The Visitor

By C. D'Angelo

Fiercely independent Mary Pontrelli is blindsided when the New Orleans building housing her New Age store and upstairs apartment is listed for sale. Worse yet, a developer wants to destroy it and her high school ex-boyfriend—ahem, nemesis—is leading their charge. But this budding sweet spot for that weasel from the past can't happen since traitors never change. 

 

The best chance Mary has to save her cherished French Quarter building is to join forces with the other business owners whose livelihoods are also at risk. Too bad she avoids teamwork at all costs. Thankfully, a mystical new customer who shares Mary's lost Italian heritage may be able to help alter her stubborn patterns. And, learning about the city's history and her own Sicilian roots from the shopper may prove beyond merely engaging.

 

Even so, acquiring trust in strangers and accepting assistance requires more bravery than any societal expectation she's challenged in her life. But if she doesn't depend on her community and learn forgiveness, she may lose her career, home, and deeper relationships. No eccentric spirituality or heritage lessons can fix this…right? 

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. D'Angelo
• Release date: Nov 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781737262428

Book preview

Author’s Note

This story contains references to hate crimes, which may be triggering for some readers.

Chapter 1

How can this be? My heart sinks in my chest, and my mouth drops open as I turn over this letter to find the correction for its message but only see a blank white abyss. Where’s the punchline to this must-be joke? The Ha, ha, I got you?

But no. My sweaty, shaky hands grip horrible words from some stranger stating that the building where I live and work is going up for sale. I fall back onto the stool behind me and look around my flourishing New Age store I created from a whim of a teenage idea twelve years ago.

Who will be my new landlord? When I left my parents’ home at eighteen, I was determined not to go to college, like most of my classmates, so I could start my life as soon as possible. The Bumbys offered me the lowest rent I could find—and in the French Quarter of New Orleans, no less. I’m forever grateful to them for paying their past fortune forward to me, since someone gave them a break when they were young and hungry for their own business. Now I have everything that surrounds me to treasure each day.

They’ve never even talked about selling their properties…have they? I mentally scan our conversations. No, never. All of those times over the years when I came to Betty with my boyfriend issues to gain her wisdom or how she told me all about her grandkids’ adventures plus her and Dale’s hopes and dreams never once led to, Hey, Mary. We’re going to leave you in the dust someday. Okay? Great. See ya.

Alright, I know my imagination is running wild, and they don’t deserve that, but come on. I just thought we had a closer relationship than maybe what they feel. They’re in my small circle of trust. If I had needed to leave this location, I would have given them warning, and not through some cold, impersonal letter. How could they have not told me—or any of their other renters—that they’re selling their properties? I consider them family, and family doesn’t blindside family.

Now that I think about it, they have seemed distant in the last few months. We’ve called each other less, but I just thought we were all busy. And when I tried to meet Betty last week for lunch so I could get her opinion on my newest relationship disaster, I was given a list of reasons for why she couldn’t join me, even when I offered alternative dates. She always wants to hear the gossip, so the realization should have hit me over the head. Wow, my intuition must be on the fritz.

Tears begin to well up in my eyes as more thoughts flood my now throbbing head, but I try to hold them back. Mary doesn’t cry. I drop the letter on the counter in front of me like I’m ridding myself of a bomb.

The Bumbys have kept my rent ridiculously affordable, but who knows what a new owner will charge. I’m sure they’ll want to raise the cost as high as possible for this desirable area. Who in their right mind wouldn’t? I don’t scrape by, but I also don’t have much disposable income, even at this monthly price.

So, wait. If I can’t swing the new fee, I’ll have to move. No! I can’t imagine living and working anywhere else, especially with the returning customer base I’ve gained. Not only do the tourists sustain A Healing Hand, but my locals are the heart of my dependable profits. Plus, the customers who attend my classes have come for years. I don’t know if they’ll continue their yoga, tea leaf readings, or any of my other offerings at a new site in God knows what part of the city. It would be like starting over again. And I’d miss them.

A tear escapes down my face. Damn it. Stay strong. Don’t think about the worst circumstance. I’ll be alright. Maybe if I tell myself that phrase enough it’ll be true. I squeeze my eyes shut, press my fingers to my temples, and mentally repeat the statement a few times.

Shaking my head to get myself together, I breathe in and breathe out as deep as my body allows. You know, recharging all my chakras. Yes, keep that vibe going, Mary.

Okay, I’ll just have to talk to the Bumbys tomorrow. It’s too late to contact them at this hour, and I need to close the store for the night. Plus, it’s dinner time for Mr. Grayson, who I definitely can’t tell about this letter tonight. Oh, he’s my cat. He’ll be displeased enough to be hungry, but to learn this news, too? Forget it. I expect a turned-up nose and a veering head as a full-on cat protest if I tell him these words. See, he loves to roam between my—I mean, our studio apartment and my store. If I have to move and the store doesn’t have living space above it, there goes his freedom. I may as well prepare for attitude for months. No thanks.

I snatch the letter and stuff it into my satchel under the counter. Maybe I’ll leave that energy down here tonight. No need to let it enter my safe space upstairs.

Locking the front door and turning off the last set of lights before I go upstairs, my awareness is altered by the vigorous aroma lingering from the candles I blew out pre-letter. Closing my eyes and breathing in sweet air from what seems like days ago, my body relaxes another notch. Ahh, nothing like lavender to greet the night and loosen my shoulders. The scent sparks images of fields bursting with the bright-purple plant and—

Ow! I stub my toe on the stairstep that protrudes from its edge and grab my foot to ease the pain. My flip-flops give unwanted access to my piggies way too much. It’s not cool to kick me while I’m down, Universe.

Asking the Bumbys to replace that board always slips my mind since, nine times out of ten, I hit my toe as I climb to my apartment for the night, then forget about it until the next night. I must remember about the defect, because it’s worse than ever, but how can I remember when there are a million other tasks on my plate? Plus, one more concern now. I tap my forehead a few times and say, Remember. So much for the relaxing lavender.

My favorite little buddy is waiting for me at our apartment door when I push it open, just as I expect. His yellow eyes shine as they look up at me past his short gray fur, but I’m not fooled. That shine isn’t a total happy-to-see-me look. He has a hint of annoyance in those squinting eyes since I closed the apartment door today. I know my guy.

I was protecting your tiny pink ears, not punishing you, Gray. I pat him on his soft fuzzy head. There was a drum circle, and that’s too loud for you.

He fully closes his eyes for a moment, forgiving me as far as I can tell.

As soon as I walk over to the cabinet and reach for his dry food, he dashes over and rubs against my leg.

Here you go. I pour the mix into his bowtie-shaped food bowl and fill his top-hat-formed water bowl.

He yawns and lies down in front of his bowls to feast as soon as I put them on the floor. No need to waste all that energy standing when he can relax while he eats.

Taking his lead, I plop down on the floor next to him and stroke his back. Oh, Mr. Grayson, what are we gonna do?

I turn my head and notice a gleaming silver fork laying under a barstool. Looking back at Mr. G., I ask, "What did you do when I was gone?"

He doesn’t stop eating, leaving me to guess what cat antics he was up to during the day.

I giggle. You’re always knocking things off the counter.

But I guess company’s coming my way. It’s an Italian superstition that always comes true. I wonder who will visit me.

Chapter 2

Knock, knock, knock.

Come on. Answer the door, Bumbys. I’m practically in a sweat from speed-walking over here in the humid morning air as early as is respectful. I grab my long hair and fan my neck. Come on, come on, come—

Mary! Betty gasps as she opens the door.

What’s going on? I’ve dropped by a million times, and she’s always welcoming, never shocked.

I remember to smooth my brow, smile, and muster up the words, Hi there. Do you have a few minutes to talk? I know something’s awry. Betty’s warm beige face is as pale as if she’s seen a ghost.

Get on in here. She comes to life again and moves her open palm toward the parlor. Have a seat. Can I get ya some sweet tea? You look parched. She runs her fingers through her curly short brown hair, the same chestnut color as my straight locks.

No, thank you. I’m here because of a letter I received yesterday.

She freezes mid-amble, slowly turns her head toward me, and giggles. A letter. Y-Yes. Let me get Dale down here. She stumbles over to the bottom of the stairs and yells, Dale, come on down here. Miss Mary is here to see us, then looks back at me with a grin and grabs the stair rail for support.

I’m left in outer space, dangling and wishing for solid ground. This couch will do for the moment, so I take a seat. At least I wore my bloodstone crystal necklace for courage.

Dale makes his way down the stairs, slow and steady. He doesn’t change his serious facial expression when he notices my presence, his typical bronze glow remaining.

Huh? He’s usually smiling ear to ear when I see him.

Hi, Mary. How are you this lovely Tuesday mornin’? He comes to the parlor and sits across from me on his recliner. His short legs extend outward, crossed at his ankles.

Hello. My tone matches his flatness. I reach into my crossbody satchel for the letter to hold it up and show him. I got this letter yesterday that states our building is being put on the market. For sale. This isn’t correct, right? A girl could hope.

My place has been there since, I don’t know, 1940 at least—or some other year ages ago. The Bumbys probably have owned the beautiful brick structure that takes up most of the block since before I was born, and I’m the big 3-0 now. Who would want to buy an ancient building when they can have their pick of newer ones in other parts of New Orleans? Selling it doesn’t make any sense. Buying it makes even less sense. Nope, no buyers for the building. It’s settled.

And I’ve been there so long now that I can’t imagine residing or working in a new location. I’ve only lived in my childhood home and this one. That building is my whole life now.

What feels like eons of time pass until I see Dale’s lips start to move, like the slow-motion video setting for the camera on my phone. It’s true.

The Bumbys exchange a glance with a glimmer of empathy.

I feel like I’m watching a movie instead of experiencing this life-changing news. Two little words have changed my world from the comfort of my successful store and familiar home to the unknown laying ahead for me and Mr. Grayson.

Swallowing hard before being able to speak, I mutter, I don’t understand. Much more information is needed, busters, so start spilling.

Betty takes the limelight for a moment. Keeping her voice airy, as if overcompensating for the blow, she says, Oh, dear. The realtor told us this was the best way to handle it, but I knew we should have told all y’all. She bites her lip. See, we aren’t gettin’ any younger, and we’ve been tossin’ over a few options for our later years, she adds. We’ve been in this parish our entire lives and want to get out and explore the world a little. She looks at her husband with heavy eyes.

Dale helps her by chiming in. We’re planning on an around-the-world cruise. Our ol’ pontoon boat isn’t cuttin’ it anymore for our travelin’ hearts, so we need the money from all of our properties, including this house. He moves a thin strip of gray hair farther back on his head.

They’re selling e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g? What do you mean? You’ll be leaving New Orleans completely? Like, for good? My eyes squint as if it’ll allow me to hear different words.

That’s right, dear. Betty’s posture relaxes as the big news releases into the room. We’ve worked our entire lives, and it’s time to enjoy the fruits of our labor. Once we make it around the world, we’ll choose a place to settle down. Isn’t it excitin’? Her face glows from the light in her eyes and the huge smile on her face.

I get it. My mouth shifts to the side, along with my head. These sweet people have been kindhearted to me for my entire adult life. How could I be angry with them for wanting to start their next Chapter? And seeing the joy they’re trying to suppress lets me know they don’t want to hurt me. They simply want to have the time of their lives. And they should.

I’m happy for you both. Really, that sounds like an amazing opportunity. I’m not lying. I am happy for them, and I do want them to have a terrific retirement. I do. But…

We were goin’ to meet with you store owners in person, but the realtor insisted on sending those letters first, as a legal thingamajiggy. Betty looks at her husband with raised eyebrows, signaling help. She’s not as direct as me and usually depends on Dale for most business concerns.

I butt in before he comes to her rescue. Don’t worry about it. I know now. That’s what matters. You’re doing what you need to do and are taking action as you were advised. Maybe I do mean as much to them as they do to me.

Oh, thank you, dear. Her voice gains strength. I knew you wouldn’t take it personally.

Uh…

Dale continues, It’s because we needed somethin’ in writing so that we gave proper warning for your livelihoods. That was the decent thing to do, after all. And especially for the few of you in our buildings who also call ’em home. We want to give you plenty of time to get your affairs in order.

I thank you for that, and I know my neighbors will as well. I’m trying to sound like my usual tough self while I push down building tears, now at least only because I’ll miss them. Viewing their current smiles, I think they’re buying my act. Maybe.

It’ll probably take some time to get all of the properties sold, so you have a bit, Dale adds. We have this home, your building that has three businesses and homes, and our two other structures with two businesses each in them. I’m sure it’ll take a long while to get them all out from under us, he reassures.

Oh, yes! Betty quickly tries to emphasize this likelihood, shaking her head and enlarging her eyes.

Okay, well, that’s comforting to hear. I smile, contributing more to my act. The grip on my now wrinkled-to-death letter loosens, and I stuff it back down into my satchel.

Dale rises from his chair, walks over to me, and puts his hand on my shoulder. We will keep you updated on the status of your building. We also plan to have a town hall meeting with all of our renters next week so we can answer all the questions at once.

I place my hand over his and squeeze it. Thanks. Looking up at him, then toward his caring wife, I say, I won’t take up any more of your time today, and walk to the door.

They both escort me out, and Betty reassures me once more, saying, All will be fine, Miss Mary.

I believe they believe what they’re saying, but this may be the first time in my life that I don’t relish the lack of certainty about my future. I don’t like this pit-of-my-stomach ache. This heavy chest sensation. This…fear?

Chapter 3

I need a minute to gather myself, so I better text Ada, who’s holding down the store this morning.

Mary: Sorry but my errand is taking longer than I thought. Be back soon.

She texts back a few moments later in her typical Ada way, which always makes me chuckle.

Ada: K.

She has a flip phone—yes, in this decade, I know—so she texts as little as possible. Punching one button three times to get to the letter C, for example, isn’t going to happen often, so she’s as brief as possible in her messages.

I amble over to a bench by the glistening Mississippi and sit down. Watching the barges float by on the river, all on their way to far-off destinations, soothes me. Tiny boats, especially in comparison, sail by as well. The iconic riverboat is getting ready to leave for her day journey as excited passengers talk and take pictures in the meantime. Looking up farther, I notice the stunning blue sky, full of bright-white puffy clouds. The heat is building by the second this morning, but those tourists will have a good day I bet.

Just breathe in the beauty, Mary. Deep breaths, eyes shut.

Breathe in, 2, 3, 4.

Hold, 2, 3, 4.

Breathe out, 2, 3, 4.

Again in, 2, 3, 4.

Hold, 2, 3, 4. Out, 2, 3, 4.

One more time. In, 2, 3, 4.

Hold, 2, 3, 4. Out, 2, 3, 4.

My eyes remain closed a few more seconds to savor the scent of the morning air.

Ah, the bakeries are in full force with beignets for the tourists. Don’t get me wrong, I also love them. In fact, I’ve never met a fried food I didn’t love. But to bake them in the amount that they’re made here has to be for the travelers’ sakes. And when those wonderful souls find my store, beignets in hand, I’m thankful they chose to visit my city.

Okay, I’m sensing the difference in my body now. My chi is in check again. Phew. Being more centered, I can walk back to my store.

Before opening the door to A Healing Hand minutes later, I make sure to tap the iron rail on the side. Touching iron, or tocca ferro, is another old Italian superstition, similar to the well-known American version of knocking on wood for good luck. And I need good luck now for sure. So tocca ferro better help me.

I call out, Hey, to Ada upon entering, and she looks over and raises her head in acknowledgment.

She’s straightening up the singing bowls on their shelf, and I see a new scarf of the day around her neck, which reminds me to say, I forgot to tell you that I found your—

Scarf? I must be losin’ my God lovin’ mind, I tell ya. She shakes her head and tsks. It’s in my bag now. Thanks. When I was in here last night, I wasn’t freezin’ to death, so I never even realized that thing was left behind.

Ada runs colder than most people, especially when in my store lately for some reason, so October means bundling up to her. She always tells me there’s a draft, but I don’t feel it and haven’t found an issue with the thermostat. I glance around the room for the umpteenth time as if I could see one. Hmm, nope. No draft. But maybe I’ll ask the Bumbys about it for her.

I didn’t want to bother you at home, so—

She stops me again by holding up her hand like a crossing guard. Darlin’, you don’t worry about that with old Ada, ever, okay? She walks over to me, squeezes my cheeks, crinkles her dark-brown eyes, and says, Ain’t nothin’ you do that can ever bother me.

Thanks, Ada. Well, now you have two scarves to keep you warm today.

We smile at each other.

Ada’s allowed to cross the employer/employee boundary. It’s not every day you see a boss getting her cheeks squeezed by the person she provides a living for, I know. But Ada can do anything she wants. She’s earned that privilege by now since I’ve known her from before I could speak.

See, Ada and her now deceased husband were friends with my parents, so naturally our bond was established from my start. They would have meals with us, I would go to her house and play with her dog, and I loved—no, adored—trying on her makeup and costume jewelry. Her sparkly pink lipstick was my favorite. The way it was rounded at the top of the stick fascinated me because my mom’s wasn’t like that. Rolling it over my lips and keeping its unique shape was always soothing. Funny enough, once I was the age that I could wear makeup, I had no interest in it. But she’s always been my pseudo-grandma, so I was grateful when she wanted to help me upon opening my store. The timing worked out perfectly because she needed an activity to fill her long, retired days, and I needed someone I could trust. Since she’s one of the few people I can depend on, I thank my lucky stars for her. She’s an angel, double scarves and all.

So, there’s something else to tell you. My stomach drops as I mutter the words.

Oh? Ada stops arranging the bowls and looks into my eyes. Well, alright then, sweetie. Out with it.

The Bumbys are selling their properties. All of them. I look down and wince. I hope the sale takes a long time, but we will get a new landlord soon, and I also hope we can stay here. Who knows what the rent will be? If it’s too high, I’ll need to find a new location and leave this building I love.

Now ain’t that a shock. Hmm, well, we’ll get through it, Mary. No worryin’ is happenin’ from old Ada.

I gradually raise my head and make eye contact with her. You know I don’t worry about much, but for some reason, this has me a little shaken.

Mary Pontrelli is letting a new landlord get her all riled up? I don’t think so! Ada puts her hands on her hips. Where’s my girl that lets the wind take her where it will while she follows with pleasure?

I laugh. Yeah, I know, right? I’m getting soft in my old age.

We need the Mary who knows she can land on her feet.

Yes, I can. Now I put my hands on my hips.

The Mary who opened an untraditional store as a young lady—Ada picks up a dream catcher and shakes it—and made it successful. All on your own.

Well, you do have a point. I’ll take comfort in my background since I never had a clue what I wanted to do as a career in high school, let alone to own a store. But here I am, having built this place without any help, especially not from my parents.

That’s right! Ada emphasizes the T in right, which strangely hypes me up even more. Except the help from a certain older lady who loves to work for you. She grins.

Yes, of course. I meant mostly financially, but I wouldn’t leave my baby in anyone else’s hands when needed but with you. Thank God for you, Ada. I pause and add, We’ll be fine no matter what. I notice my shoulders relaxing when I didn’t even know they were raised seconds ago.

You know it. She tightens the white lace scarf around her neck, a complementary contrast to her smooth brown skin, and continues, But it sure is cold in here today, gosh a’mighty!

I can’t help but giggle. I’ll keep you updated on the sale, of course.

Yes, please let me know what’s happenin’. It’ll be sad to see the Bumbys go, but they must’ve had their reasons.

She doesn’t even ask why the Bumbys are selling. I would want to know. Then again, I want to know everything about everyone. Not for nosy reasons, but to know what makes people tick. It’s part of why my business has been profitable, I think.

Well, now I can get on with my day and put this situation behind me. I have astrology books to unbox, a psychic development class to set up for, and social media posts to create. There’s no time for being stuck in the future. Present day only now, thank you very much, especially since I have to leave early for my date with Ian tonight.

Walking into the restaurant to meet Ian for dinner, I’m struck with a tinge of nausea as soon as our eyes lock. Oh great, that’s just what I need after the last twenty-four hours—to get sick. I swallow harder than usual and try to forget about the zing in my stomach.

Hi, Mary. Ian stands up, leans down, and kisses me on the cheek when I get to the table, but his gaze tells me that his mind’s elsewhere.

I sit and ask, What’s going on?

He looks at his phone on the table and tsks. I just listened to a message from someone who wants to buy that exercise bike I’m selling. People will never say my name right. I should give up. He rolls his eyes.

"Well, it’s understandable, right? Ian is usually pronounced like it starts with an E, not your way."

"How hard is it to remember that the I sounds like the letter I, not E? He points to one of his bluish-gray eyes, which is his go-to way for helping people to remember how to speak his name. I’ve already told this guy how to address me."

Whoa, he’s a ball a fun tonight—as usual lately.

The server appears at just the right moment to detour Ian’s attitude. Welcome, you two. May I get you started with drinks?

Yes, I practically cut him off to aid in the diversion. Can I please have a ginger ale?

Ginger ale? Ian’s pink-toned face is crinkled up to his buzzed blond hair like a bad smell came into the room. Are you adding Jameson in there, at least?

No, my stomach is a little off, so the soda will help.

Oh. His face eases. I’ll have a vodka martini, he says to the server.

Be right back, the server responds with a forced smile and walks away.

I grab the menu and start scanning my possibilities for dinner while I ask, How was your day at work?

Fine. What about you? He sips from his glass of water.

That’s a loaded question right now. I chuckle.

Why?

The Bumbys are selling their buildings.

Ian’s attention switches to his phone lighting up on the table. He completely ignores my news and opens it to respond to whoever just texted without one word to me.

Hello? Is this mic on? I motion as if holding a real microphone. Did you hear what I said?