Chapter 15 Anna
ANNA
The second-line parade yesterday had gone better than I could have imagined. Seeing Luke finally relax and let loose made me realize there was more to him than his Hollywood persona. It was fun watching him get caught up in the music and energy.
And today, I was about to spend an entire day showing a movie star around New Orleans. Just casually hanging out with someone who’d been on more magazine covers than I’d read in my lifetime.
He was wearing a ridiculous disguise—a wig with wild, springy black curls and a pair of oversized glasses without lenses.
As Tom drove, we passed a pothole that had been turned into a makeshift fishing pond, complete with stuffed animals holding fishing rods.
A plastic alligator was caught mid-escape at the end of one pole.
The sign next to the pothole declared, “Welcome to Lake Pothole. Good things come to those who bait.”
Luke stared. “Do you guys decorate every pothole in this city?”
“It’s New Orleans. We lean into the weird.”
We pulled up to St. Louis Cemetery Number One. “Normally, you’d need a guide to get in,” I explained as we stepped out. “But my family’s been here since the 1800s. We have a pass.”
Luke followed me through the narrow pathways between weathered tombs, his footsteps echoing slightly off the stone. He slowed at each turn, eyes scanning the names and dates etched into crumbling marble and faded plaques.
“This is… different,” he said finally, his voice low, almost reverent.
I smiled, though there was something solemn in it. “Welcome to the city of the dead.”
He glanced around, eyebrows lifted. “Okay, but… why are we in a cemetery? Is this a thing people do here? In LA, we don’t go sightseeing in graveyards.”
“It’s not only sightseeing. It’s history.” I gestured to the maze of tombs rising all around us. Some were elaborate, featuring columns and angels that reached skyward. Others were simple, just brick and mortar, names erased by time.
“The water table here makes underground burials impossible,” I explained. “Try digging six feet down, and you’re basically building a coffin-sized boat. During floods, they’d just… float back up.”
Luke blinked. “That’s horrifying.”
“So, the city adapted. Tombs above ground. Generations of families in the same vault. These places are like neighborhoods. That one’s from the 1800s,” I added, pointing to a tomb with iron gates and a carved fleur-de-lis at the top.
“That one’s recent. You’ll see Mardi Gras beads on some, photos tucked into cracks, candles still burning. ”
He looked around again, more slowly this time. “It’s beautiful. In a haunted, Tim Burton kind of way.”
Our footsteps carried us deeper into the cemetery.
The air smelled faintly of flowers left too long in the heat.
When we reached the tomb of Marie Laveau, I pointed out the offerings scattered around—coins, beads, and even a bottle of rum.
“That’s the Voodoo Queen,” I said in a hushed tone.
“People still leave gifts, hoping she’ll grant their wishes. ”
His eyes widened. “Voodoo? That’s a thing here?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know anyone who practices voodoo, not for real.
I feel like it’s more of a story for tourists.
Take Marie Laveau. She’s known now for voodoo and healing the sick with her mysterious potions.
But when she lived more than a century ago, she was also a devout Catholic.
That’s the thing about New Orleanians. We’re a mess of contradictions. ”
In that way, I was a lot like New Orleans.
There I was, dreaming of writing a novel, yet there was that nagging understanding that everything I knew, everything I was, was rooted right here.
I was sure that I would never live anywhere else, no matter how much I sometimes wanted to.
Something was holding me here. It was a strange sensation, feeling tethered to a place while yearning to break free—just like the city’s own blend of tradition and transformation.
As we wandered, Luke asked questions, surprising me with his interest. He was attentive, absorbing the history and stories.
After we left the cemetery, I offered to take him to the French Quarter. “The oldest bar in the U.S. is in the Quarter, Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop. They say that the pirate Jean Lafitte ran a blacksmith shop there, but only as a front to sell stolen goods.”
Luke nodded. “Lead the way, Professor New Orleans.”
We wandered through the Quarter, the streets buzzing with tourists, locals, and street performers. I pointed out landmarks and tossed out bits of trivia as we walked. Tom and Hal stayed close, their presence subtle enough to avoid drawing attention.
We stopped at the St. Louis Cathedral, the towering spires gleaming in the sunlight.
“This is the oldest cathedral in the country.” I motioned toward the impressive structure.
“But see those apartments with the cast-iron balconies? That style is a signature of the French Quarter, all thanks to the Baroness de Pontalba. She brought it over from France about a century and a half ago. The whole look and feel of the Quarter? Credit goes to her.”
I led him toward an apartment complex near the cathedral.
“The baroness was born here in New Orleans. She fell in love with a local boy who didn’t have a penny to his name, so her family whisked her off to France and married her off to her titled cousin.
Little did they know, he was broke and only in it for her fortune. ”
Luke raised an eyebrow. “That’s... dramatic.”
“Oh, it gets better.” I leaned in for effect. “Her husband and his father constantly plotted to take her money. When she resisted, they locked her away in their chateau near Paris. One day, her father-in-law shot her four times in a fit of rage before turning the gun on himself.”
Luke looked stunned. “And she survived?”
“Not only did she survive, but she got a divorce and came back here to New Orleans. Once she was free of all that dead weight, she shaped the French Quarter into what we see today.”
I glanced at him and saw something in his expression shift, like the story had struck a chord. He studied me for a moment. “Have you ever thought about being a tour guide?”
The question caught me off guard. I let out a small laugh, suddenly aware of how much I’d been talking. “Not really. I guess I just remember the story from school.”
We stepped into Jackson Square, where the atmosphere was alive with tarot card readers, street musicians, and artists showcasing their work. The air hummed with energy, and I couldn’t help but feel the tug of possibility.
Luke turned to me, his eyes sparkling with curiosity. “How about we get our fortunes told?”
I hesitated, looking at the colorful array of fortune tellers set up around the square. “You know, I’ve never actually done that. Do you believe in that stuff?”
He shook his head. “Not really, but it seems like the thing to do here. You in?”
I grinned, already scanning the options. “Why not?” Leaning closer, I whispered, “Who should we pick?”
Luke pointed toward a woman adorned in a vibrant head wrap and an outfit that seemed to belong on a movie set. “How about Madame Aphrodite over there?”
I led the way, trying not to laugh at the exaggerated way she gestured us over. “Hi there. My friend here is curious about a tarot-card reading. How much do you charge?”
She sized us up, her oversized feather boa brushing against the cards laid out on her table. “For you, a suggested fifty-dollar donation,” she said, her voice dripping with drama.
I choked a little, blinking. “Uh, do you take credit cards?”
She rolled her eyes, waving her hand dismissively. “Darling, do I look like I have a card machine hidden in my turban? Next, you’ll ask if I take crypto.”
Luke pulled out a bundle of bills as if it were nothing. “I’ve got cash.”
I grabbed his wrist, whispering, “Put that away. Do you want to get mugged?”
Madame Aphrodite beckoned us with a dramatic flourish. “Sit, my darlings. We must build a fortress of energies to protect us.”
Luke murmured, “Protect us from what, exactly?”
Madame Aphrodite shot him a look of dramatic disdain. “From malevolent spirits, of course. Now, sit.”
Luke immediately gestured to me with a sly grin. “Ladies first.”
I stared at him flatly but relented with a sigh. “Fine.”
I’d always been skeptical about tarot-card readings.
Growing up in New Orleans taught me to respect the unexplainable.
Madame Aphrodite waved her hand over the deck, sprinkling herbs that smelled suspiciously like my aunt’s kitchen.
Her bangles clinked loudly as she spoke, her voice dripping with drama.
“What question would you like to ask the cards, my dear?”
I hesitated, trying to keep things light. “What does the future hold for me?”
Her eyes sparkled as though I’d just handed her a lottery ticket. “Ah, an excellent question.” She spread three cards face down with deliberate flair. “These cards represent your past, your present, and your future. Let’s begin. Flip the first card.”
I flipped it over and saw an image of a lone figure walking away from a scattered arrangement of cups.
Madame Aphrodite leaned in as if she were about to divulge the secret of life itself. “Behold, the Eight of Cups. This card speaks of moving on. It’s time to leave behind the energy-draining ties of the past.” Her gaze bore into me. “You’re carrying guilt, aren’t you?”
I froze for a breath, then forced a laugh. “Well, there was that time I told my cousin the ice cream truck only played music when it was out of ice cream.”
Madame Aphrodite didn’t flinch. “This isn’t about your cousin.
This is guilt’s shadow—fear. Fear is what’s anchoring you.
Fear of rejection, fear of the unknown, fear that you’ll try and still fall short.
” Her voice softened, but the words landed like thunder.
“You tell yourself it’s only guilt. But that guilt leads to fear. ”
My chest burned. She wasn’t wrong, and I hated how seen I felt.
As if he could sense it, Luke jumped in, his voice light and airy. “Fear? Anna? Nah. She faces down tourists at Muses without even blinking.”
Madame Aphrodite smiled faintly, letting the moment settle. “Shall we move on to the present?”
I turned over the next card, revealing a woman calmly holding a roaring lion at bay.
“Ah, the Strength card.” Madame’s tone was theatrical. “It tells me you have the courage to face adversity, but not in the way you think. It’s not brute force. It’s quiet strength, the kind that comes from trusting yourself.”
Luke leaned back, smirking. “Quiet strength? That’s a fancy way of saying stubborn, isn’t it?”
Madame’s painted eyebrows arched higher. “The strength is there, whether or not she chooses to use it.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes but said nothing, flipping the final card. It was a serene woman pouring water beside a shimmering pond beneath a glowing star.
“The Star,” Madame whispered reverently, her tone dipping into mystery.
“Hope. Renewal. A guiding light toward brighter days.” Her voice dropped low with warning “But fear is stubborn. It will whisper doubts in your ear, telling you that you’re not enough, that you’ll fail.
Only by confronting it can you step into the future you deserve. ”
I stared at the card. Her words felt too close to home, like she’d reached into my chest and plucked out all my buried insecurities.
Strength, renewal, and courage sounded so absurdly out of reach.
But part of me—the part I tried to silence—longed for it to be true.
What would it be like to believe in that kind of promise, to imagine a future brighter than my fears?
“Well,” I finally said, my voice shaky, “that’s a lot to unpack. Do I get a user manual for all that strength and renewal?”
Madame Aphrodite chuckled. “You don’t need a manual, my dear. You need to trust that the story you want to write is worth telling.”
I wasn’t so sure. But as I placed the cards back on the table, a tiny ember of hope flickered.