The Map of Moments Read Free Page B

the folks that left, maybe most of 'em, aren't ever coming back. Some places, it's like the apocalypse came. There's talk of rebuilding, but it's never gonna happen. That's the first sign of a crumbling empire, Max. Cities fall and nobody builds 'em up again.”
    He kept staring at her, but Corinne still didn't turn to him. Max became keenly aware of his hands, as though he should be able to do something with them, maybe try to offer her comfort, or send up a prayer to God. But he barely knew Corinne, and he and God were strangers.
    After a couple of minutes, the time when he should have said something in reply passed, so he stopped seeking the words.
    Corinne and Gabrielle were cousins, Creole girls who'd never be mistaken for white but whose skin forever marked them out among the black population of New Orleans. Max had never understood the politics of hue, and always feared expressing an opinion on the subject. He was white and from Boston, and he couldn't claim to know a damn thing about New Orleans. So he kept his mouth shut. All he knew was that even before he'd met Gabrielle he had thought a mixed race heritage produced the most beautiful children, and that there must be some lesson the world should learn from that. Meeting Gabrielle had cemented this belief.
    Riding in the car beside her, Max saw some of that same beauty in Corinne. They'd met half a dozen times when he'dbeen involved with Gabrielle, but he'd never really noticed her looks. She simply didn't have her cousin's presence. Gabrielle had burned brightly; Corinne had been in her shadow. But apparently it hadn't stopped her from loving Gabrielle.
    Abruptly, she turned and shot him a hard look. “Why do you keep staring at me like that?”
    “You look a little like her,” Max said.
    “I'm
nothing
like her!” Corinne snapped, turning her gaze back to the road ahead. The hurt in her voice didn't surprise him, but the anger did.
    “Are we really going to be the only people at the funeral?”
    Corinne softened. “Our family shut her out; you know that. The ones who are still in the city, they live Uptown. When she was alive, they'd cross the street if they saw her coming. Now that she's dead, they won't be going out of their way to say good-bye. Could be some of her friends'll have heard and come along and surprise me, but I doubt it. Lots of people have been shipped out. Those who
are
still here are looking after themselves and their own. It's all right, though.”
    Max looked out the window, watching the side of the highway where wind-downed trees and abandoned cars remained, part of the debris left behind by the storm.
    “Two people,” he said quietly. “How can that be all right?”
    “Ah, she wouldn't mind so much,” Corinne said. “She didn't have but the two of us who really loved her.
We'll
be there. That's as it should be.”
    Max swallowed hard. His throat had gone dry. “I'm not sure—”
    “Don't even start. She put the knife in you deep, man. I know that. But don't try to tell me you stopped loving her because of it. I know better.”
    Irritated, he narrowed his eyes and studied her. “You think so?”
    “You're here, aren't you?”
    Max opened his mouth, but closed it again. The Doucette women had a habit of leaving him speechless.

    The French Quarter of New Orleans had established a reputation around the world. Some of it had been born of fame, thanks to the Quarter's unique architectural mélange and the delights of its restaurants, and some had sprung from the infamy of Bourbon Street, where the drunkenness and breast-flashing of Mardi Gras had spilled into the other 364 days of the year. Max had never been interested in Bourbon Street. One walk along that road, with its faux-voodoo shops and tourist puke-fest bars, might have put him off of the city forever, if not for the rest of what the Quarter had to offer. The terraced balconies and narrow streets could transport him back in time, and the tiny restaurants with their