Bent, but Not Broken

By Lucy Bartholomee

Facing the unique misery of the woman’s midlife crisis, Juliette flees middle-American suburbia for New Orleans, a place completely unknown to her. When her flimsy book project falls apart, so does Juliette—for awhile. But the Crescent City has already accepted her with open arms. Unique characters become friends, ancient alleys reveal delightful surprises, and as the city’s music begins to refill her soul, the resilience of New Orleans itself reveals the way forward.

"Bent, but Not Broken" is a story of renewal, of standing strong in the face of life’s storms and recognizing how to seize joy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lucy Bartholomee
• Release date: Dec 2, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465759917

Lucy Bartholomee

Lucy Bartholomee was born in Morgantown, West Virginia. She is an artist, writer, and teacher. She has a BA in Art and Marketing from Abilene Christian University and earned an MA at the University of Texas at Arlington in Humanities and Art History. She is a passionate and addicted traveler, frequently visiting New Orleans and other areas around the U.S. and overseas, as is reflected in her writing and artwork. She lives in Texas with her husband and two sons.

Book preview

Bent,

but Not Broken

By Lucy Bartholomee

Bent, but Not Broken

Lucy Bartholomee

© 2011 Copyright Lucy Bartholomee, Smashwords Edition

All Rights Reserved.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Illustrations by Lucy Bartholomee

Cover design by Patty Wallace at MonkeyPAWcreative

This is a work of fiction. Although some famous characters or business establishments in the story are real, they are referenced fictiously. All other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

While this story is fictional, most of the experiences unique to

New Orleans are authentic, based on more than

twenty years of frequent visits.

New Orleans is one of our oldest cities, uniquely American and yet unlike any other place I know. It is full of character and characters, brimming with joy and sorrow,

a hidden treasure waiting to be experienced.

Dedicated to my wonderful husband Russell,

And our two boys Ian & Jack

Week 1

Arriving

Come on down and have tea with us. Come and meet everyone.

Tea?

My new neighbor was a petite, energetic young woman with a colorful array of paint splattered on her gray t-shirt and unkempt short blonde hair wafting in every direction. She stood in my doorway, beckoning to me with a clean hand attached to a paint-smeared arm—not exactly the matronly, high tea type.

I had barely set down my suitcases and toured my newly rented antique apartment in New Orleans when she knocked on my door. I hesitated, thinking I should unpack, thinking I would be nervous drinking tea, of all things, with strangers, thinking of excuses, when I remembered that I was here to break out of my old self-imposed shell. So I said Alright, and quickly followed her, leaving my hesitations momentarily behind.

I’m Sammie, she said, shaking my hand in the hallway.

Julie. Juliette, actually, I answered, wondering why I had told her my full name. I hadn’t gone by Juliette since I was eleven years old. Are you a painter?

Yeah. At least today I’ve been painting, she admitted. She fairly skipped down the stairs in front of me, wound through three short hallways, and a moment later we were in the hidden interior courtyard shared by our block of historic buildings. The courtyard was a rather irregular and very long rectangle, hemmed on all sides by a variety of brick buildings on a small block. The structures were of varying age, although they all looked to be at least a hundred years old and bore the evidence of many modifications over the decades. Each building had two or more doors opening onto the secluded garden. The waning evening light reflected off of many windows overlooking the space, including those in the apartment I had just rented.

Several others were already there, lounging at a couple of black wrought iron café tables or gathering around a larger marble slab balanced on two iron pillars. All were either pouring or holding drinks. Tea, as it turned out, was a daily social gathering. It did indeed include tea, but also leaned noticeably towards a neighborhood happy hour. Centered on the gray marble table was a huge glass tankard of iced tea with fresh cut lemons and limes floating in it. Next to that were a pitcher of sangria and half a bottle of local rum, and beneath the table was a blue plastic cooler of beer and sodas—basically whatever people cared to bring out. It was the same with snacks. So on this, my first day as a resident in New Orleans, I had a rum and coke and a napkin full of pretzels and some kind of crispy homemade cheese balls. Sammie cheerfully introduced me to the regulars, as she called them, and while it took me several days to really get their names straight, I did meet them all on this first night.

Sammie was what I call an eternal student. She had found a charitable foundation that gave her a full university scholarship and living allowance as long as she took at least four classes and maintained a passing average. This had apparently been going on for more than a decade. She was slowly inching her way towards an art degree, and found that she could live quite nicely on the scholarship and selling her paintings to tourists and the occasional local gallery. She was a true bohemian, a rare creature in the modern world. But as I gradually discovered, New Orleans never was like the rest of the world.

Charles was a wiry old African American man who lived in a permanent state of relaxed activity. He spent a couple hours each afternoon puttering around the courtyard, sweeping the flagstones and watering the verdant potted garden that filled the rustic space with wonderful, lush atmosphere. A faithful regular at teatime, he often lingered in the courtyard after everyone else had left, smoking a thin cigar until the darkness hid all but a floating orange ember and the earthy fragrance of tobacco smoke. In the small hours of the morning, he made his way to an ancient bar on Decatur Street where he swept floors and collected bottles after closing. During the months when tourism peaked, he worked at two or three others as well. In the early dawn light he would have breakfast with friends then saunter on home, usually whistling as he strolled into the courtyard, and went to bed until after noon.

There were two couples: the Goldbergs, an elderly pair who were in a constant flux between arguing and flirting, and a pair of middle aged yuppies who came in about once a month for a few days. They seemed as detached from the cozy little community of the courtyard as they were from each other; a marriage that was more status-seeking partnership than romantic alliance.

Celeste Riveaux shook my hand energetically and cheerfully. She seemed at first like a certain type of dowdy, late middle aged, Caucasian and cat-loving lady, but she had her own surprises. Her simple blonde pageboy haircut surrounded a round, cheerful face with bright eyes. Celeste was a historian and curator for a nearby historical society, and she loved New Orleans with a fierce passion. She had once lived in a beautiful antebellum home, but she had lost everything--everything--in Katrina. So she had moved into a beautiful old apartment in the French Quarter and immersed herself in the historical world that she adored.

Mrs. D lived alone in a first floor apartment. She was in her sixties, a middle-sized African American lady who held no pretensions of coloring her hair or wearing anything but the simplest cotton dresses. Her high calling was to care for babies. She kept only three at a time, happily tending to her lucky sweet angels from birth to age four while their mothers were at work. I learned that she only took care of children whose mothers worked business hours and kept up with church attendance and doctor visits, and she always had a waiting list. One of the babies she cared for had actually been planned around Mrs. D’s schedule, so he would come into the world just as Mrs. D was launching an older angel into preschool. During the mornings, you could see Mrs. D playing with these happy little souls in the courtyard, rolling a ball or swinging them in her arms, or just sitting quietly together watching the leaves blow around. Through her open windows I could hear her singing to them and with them, laughing at their sweet attempts to talk, fixing Campbell’s soup and cheese sandwiches for lunch, and the soft lullaby she crooned as they drifted slowly into their afternoon nap. Who wouldn’t feel at least a tiny bit jealous of the happy babies, resting in the care of such a devoted soul? I found it remarkably uplifting to discover that there were still such kind and caring people in the world.

All of the regulars were friendly and interesting, but none so vital or intriguing as the last person to join us on that evening. As she appeared in the courtyard, everyone greeted her with happy voices while Charles moved to prepare her favorite beverage. Trijanna Lyon was a slender, spritely African American lady, barely over five feet tall yet as regal as a queen, and she was absolutely ancient. Her long white hair was secured by a pink scarf tied neatly at the nape of her long neck. She wore a