The Casquette Girls (9 page)

“The pleasure is entirely ours,” Gabe said, looking down at me with a dramatic smile. From my hiding spot, I hadn’t realized how tall they were, both over six feet. The outline of Gabe’s well-defined chest was easy to see through his fitted white T-shirt, which he had somehow managed not to dirty at all.

I scrambled to think of something to say. “Mr. Felix said you are over from Europe. Italy?” I placed my bags on the ground.

“
S
i
,
”
Gabe said quickly. “We are looking for our cousins. We have three missing in action. Maybe you know them?”

There was something strange about the way he had asked. Like the way a Mafioso would casually inquire about his next victim. My knowledge of the Mafia, of course, came only from watching the
Godfather
movies repeatedly with my father.

As I listened to Gabe describe their missing relatives, I couldn’t help notice that Niccolò’s gaze still hadn’t shifted from me. He had the
same light-green eyes as Gabe, only his made me think of a cat preparing to pounce on a toy. My fingers went to the chain around my neck as my eyes flicked to his – never for more than a few seconds at a time. He was just as attractive as his brother, but with more of a James Dean vibe about him.
Wait, did I know this gu
y
?
I blushed when I realized there was no way I could have met a gu
y
thi
s
attractive and then simply forgotten about him.

His lips moved into a slight smile, as if he knew I was trying to figure it out.

Then I noticed the silence. Gabe had stopped talking and was looking at me, obviously expecting me to answer a question.

“I’m sorry,” I stuttered. “What was the name?”

“Me-di-ci,” he repeated slowly, as if I was having trouble comprehending him and not just absorbed by the way his brother was looking at me.

“Leave her alone, Gabriel.” Niccolò finally spoke. “She obviously doesn’t know anything.” The softness of his voice surprised me.

“It’s fine,” I squeaked, dropping the chain. The charms bounced against my stomach as I turned back to Gabe. “I’m sorry, I was paying attention. I just got… distracted.” I tried not to smile, knowing Niccolò was still looking at me. “I don’t know any Medicis. I’m sorry.” I desperately wished I knew something, anything, about their family. “Three people missing – that’s horrible.”

Gabe let out an exasperated sigh. “Don’t worry, little lamb, we aren’t going to rest until we find them.” He walked across the room and stood right outside the doorway, staring down the street like a posted guard.

“What happened to your face?” Niccolò asked, obviously trying to change the subject.

“Um, a bird clawed me.” I was not thrilled that the attention now focused on my giant scab.

“A bird? What kind of bird?” he probed in a serious tone. I had a hunch it was only a slight variation from his natural disposition.

“I’m pretty sure it was a crow, but it was really dark in the kitchen so I can’t be certain. Everyone around here has so many horror stories from the last couple of months, but all I got was a crow attack. Not that I’m complaining,” I quickly added.

“A crow? In your home?”

He seemed to mull over the idea as he slowly approached me.

My mouth moved, but I no longer heard the sounds coming out… something about how great the city was under different circumstances. My brain ping-ponged between wondering where I knew him from and wondering whether I should stay and continue embarrassing myself with my pathetic attempts at conversation. Unfortunately, he said nothing to interrupt my rambling as he moved closer, although, his focus was so attentive on my wounded cheek, I questioned whether he was even listening.

He stopped directly in front of me, forcing my fluttering eyes to focus on him. “It is an amazing city. Luckily we’ve been here before.”

My throat tightened. “Oh, good.”

He was so close I could smell him over the lingering stench of putrid produce: leather and soap. The scent reminded me of Émile. Probably because Émile was one of my few points of reference when it came to male scents.

He raised his hand to my face, and I prayed that I wasn’t showing any outward signs that my knees were about to buckle. Careful not to touch the wound, his fingertips grazed my cheek, sending chills up my head and into my hairline. Surely he must have noticed.

He took a deep breath and whispered, “Lavender.”

His hand swept my neck as he delicately picked up the thin silver chain, following the tightly woven links all the way down to the two charms dangling at my waist. He brought the medallion up to his face, pulling me even closer. My chest bobbed against his leather jacket. I strained my legs to keep my balance and not fall into him as he flipped it over, keenly examining both sides. My gaze nervously wandered to the broken Palermo’s sign hanging over the door, where Gabe was still standing sentry.

“Pretty necklace. Where did you get it?”

We were standing so close, I could barely breathe. I tried to turn sounds into words, but nothing came out of my mouth easily, for a change.

“My dad— Gabe!” I screamed as a loud screech of scraping metal interrupted us.

The latter half of the massive sign tore free and plummeted toward him. My eyes smashed shut, and I covered my ears, anticipating the loud crash… but a few beats of silence went by instead.

In that fraction of a second before I closed my eyes, had I really seen the sign momentarily freeze in midair?

I cautiously opened my eyes to find the two modelesque brothers each holding one end of the broken neon namesake. The sign was so old, it must have been extraordinarily heavy, but they rested it on the floor as if it was as light as a kitten. They both brushed their hands and turned to me with a look of bewilderment plus a hint of suspicion. Which was strange, because that’s exactly how I was looking at them.

“Are you okay?” I asked, hurrying over to them. My hand instinctually went to Gabe’s shoulder, but then I quickly pulled it back, not that he seemed to mind the physical touch.

“You saved me,” he said.

I balked at the very idea.

“Your warning scream… I am forever in your debt.” He gallantly kissed my hand.

The metal screeched again.

I looked up just in time to see the lonely letter L dropping from above us.

Before I could blink, Gabe jumped up and knocked it aside. Niccolò jerked my arm, pulling me out of the way as it crashed onto the brick floor in an explosion of glass and plastic.

A wheeze escaped my throat. Gabe looked straight in my eyes and smiled.

“I guess you're even now,” Niccolò said.

They both just stared at me, seemingly undisturbed. The silence quickly became deafening. Rampant insecurity took over. I wasn’t sure what to do or say next, so I fled back for my bag and gathered up my loot. Their gazes continued to burn through me – whether it was with disbelief, admiration, or scorn I had no idea.

Trying to be nonchalant on the way out, I grabbed a bottle of rubbing alcohol, a large box of salt, and a couple boxes of baking soda.

“Well, it was nice to meet you both.”

“Until we meet again,” said Gabe. “
Arrivederc
i
.
”

“And welcome to the neighborhood.” I looked at Niccolò. “I wish it were under better circumstances.”

“Me too.” The corner of his mouth crooked
.“
Ciao, bell
a
.
”

Completely frazzled, I took off in the wrong direction. Luckily, I only covered one block before I came to my senses and detoured onto Bourbon Street.

Usually at this hour, employees would be receiving truckloads of inventory and hosing out the proof of last night’s vices from barroom floors. Usually I had to hold my breath because of the rank aromatic meld of stale beer, ashtrays, bleach, and garbage baking in the end of summer heat. But this morning that was not necessary. Today there was only one man in view, and he wasn’t hosing. He was just leaning against the entranceway of the Court of Two Sisters, smoking a cigarette, shaking his head.

I looped onto Orleans Avenue and sped up, partly out of excitement and partly because my bag of nonperishables was getting heavy.

This particular block, where Café Orléans is located, is one of my favorite streets in the city – I loved its duality. At the far end is one of the loudest blocks of Bourbon, home of the infamous hand-grenade: a toxic-green melon cocktail served in a plastic yard-glass shaped like an explosive device – touted as the world’s most powerful drink. The opposite end of the short block dead-ends in St. Anthony’s Garden, the back courtyard of the St. Louis Cathedral. New Orleans, like this street block, was a place of contradictions. Especially in the French Quarter, you could never guess what you’d find.

I stopped in front of the used bookshop next to the café, one of my most frequented locales. It was closed, but the shutters were open, indicating that someone had been back since the evacuation. I leaned my head against the windowpane to look inside.

The tiny shop didn’t appear to have any damage
.
Thank God
,
I thought selfishly. This bookstore had provided me with far more important knowledge than my school textbooks.

The hanging
wooden sign for Café Orléans caused a rush of excitement to fill my chest – I had helped Sébastien climb up and take the sign down before his family evacuated, so they must have returned.

Sébastien Michel and his twin sister, Jeanne, were the closest things to siblings I ever had. The Michels had been like a surrogate family to me ever since my mother had left, so practically my whole life. Ever since they were small children, the twins had been raised by their grandparents, Bertrand and Sabine, who were originally from France. Since they had a French-speaking household, my father wouldn’t allow anyone else to babysit me when I was a child. It was his version of language immersion/torturing me. French is not widely spoken in New Orleans anymore, so it’s not particularly useful, but he did it because it was supposedly important to my mother. He always seemed sad when he reminded me of that, so I never fought him on it.

I stood in the doorway and watched as the four of them bustled about, each of them wrapped up in their duties. The old couple was wiping down the furniture with spritzer that smelled like pine. Jeanne was tugging on her blonde hair while meticulously recording inventory on a clipboard, and Sébastien was lugging in giant sacks of coffee beans from the back alley.

I tried to put my bag down gently, but the weight of the canned goods made a clank. Everyone paused and turned their heads in unison.

“Adele!” cried the twins, cueing everyone to hustle over and make a fuss. French, English, everyone talking over each other: after spending so much time alone recently, it felt like a party.

Jeanne threw her arms around me
.“
Comment était Pari
s
?
I want to know everything!”

“
Misérabl
e
,
”
I replied
.“
Tout le monde parle français à Pari
s
!
”

She laughed. “Well, it’s a good thing you have such a brilliant French tutor!”

When I was nine, my father had decided immersion wasn’t enough, and started paying Jeanne to teach me things like grammar.

“Wow, your accent is better than mine now!
Très impressionnan
t
.
”

“
J’en dout
e
.
I
seriously
doubt it.” I couldn’t imagine myself ever being better than Jeanne a
t
anythin
g
. They were only four years older than me, but she was about to finish her master’s degree in biochemistry, was engaged to a med student, had the confidence of a beauty queen, and all of this before she was legally able to drink.
Maybe that’s what happens when you get to skip the formidable high school years
?
Yes, the twins were both some kind of super-geniuses.

Sébastien leaned forward to gently kiss both of my cheeks. “
Salut, Adele, bienvenu
e
.
” His voice was quiet, but I could tell he was just as excited as his sister. His shyness caused us both to blush a little. “What happened to your face?” He pushed his black-rimmed glasses closer to his baby-blues.

I sighed. “It’s an embarrassing story involving a bird. How long have you guys been back?” I felt kind of bad. I’d been so wrapped up in trying to navigate the heinous waters of Parisian boarding school, I’d done a crummy job keeping in touch with the people I actually cared about.

“We just got back from Cambridge yesterday.” Jeanne pulled my arm and whisked me down to a café table. “I thought being displaced would be terrible, Adele, but M.I.T. was SO amazing. I got to work with—”