I wish I could share with her and anyone else what I’m working on, the burden of knowing that right now, scores of federal agents are scouring this city, looking for terrorists who want to strike during our high holy day, Mardi Gras.

But I can’t.

We hook a right on Desire Street. The irony of the name isn’t lost on me and I wonder if she picks up on it as well. Soon we arrive at two long brick walls on opposite sides of the street. Both are painted perfectly pristine white, with black wrought-iron gates facing each other. Lettering across the top reads, ST. VINCENT DEPAUL NO. 1 AND NO. 2.

“A graveyard?” she asks dubiously. “This is pure New Orleans?”

“Just trust me, okay?” I say. “Here, take my arm. And stay close.”

We toss our trash in a receptacle near one of the gates, then link elbows and enter this quiet, otherworldly place.

Hundreds of granite and marble mausoleums, many more than a century and a half old, branch out in every direction like a creepy, mind-bending maze. It’s a window back in time. Haunting, but also calming. And eerily beautiful.

“Oh, wow,” she whispers. She grasps my arm a little tighter as we amble through together, taking it all in.

“Some people feel sad when they visit a cemetery,” I say. “Like they’re surrounded by death. But to me, a place like this is a reminder. That each of us only gets one life. So we damn better live it to the fullest, every single day.”

She nods, contemplating that. “It’s a stretch, but seeing these tombs … it reminds me some of the medieval cathedrals. Exquisite pieces of architecture and art, celebrating our life here and our life afterward, when—”

Her phone rings, and instantly she grows frantic, rummaging for it through her purse.

“Shit, I’m sorry, that could be Lucas. I have to get it. If I don’t, he—”

“Hey, no problem,” I assure her as she finally finds her phone. I notice her hands are practically trembling as she puts it to her ear.

She turns her back to me. I take a few steps farther away to give her extra privacy. Still, I can make out snippets of what is obviously an unpleasant conversation.

“I swear I’m at the restaurant … you know I would never lie to you … can you please stop screaming at me? Of course I love you!”

When the call finally ends, she gives me a sullen, embarrassed look.

“I should probably get going,” she says. “But thanks for a great lunch, Caleb. And another lovely walk.”

“Vanessa,” I say, taking her arm again. “Look. I realize I barely know you. And it’s none of my business. But if Lucas is treating you half as bad as it sounds like—”

“You’re right,” she answers brusquely. “It’s none of your damn business.”