The Wish Collector
Page 11
Thoughts of Jonah, of the unusual bond she felt forming between them, kept her company as she traveled home, and when she stepped off the bus, she spotted the man who sold produce and flowers under a temporary awning on the corner, packing up his things.
A flash of red caught her eye and she saw that today, he had red roses. On a whim, Clara crossed the street, smiling as she approached the old man.
He smiled back, his wrinkled skin settling into a hundred folds, his eyes squinting with kindness.
“Sorry, sir, I know you’re closing, but do I have time to purchase a bouquet of roses?”
“Course you do. What color would you like?” The man gestured to the red bouquet and one of pale pink.
“The red please. They’re my father’s favorite.”
“Ah. A classic gentleman. I like that.”
Clara took out her wallet, tilting her head as she handed the man the money on the sticker. “He is. I just moved here from Ohio, but I saw the roses and thought of him. Sort of seemed like a little touch of home.”
The man waved her money away. “Well now, you consider those roses a welcome from me to New Orleans.”
“Oh no, I couldn’t.” Clara thrust the money toward the man, but again he waved it off, chuckling. “Best get home to put those in water before they start wilting.” He winked at her, his smile warm and kind.
Reluctantly, Clara lowered her arm. “Well . . .”
“And here”—he handed her a small flowering plant in a terracotta planter—“some lagniappe.” He chuckled at the confused look on her face. “It’s what us New Orleanians call a little something extra. Now you have something pretty for the inside, and a small something for the outside. Put that on your stoop. My mama always did say that the best way to welcome folk to your home was to show that you cared about decorating their first impression.”
Clara held the plant against her body in one hand and the large bouquet of roses in the other, inhaling their sweet fragrance and thinking she better leave before he started giving her more free things and causing her to feel even guiltier. Although . . . the truth was, despite being a person who always, always paid her way and dealt with others honestly, the two small gifts—gestures of pure kindness—made her feel warm inside. Lagniappe. This man might not know it, but he had a customer for life in Clara.
She grinned at him. “Thank you. Truly. I’m very appreciative. And by the way, I’m Clara.” She figured he’d know why she couldn’t shake his hand.
He smiled back. “Clara, very nice to meet you. I’m Israel Baptiste.”
“Thank you again, Mr. Baptiste.” Clara clutched her items close and walked the short distance home. When she got there, she stood in front of the door to her apartment. She didn’t have a stoop, per se, but there was a corner near her door just large enough for a plant. She bent, placing the terracotta planter down with a smile.
On Sunday, she’d go back to see Mr. Baptiste and purchase some fresh ingredients to make a vegetable lasagna. She wondered suddenly, if Jonah liked lasagna. She could . . . no, I won’t go that far, she decided. Not yet. She’d take one to Mrs. Guillot. But it was nice to know that when she considered cooking, she had a couple of people now who might want to share a meal with her.
She looked at the plant again, admiring the way the yellow blossoms brightened the once dismal concrete space. A touch of home. My dad would like that. She was settling in after all.
**********
On Sunday, as planned, Clara walked the few blocks to Mr. Baptiste’s stand, greeting him with a warm smile as she approached.
“Well hello, Clara. How are you this fine day?”
“Good, thank you. The roses still look as fresh and beautiful as they did a few days ago.”
“Oh good. My wife, Marguerite, tends the flower garden at our house and does a mighty fine job.”
“She must love gardening.”
“She sure does. That woman could spend the whole day with those plants. Comes back in with dirt smeared all over her, looking just as happy as a lark.” His eyes warmed at the mention of his wife and Clara sighed inwardly. To have a man’s whole expression change when he spoke your name . . . it was something she could only dream of. “Do you like gardening, Clara?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never done it.” She leaned her hip against the edge of the vegetable-laden table, the smell of ripe things and earth meeting her nose. “We had a small yard in Ohio, nothing but grass. My father worked a lot and didn’t have time to maintain more than that. And I was always busy with school. And here, well, I barely have room for a houseplant.”
Mr. Baptiste chuckled and Clara gave him a smile.
“I’m going to fill a basket with some of these delicious-looking vegetables,” she said, grabbing a basket and placing two large tomatoes inside. She glanced at Mr. Baptiste and considered something. He looked old—maybe not quite as old as Dory Dupre, who had to be close to a hundred, but definitely in his eighties or nineties. “Mr. Baptiste, have you always lived in New Orleans?”
“Yup. Born and raised.”
Clara nodded as she chose a couple of deep green zucchini. “I’ve been learning about the Windisle Plantation and the ghost story attached to the weeping wall.”
Mr. Baptiste frowned slightly. “Ah. Sad tale, isn’t it?”
“It is.” Clara put a vibrant yellow squash in her basket and then paused. “I’m completely intrigued by it.”
“I don’t blame you. There’s quite a bit of mystery surrounding that old place. It’s a shame it’s been abandoned.”
Clara opened her mouth to mention Jonah but then closed it, reconsidering. She wasn’t sure why she hesitated telling Mr. Baptiste that someone did live there, other than the fact that Jonah obviously preferred it that way since everyone believed it was deserted.
Certainly, he must come and go covertly, in a way that didn’t alert anyone to his presence. Did he also keep the electricity off at night? These questions suddenly occurred to Clara, and she made a note to ask Jonah about it. Why the secrecy? In any case, and whatever his reasons might be, she wasn’t going to give him away.
And strangely, she felt covetous of him. He was her wish collector.
“Yes, a shame.” She chose a few more vegetables, thinking for a moment. She knew about the legend, the curse, and the riddle. She had researched Windisle itself and hoped to learn more from Jonah later that afternoon. But it probably wasn’t likely that Jonah knew much about John Whitfield, was it? Perhaps Mr. Baptiste could shed some light on who he’d been. “Mr. Baptiste, do you know anything about John Whitfield? The man who betrayed Angelina Loreaux?”
Mr. Baptiste stroked his jaw, running his fingers over his scraggly gray beard. “I don’t know much about his family. Let’s see. He was engaged to the eldest Chamberlain daughter, Astrid, at some point, wasn’t he?”
Clara’s hand stilled as she put a pepper into her basket. “He was?” Was that the way he’d betrayed Angelina? He’d become engaged to her half-sister? And yet he’d never actually married her?
Mr. Baptiste’s gaze remained fixed on the sky as if he were attempting to grasp his memories from the clouds. “It’s been so long since my grandmother told me the story.”
Thank goodness for all the mothers and grandmothers, Clara thought. They seemed to be the ones who had told Angelina’s story, who had passed the information down through the generations. Perhaps by bedsides, and firesides, from rocking chairs and porch swings.
Men told stories too, of course. But it was the women who recalled the details of the heart. It was women who passed on the souls of those they remembered.
Mr. Baptiste shook his head as if in defeat at his attempt to recapture memories and Clara’s shoulders dropped. But then he raised a finger. “Although! I remember my mama saying that her great, great aunt Lottie had been to John Whitfield’s house to care for him when he contracted tuberculosis. Aunt Lottie was a nurse, and back in those days, house calls were very common. The doctor diagnosed him with tuberculosis, and I remember my mama mentioning that John refused to be treated. According to Aunt Lottie anyway. They could have saved him, she said. He had a mild case of it when they examined him. Too prideful, I suppose. Or maybe he had a death wish. They say he suffered flashbacks.”
A flash of red caught her eye and she saw that today, he had red roses. On a whim, Clara crossed the street, smiling as she approached the old man.
He smiled back, his wrinkled skin settling into a hundred folds, his eyes squinting with kindness.
“Sorry, sir, I know you’re closing, but do I have time to purchase a bouquet of roses?”
“Course you do. What color would you like?” The man gestured to the red bouquet and one of pale pink.
“The red please. They’re my father’s favorite.”
“Ah. A classic gentleman. I like that.”
Clara took out her wallet, tilting her head as she handed the man the money on the sticker. “He is. I just moved here from Ohio, but I saw the roses and thought of him. Sort of seemed like a little touch of home.”
The man waved her money away. “Well now, you consider those roses a welcome from me to New Orleans.”
“Oh no, I couldn’t.” Clara thrust the money toward the man, but again he waved it off, chuckling. “Best get home to put those in water before they start wilting.” He winked at her, his smile warm and kind.
Reluctantly, Clara lowered her arm. “Well . . .”
“And here”—he handed her a small flowering plant in a terracotta planter—“some lagniappe.” He chuckled at the confused look on her face. “It’s what us New Orleanians call a little something extra. Now you have something pretty for the inside, and a small something for the outside. Put that on your stoop. My mama always did say that the best way to welcome folk to your home was to show that you cared about decorating their first impression.”
Clara held the plant against her body in one hand and the large bouquet of roses in the other, inhaling their sweet fragrance and thinking she better leave before he started giving her more free things and causing her to feel even guiltier. Although . . . the truth was, despite being a person who always, always paid her way and dealt with others honestly, the two small gifts—gestures of pure kindness—made her feel warm inside. Lagniappe. This man might not know it, but he had a customer for life in Clara.
She grinned at him. “Thank you. Truly. I’m very appreciative. And by the way, I’m Clara.” She figured he’d know why she couldn’t shake his hand.
He smiled back. “Clara, very nice to meet you. I’m Israel Baptiste.”
“Thank you again, Mr. Baptiste.” Clara clutched her items close and walked the short distance home. When she got there, she stood in front of the door to her apartment. She didn’t have a stoop, per se, but there was a corner near her door just large enough for a plant. She bent, placing the terracotta planter down with a smile.
On Sunday, she’d go back to see Mr. Baptiste and purchase some fresh ingredients to make a vegetable lasagna. She wondered suddenly, if Jonah liked lasagna. She could . . . no, I won’t go that far, she decided. Not yet. She’d take one to Mrs. Guillot. But it was nice to know that when she considered cooking, she had a couple of people now who might want to share a meal with her.
She looked at the plant again, admiring the way the yellow blossoms brightened the once dismal concrete space. A touch of home. My dad would like that. She was settling in after all.
**********
On Sunday, as planned, Clara walked the few blocks to Mr. Baptiste’s stand, greeting him with a warm smile as she approached.
“Well hello, Clara. How are you this fine day?”
“Good, thank you. The roses still look as fresh and beautiful as they did a few days ago.”
“Oh good. My wife, Marguerite, tends the flower garden at our house and does a mighty fine job.”
“She must love gardening.”
“She sure does. That woman could spend the whole day with those plants. Comes back in with dirt smeared all over her, looking just as happy as a lark.” His eyes warmed at the mention of his wife and Clara sighed inwardly. To have a man’s whole expression change when he spoke your name . . . it was something she could only dream of. “Do you like gardening, Clara?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never done it.” She leaned her hip against the edge of the vegetable-laden table, the smell of ripe things and earth meeting her nose. “We had a small yard in Ohio, nothing but grass. My father worked a lot and didn’t have time to maintain more than that. And I was always busy with school. And here, well, I barely have room for a houseplant.”
Mr. Baptiste chuckled and Clara gave him a smile.
“I’m going to fill a basket with some of these delicious-looking vegetables,” she said, grabbing a basket and placing two large tomatoes inside. She glanced at Mr. Baptiste and considered something. He looked old—maybe not quite as old as Dory Dupre, who had to be close to a hundred, but definitely in his eighties or nineties. “Mr. Baptiste, have you always lived in New Orleans?”
“Yup. Born and raised.”
Clara nodded as she chose a couple of deep green zucchini. “I’ve been learning about the Windisle Plantation and the ghost story attached to the weeping wall.”
Mr. Baptiste frowned slightly. “Ah. Sad tale, isn’t it?”
“It is.” Clara put a vibrant yellow squash in her basket and then paused. “I’m completely intrigued by it.”
“I don’t blame you. There’s quite a bit of mystery surrounding that old place. It’s a shame it’s been abandoned.”
Clara opened her mouth to mention Jonah but then closed it, reconsidering. She wasn’t sure why she hesitated telling Mr. Baptiste that someone did live there, other than the fact that Jonah obviously preferred it that way since everyone believed it was deserted.
Certainly, he must come and go covertly, in a way that didn’t alert anyone to his presence. Did he also keep the electricity off at night? These questions suddenly occurred to Clara, and she made a note to ask Jonah about it. Why the secrecy? In any case, and whatever his reasons might be, she wasn’t going to give him away.
And strangely, she felt covetous of him. He was her wish collector.
“Yes, a shame.” She chose a few more vegetables, thinking for a moment. She knew about the legend, the curse, and the riddle. She had researched Windisle itself and hoped to learn more from Jonah later that afternoon. But it probably wasn’t likely that Jonah knew much about John Whitfield, was it? Perhaps Mr. Baptiste could shed some light on who he’d been. “Mr. Baptiste, do you know anything about John Whitfield? The man who betrayed Angelina Loreaux?”
Mr. Baptiste stroked his jaw, running his fingers over his scraggly gray beard. “I don’t know much about his family. Let’s see. He was engaged to the eldest Chamberlain daughter, Astrid, at some point, wasn’t he?”
Clara’s hand stilled as she put a pepper into her basket. “He was?” Was that the way he’d betrayed Angelina? He’d become engaged to her half-sister? And yet he’d never actually married her?
Mr. Baptiste’s gaze remained fixed on the sky as if he were attempting to grasp his memories from the clouds. “It’s been so long since my grandmother told me the story.”
Thank goodness for all the mothers and grandmothers, Clara thought. They seemed to be the ones who had told Angelina’s story, who had passed the information down through the generations. Perhaps by bedsides, and firesides, from rocking chairs and porch swings.
Men told stories too, of course. But it was the women who recalled the details of the heart. It was women who passed on the souls of those they remembered.
Mr. Baptiste shook his head as if in defeat at his attempt to recapture memories and Clara’s shoulders dropped. But then he raised a finger. “Although! I remember my mama saying that her great, great aunt Lottie had been to John Whitfield’s house to care for him when he contracted tuberculosis. Aunt Lottie was a nurse, and back in those days, house calls were very common. The doctor diagnosed him with tuberculosis, and I remember my mama mentioning that John refused to be treated. According to Aunt Lottie anyway. They could have saved him, she said. He had a mild case of it when they examined him. Too prideful, I suppose. Or maybe he had a death wish. They say he suffered flashbacks.”
