Moonlight Mile (2 page)

“Love it!” Jordan clapped her hands and grinned. “And you're such an expert vintage shopper, I bet we could find the rest of the stuff we need. . . .”

With that, they were off and running. Fifteen minutes later, Jordan looked happy and excited about her costume plans. “This will totally work,” she declared, rubbing Freckles on the withers. “Thanks, Nina. But wait, what about you? Want to brainstorm some ideas for your costume?”

“That's okay.” Nina shot her a coy smile. “I think I already know what I want to do. Don't want to talk about it yet, though—I need to let the idea simmer.”

Jordan smiled back. “I bet it's something fabulous and creative that will win
all
the prizes, right? Okay, I won't ask, even though I'm dying of curiosity. I'll just say that if you're thinking of doing something for the scary category, you could ask Brett for ideas. He loves horror movies—he's probably seen every one ever made.”

Nina turned her face into the breeze that was blowing in off the river, not answering for a moment. Jordan's comment had made all thoughts of costumes fly out of her head. Until recently, Brett had just been Jordan's one-year-older, slightly annoying brother. Nina had known him forever—they'd all grown up in the same neighborhood—though she hadn't really spent much time with him, since she went to a small private school over near the French Quarter while Jordan and Brett attended the local public school.

Lately, though, a couple of Nina's older friends kept mentioning how cute Brett was getting. And the thing was, Nina couldn't totally disagree. He sort of looked like one of the members of that new boy band everyone was talking about, and once she'd noticed that, she couldn't
un
-notice it. Did that mean she was turning boy crazy,
like everyone said her cousin Charlotte had been at her age? Nina wasn't sure, and the thought made her feel off balance in a way she couldn't quite figure out.

“What time is it?” Jordan asked, breaking into Nina's confused thoughts. “I need to get home soon and start my history paper if I don't want to flunk out of school.”

“It's . . .” Nina glanced at her watch, a funky vintage one she'd picked up at her favorite Magazine Street thrift shop. When she saw the time, she gasped. “Oh, wow,” she exclaimed. “I told my mom I'd be home twenty minutes ago! I'm supposed to be helping her pack up for her art show, and—oh, never mind, I'll tell you later.” Clucking to a startled Breezy, she took off at a jog in the direction of the stables. “Anyway, I've got to go!”

CHAPTER

2

NINA DASHED DOWN THE SIDEWALK
along Magazine Street, dodging hurrying shoppers and strolling tourists. A stout middle-aged woman looked up from sweeping the stoop in front of a flower shop.

“Nina! Where you at, darlin'?” the shopkeeper called. “Haven't stopped to see me in ages!”

“Soon, Miss Vera, promise!” Nina called back without slowing her pace.

An elderly man was sitting on the steps of the next shop reading a newspaper. He chuckled as Nina dashed by. “Running to meet your boyfriend, Miss Peralt?” he asked.

This time Nina slowed just long enough to blow him a kiss. “You know you're the only man for me, Mr. Otis,” she said as she took off again, the old man's chuckles fading behind her.

Finally she reached her street, barely slowing her pace for the sharp turn off Magazine and thus nearly running into a young mother pushing a baby stroller. Nina dodged just in time.

“Sorry, ma'am!” she called as she passed.

“No worries, Nina,” the woman, a neighbor from the other end of the block, called back. “Your mama was looking for you just now.”

“I know, I'm late—thanks!” Nina tossed over her shoulder.

A few steps later and she was home. The charming century-old cottage was the only place Nina had ever lived. Her parents had bought it for a song the year her father graduated from law school, mostly because it had a courtyard in the rear where her mother could work on her sculpture in the fresh air. The rest of the place had been a mess, at least according to the stories Nina's aunts, uncles,
older cousins, and grandparents delighted in retelling every chance they got. Falling-down walls, leaky pipes, cockroaches the size of a Chincoteague pony—the tales got taller every time, but that was how it went with her father's side of the family. In any case, in the years since, Nina's parents had transformed the interior into a bright, modern, art-filled space, though the outside retained every bit of its vintage appeal, the only real changes being a fresh coat of paint and an energy-efficient bulb in the antique porch light.

As Nina was about to push open the metal gate and climb the steps onto the small front porch, she spotted a familiar figure hurrying toward her from the other end of the block. It was her father, his long limbs flapping and his briefcase slapping against his side.

“You're late!” Nina called with a grin.

“I know, I know.” He was out of breath as he reached her and leaned in for a quick peck on the forehead. “Hey, Boo. Your mother's going to kill both of us, eh?”

“Probably. We promised to be home like half an hour ago.” Nina sneaked a look at her watch as her father
pushed open the sky-blue door, leading the way inside.

When Nina followed, the first thing she heard was loud meowing as the family's two Siamese cats, Bastet and Teniers, appeared as if out of thin air to wind around her legs and demand attention. The second thing she heard was even louder cursing coming from the back of the house.

“Uh-oh.” Her father dropped his briefcase on the rosewood console table beside the front door. “Sounds like she started without us.”

“Yeah.” Nina scooped up Teniers and hugged him despite his yowl of protest. “Sorry, kitty babies. Your dinner will have to wait.” She dropped the cat beside Bastet and hurried through the kitchen and down the narrow back hallway after her father.

Her mother's studio was a converted bedroom at the very back of the house, where the sun came in through two large windows and a row of French doors leading into the courtyard. The room had built-in shelves along one wall, while the rest was mostly open and dotted with bits and pieces of work and rolling bins of equipment.
Sheets of oilcloth covered the wooden floorboards beneath half-finished clay sculptures. A few finished pieces were sitting on a long, well-worn table with a chipped marble top that stood near the French doors, awaiting transport to the local foundry, where they would be cast in bronze or other materials.

Nina's mother was at the table now, along with the family's longtime maid, Delphine, a petite and energetic woman who proudly traced her ancestors back to one of the French
casquette
girls who had arrived in New Orleans in the 1700s. The two of them were bent over a piece on the table. It was a medium-size sculpture that Nina's mother had been rushing to finish the past few weeks, a modernist portrayal of several women laughing and cooking together. The shapes and details were fluid and rather abstract, like most of Nina's mother's work, but Nina could tell that the women in the piece had been inspired by her aunts and cousins.

At the moment, Nina's mother and Delphine were grasping the base of the clay sculpture, clearly planning to hoist it off the table and into the large wooden crate sitting
on the floor near the door. From past experience in helping her parents move similar pieces, Nina guessed that the thing had to weigh at least fifty or sixty pounds.

“Hang on!” Nina's father exclaimed, striding forward. “Let me help.”

“Yeah,” Nina said at the same time.

She didn't notice that the cats had followed her to the studio. As she stepped forward, the toe of her paddock boot landed squarely on Teniers's tail. The cat squawked loudly and shot forward—just as Nina's mother took a step, staggering slightly under the sculpture's weight.

“Non, non!”
Delphine said. “I need to—”

She never finished the comment. Teniers crashed into Nina's mother's legs, tripping her just as she took another unsteady half step.

“Ack!” she exclaimed as the sculpture jerked out of her grasp. Delphine tried to hang on to her half, but it was no use.

“Careful!” Nina's father yelped.

CRASH!

The sculpture landed upside down, squashing the soft
clay of the top half of the piece. The intricate figures were reduced to mostly shapeless blobs.

“Oh! Oh!” the maid cried, her hands flying to her face. “The ladies—they are ruined!”

Tears sprang to Nina's eyes. All that work!

“Oh, Mom,” she exclaimed. “I'm so sorry! This is all my fault—if I hadn't been late—”

“Me too,” her father added, stepping forward to encircle his wife in his long arms. “I'm sorry, love.”

“No, it's all right.” Nina's mother sighed, then smiled slightly, leaning against her husband for a moment before pushing him away and stepping over to examine the fallen sculpture. “I mean, it's not
all right
,” she amended, poking a chunk of clay with a bare toe. “It's pretty much trashed. I should have guessed something like this would happen. Things have been going a little too well lately, what with landing this big solo show and all. . . .”

Nina's father chuckled. “Uh-oh,” he said. “Don't tell me my family is finally rubbing off on you, Eva? I thought your Yankee sensibility would never succumb to Big Easy superstition.”

Despite what had just happened, Nina couldn't help smiling at that. Her father's family had lived in New Orleans pretty much forever—or at least since the time of the Louisiana Purchase. While his family and Delphine's both considered themselves Creoles, most of Nina's father's ancestors had come from Africa or the West Indies rather than France or Spain, and they'd brought their own beliefs and ideas with them. For generations, the family had steeped in the great melting pot of New Orleans culture, with its mishmash of traditions, including plenty of superstition and voodoo. By now, of course, most of the family treated such things as nothing more than local color—fun to talk about at parties, but nothing to take too seriously. Nina and her father certainly fell into that category. But a few family members still believed, at least a little, including Gramma Rose and Uncle Oscar.

Nina's mother, on the other hand, had grown up in a voodoo-free subdivision in suburban New Jersey. She'd come to New Orleans on vacation soon after graduating from art school, met Nina's father in a jazz club, and never
left. Even though she'd been there for more than fifteen years now, her in-laws still loved to tease her about her sensible Yankee ways.

“Maybe so,” Nina's mother said with a small smile. “I just know I've had this feeling that something bad might be coming.”

“Don't say that,
madame
!” Delphine crossed herself.

Nina's father laughed again. “Better watch out, Delphine,” he joked. “Sounds like Great-Aunt Serena might be hanging around these parts.”

Nina's eyes widened.
Weird,
she thought.
I can't remember the last time Dad mentioned Great-Aunt Serena . . .

“Stop, Gabe.” Nina's mother tried to look stern, though there was a twinkle in her blue eyes. “I'm just saying, maybe this was meant to be. In any case, you all don't need to look so upset—it's not a big deal.”

“How can you say that?” Nina squatted beside the sculpture, poking gingerly at what remained of one of the figures. Teniers wandered over and rubbed against her knee, purring loudly, and she tapped him on the head. “Naughty Teniers!”

“No, seriously,” her mother said. “Teniers probably did me a favor. I was feeling pretty ambivalent about that piece anyway.”

Nina looked up at her. “What do you mean?”

Her mother shrugged. “I mostly rushed it out for the show. I didn't really even stop to think about whether it was working. And in the end, well, I'm not sure it was. It's really pretty similar to some of my past work.” She smiled ruefully. “I'd hate to have the critics accuse me of being derivative of myself.”

“But I thought you needed that piece to fill the show,” Nina's father said.

“True. But maybe I can use something else,” Nina's mother replied. “I've got plenty of older pieces that haven't been out in public yet.” She winked. “Could be fun to figure out which one fits.”

Her husband looked thoughtful. “What about that piece on the breakfront? I've always liked that one. . . .”

Bastet had wandered into the room by then too. She head-butted Nina, letting loose with a piercing Siamese
yowl. Leaving her parents discussing their sculpture options and Delphine bustling around putting away the wooden crate, Nina headed back toward the front of the house to feed the cats. Once that was done, she went to her room to change out of her riding clothes.

Nina's room lay between the kitchen and the studio. It was the smallest bedroom in the house, but she didn't mind. Her parents had let her decorate it however she liked, and she'd treated it as her own personal art project, adding and subtracting things over the years. The walls were each painted a different color and the door was covered in a collage of photos and sketches of family, friends, and beautiful spots throughout the city. Instead of ordinary curtains, Nina had draped the two narrow windows with Mardi Gras beads. The rug beside the bed had been a gift from her cousin DeeDee after a trip to Morocco. Her bedspread had been handmade by her great-aunt Shirley.

Nina knew her room looked different from those of most of her friends, but she'd never understood the
appeal of going to the mall and buying shiny new things with no history at all. What was the point of having stuff without a story?

There were horsey touches too, of course—Nina had been fascinated by horses for as long as she could remember, though she'd only been riding for a few years. She'd created a handmade frame out of driftwood, stones, and bottle caps for her favorite photo of Breezy. Above her bed hung a slightly faded Victorian print of a pair of Arabian horses running wildly through the night. It was spooky and a little weird, and Nina had loved it from the moment she'd spotted it in the back corner of a local junk shop, though it had taken her a couple of months to save up her allowance to buy it. One of her mother's sculptures, a horse rolling luxuriously in the dirt, stood atop the whitewashed bookshelf. Beside it, in a place of honor, was Nina's copy of
Misty of Chincoteague
.