After twenty minutes of glancing toward the balcony door whenever someone appears and waiting for Stacy to return, we abandon our uneaten seafood gumbo and leave the restaurant. Clueless, we circle Jackson Square, heeding instincts not to stray far from the cathedral, believing Bleu’s in the vicinity. But after searching inside once more, we decide to move beyond the square from St. Anne to Decatur Street, toward Cafe Du Monde, searching long lines at busy kiosks inside the French Market. Then we walk toward Saint Peter Street, circling back through the sculpted garden surrounding Andrew Jackson’s statue. We search crowds standing around Mediterranean Palm trees, live oaks, and crepe myrtle trees. Azalea, magnolia, and jasmine whiffs strike my nose and give me pause, wishing for the first
