“Call me Ishmael...”

No, I can’t do that. This is my story, though, bereft of white whales, but perhaps just as epic, at least to this Cajun boy.

I was on the way back to my home office after a visit to one of my ‘remote’ sites. It’s remote to me, three hour drive from the bottom of Mississippi to the wrong side of Louisiana. I’d reached it a couple of days before by the direct route I’d always taken – Interstate 10 all the way across Louisiana to Baton Rouge, hop off I-10 onto I-12, thereby avoiding the mess of New Orleans, the mess in Baton Rouge being more than enough hassle for one drive.

In retrospect I should’ve consulted one of the map programs, Apple, Google, whatever, and they would’ve warned me about construction delays on I-12. So anyway, on the trip home I decided to risk New Orleans. Heading into the city from points east gives you the sharp contrast of twenty-five miles of a low bridge over a shallow lake, the Pontchartrain Causeway, into the mess that is New Orleans, a city that ‘just grew’ without apparent rhyme or reason. Traffic thickened. My awareness went up.

I glanced in the rearview mirror and noted somebody with real ambition closing on me fast so I eased over into the slow lane behind a nondescript Japanese sedan. Right lane. Slow traffic. Shoulder. Road debris. Apparently the car in front of me hit something. I saw the front end bounce up, then down, the car nosed hard across the shoulder into the guardrail.

Careful driver, me. I had plenty of space. Could’ve gone around. Didn’t. Braked to a stop on the wide shoulder, emergency flashers on. I exited carefully, cellphone dialing 9-1-1, giving them a location. Nearing the car I saw the driver struggling to open the door.

“Sit back,” I said loudly. “Let me try!” Metal creaked when I yanked, but the door did open part way. “Are you injured?”

“No,” came a female voice.

“Can you get out of the car?” My query was made urgent by clouds of silver smoke coming from the crumpled front end. I extended a hand.

She took my hand, pulling herself out. I guided her back to the guardrail between her car and mine. We’re stuck. Elevated roadway, the ground thirty feet below us. Against the guardrail is as safe as we can get.

“By the way, I’m Kevin Boudreaux.” That’s a good Cajun name, pronounced “Boo-dro”.

I surveyed my new acquaintance. She’s maybe five feet four inches. I noted the sensible low-heeled shoes, ankle-length dress, some sort of soft fabric draped modestly, long sleeved, calm pleasant face, red lipstick and eye make-up tastefully done, not garish. Her hair was a cascade of black soft curls ending at her shoulder with a stunning blaze of silver above her right eye.

Age? A guy can get in trouble estimating ages but I felt fairly safe in telling you she had at least ten years on my thirty.

“I’m Lady Chloe. Uh, Chloe Broussard for insurance purposes.” Another good Cajun name. That’s “Brew-sard”.

I heard a siren approaching in the distance. The police unit pulled up, an officious patrolman got out and went through the motions of collecting information.

“Ma’am, do you have an idea about which wrecker to call?”

Lady Chloe shook her head.

“You, Mister Boudreaux?”

“I’m not from around here. No idea.”

“We’ll get one off the list. Ma’am, they’ll tow it. If you know where you want ‘em to work on it...”

Things went south. Our wreck caught fire.

“Oh, I wondered how today would work,” Lady Chloe sighed. “The cards...”

I stored that statement in the stack to parse later. The whole front end of her wrecked car was afire now.

“Folks,” the officer stated, “the fire department’s on the way now. Ma’am, do you want to take a cab...”

“Lady Chloe,” I said, “is your destination here in town?”

“Yes, it is...”

“If you want, I can give you a ride...”

She did a scan of me from foot to head. “If you would be so kind...” Traffic was not an issue when we got back on the road. Lady Chloe’s misfortune spread among an hour’s worth of I-10 traffic as a section of the highway was shut down for the fire department’s arrival.

Starting out, I said, “I’m very sorry you’re having a bad day.” I glanced over. She was making a motion with her hand, softly moving her lips, forming words I couldn’t make out.

“Sorry,” she said. “I was making a warding spell on you and your car.”

“A warding spell?”

“Yes. I am a witch. I deal in the occult.”

“I’m an engineer. I don’t.”

“You and I are in the same world, subject to the same forces. You believe your forces. I believe mine, Mister Kevin.”

“Just ‘Kevin’, please. Your car...”

“I did a reading this morning before I left Mississippi. It was foretold that there were to be changes today.”

I shook my head. “At least you’re not hurt.”

“No, I am not.”

We navigated away from the interstate and into the confusion of streets that is old New Orleans.

“We are going to my shop near the French Quarter,” she announced.

“I’ve been to the French Quarter.”

“You’re from Louisiana. That is not surprising.”

“Not my thing.”

She smiled. “You do not strike me as the typical French Quarter tourist. I would suppose, though, that you do enjoy some travel.”

“I do. Just not the ‘destinations’ that gather flocks of people.”

“I close up shop at sunset,” she said. “I’m off the popular path, so I avoid many of the problems from tourists navigating from one drinking establishment to another.” She smiled. “I also have other means to avoid many problems.”

“An armed guard?” I snarked.

“You’re actually quite close, Mister Boudreaux. Despite your humor.”

“I’m curious now.”

“As I said, I am a witch. There is an aura protecting me.”

“That works?” I questioned.

“Mostly. To those who do not belong here, it is almost as if my front door is a brick wall. Of course, those who do come in, somehow they were compelled to come in. Sometimes it is for simple, benign curiosity. They find small joy and comfort, they often feel the need to purchase something.”

“But you never know...”

“That is a truth I live under,” she sighed. “Sometimes it is my place to understand why this large, obnoxious Yankee and his mouse of a wife have come in. As I am subjected to thinly veiled ridicule I exercise my patience, for therein I grow.”

“I can imagine Mardi Gras is fun around here.”

She smiled. “Interesting times, they are. I do well during the day. I close at sunset before the real problems begin, and I’m just a bit off the main paths.”

Now we were in the narrow streets of the old city. She pointed.

“There. You may park and come in for a moment if you wish. I am inviting you for coffee.”

“I can accept that, Lady Chloe.”

She let me into her place. It was exactly what you’d expect for somebody who was making a living by catering to those who desire the offbeat and occult, a bit on the underlit side, glass cases with crystals and amulets of various types, a few curiosities, many odd things hanging on the walls between wallhangings and posters. I followed her behind the counter.

She put water on to boil for coffee, served us from a tray with two little demitasse cups along with sugar and cream in little servers.

“This reminds me of my great-grandmother’s coffee service.”

“I prefer this over gulping from a huge mug. This is a pause in my day, a time to reflect if I am alone, a time to share with company, since you’re here.”

“It is very much appreciated.”

“I would still be standing on the interstate except for you coming along. Your kindness...”

“You needed help. I could help.”

“Now, Kevin. About you...”

She gazed at me intensely. I couldn’t decipher the look. Almost like I was being studied.

“Not much about me. Just an everyday guy going about an everyday life.”

“There are things you think about every day. Things you think you’re missing...”

“I think everybody has those.”

“That is true. And there is always a possibility that life will provide.” She fixed me with a look that hinted at some unknown power. “As you provided for me this morning, allow me to give you a gift...”

“Oh, Lady Chloe, you owe me nothing.”

“I owe you for bringing harmony to our lives, Kevin. It is not much in monetary value. It is a simple gift I’ve received with the guidance to pass it on. Excuse me.”

She got up, went further into the darkness at the rear of the little shop and rummaged around. Presently she returned, handing me a small box. It was made from some dark wood, the top and four sides incised with detailed carving.

I started to open it.

“No, do not open it here,” she said softly. “Take it to your home and place it on a table, then open the lid. Good will come.”

“How’s that work?”

She smiled. “Engineer Kevin who makes his living knowing how things work, in MY world we often believe things will work without understand how or why. I was given it, told to pass it on, but that it was only to be opened at the owner’s home.”

“Okay, then.” I stood up.

“Kevin, if you’re ever back in New Orleans, please come by and visit.”

“I will do that, Lady Chloe. Thank you for an interesting morning. I hope things work out for you.”

“They will, Kevin. Take care!”

This time I let the car’s nav system get me out of the bowels of New Orleans, but not before I punched the screen to save the location of Lady Chloe’s shop. Three hours later I pulled into my own driveway.

My house. Neat three-bedroom ranch style. More house than I needed, but still home. EMPTY home. I hauled my overnight bag in to the house, carrying Lady Chloe’s little box under my arm.

Sterile. A single guy’s house. A co-worker’s wife had helped me decorate, so there was a little table against one wall in the living room.

That’s where the box landed, and per instruction, I opened the hinged lid. Looked inside. A little bundle of sticks, tied together with a rustic string. I shrugged. Time to get domestic. Laundry. Unload the dishwasher. Think about dinner. There’s all kinds of frozen bachelor chow in the freezer. That’ll come later.

Okay, TV for background noise, pull up the computer, check email. Nothing on the personal side, the rest is spam.

Not even a dog or cat for companionship.

The lady was right. There are things in my life that I am missing.

The alarm the next morning put me back on routine, back in the office, back into the paperwork that surrounds the part of my job that I love – the technical, the problems, the solutions, the feelings of pride when we put a new system on line or when one of our technicians and I overcome some trouble. I endured.

End of the day. Stopped at a convenience store to top off my car’s tank. I was standing there waiting for the gas to fill my tank, enjoying a brisk February breeze kicking up across the parking lot. Really brisk breeze, and eddies of the gusts, bending around the side of the building, were kicking up dust and loose debris.

Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a flash of red and white paper. I know the pattern. It’s a lottery ticket, and the gust carried it between my car and the pump. I bent over to pick it up, figuring it to be from a previous drawing. The date would tell. I looked at the date. This was a valid ticket for the upcoming drawing and I was in possession of five chances.

I’m one of those guys who thinks that the lottery is a tax on people who are bad at math. I’d never bought one aside from those office pools when the lottery prize reaches some astronomical amount. This was a freebie.

The pump clicked off. Drove home. Read a little while.

Think about calling a lady I’d met at church. She was pretty enough, intelligent enough (marginally), and seemed interested in me. Would’ve been a pretty good start to a relationship but she came with two kids under five, one from a previous marriage, and the other was one of those ‘oops’ moments. I didn’t exactly break it off with her because honestly, it was never really ‘on’.

I talked myself out of that move. Started browsing boats on my computer, fueling dreams.

The next day at the office I had the sniffles. Not bad, just not good, either. I stopped at the pharmacy on the way home to buy some over-the-counter meds. I navigated through the place past displays of red everything for the upcoming Valentine’s Day.

I took a deep breath. Nope. Nobody’s getting a card from me this year.

Sunday morning I opened the on-line edition to the local news. Nothing interesting, really. Old habit.

Wait! Here’s something. “Local Ticket Wins Big Lottery.” Well, good for somebody.

Uh, dummy, YOU have a ticket.

Monday I came home to find a card taped to my door. Mysterious.

It didn’t get any less mysterious when I opened it. “You never know from where a blessing may arrive.”

I don’t know where the two neurons in my brain connected, but something told me ‘check your ticket’.

There’s a website. Laptop. Website. Ticket.

I thought I was going to have a cardiac event.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. And the Powerball. I saw the lottery sign when I was driving home. Eighty-eight million dollars if I took the annuity. Forty-something if I took cash. And after the tax came out, I’d probably have twenty million left.

I made the phone call.

“We know that the winning ticket came from your area,” the lady said. “Read me your numbers.”

I did. “Now what?”

“Come to the local office tomorrow. We’re open from nine to six.”

“I’ll be there.”

I sat back in my recliner and closed my eyes. Wow!

The doorbell rang. That’s something I wasn’t expecting at all. My knees were unsteady as I got up to check the door.

I looked though the peephole. Female. Kind of short. Since she looked nothing like a threat, I opened the door.

“Can I help you?”

“My Aunt Chloe says we can help each other. She said to give you this.” She extended her hand, offering me a red envelope.

I opened it. Valentine?