Little Gale Gumbo Read Online Free Page B

harmless mention of someone’s pregnancy or birth announcement, each one a reminder of what he and Holly had tried for and never succeeded with. And then the jarring surge of his own resentment, the habitual belief that every innocent mention was Holly’s way of blaming him, of reminding him of what he couldn’t give her. When he knew it wasn’t, knew it was only him blaming himself.
    They both glanced at Hooper, who had perched himself between their seats, as if the dog might say something to join them again, but he could only nuzzle their cheeks.
    â€œYeah,” said Matthew, defeated. “It’s probably not a good idea.”
    Stopped in traffic, he watched Holly’s hands in her lap, waiting for the inevitable measuring of her wrists, her ritual in the grip of anxiety, one of so many tiny and inconsequential details that he’d only recently begun to catalog in her absence.
    â€œI put the number of the hotel in with Hoop’s stuff,” he said. “In case you can’t reach me on my cell.”
    â€œYou’re not staying at the house?” she asked.
    â€œI can’t. It’s a crime scene.”
    â€œOh.” She nodded. “Of course it is. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
    â€œIt’s all right.”
    When they reached the departure lane and pulled to the curb, Holly reached for Matthew’s hand, gently lacing her fingers through his. “Call me when you can.”
    She leaned over and kissed his cheek, lingering against his jaw just long enough that he turned toward her, as if he expected to find her lips waiting, but she had already moved back.
    Matthew took up his bag and climbed out, turning to find Hooper had already filled his vacant seat, the dog panting excitedly.
    Matthew rubbed Hooper’s coppery head through the open window.
    â€œDon’t let Peter feed him that gourmet shit,” he said. “It gives him the runs. And you tell Prince Charming if I ever hear he’s dragging my dog on one of his fucking bike rides again, I’m gonna kick his ass up and down Delray Beach.”
    Then Matthew turned to the glass doors of the terminal and walked through them, heading back, heading home.

Five

    New Orleans, Louisiana
    Summer 1961
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    Roberta Bayonne lifted the bottle of dove’s blood over the shallow white dish and poured.
    â€œI want him back for good this time, Roberta.”
    Wanda Johnson’s voice was steady, but in the flickering candlelight of the shuttered room, eighteen-year-old Camille Bayonne could see the woman’s lips quiver as she watched the burgundy liquid fill the bottom of the saucer, spreading out like a stain.
    Outside, Maurepas Street bustled with activity under a relentless July sun, its shotgun porches crowded with cackling old men, its sidewalks filled with racing children. Just beyond the rooftops, the fairgrounds roared with the day’s races, the smell of the stables blowing over. But inside the narrow turquoise house silence prevailed, and with it the thick scents of incense and wax. All around the three women, shadows of eager candle flames rippled up the tall, scarlet walls, turning plaster into billowing curtains, and the ceiling into the surface of the sea.
    Roberta gently eased the dish of dove’s blood into the center of the table.
    Wanda Johnson’s eyes filled. “He wants to marry her, Roberta. I’ll kill myself. I swear to God I will.”
    â€œHush,” Roberta ordered. “Focus now. Camille, bring me the powders.”
    Camille rose dutifully and crossed the room to the sturdy armoire, her mother’s medicine cabinet, and took out three small bottles. She had helped her mother work a commanding spell only once before, but she hadn’t forgotten the ingredients. Spearmint, salt, and cloves. It was a strong spell, but Wanda Johnson needed one now. Camille had watched her