her cheeks, even her nose. She laughed again. “Perhaps I am. When…” She took a breath or two to calm the quiver in her voice. “When Elliott walked in, I felt fine. Then…he went to leave and I panicked. I’ve never experienced that before. I mean, I’ve heard stories from my grandmother. My dad’s mother, I’m referring to. How someone in his family saved the love of her life from a terrible storm in Scotland. She panicked when he told her he was leaving. She couldn’t let him go. So she tied him to the bed while he took a nap. An intense connection, my grandmother had called it. Something close to a sixth sense, in a way. But now that I’m out here with you, I feel fine.” She shrugged, laughing softly in that crazed way again. “Perhaps I was wrong…” She bit her lip. “Why would I feel that toward Elliott? I’ve never felt that before—such a rush to be close...to stop him. That’s not how the story goes.” She hesitated before continuing. “My mom said that there’s no truth to Grandma Poésy’s stories, that my dad’s side is certifiable anyway because they’re a mixed bunch of nuts. French and Scottish…”
She had used the word “perhaps” instead of “maybe” twice in the span of a few minutes. I almost smiled. That was twice she almost had me doing something I rarely did.
I studied her for a moment. Sometime during her rambling she had turned toward me, and the light from inside the studio fell on her and brightened her features. Shorter than average, thin, but with some curve that promised to deepen later in life. Above all else, though, “graceful” came to mind; she was built for the ballet stage. Compared to me she was slight, though something about her seemed larger than life.
The beauty of her face seemed to fill her out. Thick, chestnut hair was pulled into a tight bun, giving me a clear sketch of her face, the light from inside working with the darkness outside. Her eyes were shocking in their beauty—a deep emerald green that almost glowed in the night. I wondered if the color would hold specks of gold if she were in the sun. Her brows were dark, thick, arched in a way that gave her a bolder look.
Scarlett had mentioned her father’s heritage, but I remembered Elliott had mentioned their mother’s—Slovenian. All but their father spoke the language. Scarlett’s features reflected that heritage: feline eyes, shaped like they belonged to a mischievous cat, while the straight, sleek cut of her nose and sharp, broad cheeks seemed sculpted out of hard stone, almost cold until she smiled and her face warmed. She had the most beautiful bones, angular, and the skin over them was taut. In contrast, her lips were soft, a delicate pink, and the perfect shape. I couldn’t look away from her.
She smiled then, her eyes glistening, face red and puffy. “Did you hear me?”
“Repeat that once more.”
She laughed, the breath flowing out of her mouth in a stream of white. “You could be a serial killer and I’m out here telling you about my family.” She took a breath. “Though even a serial killer might be hesitant to deal with them. Charlotte would be on the first bus back home. She’s not worth the hassle.”
Charlotte was her older sister. And I had to agree.
“What’s more concerning is that you’re still out here talking to me—after having the thought.”
“That too.” She sighed. “But now that I think about it, you mentioned Lisette. My brother runs in a small circle. You knew my name. I’m going to take you for your word. Besides—” she shrugged “—I feel safe enough.”
A howling wind came tearing down the street, throwing the snow around in mad flurries. I stuck my hands in the pockets of my jeans, resisting the urge to pat down a thin strand of hair that had come loose from her slicked bun. The situation with Elliott had unnerved her.
“Here—” She went to take off the jacket, but I stopped her.
“You keep it. It’s damn near freezing out here.”
She nodded and looked around briefly before turning her face to the sky. A quiet settled between us until she sniffed, then released a deep breath. “This is something, huh? Snow in Natchitoches.” She pronounced the name perfectly: Nac-Au-Tish.
“Whenever it snows here, it’s always a thing.”
“Do you think snow where it rarely ever snows means something miraculous is about to happen?” She closed