Ciji Ware Read Online Free PDF

Disgusting. Decadent. Delicious.
    As she paused to absorb the magnificence of Jackson Square and its gated park, she indulged in a moment to consider how swiftly she’d fallen in love with the physical beauty of New Orleans—an exercise that only increased her gloom. Who would ever hire her in this town again? Victor Girard would hardly give her a glowing recommendation. Nor, obviously, would Jay Kerlin at her former station in LA.
    She caught sight of the café’s green-and-white awnings, also etched in pinpoints of sparkling lights, and was suddenly reminded that it was practically Christmas, a mere three more shopping days till the twenty-fifth. She’d been kept so busy at WWEZ, she hadn’t bought any presents for her few family members in California, to say nothing of shipping them west. And except for Virgil and Manny, she had no one to buy for in New Orleans. At least if she became a fatal crime statistic walking the streets at this hour, it certainly wouldn’t ruin anyone’s holiday around here.
    Get a grip, McCullough!
    Once at the celebrated Café du Monde, she drummed her fingers restlessly on the takeout counter in the courtyard.
    “Thank God this place stays open twenty-four hours a day,” she said to the clerk while she waited for her coffee. She was starved for conversation with somebody .
    “Yes ma’am,” the clerk said mechanically, handing Corlis the paper cup filled with café au lait.
    “Oooh, this feels so nice,” she added inanely, grateful for the cup’s soothing warmth spreading through her fingers.
    “Yes, ma’am.” The clerk nodded patiently, handing her a few silver coins and a small white bag containing an order of beignets, diamond-shaped raised doughnuts without holes that had been deep fat fried only seconds earlier and dredged in a thick layer of powdered sugar. After the night she’d had, beignets were the only antidote she could think of for her downward spiraling funk.
    As she took a sip of her pungent chicory-laced coffee while recrossing Decatur Street toward the park, her gaze traced the trajectory of winter sunlight filtering anemically through the trees that bordered Jackson Square.
    Gingerly, Corlis trod across the slate paving stones, slick with dew that fronted Saint Louis Cathedral, and encircled the park. On her right the Pontalba Building, with its refined red brick and granite four-story facade—along with its twin across the park on St. Peter Street—embodied the architectural essence of New Orleans. Lacy cast-iron galleries, bedecked with Christmas lights and seasonal swags of pine boughs and glittering decorations, ran the length of both blocks. These elegant buildings were thought to be among the oldest apartments in the New World. A place in the Pontalba offered one of the best addresses and most spectacular views in the entire city.
    Well… I’ll never live in one of those. Not now.
    Corlis walked slowly under the Pontalba’s arcade and caught sight of the homeless man with the scuffed boots whom she’d nearly tripped over the previous evening. At this early hour he lay curled up against one of the iron pillars supporting the building’s metal gallery overhead, a large piece of cardboard crimped over his shoulders. He was snoring peacefully.
    A few yards distant, a tarot card reader swathed in a turban and flowing caftan was already setting up her collapsible table, staking out a coveted spot to sell her psychic wares when the tourists arose.
    “Mornin’ sweetheart,” she said in a husky voice, startling Corlis from her reverie. “Let me do a readin’ for you, sugar. Your luck’s bound to change.”
    “No… no thanks,” Corlis replied, walking faster. Farther on, a disheveled young woman, pushing a rusted grocery cart and accompanied by an emaciated hound on a length of rope, wandered in front of the cathedral cheerfully chattering to herself.
    To Corlis’s left, a city groundskeeper was shoving a large metal key into the big padlock that