabelle, wearing it. So, anyway, when Granny didn't get it, there were some ugly arguments. She always believed that Remy had hidden it because he didn't approve of her. Well, then Granny refused to live in the family home, Remy's house, and so Granddaddy bought his own house, where Granny still lives. When ol' Remy died, he left his house to my father, his grandson, and nobody's lived in it since. My father was never interested in it, and then it came to me when he passed away last year. My plan is to renovate it and then sell it." "Oh, no!" I gasped. "Don't sell it." "Now, what would I do with that big ol' house, chère?" "It was so charming when..." I trailed off, not quite sure how to finish the sentence. Christian didn't seem to notice. "Yeah, but look at it now, and I'm having a hell of a time getting my crew to work on it. They keep saying it's haunted, and then when we found you today..." He rolled his eyes. "I don't believe we got a lick of work done for the rest of the day." He laughed at that and then continued. "So, back to the necklace. I took it to Granny today. She was shocked, to say the least. At first she thought I'd found it hidden inside one of the walls in the house or buried in the garden, but then I told her about finding you. She was horrified and said, 'Christian Louis Delacroix, you take that right back to that girl! Comme il faut.' Refused to even touch it. She said if ol' Remy gave it to you, then he meant for you to have it. Then she went on to pray that the old devil would go back where he came from and leave folks alone. I tell you, it was quite a scene." His fond smile at the memory charmed me, and his mimicry of his grandmother's voice allowed me to almost see her. "She believed me?" I asked. "Of course. Why wouldn't she?" "Well." I shrugged. "A dead man gave me a necklace and invited me to a party and...it's ridiculous." "Is it?" Christian asked. "This is New Orleans, chère. Many ghosts roam these ancient streets." I thought about the old woman in the cemetery and shivered. "Aren't you afraid?" I asked. "No. I think they're mostly harmless. They don't usually meddle in human affairs." Reaching inside his jacket, Christian retrieved the leather jewelry box and held it out to me. "It's yours," he said. "No, I couldn't." I shook my head. "It belongs to your family." He reached over and laid it in my lap. "It belongs to you, Casey," he said. "Besides, if you don't take it, Granny is convinced our family will be cursed forever." I smoothed my fingers over the leather, which was warm from Christian's body. "I don't know what to say," I murmured. "Thank you." I realized I'd said those same words when presented with the necklace the first time. "De rien." We sat in silence for a moment, me looking down at the leather box and Christian watching me. Finally, I opened it, and there was the necklace, its diamonds and emeralds winking back at me from its velvet bed. "Will you tell me what happened?" Christian asked in a soft voice. I did tell him—all of it except for the most intimate details. It occurred to me that I was telling my personal business to a complete stranger, but it didn't feel that way. When I got to the part about my tarot reading and my fright afterward, I became a little upset, and Christian came to sit beside me on the loveseat but didn't interrupt my story. When I'd finished, he thanked me for sharing it with him. "Well, it's been some honeymoon, huh?" Christian grinned. "I could sure use a drink, chère. How about you? Have dinner with me?" "Oh, I really should pack, and you don't have to..." Christian laughed. "Come on, Casey. I know you must be hungry. I'm starving, and I want to talk with you some more. Have you been to Felix's?" I shook my head with a tentative half smile. "Well then, let's go." Felix's, that noisy oyster bar, was just what I needed, and the time I spent there with Christian is my favorite memory of the whole trip. He made it so easy for me, and I don't think I'd laughed so much in years. I'd never had oysters before but forced myself to try. Christian served me the first one on a cracker with his own concoction of sauce made from ketchup, hot sauce, lemon juice, and I don't know what all mixed together in a cup at the bar. The second one I slurped directly from the shell and let it slide down my throat, just like he showed me, while he and the shucker cheered me on. The ice cold Abita beer helped wash it down, no doubt. After that, I just watched as Christian downed about a dozen oysters, while the shucker kept them coming, entertaining us with stories and jokes. We shared some fried shrimp and some more Abita and then decided we needed to walk it all off. As I walked with Christian, I realized being with him was different from being with Remy. The sharp edge of reality was always present with Christian; whereas, my times with Remy were always dreamy and vague, and time seemed to shift and change, so that I never knew quite where or when I was. Christian felt very solid, very much in the present. We talked and laughed as we walked along in the purple dusk. The heat had broken, and the air was cooler and not quite so laden with humidity. We walked down toward the river and into Woldenberg Park. "You're a good walker, Miz Casey," Christian said with a grin. "Well, thanks. I've been doing it for a long time." He laughed and nudged me with an elbow. "You know what I mean, chère. Some women don't like to walk very far, especially in the heat here." "I like walking with you Christian," I said, trying my best to use the French pronunciation of his name and failing miserably. He laughed, Remy's deep, rumbling laugh. Something must have shown in my face, a tiny bit of discomfiture at that wonderful laugh, because Christian sobered up, as well. He leaned his elbows on the iron railing and looked out over the river. "He was a rum runner, you know. Ol' Remy." He glanced over at me. Stepping closer, I leaned against the rail and gazed at the black water and the purple sky. It was almost dark now. "People say I'm a lot like him," Christian said, still watching the water. "Am I?" Half of his face was illuminated by the glow from a streetlamp as he turned toward me, looking very much like Remy, but a slight shift, a gentle, questioning cock of his head, and he was all Christian again. "There is a resemblance." I shivered as the cool breeze over the water kicked up. Christian shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over my shoulders. He held onto the lapels, pulling me closer. Enveloped in his warmth, I closed my eyes for an instant. "Casey," he whispered, leaning his forehead against mine. "I'm so drawn to you." His breath fanned over my face as he sighed. "Do you really have to leave tomorrow?" I nodded, breathless, aching with desire. Christian pressed his lips to mine in a soft, lingering kiss, then pulled me into his arms. "Don't go." His voice was soft against my ear. "Please don't go." ******* Christian and I were married on New Year's Eve by candlelight in our house, Remy's old house, with all our family and close friends surrounding us. A year later, our son, Remy Christian Louis Delacroix was born. I returned to the voodoo shop one day, but Jessie wasn't there. The dark man, the one who'd returned my hat, was there and almost seemed to be expecting me. I asked him about the Death card, the one at the end of my reading that had upset me so. He explained that the Death card does not literally symbolize death. It is more of a shedding of the old, embracing the new. A new beginning. Yes. ~Fin~ ******* Many thanks to my fabulous editor. What would I do without you, dear friend? To LA for the gift of NOLA and her kind words of encouragement, merci, mon amie. To 3113 and LadyCibelle (who probably don't even remember helping me because it was so long ago), many thanks for their help with tarot and French, respectively. Any mistakes in those areas are mine alone.