over and above the gloom that hangs heavy. From the zydeco music blaring from the overhead speakers, to the laughter and mirth, they all seem to live by the joie de vivre philosophy, a contrast to the decaying homes and slowly dying Valir accent.
A scan over the crowd reminds me that I am anyone and no one here. As nameless a face as any of them. There’s a sense of freedom in that thought. Just another person walking amongst them, and not the sole survivor of their most horrific murder case.
I catch sight of a tent midway along the path, with a colorful array of flowers and fresh fruits, and I make my way toward it. The vendor is a young woman, slightly older than me, who smiles when I nab a bouquet of colorful daisies.
“Do you have gardenias?”
“Sure thing, right dere,” she says, directing me to the large white blooms gathered inside a wide vase.
I pick out the best ones, grab an apple, and pay her. Burying my face in the sweet floral scent that reminds me of Maw Maw Day, I head in the direction of the truck, but pause when the sound of whistling draws my attention toward a tent off to the right.
A tall man, well over six foot and built like a wall, clutches a ball cap while scratching his head. “I don’ mean to be rude, but you’da finest looking catin I seen all day.”
That word again.
Frowning, I approach his tent, lowering the flowers from my face. “Can I ask you something? What the hell does catin even mean?”
“Das how we Valir folks call a pretty lady.” He stretches out a thick palm toward me. “Name’s Luc. Luc Bergeron.”
Bergeron. I won’t ask if he’s related to Bedroom Eyes Bergeron. I’m guessing so, given they seem to have a few similar features … like the full lips.
“Carly.” Returning the handshake, I glance around his tent, noticing all the meat. “Is this where I ask for the Parrain Special?”
“Oh, yeah.” His lips stretch into a smile, and he cocks a brow. “You heard of my boudin?”
“I have. I’m not sure what I’m ordering, but the woman said it was good. And that I should try it.”
“Woman? Name wasn’ Ana, was it?”
“I didn’t catch her name.”
Licking his lips, he gives me a onceover. “C’est bon. Wait here.” He spins around to what looks like a portable kitchen getup, and goes to work frying up a biscuit in butter, alongside an egg. When he finishes, the sandwich he hands off to me feels heavy, and my arteries practically groan in protest.
“I think you need to change the name to the Heart Attack Special, Luc.”
“I don’ think anyone would eat dat, if I did.”
“What do I owe you?”
“On da house. For da jolie fille.”
With a shy smile, I nod. “Thank you.”
Removing his cap, he scratches his forehead again, eye squinting. “Got a number I can call sometime?”
It sucks that he asks me this right after giving me something for free. “I don’t have a phone. And I don’t mean that in a mean, dismissive way. I’m sort of between places right now.”
“You need a place to stay?”
Oh, boy. I can’t tell if this guy just has a sweet, soft spot for strays, or if he’s trying really hard to get laid.
“No, I have a place. Just … not a phone yet.”
“Well, den. You come back sometime, and I’ll hook you up wit breakfast again, how’s ‘at sound?”
With a smile, I nod and lift my sandwich. “That’s very generous. Thank you.”
Good Lord, the breakfast sandwich is probably the best thing I’ve eaten in months. Scarfing down the last of it, I steer the truck one-handedly into the Peaceful Pines Cemetery, where a dirt road winds through a perfectly kempt yard of grave markers on either side. Guy must’ve laced that sausage with straight up crack, because I swear, I could eat another one.
When the last of it is finally gone, I hop out of the truck, flowers in hand, and begin my hunt. In spite of the popularity of this place as a vacation hotspot, I read the actual population is only about fifteen-hundred who live on the island year round, so the graveyard isn’t huge.
Unfortunately, it isn’t all that familiar, either, which means, I’ll have to search every damn stone in this place.
After about a half hour of winding through graves, I find the first: