We double back towards Jackson Square through Pirates Alley, running parallel to Saint Louis Cathedral. A spark of panic storms Stacy’s face. Spooked as a stray cat considering a busy throughway, she stands stiff as a statue, scanning the path.
“Let’s not go that way,” Stacy says.
Jude glances around, his stony demeanor softening. “We can meet you in front of the cathedral if you want to go around the alley. I’ll only be a moment at Faulkner House Bookstore,” he says, crossing the street toward the cobbled passage.
“What’s wrong?” I ask Stacy
“Tanpri, mwen jis, please, I’m just … I don’t like the alley. Can we go another way?”
Her demeanor has softened during our excursion, with no hint of the brazen temptress exhibited in the hotel suite. But I remain vigilant in case she acts up aga
