“Need some help, Mom?”
“I’m good,” Ninette said, pushing her baseball cap back to dab at a few drops of perspiration. Her tiny figure disguised a will so strong that it had powered her through a bout of Hodgkin’s lymphoma in her early twenties. “Your dad may need help, though. We had a few last-minute reservations come through. I think we’re finally full up for the week.”
“Excellent. I was getting worried.”
“We all were, honey. Now, why don’t you take this kale into the kitchen?”
Maggie took the basket of kale from Ninette and headed for the plantation kitchen, her steps lightened by the relief of a “No Vacancy” sign. Late summer bookings had been hurt by a national trend toward starting the school year in August rather than after Labor Day. But if there was one time of year that every hostelry in Pelican should be booked up, it was the week of Fet Let.
Louisiana abounded with festivals celebrating its unique blend of cultures. They ranged from New Orleans’s world-renowned JazzFest to Pelican’s Fete L’ete—Fet Let to Pelicaners—a casual event that honored the end of summer. Businesses and families set up stands around the town square where they sold crafts and fantastic homemade food made from recipes handed down through generations. Singers sang, fiddlers fiddled, and there was the requisite bounce house and petting zoo for the kids. To capitalize on the popular event, Maggie had suggested a Fet Let end-of-summer special, offering a discounted room rate plus breakfast, dinner, and happy hour for guests who booked August’s last full week. She was happy to see that her brainstorm had paid off.
She put the kale in the industrial-size refrigerator. Then she walked into the back parlor where her father, Thibaut “Tug” Crozat, worked at a computer housed in a nineteenth-century secretary. Grand-mère Crozat, clad in pale blue linen pants and a crisp white blouse, her soft gray hair meticulously coiffed as always, sat on a nearby wingback chair. She had an iPad with an attached keyboard perched on her lap.
“Are the reservations confirmed? Can I update our page?” Grand-mère asked her son. Gran’ had become the family social media maven, a poster girl for the computer-loving seniors who were chasing teens off Facebook.
“All confirmed. Update away, Mama.”
As Gran’ gleefully posted on the plantation’s Facebook page, Maggie peered over her father’s shoulder at his computer screen. Tug’s red-gold hair took on a metallic glint in the evening’s setting sun. “What’s the breakdown?” she asked.
“Two couples, one of them honeymooners; some college boys here to fish; a single male; a family from Australia; and four women who are the executive board of a group called the Cajun Cuties, a national group of Cajun wannabes,” Tug said. “They usually meet at Belle Grove Plantation to plan the year’s activities, but Belle Grove’s guesthouse flooded this morning and they rebooked them to us.”
“Thank you, Belle Grove’s antiquated plumbing,” Maggie said.
“Amen to that,” Tug seconded. “Should be an interesting week.”
Maggie and her dad shared a grin. Then she shuddered again.
Tug looked at her, concerned. “You okay?” he asked.
“Yes. I don’t know where that came from.”
“Oh, dear,” Gran’ said. She pursed her lips. “Shudders. That’s not good. Not good at all.” She made the sign of the cross and her son shook his head, amused.
“No need to get melodramatic. Right, Maggie?”
“Right.” Still, Maggie couldn’t help notice her father surreptitiously crossing himself as well. Tug was the Crozat least susceptible to local superstitions. Something had spooked him, which only made Maggie more nervous.
*
Later, as soon as Maggie finished a dinner that was heavy on kale, she drove into Pelican’s Historic Business Center—a lofty name for what was essentially a sleepy village. Its picturesque center featured four blocks of two-story buildings with wrought iron balconies that framed a town green, an unusual feature for the area and the pride of Pelican.
Maggie parked in front of two shops, Bon Bon Sweets and its sister store, Fais Dough Dough Patisserie. She grabbed some boxes from the Falcon’s backseat and walked through Bon Bon into the workroom that it shared with Fais Dough Dough. High school student Briana Poche, her brother Clinton, and a few friends sat at a table stuffing small gauze bags with various herbs, roots, and talismans. Supervising them was Maggie’s cousin, Lia Tienne. Although Lia was seven years older than Maggie, the two had grown up together and were bonded like sisters. Lia’s late father was of Franco-African heritage, which had blessed her with café au lait coloring and the bone structure of Nefertiti. She was recognized as the Pelican town beauty, which mortified her.
Lia smiled when she saw Maggie, who put her boxes down on a workbench. “Hey. Whatcha got for me?”
“Mugs, plates, mostly,” Maggie said. She had started a small side business making souvenirs that featured her artistic take on local landmarks. Instead of the historically accurate but dull illustrations usually featured on such mementos, hers were bold and modern. They had yet to generate a profit, but she took comfort in the fact that at least she was breaking even.
Lia reached into one of Maggie’s boxes and pulled out a black mug that featured a stylized white illustration of a dilapidated plantation. “Oooh, I love this.”
“My SOS series—Save Our Structures. A portion of sales go to the historical society so we can save the buildings that are falling apart.” She pointed to the cup in Lia’s hand. “That’s Grove Hall. If the Durands don’t do something with that place soon, there’s not gonna be anything left to save.” She then eyed the gift bag assembly. “What exactly are you doing?”
“A bride-to-be from Metairie ordered two hundred gris-gris bags for love as wedding favors.”
Maggie held up a silvery gauze bag imprinted with “Brent and Carolyn: A Magical Evening.” “What a great idea.”
“Yes, you’ll have to remember that,” Lia said, grinning.
Maggie shook a finger at her. “Nuh-uh. If my mother doesn’t get to nag me about marriage, you don’t either.”
Maggie joined the teens at the table, and Lia handed her a sharp knife and the ginger root. Maggie started chopping. As each bag was passed around the table, she dropped in a small piece of ginger as another love talisman.
“So, you have a full house?” Lia asked as she carefully packed up completed gris-gris bags.
“Happy to report, yes.” Maggie filled Lia in on the reservations. Lia suddenly shuddered, and Maggie gasped. “You, too? The same thing happened to me. That’s so weird.”
“Something’s not right,” Lia said, shaking her head. “Just . . . not right.”
The kids at the table exchanged concerned looks. There wasn’t a generation in Pelican that didn’t take stock in omens. “Or,” Maggie said, trying to lighten the mood. “Maybe you just shivered because I said that one of our guests was a single guy in his early forties. Just right for you, Leelee.”
Lia didn’t say a word. Instead, she focused on her task, picking up speed as she packed the box. Maggie felt terrible. Lia’s husband Degas had succumbed to leukemia two years earlier. It was a brutal reminder of Plantation Alley’s other, darker nickname—Cancer Alley.
“I’m an idiot. I should have kept my stupid big mouth shut—”
“No, it’s okay. It’s . . . I’m not ready. Honestly, Maggie, I don’t know if I ever will be.”
Briana’s lip quivered and a tear fell on the gris-gris bag she was packing. “Oh, that bag is especially powerful now,” Lia told Briana as she gently laid a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “You get to keep it.” Briana was about to burst into tears when Clinton, a chunky eleventh grader, let out a resounding Coke burp.
“Whoops. Sorry.”