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  Eli laid his hand on her thigh. “Miranda, is something wrong? Did I come too soon?”

  “We didn’t use a condom.”

  “Does that worry you?”

  “Should it?”

  “Of course not. I’m clean. I’m always careful.”

  “We weren’t this time,” she reminded him.

  “Do you want me to get tested? I will if it’ll ease your mind.”

  “I don’t know.”

  He climbed out of the pool and sat beside her, their feet dangling in the water.

  Putting his arm around her, he pulled her against him. She laid her head on his shoulder.

  “Miranda, you’re special to me. I wouldn’t put you at risk. Really, it’s okay.”

  Can I believe him? she wondered. If he’s my future husband, he won’t hurt me, will he? Wouldn’t Dad’s vision have shown if Eli had some kind of disease?

  “I don’t want this to be a problem between us,” he said. “We’ll both get tested so we’re in the clear. Then I can stop using those damned condoms.”

  Card 12: The Hanged Man

  When their tests came back clear, Miranda and Eli celebrated with two hours of the best sex they’d ever had together. Then they packed up and drove east on I-10.

  Refineries populated Louisiana’s southwest coast like futuristic cities of steel and smoke.

  Even with the car windows up, the noxious smell of petroleum and sulfur permeated the air.

  “I wish I’d seen New Orleans before Hurricane Katrina,” Miranda said.

  “From what I understand, the French Quarter and the Garden District didn’t suffer much damage.”

  “Do you think I’m crazy for wanting to go to New Orleans in late July?”

  “Yes, but you’ve got your mind made up and I’m not going to try to talk you out of it.”

  She reached across the console and laid her hand on his thigh. “I’m glad you decided to come along with me. I know this isn’t something you really want to do.”

  “Au contraire. I want to spend time with you, even if that means sweltering in New Orleans.”

  “I booked us into a really pretty B&B, but it has, um, a dark side.”

  “No electricity?"

  “What I meant was, it used to be a whorehouse.”

  “Used to be, ” he sighed. “Too bad…”

  “…and now it’s supposedly haunted.”

  Eli chuckled. “So, if I wake up in the middle of the night and a ghost is sucking my dick, I shouldn’t be too surprised?”

  “If you’d rather stay someplace else, that’s okay with me.”

  “Oh, hell, no. I’m looking forward to a three-way with a vampire or succubus while we’re there.” His playful grin lit up his face, making him look younger than thirty-two. “Where’d you read about this place anyway? The Anne Rice Guide to Big Easy B&Bs?”

  “Very funny,” she said, but couldn’t help giggling. “Don’t make me laugh. I’ve got to pee.”

  When she spotted a stretch of live oaks and cypress, bordering a stream that cut through a fallow field where cotton might once have grown, she flipped on her blinker and pulled off the road. I don’t know when I’ll find another gas station or rest stop; this will have to suffice.

  Behind a sheltering oak, she pulled down her shorts and did her business. As she started to zip up, a voice sang out, “I see London, I see France. I see a lady’s underpants.”

  She glanced around, but saw no one.

  “Up here,” the voice called.

  Miranda looked up and saw a man hanging upside down, about fifteen feet above her. A rope tied around his ankle held him suspended from the branch of the large oak tree. Tall and gaunt, he wore a pair of camouflage shorts and nothing else.

  Startled, she asked, “What are you doing?”

  “Just hanging around.” His voice had a peculiar lilting quality that rose and fell, accenting syllables that weren’t usually stressed.

  “Out here, in the middle of noplace?”

  “It’s not no place, it’s my place. I live here.”

  High up, near the top of the huge old oak, Miranda noticed a wooden structure.

  She could just barely make out windows and a door. “You live in this tree? Why?”

  “Because I get a better view of the world from here. Come up and see for yourself.”

  “Miranda, are you all right?” Eli called from the car.

  “Yes, I’m talking to a man in a tree,” she called back.

  She heard the car door open and shut. Eli hurried toward her.

  “What the hell…?” he said, looking up at the hanging man.

  “Come up and have some tea,” the man invited. “It’s cooler up here.”

  “I haven’t climbed a tree since I was a little girl,” Miranda said. “I’m not sure I still know how.”

  The man pulled himself upright onto the branch. “I’ll drop a ladder for you.”

  He scrambled up the tree like a monkey. When he reached the tree house, he tossed a rope ladder down to them.

  “You’re not going up there, are you?” Eli asked.

  “Why not?”

  “The guy’s obviously a nutcase. It could be dangerous.”

  The whole reason for taking this journey was to have adventures, she reminded herself. She smiled sweetly at Eli. “You’ll be there to protect me.”

  He sighed loudly as he followed her up the ladder. “Watch your step. It’s a long way down.”

  Inside the tree house, the strange man set three cups on a low table fashioned from part of an old door. An army cot, a folding camp chair, a Coleman stove, a plastic trunk, and makeshift bookcases laden with books and canned food were the only other furnishings.

  “Sit, sit,” he said, indicating cushions on the floor. “This is quite a treat for me. I don’t get many visitors.”

  “I can see why,” Eli said.

  The man seated himself on one of the cushions and filled the cups. “Most people aren’t willing to venture outside their comfort zones.”

  Miranda introduced herself and Eli.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance. I’m Freeman.” He noticed Eli staring suspiciously at the liquid in his cup. “Don’t worry, it’s just mint tea brewed in the sun.”

  “You still haven’t explained why you were hanging upside down,” she said.

  “To get a different perspective,” Freeman answered. “There are things you can see more clearly upside down.”

  “Oh, now I understand. I do that sometimes when I’m painting,” Miranda said. “If I turn the picture upside down, I notice things I missed before. When I view it in the usual way, my mind automatically fills in any gaps. I see what I’m prepared to see, not what’s really there.”

  Freeman clapped his hands with glee. “Exactly.”

  “What are you trying to see more clearly?” Eli asked.

  “Myself.” Noticing Eli’s confused expression, he continued. “When we look at the world, we think we’re seeing a reality outside us. But we’re really seeing our inner selves projected outward—the world is our mirror.”

  Miranda sipped her tea and contemplated Freeman’s statement. “That reminds me of a quote from Anais Nin: ‘We don’t see things as they are, we see things as we are.’”

  “Freeman, is it possible all that blood running into your head while you hung upside down might have messed up your thinking?” Eli suggested.

  “Gee, I hope so. That’s the whole point.” Instead of taking offense, the tree dweller grinned as if Eli had said something wise. “Like Miranda said, we only see what we’re prepared to see. Did you know that when Pissaro’s ships came to the New World, the natives who had no conception of sailing ships couldn’t see them?”

  A flock of butterflies fluttered in through an open window and hovered above the table. One lit on Freeman’s head, another on his shoulder. He held out his finger and a butterfly landed on it.

  “What color is this butterfly?” he asked.


  “Green,” Eli answered.

  “No, it’s blue. Turquoise, actually,” Miranda said.

  “But artists don’t see things the same way other people do,” Eli protested.

  Freeman passed the butterfly to her. “Nobody sees things the same way other people do. Ask ten people who witnessed the same event what actually took place, and you’ll get ten different answers. Perception is never objective.”

  Miranda examined the butterfly perched on her finger with delight, admiring its delicate wings. “Butterflies supposedly symbolize death and rebirth.”

  Eli frowned. “You think these butterflies are trying to tell us something?”

  “Why don’t you ask them?” Freeman replied.

  Watching the butterfly glide away, Miranda said, “The Druids believed trees have symbolic meanings, too.”

  “Many cultures have myths about trees as sources of wisdom,” Freeman added.

  “The Buddha gained enlightenment while sitting under the Bodhi tree. The Norse god Odin hung upside down on a giant ash tree called Yggdrasil to gain divine knowledge.”

  “Do you think if you hang around in this tree long enough, God will speak to you?” Eli asked.

  “God speaks to me all the time,” Freeman said with a smile. “I just have to be willing to listen.”

  Miranda finished her tea and nudged Eli. “We really should be on our way.

  Thanks for the tea, Freeman. I’ve enjoyed meeting you.”

  “Likewise.” As they climbed back down the rope ladder, he called after them, “I hope you find what you’re looking for. You’ll see it when you believe it.”

  * * *

  “You didn’t seem to like Freeman very much,” Miranda said as they drove through the Atchafalaya Basin. “I thought he was fun.”

  The highway, built on elevated pillars, bridged eighteen miles of the desolate swamp. Bald cypress trees, mangroves, and acres of eerie broken, black trunks stood in the brackish water, reminding her of a primordial landscape where dinosaurs might roam.

  “He’s a weirdo, for sure.”

  “So’s your friend Sybil, and my Uncle Bright,” she reminded him. “I guess it’s all in how you look at it.”

  “Now you sound like Freeman.”

  “You know, I’ve been thinking we should introduce Sybil to Uncle Bright. I bet they’d get along.”

  As she spoke, something akin to a YouTube video of the four of them dancing on a beach flashed through her mind. Where’d that come from? she wondered. I never used to have visions, but now I seem to be getting them quite often. She recalled her strange experience at Lee Golden’s art gallery, when she’d witnessed a past lifetime. I still don’t understand how I could see so vividly something that happened centuries ago. She contemplated her father’s vision of her future husband. Is Eli the one he meant, or have I misinterpreted everything? Past, present, and future seemed all jumbled up, like clothes tossing about in a dryer.

  Eli’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Look, there’s an alligator.” He pointed at a scaly shape floating in the water.

  Miranda squinted at it. “I think it’s just a log.”

  “One person’s alligator is another person’s log,” he teased. “How will we ever know the truth?”

  “I guess we won’t. I’m certainly not getting close enough to find out.” She turned the air conditioner up a notch. “I have to agree with Freeman to some extent, though. If you believe people are inherently good, you’ll usually meet good people. If you think the world is a dangerous place and everyone’s out to get you, that’s what you’ll experience.”

  “Yeah, well, I never thought the world was a dangerous place until somebody tried to kill me.”

  Miranda remembered the scene she’d viewed inside the crystal she’d found in Uncle Bright’s field. The sense of danger and foreboding welled up in her again, just thinking about it. I still have that crystal tucked away in my suitcase. Maybe I should take another look. She considered telling Eli about it, but rejected the idea. No sense worrying him about something that might only be my imagination.

  Card 13: Death

  Eli moaned his release, then collapsed on top of Miranda, huffing and puffing like a locomotive. Even before her heartbeat had returned to normal, he was sound asleep.

  She rolled him over and slid out from under his weight. Feeling his fluids leak from her body, she crawled out of bed and padded across the B&B’s creaky wooden floor to the bathroom. She peed, pulled a chain to flush the antique toilet’s overhead tank, and swiped a wet washcloth between her legs.

  When she emerged from the bathroom, she saw a young woman sitting in the rocking chair. One breast peeked from the torn bodice of a lace nightgown; her auburn hair cascaded down over the other. A dark stain spread between them.

  “Oh my God!” Miranda rushed toward the woman, her initial surprise replaced by concern. “What happened to you?”

  “He shot me,” the woman answered, her voice barely audible.

  “Oh my God!”

  When Miranda reached out to her, the wounded woman vanished. Only the rocker’s slight movement attested to her former presence. Miranda backed slowly away from the chair, her eyes wide as she searched the shadowy room. Where’d she go?

  Eli’s snores rumbled behind her. Glancing around the room one last time, she made her way back to bed. I couldn’t have imagined that, she thought as her trembling hands pulled the sheet up over her naked body. I may have just seen my first ghost.

  * * *

  Sunlight spilled onto the porch at the rear of the B&B, where white wicker tables and chairs were arranged for breakfast. Only three other guests lingered this late in the morning.

  “A ghost?” Eli asked, stirring cream into his chicory-laced coffee.

  “What else could it have been? I told you this place was haunted.” Miranda broke off a piece of beignet dusted with confectioner’s sugar and popped it in her mouth.

  “Why didn’t you wake me?”

  “It all happened so fast.”

  A heavy-set man with a puffy, florid face, seated at the table beside them, leaned toward Miranda. “You saw her too?”

  “Who?” Miranda asked.

  “The old lady with the big hat.”

  “No.”

  The man looked perplexed. “Oh, I thought you said you saw a ghost.”

  "I did. Well, at least I think I did. But the woman I saw was young, with long red hair and a torn nightgown. She said, ‘He shot me,’ then disappeared into thin air."

  “That’s Annalise,” a woman at a nearby table, wearing a New York Yankees T-shirt, interjected.

  “Who’s Annalise?” the man asked.

  “She turned tricks here, back when this B&B was a bordello,” the Yankees fan said in a nasal Brooklyn accent, omitting all her “r’s.”

  Her companion, a horse-faced woman with a blond ponytail, explained, “Even though Annalise worked as a prostitute, she had a lover who was jealous of all her johns.

  One night he barged into a room upstairs where she was plying her trade and shot her.”

  “It had to be the room we’re in,” Eli said, rolling his eyes.

  “She died a few hours later, stretched out on the divan over there,” the woman with the ponytail continued. “But the cops never charged him with the crime.”

  “Now Annalise haunts her old digs, spooking visitors,” the New Yorker added.

  “Maybe she’s trying to find someone to help her bring her murderer to justice,” Miranda suggested.

  “It’s a little late for that,” the horsey woman snorted. “He died more than a century ago.”

  “Then who’s the old girl with the fancy hat?” the fat man asked.

  “She used to be the madam here,” the New Yorker answered. “They say she feels guilty about what happened.”

  “Well, if Annalise shows up again, I’m going to try to get her to talk to me,” Miranda said.

  Eli stuck a fork in his eggs Benedict. “Whatever for?”<
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  “I’m curious about what it’s like to be dead. Don’t you want to know what’s on the other side?”

  He laughed and shook his head. “Not until I have to.”

  * * *

  Before the heat reached its zenith, they visited the Audubon Zoo. After a couple of hours, however, the temperature and humidity sent them scurrying for air-conditioned comfort. Miranda suggested the Museum of Art, a white-pillared building sited amidst huge pines, magnolias, and two-hundred-year-old live oaks hung with Spanish moss.

  By the time they’d finished viewing a quarter of the museum’s collection of artwork, Eli was ready for a nap.

  “I can’t look at another picture,” he groaned, slumping into a chair near a window that overlooked the beautifully landscaped grounds.

  “I just want to take a quick tour of the sculpture garden. It contains fifty-seven works by noted artists, including Henry Moore and Jacques Lipchitz.”

  “If you spend a minute looking at each one, we’ll be here another hour.”

  “I promise I won’t take that long.”

  He yawned and leaned his head against the wall. “Wake me up when you’re done.”

  Strolling among the sculptures, Miranda rued the fact that she was still a long way from making her mark in the art world. She’d only had a few shows so far, and group ones at that. Most of her income came from teaching high school art classes, not from sales of her paintings. The great artists’ works live on for centuries after they die, she thought. I want to leave a legacy of my own behind. She ran her hand along the smooth curves of a Moore statue. I don’t have children. None of my work hangs in museums.

  Who’ll remember me when I’m gone?

  * * *

  New Orleans comes to life after the sun goes down. Miranda and Eli rode through the Garden District into town on the St. Charles streetcar, past elegant nineteenth-century mansions, Loyola and Tulane Universities, and Audubon Park.

  He’d wanted to dine at K-Paul’s or Antoine’s, but didn’t feel like waiting in line for more than an hour for a table. Instead, they found a quiet, unpretentious restaurant tucked away on a side street. The décor featured floor-length red-checkered tablecloths, enough plants to stock a garden center, and an odd assortment of furnishings that appeared to have been gleaned from yard sales. Bessie Smith’s jazz voice wafted through the room.