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suddenly as it had begun, the wind died down, and the clouds broke, freeing the sun.
    The day was perfect once again.

Chapter 3
    “Marc Dumont is like the St. Charles trolley,” Devyn complained. “Everyone in the city’s had a ride.” She grabbed a handful of socks from the dresser drawer and shoved them in Allie’s suitcase with enough force to shake the bed. “Why would you want to spend two weeks trapped on a boat with a skeezeball like him?”
    “He’s not that bad,” Allie told her sister, tossing her toiletry bag beside the socks. “And it’s a really big boat.”
    “Not big enough for his libido.” Devyn pushed a dark curl behind her ear and added, “Or his idiocy.”
    “You’re missing the point,” Allie said while scanning the bedroom floor for her work clogs. “I get to share an oven with Phillip Regale.”
    Devyn sniffed disdainfully and perched on the edge of the mattress. “I saw him on
Satan’s Kitchen
a few years ago. He’s an asswipe, and he spits when he talks.”
    “Hey.” Allie waved a hand in the air as if dispersing a cloud of perfume. “Enough with the negativity,” she said, laughing. “You’re harshing my glow.” The two sisters could pass for twins if it weren’t for Dev’s blue eyes and a few inches of height in her favor, but when it came to personality, they were like buttercream and rolled fondant—one sweet and fluffy, the other lovely but hardened. “Can’t you just be happy for me?”
    Devyn held up two nightgowns—a black lace teddy and a frumpy pink polka-dot sheath. “Which one?”
    Allie pointed to the teddy.
    “Aha!” Devyn cried, waving the lacy frock at her. “I was right. You want to get freaky with Marc!”
    “I’m a grown woman,” Allie reminded her ever so slightly older sister. “I can get freaky with whoever I want.”
    Devyn folded the long pink nightgown and placed it in the suitcase, then balled up the teddy and chucked it over one shoulder. “I’m just looking out for you. If Marc’s anything like his big brother . . .” She pressed her lips together and smoothed a wrinkle from a pair of shorts. Dev didn’t like talking about her short-lived romance with Beau, and today was no exception. “Well, let’s just say there’s a reason Memère cursed the Dumonts. Everyone knows they can’t be trusted.”
    Allie paused midreach for a fistful of undies. “You don’t really buy into that, do you?”
    “Of course I do!” Devyn gawked at Allie like she’d sprouted a second nose. “They’re practically sticking it someplace new every time the wind changes.”
    “No,” Allie said, “I mean the curse. You think it’s real?”
    Devyn shrugged. “Sure. Why else would they be so screwed up?”
    “Because it’s all they’ve ever known. Kids think dysfunction is normal when they see it every day. They learn by example; then they teach it to their own kids until someone breaks the cycle. It’s basic psychology, not voodoo.”
    “Then explain why none of the men have gotten married in four generations,” Devyn argued. “But the women have.”
    Allie didn’t have an answer for that. It’s not like marriage was truly permanent anymore. Thousands of feckless lovers married—and divorced—every day, no long-term commitment required. It
was
a little strange that no Dumont man had taken the vow since Memère’s time, but that didn’t mean a hex was to blame.
    “I don’t know,” Allie conceded. “But I’m sure there’s a logical reason.”
    “You and your logic.” With a light bounce, Devyn stood from the bed and grabbed the hair dryer. She held it up in a silent
You taking this?
and tucked it beneath a sundress without waiting for a reply. “Funny that you’re the one people come to see for charms, considering you don’t believe in your own gift.”
    “I know I have a gift,” Allie said. “It’s just not rooted in hocus-pocus.” She slipped her cell phone charger between a stack of shirts. “And more folks