Page 21 of The Witching Hours

Celeste had laughed good-naturedly and then agreed. “High-spirited. Yes.”

On the drive from the Guidry house to Tulane, Jeanette remembered the conversation about wild boys and smiled. That bumble bee yellow car suited Tris perfectly. She knew she should say no to a road trip. Even a short one. But no one could deny the perfection of the day. Mid-seventies in mid-January wasn’t common, but it wasn’t uncommon either. Less humidity meant shinier, less unruly hair, but of course, a convertible would put a stop to that. Small price to pay. It just wasn’t a day for saying no.

Tristan was already there, standing in front of a parking spot on the street, waiting to judge her parallel parking which, of course, made her nervous as a cat seeing dust in the sunlight.

He tapped on the driver’s side window. When she rolled it down, he said, “Want me to do it?”

“What I want is for you to turn around and stop being judgey about my parking.”

He chuckled but turned his back dutifully.

As soon as she’d completed the parking maneuver and climbed out of the car, he locked arms with her and tried to herd her toward the new prize. She resisted.

“Come on. Let’s just get in and go.”

She stopped. “No! Even if I decide to go, I’m not wearing this.”

He looked her up and down. “Why not? You look scrumptious.” He wiggled his eyebrows to be sure she understood the compliment had lecherous intentions.

She nodded. “I do. I really do. But if I go, I’d rather wear jeans. I mean, what if we had car trouble and had to get out and walk? Not to mention what the wind would do to my hair.”

“Car trouble? The car is brand new! What can go wrong with a brand-new car?”

“Stranger things have happened.” She hiked her tote size bag up on her shoulder. “I’m going to change.”

He grinned. “Okay. If that’s what you need to enjoy yourself. Go ahead.” He watched as she climbed the steps to the sidewalk. “But don’t take long.”

In fifteen minutes, that seemed longer to Tristan, she reappeared wearing red jeans rolled up at the hem, a vintage plaid Polo, and blinding white leather tennies. Her blonde streaked hair was pulled up in a ponytail and pushed through the opening at the back of a plain white baseball cap.

Light on her feet and graceful as a ballerina. Even in streetwear, she managed to look ethereal. He was thinking that he had no interest in politics, but if he had, she’d make some senator a perfect wife. She’d been educated at Sacred Heart. There were fifty girls in her graduating class and seventeen of them were National Merit Scholars. Jeanette was smart. Polished. Well-traveled. Connections as wide as the river. Cheerful. Gracious. But fierce when she was certain she was on the right side of a thing.

Tristan thanked his lucky stars that his sister had paired him with Jeanette Guidry as his date for Cotillion in ninth grade. He’d been adamant about not going, but his twin sister wouldn’t take no for an answer. She reminded him that their family had been lucky to be admitted to Cotillion, and he was going to go.By God.

He didn’t know if he believed in love at first sight, but he did know he’d not once been interested in another girl since meeting Jeanette.

“What are you smiling about?” she asked.

“My good luck.”

“Oh, the car,” she said. “Back by dark?”

“Cross my heart.” He made a small X over his heart.

As she deposited her mustard-yellow tote in the backseat, she donned sunglasses and said, “Don’t think I didn’t notice that you didn’t finish the pledge.” Meaning that he’d intentionally lopped off the part about hoping to die. He gave her an appropriately sheepish smile as he was climbing into the driver’s seat. It was hard to get anything past Jeanette.

As she took her place in the seat next to him, a small gold cross at the base of her throat caught the sunlight and dazzled. She rarely wore jewelry other than that cross and a pair of tiny diamond studs in her ears.

“Why do you wear that?” He pointed at the cross that hung from a chain so thin it looked like it could break with a whisper. Feminine. Understated. For a birthday or Christmas gift, she could’ve asked for a statement piece like a rapper would wear, heavy and imposing. But she was a walking demonstration of the philosophy of quality over quantity. “You’re not a true believer.”

She gave him the look that meant he’d said something dumb. “It’s just jewelry, Tris.”

He supposed that answer would suffice for definitive commentary for someone somewhere. He thought perhaps she was saying it wasn’t a religious statement, but he didn’t care enough to pursue clarification. As his dad so often said, “Pick your battles.”

There was a slow down at the Highway 90 bridge. So, it took a half hour longer than planned just to get across the river.

Once they were clear of the city, she said, “We’re not gonna get back before dark.”

“Close enough,” he lied. “What do you think I should name her?”