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slipped into her sandals and hopped off the bike before he had killed the engine. He scrambled to catch up to her, trailing through rows of ornate tombs and crumbling statuaries, turning blind corners and carving up a meandering path to the newer section like a man possessed. Damn, but this woman walked with purpose.
    Jon stopped short at the corner where he had lost sight of her, he found Elli knelt on a marbled stone step leading up to an ornamental crypt complete with sculpted crosses and built-in planters packed with ferns and bright orange blossoms. The Leroux family name was etched on the inset.
    He didn’t move, he scarcely breathed,  the gravel underfoot was unforgiving to movement and the gravity of the place settled heavy on his neck the way Billie Holiday’s Strange Fruit always did.
    “Daddy, this is Jon.” Elli plucked weeds and dead fronds from the nearby planters as she spoke. “Issa says he’s the one, but only you know for sure.”
    The one? The one for what?
    “Plays a mean Duke, I’ll give him that.”
    Elli glanced at Jon with a twinkle in her eye, sadness or humor he couldn’t say.
    The pressure of meeting a dead father- a jazz legend and the mysterious conversation that rightfully excluded him eased a bit. He watched Elli bow her head low in silent prayer and when he felt guilt at the admiration of her backside in a simple cotton dress, he listened to the song of the birds and counted stone angels. He nodded a silent thanks to Sam Leroux for the instrument, an instrument that just might help him find himself again.
    After a few moments, she made a hasty sign of the cross, and rose.
    “How ‘bout that coffee?” She fanned herself with an ineffective hand. “Iced.”
    The stone step where she knelt was in full August sun and sweat beaded her forehead, neon lights and bayou sunsets had nothing on red toenails and a messy head scarf. Elli never looked sexier.
    They drove to City Park and settled with their cold drinks under a canopy of ancient live oaks stringed with tangled moss. It reminded Jon of the paper lanterns in the last vision, and he again felt the tug of that moment. Jon felt peace and contentment, maybe his first in two weeks.
    The motorcycle had offered them little chance to talk until now, but the space and time they had occupied together acted as a truce.
    Jon stared at a green statue with no plaque and said, “I’m sorry about your parents. I admire how you cared for your Mom at the end. Not many people do that anymore.”
    “How did you…?” she began, before they both said, “Gabe.”
    “It was no less than she did for my father. If she could have gone with him, she would have.”
    “I can’t imagine that kind of…” he was going to say love , but reversed course when he thought of Echo and his prediction of good fortune. A low note of warning played deep in his gut, she’s a woman, she’ll hurt you in the end . “Commitment.”
    Elli placed her iced mocha on the concrete between her feet and wiped the cup’s sweat from her palm against the flowers of her dress. Jon recognized the act. It was the same mustering of courage he engaged in before the first set each night.
    “I’m sorry about what I said. I didn’t mean to be cruel.”
    Jon surprised himself when he chuckled. “Yes, you did.”
    Elli’s lips twitched in amusement. “Revenge, maybe. For the kiss. But never cruel.”
    At the mention of their kiss, Jon’s body hardened. He wanted to tell her he was sorry, but he wasn’t. Even a combined triple-threat of Coltrane, Davis and Ellington’s talent couldn’t tempt him into erasing that memory.
    They splashed around a truce the way children splashed in the park fountains to beat the heat. He didn’t want to explain anything about Jessica or the day he had come home early in a dark rainstorm, when he turned on the bedroom lights, the time lag it took before he realized it was another woman in his or the ensuing scandal as Jess’s lover then jumped