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Josephine Dumont is ready to take on the Big Easy.
CHAPTER TWO
JOSIE
Most kids grow up with fairy tales of princesses, and dragons, and happily ever afters. In the Dumont home, the bedtime stories were of a darker nature—the history of New Orleans that can’t be found on any walking tour or placard.
I grew up hearing about the bloody war between werewolves and vampires, and the Tremé witches who were caught in the middle of their rivalry. The same war that killed my parents and had my grandmother fleeing not just the city, but the entire continent, clutching a four-year-old in her arms.
But that was over twenty-five years ago. Surely, it’s not that bad now. Right?
Walking down St. Ann Street, swept up in the vibrant atmosphere, it certainly doesn’t seem all that dangerous. Besides, the full moon just passed, and the new moon is two weeks away—I’ll be finished here and safely back in Leeds way before then.
I’ve only been in the city for a single afternoon—most of which was spent in the airport—but already the thought of leaving all this behind for a second time leaves me feeling wistful. And more than a little bitter about being a refugee from a war that had nothing to do with me.
I understand now why New Orleans was always a taboo topic. It must have hurt my grandmother to talk about her home, knowing she could never return. Still, she left one thing out of the stories she told—the inherent magic in these streets.
It’s incredible. Intoxicating.
It’s like my blood, cells, and the marrow of my bones are being charged by the surrounding energies.
The sun casts a warm light on the quaintly painted buildings and the robust pigeons fluttering around in search of crumbs. The sound of live music echoes through the park, drawing in tourists and locals alike.
I take my time traversing the shoulder-to-shoulder wave of people, sticking to the park’s edge, and study the various vendors and street performers.
One of them taps out a dance on a cardboard stage and I watch before adding a few bills to his tip jar and continuing on my way. Only a few steps further and I stop again, lured in by a street painter. It continues like this all along the square, getting sucked in by something new and exciting that leaves me mesmerized.
There’s nothing like this back home.
A row of artists sit under a rainbow of beach umbrellas to stay out of the sun, while an array of paintings and drawings hang against the wrought-iron fence encasing the park.
As I pass, one specific piece speaks to me and I take a step closer, unable to look away. There’s something about it that draws me in.
The woman in the portrait stares back at me as I stand transfixed in front of the canvas. Her hair is a cascade of browns, her lips a rosy hue, and her skin a rich, Cajun tan that seems to glow against the deep maroon of her dress. The sheer red fabric flows out behind her, caught in the summer breeze of the wildflower field she’s standing in.
But more than her beauty, it’s her somber expression that has me pinned to the spot. Her head is turned just slightly, as if someone in the distance called her name.
The stark contrast between the warm, welcoming tones stands at odds with the intensity of her melancholic mood.
It’s a striking image.
“Isn’t she beautiful?”
The voice breaks me from my trance, and I look up and see an old woman sitting beneath a bright blue umbrella.
“That’s one of my favorites,” she says. “So much emotion.”
“It’s stunning.” Turning back to the painting, the weight of the painted woman’s sadness presses down on me. “It’s powerful. Did you paint all these?”
The brushstrokes are bold and confident, revealing a skilled hand and a mastery of technique that must have taken some time to accomplish.
“Oh no, I haven’t the talent. I’m just an admirer. These paintings are from different local artists.”
I scan the rest of the canvases lined up along the fence. Some are landscapes of the city skyline, others are abstract. They’re all beautiful, but none are as stunning as the woman in red.
“How much is it?” I ask, suddenly sure I can’t leave New Orleans without this painting in my possession.
“Fifty.”
