The smell of the French Quarter on a July morning is not one for the weak of stomach. It is a mixture of rotting garbage, last night's barely cleaned up vomit, and the sweet smell of frying beignets. I had lived here for three years and had become accustomed to the unique bouquet, if unable to enjoy the aroma. While it was still too early for the stench to be at its worst, it was also too early for the heat of the southern summer to burn it off completely. By noon the only remains of my morning commute would be in the recesses of dumpsters and in the more pleasing corners of Café Du Monde for tourists to consume.

I unlocked the door of the antique shop in which I worked. I didn't make much, but it was enough to pay the rent on my tiny apartment a couple of blocks over and cover my meals. I had spent much of my life making do and it was a hard habit to break, not that it was needed. A B.A. in English Lit from Dartmouth, a Master's in British Lit from Tulane, more student loans than I preferred to contemplate, a job making $15 an hour with no health insurance, and little more to show at 26. No boyfriend, few friends in the city I had called home for three years, a bad novel that hadn't made it past the first page on my Mac, not even a cat. If this was a movie, my life would be at a turning point; but this wasn't a movie and I continued on my day to day drudgery.

I had locked the door back behind me; the street Denali's was located on was safe, especially at 8:23 on a Tuesday, but I wasn't taking any chances. After taking the more expensive, but not most expensive, estate jewelry out of the safe and putting it in the glass display case in the window, I went to dust off the furniture, killing time until the 9:00 opening time. We had no appointments for the day; I wasn't expecting anything other than browsing tourists, maybe a small sale. It was going to be me and my book most likely all day. My boss, Irina, would take over for me around 4:00 and close the store.

By nine I had brewed coffee (regular, my Pacific Northwest taste buds just couldn't get used to chicory) and unlocked the door for any potential customers. We got a pretty interesting assortment usually, based solely on location. Across the street was a head shop, selling "herbal" pipes and paraphernalia, that had the grossest smelling incense burning whenever the weather was nice, and on either side was a wiccan voodoo shop (that did its biggest business around Halloween and with goth tourists) and a used book store (which took most of my paycheck). Most of the biggest sales were through appointment and were foreign business people, and honestly I don't know why Irina didn't just close the store and do business by appointment only, but then I would be out of a job and forced to face a reality I wasn't sure I was ready to deal with quite yet.

I was engrossed in the story of Sayuri and the Chairman (yes, I was just getting around to reading Memoirs of a Geisha, I spent years drowning in the classics, get over it!) when the little bell over the door rang, signaling my first, and possibly only, customer of the day.

"Good morning, welcome to Denali's Antiques, my name is Isabella. Is there anything I can help you with today?" It was my standard greeting. I was completely expecting to hear, No, thank you, I'm just looking, and I would go back to my book, so I was taken aback when the woman answered,

"Actually, yes, you can help me."

Oh, shit. I really hope she doesn't want something in particular. My knowledge of antiques was pretty sketchy. I mean, I could tell an armoire from an urn, but Empire from Louis XVI? Not so much.

"Uh, okay. What were you in the market for today, Ms…."

"Oh, no! Sorry, I didn't mean I wanted your help to shop!" the small woman exclaimed shaking her head so that her black hair, cut in an asymmetrical bob with bright blue streaks applied liberally throughout, flew about her face. "No, see, my husband and I just opened a new bar on the corner and I was wondering if I could leave some flyers here with you or maybe put one in your window for advertisement and in return we'd put some kind of marketing thingy up in our place, you know, a tit for tat kind of thing? Our grand opening is Friday, so if you don't have anything now, that would give some time for you to draw something up. The soft opening has been pretty successful and I doubt our night crowd would be into antiques, but our lunch crowd caters to the tourist set and I can tell that's probably who buys most of the smaller, less expensive merchandise in here."

I thought for a minute. This little woman looked no older than 22 and she had just informed me, in a blue haired tornado, that she was a part owner in a bar and could at least engineer the opening of said bar, she knew something about marketing, and could tell how this store was run by being in it for all of three minutes. Irina usually didn't go for this sort of thing, but at the same time she was all for reciprocity with local merchants.

"Well, Ms…"

"Oh, sorry again! Cu-Whitlock! I've been Alice Whitlock for three weeks and I keep forgetting. Please, call me Alice," she said laughing, holding up her hand so I could see a massive diamond solitaire and simple platinum band.

"Well, Alice, my boss usually doesn't want us to advertise for the other businesses—"

"Wouldn't have anything to do with the plants growing on the roof across the street that I'm pretty sure are weed would it?"

I giggled. I had no idea why no one else had noticed those yet—the police patrolled all the time.

"Not at all," I answered, rolling my eyes, "But like I was saying, I bet she wouldn't mind this, especially if it moves some merchandise. She just brought back a ton of stuff from a recent trip to Russia and she keeps complaining about the storage costs. Let's do it!"

Alice clapped her hands. Her fingernails were painted navy blue. "Awesome! Okay, so here's the flyer and here's the poster."

The flyer wasn't really a flyer; it was only a six by six piece of ivory paper with a thick black border, making it look almost like an invitation. The only thing written on it was: Midnight Sun, the Crescent City's Newest Place at Nighttime. Grand Opening. In the bottom right hand corner was that Friday's date and bar's address on the corner. The poster was similar only it had a black sun setting logo on the top right hand side.

"See, not too cheesy, so it won't look bad in the window. I think about these things, Isabella."

"Bella," I responded automatically, still looking at the poster.

"Huh?"

"Oh, well, my real name is Isabella, but I just got by Bella usually. I like to tell customers Isabella so that if someone walks up to me and I'm out somewhere and I get called Isabella…"

"You know if you met them at work or and if it's Bella, somewhere else. Smart. Okay, well, Bella, it was nice to meet you, and I hope to see you there Friday. Or, hell, if you're not doing anything tonight, swing by after work. We've been doing pretty steady business, but as you know, it is a Tuesday in July in New Orleans. We do have some great food too—we have this WONDERFUL chef, Antoine, I swear I'm going to gain 10 lbs. by next week if I keep eating his food. How does one man make red beans and rice taste like magic?"

I laughed, "When I find out, I'll let you know. It's a mystery I still haven't figured out and I've been here going on three years. Sure, I think I might stop by. I'll probably get off around 4, you be there then?"

"Honey, we have a grand opening in three days; I'll probably be sleeping at that bar until then!" Alice said, waved and then was gone as quickly as she arrived.

And my day had altered all before ten o'clock.

***

Irina had been late arriving, cursing in Russian, muttering some explanation pertaining to her greyhounds and a squirrel. I didn't listen too closely, afraid I would start laughing due to my tendency to link my boss and Rocky and Bullwinkle. Any stories involving Irina using the words "moose" or "squirrel" were enough to push my snorting while laughing tendency into fruition.

Irina had no problem with my executive decision in displaying Midnight Sun's flyer's or poster; the restraint shown in the design apparently worked in its favor.

"It is good to be having some business in the neighborhood that is not stupid magic shop or place for idiots to be," Irina said, unwrapping her silk scarf and hanging it on the art deco rack behind the counter. The woman wore a scarf no matter the weather. I blamed Russia. "Although we need another bar like, what is that saying I like, another hole in the head. But if this bar is not one simply for stupid children who have no business in bars but one in which to go and be, that would be nice." I didn't understand Irina sometimes. Just go and be? Again, I blamed Russia.

"Okay, Irina, well, I'll see you tomorrow then," I said, gathering my book and water bottle while picking up my purse from it's place under the counter.

"One thing. I have a private appointment for tomorrow to look at chairs here at nine. Would you mind taking shift from noon until closing?"

Ugh. I hated closing, mainly because I hated walking home at night alone. Like I said, where we were located wasn't dangerous, it was just the thought of being alone—ask any single woman living alone and I'm sure she'll agree. But with Midnight Sun on the corner the foot traffic was sure to be way up and if I was really creeped out I might be able to grab a cab.

"Sure Irina, no problem. Same pay raise from 4 on?"

"Egh, yes, you little capitalist, $20 an hour plus commission. I don't know why I keep you on, you are so expensive," Irina said, smiling as I waved on my way out the door. She kept me on because my life was so boring that she could do things like this at the least minute and I was accommodating. Most workers would need at least a couple of days notice. Me, I needed five bucks more an hour and at least three hours.

I made my way down the street to Midnight Sun, not hurrying since the evening was still so hot and humid it felt like I needed a knife to make it through the air. By the time I walked through the door of the bar I was, once again, thanking whomever it was that invented the air conditioner.

"Bella!" I heard my named called from the far end of the bar and when I looked towards the greeting I saw tiny Alice sitting on the bar with her arms around a tall blonde man who had his longish wavy hair pulled back into a short ponytail.

"Hi, Alice. Don't worry, I won't tell your husband about your man candy on the side," I stage whispered to her, eyeing the guy she was wrapped around like a snake. Alice giggled, lighting up like a Christmas tree.

"Silly Bella, this IS my husband. Jasper, this is the girl I was telling you about, at the antiques store. Jasper Whitlock, love of my life, love-er of my life, this is Isabella, better known as Bella,…well, I don't know her last name, but I'm sure it's wonderful!" Alice said.

"Swan, Bella Swan," I said, smiling and holding out my hand to Alice's husband. With difficulty he extricated one of his from Alice's grip and grabbed hold of the one I offered and, I shit you not, kissed my knuckles.

"Well, Miss Bella Swan, it is a pleasure to meet the woman my woman has been jabbering about," Jasper drawled with an accent I knew wasn't New Orleans, or even Louisiana, with a sparkle in his eye that betrayed the mischief he was making.

"I don't jabber, I chirp," Alice said, poking him sharply in the ribs, and when Jasper bent to protect himself, she kissed him on the tip of the nose. She hopped down from the bar to behind it and slapped Jasper on the ass, "Go take care of those ladies, Babe, while Bella and I chat. They look like they have too much money on them," Alice told Jasper smoothly pointing him in the direction of a table full of thirty somethings who appeared to be on a girls' night out. Jasper gave her a quick peck on the lips and sauntered over to the table where the women wasted no time checking him out and flirting; Jasper gave as good as he got and looking like he did sure didn't hurt.

"He's pretty isn't he?" Alice asked, beginning to make what looked like an appletini.

"Who?" I asked, mesmerized by the grace with which she worked and how quickly everything went together. Now sooner had she begun was she finished with the appletini and moved on to a hurricane.

"Jasper. Don't worry, I'm not offended if you look; I'm flattered. I know he's sex on a stick, why do you think I married him?" Now she was on a dirty martini while simultaneously drawing an Abita beer.

"Well, I ain't gonna lie, he's not hard on the eyes. And that accent—it's not New Orleans," I said, feeling more comfortable with this woman than I had with some people I had known for years.

"No, Jasper's from Denison, Texas, it's just outside Dallas. That Texas thing makes women wild—it sure didn't hurt me any," Alice said, laughing, "He gets big tips when he turns on the charm."

"You from Texas too?"

"No, I grew up all over."

"Army brat?"

"You could say that," Alice said smiling, loading up a tray. Jasper came back to the bar, picked up the tray, and took it over to the table of ladies, all without saying a word to Alice.

"How did you do that?" I asked, my jaw hanging open stupidly. Jasper hadn't told Alice what the women had ordered and she had started making the drinks before the women began ordering. Could she see the future or something?

"What? Tell what they were going to order? Easy. See, that one, with the low cut top, she's not wearing a ring and she's got a confident stance about herself—dirty martini, dry. The one with the pink halter top, she's got a new wedding ring, she's fiddling with it, she's not used to it. Wants something fun, something that will remind her of her recent island honeymoon—see the tan lines from her bathing suit? Hurricane. The Abita goes to the one in jeans and the nice top—she knows who she is and isn't trying to be something she isn't so she'll order a beer. The appletini goes to the scared little rabbit with too much makeup and the skirt she keeps tugging on—I bet it's her first time out after a breakup or divorce and she's nervous. I get it right about 80% of the time and the other 20% it gets blamed on a mix-up and they usually just drink it and realize that's what they wanted in the first place." Amazing. This woman was amazing. She couldn't be over five feet tall and one hundred pounds dripping wet yet she had more chutzpah in her navy blue pinkie finger nail than I did in my whole body. I suddenly had a drink in front of me.

"Rum and coke?"

"Damn. How about a whisky sour?" Alice asked.

"It's probably what I wanted anyway, right?"

***

Two whisky sours later, business was picking up and Alice was busy. I didn't want to be That Girl sitting alone at the bar, so I decided to be That Girl sitting alone at the black baby grand piano that was sitting in the corner. It wasn't new; it was scarred and had wax from melted candles on it, but it was beautiful. I sat down and began picking out the melody of a few songs. I didn't play much anymore, not since I had left school and my friend Angela with the slightly out of tune upright that came with her rental house moved back to Baltimore, but I had always loved it. I played by ear—I could hear a song once, sit at the instrument, and with a little work could usually play it without too much effort.

"Hey, Bella! You play?" Jasper called, swinging around between his tables.

"A little. You mind?"

"Not at all! It was here when we bought the place and Alice said we couldn't get rid of it. If you wanted to sing or something I'm sure there's a mic somewhere—"

"No! No singing for me thanks! I'll just play over here a little," I never sang in public, not even at Dartmouth when I went out with my wild roommate Jessica to penny pitcher karaoke night. Not even the weekend we went to her brother Paul's fraternity party weekend where all the houses had a different theme and somehow we ended up swimming in the "pool" at one house that was really just a hole dug in the ground, fortified with sandbags, filled with a water hose, and dyed blue with 1,000 flushes. Sadly, this is a true story in the life of Isabella Swan.

I started by just playing a song I liked, A Woman's Worth, by Alicia Keys, and I almost lost my train of thought when Jasper's Ladies (as I had begun to call them) started clapping.

"I love this song!" Dirty Martini exclaimed.

Suddenly I heard a voice singing in clear soprano over the din of the crowd.

"You could buy me diamonds
You could buy me pearls
Take me on a cruise around the world
Baby, you know I'm worth it,"

"It's so true too," Hurricane said, with Abita nodding along, patting Appletini on the back soothingly.

I saw Alice carrying a tray high over her head with another whisky sour and an empty glass bowl, weaving through the tables and standing patrons; it was her voice that was following my piano playing, taking over the lyrics when I was too chicken to actually do it. She smiled, put the bowl on top of the piano with a sign labeled "Tips," and put my drink next to it. Then she left with a wave, continuing with the song as she efficiently tended bar, waited tables, and pulled patrons in from the street. This woman could do anything and I couldn't even sing a fucking song in a bar.

I made up my mind. When Alice and I finished with Alicia and everyone was busy clapping (clapping, really?) I downed my drink in one pull, took a deep breath, and—

"Oh, sorry, Jasper told me to bring this out. Said Alice said you would want it," one of the bus boys was holding a lone stand up mic that he had adjusted right into my nose.

"Of course she did. Sure, right, whatever." Never sang in public and now I was going to do it with a mic taking my voice into the French Quarter for everyone to hear? Good choice Bella. During what part of your day did you decide that abject humiliation was on the menu?

"I'm not really sure how this thing is supposed to work…plug it in and…hmmm…sure, why not? There you go," the bus boy had done whatever technical stuff his limited skills allowed him (and to be honest my skills were more limited than his) and hit the on button. It didn't screech, didn't squeal, didn't do anything. Could it be broken? Could my luck be beginning to change?

"Friends, Romans, Countrymen, lend me your ears!" Where the hell had Alice come from? "Tonight Midnight Sun has a special treat for you. This is Bella Swan on the piano, playing whatever she feels like, and if you are good little boys and girls, she might just play something for you! Put your hands together folks, Bella!" Oh, no, now they knew my name. Now they knew I had a name. Now I wasn't just some face in the crowd. I was a face behind the piano, playing music for the crowd. But playing whatever I wanted to play.

After her little speech, Alice had adjusted the mic back to my level, and not into my nose. Well, it was now or never. I could continue being Bella Swan reading her book in a dusty antique shop by day, living in her tiny purple apartment by night watching reruns of CSI, or I could be book Bella by day and piano playing Bella by night. What did I want to do?

"Good evening everyone. I think pretty much everyone will recognize this next song," I started playing the opening notes and closing the door on my panic I opened my mouth to sing.

"I've been roaming around, I was looking down at all I see

Painting faces, bulding places I can't reach

You know that I could use somebody…

You know that I could use somebody…"