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their name?"
"Dumas," I said.
"Dumas. Oh, honey, there's a hundred Dumas
in the book, if there's one. Know any first names?" "Pierre Dumas."
"Probably at least a dozen or so of them," she
said, shaking her head. "He got a middle initial?" "I don't know," I said.
She thought a moment.
"What else do you know about your relatives,
honey?"
"Just that they live in a big house, a mansion," I
said. Her eyes brightened again.
"Oh. Maybe the Garden District then. You don't
know what he does for a living?"
I shook my head. Her eyes turned suspicious as
one of her eyebrows lifted quizzically.
"Who's Pierre Dumas? Your cousin? Your
uncle?"
"No. My father," I said. Her mouth gaped open
and her eyes widened with surprise.
"Your father? And he never set eyes on you
before?"
I shook my head. I didn't want to go through the
whole story, and thankfully, she didn't ask for details.
She simply crossed herself and muttered something
before nodding.
"I'll look in the phone book with you. My
grandmere told me, I have a mama's vision and can
see my way through the dark and find the light. I'll
help you," she added, patting my hand. "Only, one
thing must be to make it work," she added.
