Page 20 of The Witching Hours

“That was wise of Tristan’s dad,” Dr. Guidry said, implying that there was real uncertainty about Tristan’s academic success. “I hope you asked that boy to refrain from making a spectacle of us when he’s in our neighborhood.”

I nodded. There was no point in quibbling over how and what was said. The point was made. Guidrys don’t like loud noises that call attention. No honking. No club level bass and hip hop with windows down. Got it.

Mrs. Guidry was unaware that she’d been stirring her iced tea much longer than necessary. She was preoccupied with what to do about Jeanette and that boy. “What would yourGrand-mèresay about this, Jeanette?”

Jeanette’s mother knew she could always command her daughter’s attention by implying that her departed grandmother, who was indeed dear to the child, might disapprove of this or that.

It would be hard to say whether Mace, in a weak moment, took pity on Jeanette or whether he couldn’t graspthat people were interested in something besides him. She didn’t care about his motivation. She only cared about the relief he inserted by saying, “I’m going to work on the float this afternoon.”

Dr. and Mrs. Guidry swiveled heads in his direction with the precision of synchronized swimmers.

“You are?” His mother asked.

“Yeah.” He shrugged as he reached for another beignet.

“This is new,” Dr. Guidry said. “Why the sudden interest?”

Mace smiled. “Girls. W3 told me it’s always a smorgasbord on the weekend.”

Dr. Guidry’s eyes twinkled. He was proud of Mace in every way possible including, apparently, the fact that he was a horn dog. “Some things don’t change,” Dr. Guidry said. “Was the same in my day. We haven’t seen W3 for a while.” Mace’s best friend was known as W3 because he was William Hebert Broussard, III. A mutual friend had started calling him W3 in fifth grade and it had stuck. “But I played golf with his dad last week. He’s as bad as ever.”

The two men at the table had a gossipy giggle over that.

Jeanette never minded that conversation was centered on Mace. When their parents were talking to him or about him, they were ignoring her and that’s the way she liked it. Mention of her grandmother made her imagine she was smelling the unforgettable aroma of gardenia bushes blooming just underneath an open window. As a child, she’d sneak away to her grandmother’s anytime she could. Celeste Richard had been a widow long before the recollection of Jeanette’s first memory.

Of course, there had been a grand-père. The evidence was in gilded framed pictures scattered around the house and Grand-mère’s occasional fond musings. But in Jeanette’s reality of choice, the world of Richard House was populated by herselfand her magical grand-mère. Of course, she thought Richard House was magical. How could she not? Her Grand loved and approved of everything about Jeanette and almost made up for the recognition she didn’t get at home.

Sometimes the two of them would walk the tree lined street that ended at Lafayette Cemetery and leave flowers at the tombs where various branches of family were buried. All the while they walked, Jen’s grandmother talked. She talked about horticulture. She talked about cooking. She talked about family history.

Jeanette didn’t know her grandmother was making deliberate deposits into the vault of her granddaughter’s memory to insure that the important things about family lived on. She only knew that her grandmother’s voice was loving, soothing, and that she thought Jeanette was the best company.

Sometimes the two of them would sit on the porch and make a wreath to take to the cemetery. Celeste Richard would direct Jeanette to gather green branches with shiny foliage and no spots, and seasonal blooms. At every time of the year there was something blooming in the gardens that encircled Celeste’s house. She seemed to have a gift for coaxing plants to be their best.

As for Jeanette, she didn’t understand all of what she was told. While they worked on wreaths, or cooked regional fare, or planted herbs, her grandmother talked about her own grandmother, Marie Aslyenne Campbell. She told Jeanette that certain gifts skip a generation, but remain in the family and, just like plants that flower, will bloom when the time is just right.

She’d say, “Someday you will bloom, cher. When your time comes. And then you will know you’ve been gifted above all your line.”

“What do you mean, Grand?”

The special smile she would give Jeanette at such times was a treasured marker that Jeanette would keep in her heart forever.

“There’ll be no mistake, cher. You will know. Remember. This house has everything you need.”

She didn’t doubt it. As a child, Jeanette would look around and don that belief like a favorite coat. After all, Grand told the truest of truths.

Celeste had shown Jeanette how to plant a seed in a pot and what to say to encourage growth. Jeanette smiled to herself every time she remembered how happy Celeste had been when, on the very next day, that seedling turned into a bright green shoot, three inches high.

“Well, little dear, seems you have Marie’s gift, which she got from her grandmother, Seraphine, and she got from her grandmother, Brigitte.”Celeste held out her open palms. “And there succession was lost. But no matter. You will know this much and will tell your granddaughter.”

As a child, Jeanette thought the idea of one day having a granddaughter was rather preposterous, but she never corrected her grandmother.

Nowadays Celeste was frail and rarely felt like making the walk to the Lafayette tomb. She had full-time help so that she was able to stay in her house, but a case could be made that it was less privilege and more curse. Tristan had offered to rent a wheelchair, carry Celeste down the steps to the walk and roll her to Lafayette even though the sidewalks were cracked and uneven. It would take a lot of young muscle, but Tristan was okay in that department. He’d always played sports and was a borderline workout junkie.

Jeanette had been dubious, but Tristan insisted and, since Celeste loved the idea, arrangements were made. Celeste took an instant liking to Tristan, which wasn’t a big surprise. Thefact that he insisted on arranging for hergrand-mère’sfavorite outing was a testament to his big heart.

“Your line of sorcière likes the wild ones, cher,” Celeste had said.

Jeanette didn’t understand all of what she meant, but she caught the gist of what was being said about her boyfriend. “Tristan’s not wild, Grand. He’s just… high-spirited.”

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