The Butcher and the Wren(16)

“Well, you’ve already gotten all dressed and dolled. You can’t let it go to waste.”

“I could just look nice hanging around the house tonight. Who said romance is dead? Maybe this is just how I plan to look in my downtime now.” She grins, shrugging her shoulders.

“Yeah, I have always said my wife should shellac a full evening look onto her face each night to keep me happy.”

“I knew it.”

He leans forward, putting his face into the mirror next to hers.

“You can’t bail on Lindsey’s birthday.”

Wren rolls her eyes in response, “All right, all right, you made your point.” She finishes the last bit of hair and gives the whole thing a good shake.

Wren walks into Brennan’s in a hurry. She is already late. She scans the green dining area for her friends and finally spots them among the massive crowd of people laughing and enjoying their artful plates of Louisiana seafood. Lindsey, Debbie, and Jenna sit in the rounded half booth, with Marissa sitting in a coral-pink upholstered chair opposite them. When they spot her, they wave frantically. Lindsey spills part of her drink onto Debbie with the motion, and, already, Wren feels at ease in the chaos.

“I’m so sorry I’m late, guys! I would make up an excuse, but I think you know me well enough by now.”

Wren slides into the seat next to Marissa, and a collective laugh breaks out. Lindsey pushes a Bacardi and Coke garnished with a lime wedge toward Wren with a grin, motioning for her to hold it up. Her drink of choice and the only one she will enjoy tonight, since the medical examiner is always on call.

“Of course we do, and we wouldn’t have it any other way. I am just so glad you came out!”

Wren clinks her glass against Lindsey’s and smiles, now noticing the array of appetizers before her.

Debbie points to the oysters, beautifully spread on a plate directly in front of Wren, “Immediately try these. They will literally kill you; they are so good.”

“Then you can determine your own cause of death and really launch your career to the next level.”

The table erupts into tipsy laughter, and Wren can’t help but smile.

“I’m always looking to better myself. So, what makes these oysters so lethal?”

“They are Oyster J’aime,” Debbie says in an exaggerated French accent.

“Cornbread crumble,” Jenna adds, devouring one herself.

“Say no more.”

Wren eats hers without another thought and realizes her friends weren’t exaggerating. Smothered in creole tomato gravy and cornbread crumble, this is an oyster she would leave Richard for on the spot.

“Oh my gosh. You somehow undersold these,” she gushes, taking a sip of her drink.

The women catch up on jobs, kids, significant others, and gossip. It’s comfortable. As their plates and glasses empty, Lindsey puts her hand up as if she is in class. Marissa playfully points to her as another round of laughter rolls over the table.

“Yes, Lindsey?” she calls through a chuckle.

“I want to go to a fortune-teller, guys! Can we please?” She puts her hands into a pleading position.

“Oh, absolutely.” Debbie nods, grabbing her card from the bill in the center of the table.

Jenna does the same, taking a moment to quickly throw back the remains of the white wine in her glass. “Let’s do it. I want to ask them about my mother-in-law’s life span.”

“Jenna! That’s awful!” Lindsey yells a little too loudly.

Jenna shrugs with a grin. “I’m only half kidding.”

Wren laughs as she stands up and grabs her clutch. “I am so in.”

“Dr. Muller, did I just hear you say that you are willing, and dare I say excited, to engage in some nonsense?” Marissa teases and grabs Wren’s shoulder, placing a hand over her own heart.

“Let’s go to Bottom of the Cup! It’s only a few minutes from here!” Debbie decides and drags her finger across her phone. She turns it for everyone to see the glowing reviews for one of the oldest and most respected tea and psychic shops in New Orleans.

“To Bottom of the Cup!” they trill in unison.

The walk is short, and the air is breezy down Conti Street and Chartres Avenue toward Bottom of the Cup. She’s walked this same route hundreds of times, but always finds herself taken with the city, especially at night. The lights throw shadows on the streets. They become part of your path, like loa being called upon by a voodoo priestess. There’s a cozy spookiness that covers New Orleans at night. Lush ferns and hanging plants spill from the balconies like ribbons, perfectly complimenting the intricate ironwork that the French Quarter is known for. It’s only when they reach the front door of Bottom of the Cup that her friends’ excited squeals break Wren from her spell.

“Hello there. I think we are all looking to get ten-minute readings, please.” Lindsey gestures to the group, who nod in agreement.

The man at the counter smiles and straightens up. “Wonderful, would you like tea leaf, tarot, or palm readings tonight?”

Lindsey spins around, and polls. “What do you think, ladies?”

Wren speaks first. “I think I want tarot.”

She is most familiar with a tarot reading. Even as a self-proclaimed skeptic, something about tarot cards rings more magical to her. Even if it is a load of bull, she enjoys the process, if only for the artistry and theater.