things, as I had with hers.
I went into the bathroom and threw cold water on my face. I’d need to shower again before bed.
Doesn’t the heat and humidity ever let up? God, I hate this place.
I was sweating like a pig.
Do pigs sweat?
I had no idea. Drained and fighting a sugar headache, I went down to the kitchen for something cold to drink.
Kate’s note was still on the refrigerator. I’d completely forgotten about the food she fixed. I was starving. Having had only cookies and beignets since breakfast, I now craved protein and salt. Opening the fridge, I was unsurprised to see it well stocked and organized. At least I would eat well if I had to live here. I loaded up a plate, grabbed a bottle of chilled water, and carried a tray out to the glass-topped wicker table on the front porch. I turned on the carriage lights and the ceiling fans, settled myself on one of the rockers, and watched the tourists hurry past. Bright, jagged lightning split the sky in the distance, thunder rumbled soon after, the trees swayed as the wind picked up; another storm was rolling in.
Perfect, just perfect.
Numb from my day, I began to eat. The food was fabulous, but I had a hard time appreciating it. I was exhausted beyond comprehension. Resting my head on the back of the rocker, I watched the ceiling fan spin lazily overhead.
What would Dad do if he were here? First, he would hug me. Next, he would scold me. Last, we would hit the Net to learn what we could about Voodoo. We would approach the situation logically. That was how we always did things. Together. Now I’ll have to do everything alone. However, I don’t need to do anything right away.
My energy was completely sapped, and resting here for a few minutes seemed like a good plan to me. I closed my eyes and crashed.
Chapter Twelve
I awoke with a start when a boisterous group of people passed in front of Kate’s house. All were carrying oversized plastic cups from a frozen daiquiri shop in the French Quarter. None appeared to be bothered by the impending storm.
I didn’t understand the attraction to the fluorescent colored slushy rum drinks, but alcohol wasn’t my thing. The few drinks I’d tried at a party back home in Alabama were overly sweet and made me sick. The kids at school thought I was an uppity outsider. Of course I wasn’t.
Outsider, definitely, but uppity? Me? Not a chance.
Aside from being underage, I prefer being in control. If my attitude put me outside the “in” crowd, so be it. I didn’t care. Dad worked as a consultant upgrading I.T. systems for different companies, moving from city to city to city. We were never in one place for very long. Making friends wasn’t really my thing either.
Who cares what anybody thinks anyway?
I finished the last bits of food, picked up my tray, and went inside. I put the dishes in the dishwasher and the tray back on the sideboard and got another bottle of water. It was impossible to stay hydrated in this heat. I picked a lemon cookie from the clear glass jar in the pantry and took a bite. It was tart, not overly sweet. I helped myself to three more and headed upstairs.
So much for no more sugar.
Instead of going directly to my room, I detoured at Kate’s office. Like everything else in the house, her office was well organized, yet it was cozy and informal. Lace curtains hung on either side of the French doors that led to the balcony. Bookcases with glass doors filled one wall from floor to ceiling; a varied collection of cookbooks occupied the bottom half, leather bound classics and legal tomes were higher up. It was a nice-sized room with a small closet and a door that led to the bathroom. The furniture was antique (big shock), but the computer and the printer/scanner/fax were brand new. I crossed the room, opened the French doors and listened to the laughter and music floating in on the gardenia-scented breeze.
The old leather banker’s chair squeaked when I sat at the desk. I opened the center drawer. Pens,
I went into the bathroom and threw cold water on my face. I’d need to shower again before bed.
Doesn’t the heat and humidity ever let up? God, I hate this place.
I was sweating like a pig.
Do pigs sweat?
I had no idea. Drained and fighting a sugar headache, I went down to the kitchen for something cold to drink.
Kate’s note was still on the refrigerator. I’d completely forgotten about the food she fixed. I was starving. Having had only cookies and beignets since breakfast, I now craved protein and salt. Opening the fridge, I was unsurprised to see it well stocked and organized. At least I would eat well if I had to live here. I loaded up a plate, grabbed a bottle of chilled water, and carried a tray out to the glass-topped wicker table on the front porch. I turned on the carriage lights and the ceiling fans, settled myself on one of the rockers, and watched the tourists hurry past. Bright, jagged lightning split the sky in the distance, thunder rumbled soon after, the trees swayed as the wind picked up; another storm was rolling in.
Perfect, just perfect.
Numb from my day, I began to eat. The food was fabulous, but I had a hard time appreciating it. I was exhausted beyond comprehension. Resting my head on the back of the rocker, I watched the ceiling fan spin lazily overhead.
What would Dad do if he were here? First, he would hug me. Next, he would scold me. Last, we would hit the Net to learn what we could about Voodoo. We would approach the situation logically. That was how we always did things. Together. Now I’ll have to do everything alone. However, I don’t need to do anything right away.
My energy was completely sapped, and resting here for a few minutes seemed like a good plan to me. I closed my eyes and crashed.
Chapter Twelve
I awoke with a start when a boisterous group of people passed in front of Kate’s house. All were carrying oversized plastic cups from a frozen daiquiri shop in the French Quarter. None appeared to be bothered by the impending storm.
I didn’t understand the attraction to the fluorescent colored slushy rum drinks, but alcohol wasn’t my thing. The few drinks I’d tried at a party back home in Alabama were overly sweet and made me sick. The kids at school thought I was an uppity outsider. Of course I wasn’t.
Outsider, definitely, but uppity? Me? Not a chance.
Aside from being underage, I prefer being in control. If my attitude put me outside the “in” crowd, so be it. I didn’t care. Dad worked as a consultant upgrading I.T. systems for different companies, moving from city to city to city. We were never in one place for very long. Making friends wasn’t really my thing either.
Who cares what anybody thinks anyway?
I finished the last bits of food, picked up my tray, and went inside. I put the dishes in the dishwasher and the tray back on the sideboard and got another bottle of water. It was impossible to stay hydrated in this heat. I picked a lemon cookie from the clear glass jar in the pantry and took a bite. It was tart, not overly sweet. I helped myself to three more and headed upstairs.
So much for no more sugar.
Instead of going directly to my room, I detoured at Kate’s office. Like everything else in the house, her office was well organized, yet it was cozy and informal. Lace curtains hung on either side of the French doors that led to the balcony. Bookcases with glass doors filled one wall from floor to ceiling; a varied collection of cookbooks occupied the bottom half, leather bound classics and legal tomes were higher up. It was a nice-sized room with a small closet and a door that led to the bathroom. The furniture was antique (big shock), but the computer and the printer/scanner/fax were brand new. I crossed the room, opened the French doors and listened to the laughter and music floating in on the gardenia-scented breeze.
The old leather banker’s chair squeaked when I sat at the desk. I opened the center drawer. Pens,
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