Page 13 of What If We Do

But timing is everything and this is not the time.

Maybe someday.

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Under the glow of the streetlights, we pass the famous St. Louis Cemetery No. 1.

Scarlett gasps. “Oh, my gosh, I’ve heard of this place! We have to walk through here.”

I look at the sign posted near the gate and shake my head. “They closed almost four hours ago.”

Her shoulders drop in disappointment, but then she cocks her head and walks along the gate several feet before turning back. “Let’s go in anyway.”

“What?” I nearly laugh. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah.” She shrugs. “It’s not like we’ll be there to do anything bad. Just walk through. It’s dark out. Nobody will see us.”

“You know you’re in a wedding dress, right?”

“Even better!” She beams. “If anyone does see us, they’ll think I’m a ghost!” She grabs my hand. “Come on, please? Live a little with me, Oliver.”

I consider her proposal and finally see the missing bars in the gate wall she noticed where we could slide in undetected.

What’s the worst that can happen?

Ask forgiveness not permission.

If that doesn’t work, throw money at someone.

“Alright, let’s do it.”

She claps her hands excitedly. “Eeek! Yes! This is the best. Come on. We’ve got this.”

I follow her lead as she passes through the open spot in the gate. As she steps through, I hear a loud ripping sound and assume any moment now, her dress is going to fly off.

“What just happened?” I whisper.

She laughs. “My dress is caught on this broken piece on the gate. Can you help me?”

She points to where the bottom of her dress is indeed stuck on part of one of the bars that seems to be rusted away. I lift the ruffled material and can see the large rip in the dress.

“Scarlett, I’m sorry. It’s really ripped up right here.”

“Perfect! Give it a good yank. It’ll be fine.”

“Right. Trashing the dress. I forgot. So, you’re good if I just pull?”

“Yep.”

Giving the material a swift tug, it rips a little more but finally comes free and we slip through the rest of the way unscathed. Walking down the first row of graves, the place looks more like an old city. These are no tiny gravestones. Each one of them is a unique tomb or mausoleum, elaborate and crumbling from old age.

“This is the oldest cemetery in New Orleans,” I tell Scarlett. “Did you know that?”

She shakes her head. “I didn’t, but wow, I’m not surprised. This place is a wonderland for the unliving.”

“Well, that’s a different way of describing it.”

She gestures to the buildings around us, some beautifully engraved, some with their own gates surrounding them. “I mean, look at this place. When my mom heard we were planning to come to New Orleans for our honeymoon, she told me about this famous voodoo witch that’s buried here.”

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