workers scrabbled to high ground.
From above, the five men watched the wall of sandbags bow outward like a giant bubble, with a groan like a ship that had topsided. And then it gave way in a crumbling outpour.
The lead wave tore into the land. The muddy river followed in a steady crush, flowing in all directions over flat land like a drop of oil spreading in a pot of water. The men huddled on the crest, surprised to have escaped being swept away.
Rémi turned to them. “Get everyone out!”
They scattered over the hillside in the direction of the Glory workers’ housing. Rémi mounted his horse and sped toward Terrefleurs. He was going to need his bateau.
nine
NEW ORLEANS, 2009
I N THE FOYER OF a grand mansion on St. Charles Avenue, Madeleine handed her wrap to an attendant and smoothed her white satin strapless gown. This kind of gala, hosted by the New Orleans Historic Preservation Society, wasn’t usually her thing, and she wondered how Samantha had managed to convince her to come.
“Drop Jasmine off at my place,” Sam had said. “She can play with Moose and Napoleon. There’s bound to be someone at the gala who knows where Daddy Blank is.”
Daddy was indeed an ardent preservationist. That was the thing: He was just as comfortable among New Orleans’s elite as he was among the winos. Much in the same way he was just as likely to sleep on the finest pillow-top mattress as he was to spend the night stretched out in a damp alley, whichever way the breeze carried him.
Madeleine allowed Sam to steer her to the main ballroom. “You’re going to be glad you came. You might just take an interest in preservation.”
Madeleine rolled her eyes.
Samantha accepted a champagne flute from a passing tray and jumped right into the business of sipping and mingling with her friends. She withdrew a pack of Capris and turned to Madeleine. “Going out to the courtyard for a puff. Wanna come?”
Madeleine waved her off. “No thanks, I want to take a look around. Let me know if you hear anything about you-know-who.”
Sam nodded, and then said, “I know you’re here on a mission, but try to relax a little, OK? This is supposed to be fun.”
She strode away, disappearing into the laughter beyond the French doors. The crowd stuttered along, flowing from reception to the ballroom with the rhythm of blood through an artery. No sign of Daddy. Madeleine felt a prickling at the back of her neck. That sense of being watched. She turned, and blinked in surprise.
“Hello, Madeleine.”
“Oh. Hello, Zenon.”
HE WAS STANDING ONLY a few feet away, one shoulder dropped and a hand in his pocket, the other hand holding a mixed drink—what looked like a scotch and soda.
“You looking fine tonight Maddy.” Zenon’s manner of speech assumed a kind of intimacy that caused the hair to rise on her skin, his stare traveling the length of her as if taking liberties. “Mighty fine, yeah.”
She didn’t reply. She felt an odd vibration in her blood. A rise in temperature that triggered a sheen at her neck. She looked away.
But he took a step forward, and the sensation intensified. His gaze invaded her with a long, thin trail of heat along her skin, blazing a wake of sweat over each curve.
“Zenon, I . . .”
She thought of the conversation at the flower shop, and how Anita had spoken of him. Madeleine had never thought of Zenon in that way before, but now . . . No, it wasn’t attraction. It seemed more like a strange kind of intrusion. She’d felt this way once before when her home was burglarized. And as Zenon stood opposite her now she sensed the nearness of his abdomen, his lean build, a teenage memory of his plate armor muscles that tensed as he’d once labored in his yard in Bayou Black. She’d seen him that way, skin glistening in the sun as he’d bent his back to overgrown shrubs, or leaned over the open hood of a throwaway car he’d salvaged.
She tried to shake away the sensation. “Zenon
From above, the five men watched the wall of sandbags bow outward like a giant bubble, with a groan like a ship that had topsided. And then it gave way in a crumbling outpour.
The lead wave tore into the land. The muddy river followed in a steady crush, flowing in all directions over flat land like a drop of oil spreading in a pot of water. The men huddled on the crest, surprised to have escaped being swept away.
Rémi turned to them. “Get everyone out!”
They scattered over the hillside in the direction of the Glory workers’ housing. Rémi mounted his horse and sped toward Terrefleurs. He was going to need his bateau.
nine
NEW ORLEANS, 2009
I N THE FOYER OF a grand mansion on St. Charles Avenue, Madeleine handed her wrap to an attendant and smoothed her white satin strapless gown. This kind of gala, hosted by the New Orleans Historic Preservation Society, wasn’t usually her thing, and she wondered how Samantha had managed to convince her to come.
“Drop Jasmine off at my place,” Sam had said. “She can play with Moose and Napoleon. There’s bound to be someone at the gala who knows where Daddy Blank is.”
Daddy was indeed an ardent preservationist. That was the thing: He was just as comfortable among New Orleans’s elite as he was among the winos. Much in the same way he was just as likely to sleep on the finest pillow-top mattress as he was to spend the night stretched out in a damp alley, whichever way the breeze carried him.
Madeleine allowed Sam to steer her to the main ballroom. “You’re going to be glad you came. You might just take an interest in preservation.”
Madeleine rolled her eyes.
Samantha accepted a champagne flute from a passing tray and jumped right into the business of sipping and mingling with her friends. She withdrew a pack of Capris and turned to Madeleine. “Going out to the courtyard for a puff. Wanna come?”
Madeleine waved her off. “No thanks, I want to take a look around. Let me know if you hear anything about you-know-who.”
Sam nodded, and then said, “I know you’re here on a mission, but try to relax a little, OK? This is supposed to be fun.”
She strode away, disappearing into the laughter beyond the French doors. The crowd stuttered along, flowing from reception to the ballroom with the rhythm of blood through an artery. No sign of Daddy. Madeleine felt a prickling at the back of her neck. That sense of being watched. She turned, and blinked in surprise.
“Hello, Madeleine.”
“Oh. Hello, Zenon.”
HE WAS STANDING ONLY a few feet away, one shoulder dropped and a hand in his pocket, the other hand holding a mixed drink—what looked like a scotch and soda.
“You looking fine tonight Maddy.” Zenon’s manner of speech assumed a kind of intimacy that caused the hair to rise on her skin, his stare traveling the length of her as if taking liberties. “Mighty fine, yeah.”
She didn’t reply. She felt an odd vibration in her blood. A rise in temperature that triggered a sheen at her neck. She looked away.
But he took a step forward, and the sensation intensified. His gaze invaded her with a long, thin trail of heat along her skin, blazing a wake of sweat over each curve.
“Zenon, I . . .”
She thought of the conversation at the flower shop, and how Anita had spoken of him. Madeleine had never thought of Zenon in that way before, but now . . . No, it wasn’t attraction. It seemed more like a strange kind of intrusion. She’d felt this way once before when her home was burglarized. And as Zenon stood opposite her now she sensed the nearness of his abdomen, his lean build, a teenage memory of his plate armor muscles that tensed as he’d once labored in his yard in Bayou Black. She’d seen him that way, skin glistening in the sun as he’d bent his back to overgrown shrubs, or leaned over the open hood of a throwaway car he’d salvaged.
She tried to shake away the sensation. “Zenon
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