“Let’s go to Bottom of the Cup! It’s only a few minutes from here!” Debbie decides and drags her finger across her phone. She turns it for everyone to see the glowing reviews for one of the oldest and most respected tea and psychic shops in New Orleans.
“To Bottom of the Cup!” they trill in unison.
The walk is short, and the air is breezy down Conti Street and Chartres Avenue toward Bottom of the Cup. She’s walked this same route hundreds of times, but always finds herself taken with the city, especially at night. The lights throw shadows on the streets. They become part of your path, like loa being called upon by a voodoo priestess. There’s a cozy spookiness that covers New Orleans at night. Lush ferns and hanging plants spill from the balconies like ribbons, perfectly complimenting the intricate ironwork that the French Quarter is known for. It’s only when they reach the front door of Bottom of the Cup that her friends’ excited squeals break Wren from her spell.
“Hello there. I think we are all looking to get ten-minute readings, please.” Lindsey gestures to the group, who nod in agreement.
The man at the counter smiles and straightens up. “Wonderful, would you like tea leaf, tarot, or palm readings tonight?”
Lindsey spins around, and polls. “What do you think, ladies?”
Wren speaks first. “I think I want tarot.”
She is most familiar with a tarot reading. Even as a self-proclaimed skeptic, something about tarot cards rings more magical to her. Even if it is a load of bull, she enjoys the process, if only for the artistry and theater.
“Tarot readings for everyone, please!” Lindsey announces.
Wren slips into the black chair in the waiting area and puts her clutch on top of the table before her. These tables are famous for their impressive zodiac wheel designs.
“Anyone getting some tea while we wait?” Debbie looks up at the flavors, and Wren follows her gaze. The walls showcase dozens of tea flavors along with various metaphysical goodies that promise to set the mood just right for anyone who wishes to step into a more whimsical realm.
“Yeah, actually, tea sounds great. What are you thinking of getting?” Wren scans the names and ingredients, feeling a bit overwhelmed by the choices and flavor combinations.
“I am stuck between the Monk’s Blend and Buckingham Palace Garden Party,” Debbie answers, giggling a little.
“Oh, definitely Buckingham Palace Garden Party, if only for the name,” she decides, finding it on the list. “Also, jasmine and cornflower petals sound too pretty to pass up.”
Debbie nods, walking toward the counter again. Before she returns, a beautiful older woman strolls out from the back of the shop. Her hair is tightly tied up on her head, and her cheekbones rival Bowie’s. Beside her, a middle-aged man emerges. He has kind eyes and a clean-shaven face, with wild blond curls spilling out from the top of his head.
“Evening. I am Martine. We can do two at a time,” the statuesque woman explains. “One of you can come with me, and the other one can go with Leo here.” She gestures to the man next to her and then holds her hand out to usher someone forward.
Lindsey jumps to her feet, grabbing Wren’s hand as she does.
“Let’s go before this one falls asleep. This is the latest she has been out without a homicide involved in months.”
“My tea!” Wren protests.
Debbie rushes over, thrusting a to-go cup in Wren’s hand. “I got you covered.” She winks, and Wren purses her lips.
“Thanks, friend,” she mocks before standing up to surrender.
Martine lightly touches Wren’s arm, showing her where to go. She leads her down a small hallway and into a door on the right. Inside, there is a black table with a small green lamp resembling an antique candelabra. A large gold-framed mirror is over the table on the wall, and a stack of tarot cards sits in the center.