LITMIR.BIZ

      PROLOGUE

      Before Hurricane Katrina

      PAPA ALWAYS SAID love changed lives. I knew what he meant because love was all around me.

      Every morning, Mama packed Papa’s lunch. Always the same sandwich, container of leftovers from dinner, fruit and fresh-baked pastry. She stacked them in his lunch bag in the order he would eat them through the day.

      A fruit for the morning to keep him healthy.

      Leftovers for lunch with the sandwich, too, if he worked really hard. Sometimes he saved half for later.

      He ate the pastry with his con leche in the afternoon when he needed a sweet for strength.

      In between each layer would be a neatly folded napkin with a love note. One for every meal.

      Hecho con amor para ti.

      Gracias por nuestra hermosa vida juntos.

      The love notes changed every day—all but one that read Te quiero siempre.

      Mama did love him always.

      She loved all of us. We were her family.

      When I was old enough for school, I opened my lunch bag to find my own love notes. Mama would draw little hearts that would make me proud to be the beautiful daughter she loved so much. Or funny faces to make me laugh, because Mama did not have the family talent for drawing.

      I never used my love-note napkins but always tucked them into my pocket, a secret reminder of how much I was loved no matter what happened through the rest of the day.

      Paolo wasn’t too little to notice. He didn’t say anything because of his speech trouble, but I knew. He was quick-eyed for a little one. Mama counted on those eyes.

      “Paolo, where did Mama set her keys?” she would ask. “Paolo, did you see where Mama lay her scissors?”

      My baby brother would run right to where she had left whatever was missing.

      Paolo wanted his own love notes. I knew because he would stick his chubby hand in my pocket and sneak mine. I told Mama one day, and the very next morning, my baby brother burst from our bedroom as I was readying for school with a love note he’d found under his pillow.

      My life was filled with that kind of love. Every night after dinner, my family gathered in the living room. Some nights, I practiced stitches on scraps of fabric while Mama altered clothes to earn money.

      Higher hems for the short ladies and expanded seams for the ladies grown too fat for their zippers....

      Papa would sit at his easel, telling stories from his day and drawing whatever he thought might sell on weekends when he sat in Jackson Square making caricatures for the tourists.

      Weekend after weekend, through the Mardi Gras parades and the steamy days of summer, I would sit beside Papa at my own easel, smelling the Mississippi River, an apprentice practicing my sketches and learning from my beloved Papa.

      I loved those weekends.

      “You must read your subject to know how to please them,” Papa instructed. “Do not choose a feature they might feel shame for. Choose one that helps them laugh at themselves. Laughter is a gift, and if you please them, they’ll be generous with you. Americans are very generous. They appreciate talent and will reward you for using yours.”

      I was eight when I drew my very first sketch.

      My subject, an eccentric older lady who wore many big jewels, did laugh when she saw my finished product and gave me ten dollars. I felt such pride.

      My second subject wasn’t so pleased. I got a dollar in quarters and not even one tiny smile.

      Papa hugged me. “Can’t please everyone.”

      But I worried. “Maybe I didn’t get the family talent.”

      He scoffed, making a big sound that filled the steamy heat of that perfect summer. “You are learning to use your talent. Do you think to be as good as your papa without much practice?”

      I could only shrug, feeling too much shame for words.

      Taking my hand that held the graphite pencil, he lifted it to his lips for a kiss, his whiskers tickling my skin. “There. Now you have even more family talent. I share mine, for I have much to spare.”

      That made me smile. A little.

      “Love is the secret, Araceli. You must love this pencil,” he said, very serious. “And you must love your subject. But most of all, you must love your talent, for that is the only way you will learn to use it. You must try new things and make your talent sing inside you and flow out onto the paper.

      “Remember this.” He smiled beneath his bushy mustache. “Love changes everything. It’s everywhere. You just have to look. Sometimes it hides, so you have to look hard. But open your eyes really big.” He shaped his fingers into circles and peered through them, looking silly. “It’s always there somewhere. I promise.”