Page 24 of Saving Saul

I let out a short, humorless laugh. “Not always. But when I start convincing myself to let go of this, to leave him in the past, they scorch me like I’m making a mistake. And when I’m thinking the right things or moving in a way that aligns with them?” I exhale, shaking my head. “They cool. Like ice water against my skin. Like approval.”

Carissa stares at me, her skepticism warring with the part of her that grew up in this city, where the bayou breathes secrets, and the air is thick with stories older than the streets themselves. “Tess,” she says slowly, her voice softer now. “What are they telling you right now?”

I glance down at the pearls, pressing my fingers against them, waiting for the sensation. The heat is there—not blistering or scalding, but a steady warmth, like embers glowing in the dark.

“They’re telling me I’m not done,” I whisper. “Not with him. Not with this.”

Carissa blows out a long breath. “Of course they are,” she mutters. “Because why would life ever let you have a simple heartbreak?”

I smile faintly, but it doesn’t quite reach my eyes.Simple? Nothing about Saul, about us, about this—has ever been simple.

Carissa reaches across the table, her fingers warm as they wrap around mine. “Tessa, if you believe there’s something to this, then there’s someone you need to see.”

“Who?” My voice is steady, but my chest tightens with hope and fear.

“Your Grandmère,” she says, her tone reverent. “If anyone can help you, it’s her.”

I spin my coffee cup on the saucer, giving Carissa an incredulous look.

On the one hand, yes, if there’s one person who always has answers—or at least riddles that feel like answers—it’s Grandmère Sinclair. Still, I hesitate to bring her into this.

Grandmère is my anchor, but her beliefs can be overwhelming. She lives halfway between the physical and the spiritual, where the natural communes with the supernatural, and the mundane intertwine with the mystical.

"She’ll know what to do," Carissa insists. Her voice, always calm, takes on an edge of urgency. “You haven’t slept in what, weeks? You’ve been dreaming about Saul. And those pearls heating up? That’s not nothing, Tessa."

I stir my latte, my thoughts spiraling as steam curls upward. “Carissa, I love Grandmère, but you know how she gets. She’ll start talking about ancestors, Jesus, and the Holy gris-gris, and honestly, I don’t know if I can handle that right now.”

Carissa reached across the table, her hand warm and firm over mine. “Tessa, you don’t have to believe everything she says. But you do believe in her. And you know she believes in you.”

I nod because she’s right. Grandmère ’s wisdom isn’t about logic; it’s about faith. She’s why I grew up with roots strong enough to weather storms. If anyone can help me understand these dreams—and Saul—it’s her.

The two-hour driveto Grandmère ’s house feels like a pilgrimage. The narrow roads wind through moss-draped oaks, their shadows stretching long and lean across the path. Her house sits on the bayou’s edge, its wide porch framed by hangingferns and the sweet scent of jasmine. Seeing it always stirs something in me—comfort mixed with reverence.

Reverence because this isn’t just a home; it’s a haven, a repository of family secrets, prayers, and whispered truths passed through generations. I also respect Sinclair land whenever I walk upon it because I know it’s more than just five generations of Sinclairs buried in this soil.

When I step onto the creaking wooden porch, the door swings open before I can knock. Grandmère stands there, her silver hair pulled back into a loose bun, her amber eyes sharp and knowing. She doesn’t say a word, opens her arms, and I walk into her embrace, the scent of lavender and sage wrapping around me like a balm.

“You’re troubled, chérie,” she says softly, pulling back to study my face. Her hands, worn and strong, rest on my shoulders. “Come inside. Let’s talk.”

Inside, the house feels like a time capsule, untouched by the chaos of the outside world. Quilts drape over every chair, and family photos cover the walls, a silent testimony to our lineage. The air smells of gumbo, rich and savory, bubbling away on the stove.

She leads me to the small kitchen table, a well-worn relic of countless conversations and cups of tea. “Sit,” she commands gently, already moving to pour two steaming cups from the pot on the counter.

I sink into the chair, the wood creaking beneath me. “Thanks, Grandmère .”

She places a cup in front of me and sits across the table, her hands folded neatly, her gaze piercing. “Now, tell me what’s been troubling you.”

I take a sip of the tea, its bitterness grounding me. “It’s Saul,” I begin, my voice barely above a whisper. “He’s in my dreams,Grandmère. And Mama—she’s there too. She keeps telling me I have the power to save him.”

Her expression doesn’t change, but I see the flicker of recognition in her eyes. “Your mother always knew you were destined for something greater, Tessa, even in the womb. She was a seer. I wish she’d had enough faith to fight her demons to see you through this. Those pearls you wear—they’re part of that destiny. Do you feel them?”

“They... they heat up sometimes,” I admit, my fingers brushing the smooth beads at my throat. “It’s like they’re alive.”

Grandmère nods as if my answer is exactly what she expected. “The women in our family have always been protectors, guided by the spirits. Those pearls carry the prayers and power of every Sinclair woman before you. They’re showing you the path.”

I stand up abruptly. “ So, they are telling me what to do! I thought I was losing my mind.”

Grandmère chuckles. “ No, child, your mind is intact. The Gris-gris is just giving your heart a nudge because it knows Sinclair’s mind is stubborn and strong. Let them guide you.”

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