Once outside the kitchen, I went back and retrieved my suitcase. But instead of going up to the bedrooms, I wandered around the first-floor rooms. The dining and sitting rooms were better lit than the entrance, vintage chandeliers glittering like diamonds in every room I passed. Everything looked clean, but vintage—the heavy cream curtains, the weird portraits, odd ceramic sculptures, and knick-knacks spread in every open crevice and corner.

Through the back window, I could see the pavilion—a cobbled courtyard filled with wrought-iron café tables, bright yellow string lights strewn through the trees and along the brick archways… like its own little slice of Paris. It was still daylight, yet the lights were on, the secluded brick barriers giving it a dark, intimate feel.

Through an archway, I could see the part of the estate that had Mara’s name written all over it. An inground pool surrounded by modern loungers, and a steamy hot tub under a palm tree and surrounded by thick, private shrubs. I didn’t even realize there were palm trees in New Orleans, I thought, dreamily.

This place truly was an odd mixture of old and new, strange and familiar, sort of like the exterior designs of the house and surrounding city. A city where you go to feel connected, found. But at the same time, it seemed like the sort of place where you could blend in and, eventually, disappear if you wanted to. Outside Mardi Gras, there was no separation between tourists and locals—just a blending of peoples.

I shook away my thoughts, feeling strangely sleepy. Perhaps I’d lie down and rest a bit before the others arrived…

But on the way to the grand, second-floor staircase, I ran into more distractions.

Jaw-dropping chandeliers and a fancy bathroom bigger than my bedroom back home, fitted with pedestal sinks and more chandeliers. A lavish sunroom filled with Turkish rugs and well-worn, but well-loved, sofas and loveseats.

I stopped and took a short breath when I found the library.

“Jesus Christ.” The walls were lined floor to ceiling with heavy books. In the center of the room, were several leather reading chairs and tiny tables that offered old-fashioned glass ashtrays. If this were my library, I’d kill someone for smoking in it, I thought, peevishly.

The books were also vintage—Dickens and Twain, Shakespeare and Faulkner. As much as I loved the old-worldly feel of this place, I felt like the books were trying too hard. There was nothing wrong with classics, but if this were my library, I’d have filled it with new, modern titles. Feminist and edgy. I’d have put every banned book I could find on the lowest and easiest to reach shelves.