Blog Tour: Marigny Street

Do you believe in the power of dreams?
Way down south on Marigny Street in the heart of New Orleans, the land of Catholic intersessions, purgatory, and supernatural superstitions, young Evangeline Chenier dreams of a radiant boy who saves her from a storm. She takes the dream seriously – in her family, dreams are sometimes more than dreams. Sometimes they foretell the future. Sometimes they create it.
Years later, Eva is no longer the same wistful girl but a hardened woman who no longer believes in dreams. Losing faith in her gift, she becomes lost in a nightmare of emotion, mourning her son, separating from her husband, and stewing in a dead-end job. And then fate brings her an unlikely surprise: one of the most famous movie stars in the world, Gabriel Roberts.
Caught by something in his eyes, Eva agrees to show him the real Big Easy on his last night in New Orleans—an evening that turns into four dreamy days spent recapturing lost faith and discovering a love neither expected. Realizing Gabriel is the boy from her childhood dream, Eva must leave everything behind—her husband, her family, her history, and the beautiful city she calls home—and gamble it all for the dream that has saved her on MARIGNY STREET.

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Excerpt

With sweaty palms I opened the door.
Gabriel stood under the awning, head down with his hands together. The French lantern that hung from the porch burned softly, flickering like a candle in the wind, and the delicate light barely lit his face. He looked up.
 “Hello,” I breathed. We stood there for a moment, staring blankly at each other. I noticed how tall and slender he was, with broad shoulders. His hair was jet black, like a moonless night, and it seemed like it had been caught in a cyclone. It twisted and turned, falling in wild abandon around his head. A real scissorhands catastrophe.  You had to have an attractive face to wear that hair, or bold confidence. I didn’t know if he had the later, but he sure had the first. He was dreamy, but in a real way.
A smile stretched across his face. “I’m happy to report that I made it here without getting lost. Well, let me rephrase, my driver made it here without getting lost. But I’m the one who spotted the statue. No birds, though.” He laughed. His laughter was beautiful music. Something inside me yearned.
“Glad to see it.” I motioned for him to come inside. “Sorry, I lost track of time and need to get a few of my things together. Nouvelle’s is right down the street. It’ll only take a few minutes to walk there.”
“No rush. We have all night. I hear the bars around here never close.” He walked in before me and I closed the door behind him. He took in the room.
“Wow, this is a beautiful place. Very—” He stopped, apparently searching for the right words. “New Orleans. The style is so unique.” He pointed to the café-au-lait-colored brick fireplace that separated the living room from the kitchen. “Do you ever get to use it? I can’t imagine that you do given the unwavering heat you all seem to have.”
“No, we’ve never used it.” I caressed the bricks with my hands. “This house has been in my family for generations, and it stopped working way back when my grandmother had it. When we renovated, the contractor wanted to take it down, but I loved it so much, I couldn’t bear to part with it. So we restored the outside and cleaned the inside. Shotgun houses are not big on space, and it separates the two rooms.”
“And who does this belong to?” He walked across the room and admired the old Gibson guitar sitting in the corner, collecting dust.
“It belonged to my grandfather. He never used it much. Let’s just say God didn’t bless him with the talent of carrying a tune.”
“I have one just like it. It’s not a Gibson, but it looks just the same.” He sounded dazed. “He’s my best friend. My lifelong companion. Whatever I give to him, he gives back to me in fair measure.”
“He?”
“Yes, he. His name is Mirror.” He smiled.
“Where is Mirror tonight?”
He gently touched the instrument and turned to me. Our eyes met and we both became quiet. There it was again, the pull. His brown eyes lulling like the tide.
I shook my head. “Make yourself at home, Gabriel. I’ll only be a minute.” 

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About the Author

Born and raised in New Orleans, Annie has a habit of shortening her words and telling long stories. She speaks with a southern flair and cooks with it too. At the tender age of twenty- one, she hitched up her wagons (took her first plane ride) and moved out west to the big shake (California). Her writing career began one sleepless night when she imagined a gorgeous woman and a man with maniacal hair floating above her like lightening bugs falling from the sky. Curious about them, their story, and why they were floating around in her head, she sat down and penned (typed) her first novel, Marigny Street. A dream come true for her, she hasn’t stopped writing since. She loves a damn good love story, always has, no matter what the genre. She is particularly moved by imperfect love that in its own unique way is perfect, the notion of love at first sight, soul mates, and things that are generally out of the norm.
When she’s not writing she enjoys dabbling in photography and finding new, inspirational music to add to her collection. She currently (still) resides in the big shake (although her southern roots are calling her home) with her husband, daughter, and their two peculiar dogs, Boudreaux and Tabasco (who, call her crazy, bark with an accent). 

For lagniappe (a little extra), a virtual cup of café au lait and beignets, please visit Annie’s website.
She can also be found on Facebook & Twitter.

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