But she wouldn’t go home. She’d handle this on her own. Like she’d handled every other problem she’d ever faced.
“Good. I’ll see you in two weeks?”
Ash pushed up from her chair and gave the woman a vague nod. First order of business was finding a drink. Maybe several. Tomorrow, she’d do something for herself. She didn’t want to continue this path. She had work to do. Maybe tomorrow she’d run along Wisner Trail beside Bayou St. John. She needed to keep fit. Needed honed strength to be ready the next time.
Is this what you wanted to happen?
What had that doctor in her dream meant? Yes, she’d wanted a miracle that day as she’d knelt in Marc’s blood. She’d cursed and prayed for divine intervention, but a doctor with a dozen bags of blood at his fingertips still couldn’t have saved him.
Or had he meant something else? Not that she’d wanted Marc to die, but that she had expected him to leave her at some point. Hadn’t she always been waiting for the other shoe to drop in her relationship with Marc? In a flash, they’d fallen into lust and immediately into love. Too damn easy. Nothing good in her life had ever come that easily.
Ash pushed on the glass door and entered the sidewalk, assailed by the heat and the street noises, the honking and shouts, the music in the distance. The therapist’s office was on Canal, blocks away from the constant hubbub in the heart of the French Quarter. While seedy and dirty, the Quarter was filled with whores and tourists, but she never felt afraid there. There was a rhythm to the streets, a flow that seeped into her bones and had her swaying as she walked. Her strides were longer, her breaths deeper. The scent of liquor lured her, and she followed the curled fingers of a black man with an easy smile beckoning her at the open bar door, calling in the tourists. He didn’t have to cajole her. She probably wore a desperate look.
She slid into the darkness, away from the sunlit door, and passed the band on a dais, taking a break to drink. Cigarette smoke wafted in from the street, following her, and she wished she hadn’t quit years earlier, because she’d love nothing better than to drink and smoke herself into a stupor. But then she’d have to wander outside to puff. So fuck that.
“You back again?”
Ash glanced over her shoulder to see a woman with a long weave and two-inch ruby nails teeter toward her on impossibly high heels. “Got a problem with it?” But she gave Gennie a tired grin.
“Sugar, you can come back as often as you like, but what you need ain’t in any bottle.”
Someone else telling her what she needed. Ash rubbed a hand over her face. “What I need is to get back to work, and I can’t do that because that bitch of a shrink won’t let me.”
“That bitch be doin’ you a favor, hon.” Her hand curved over Ash’s shoulders, and she gave her a squeeze. “Go home,” she said, leaning to speak into her ear, because the band had started tuning their instruments. “Jus’ go home. What you need is rest. And family. Go see your Auntie.”
Stiffening, Ash shook her head. “She’ll only hang a gris-gris bag around my neck and tell me to make nice with the spirits. That isn’t happening.”
“What about that sister of yours?”
Ash shrugged. She and her half-sister weren’t close. Hell, they hadn’t known they were sisters until her father’s bigamy came to light at his funeral. She’d known Siobhan when they were children. They’d shared the same classrooms, played together on the monkey bars, but their father’s sin had pushed a wedge between their two families. Her mother’s bitterness had ensured whatever friendship they’d had was set aside out of family loyalty.
Her “Auntie” was a woman she’d seen only rarely in their small town because she lived deep in the bayou. They’d become better acquainted when her own mother fell ill and no amount of pain medication could soothe her through the final stages of the cancer that finally killed her. Her mother had sent her into the bayou for a remedy.
Something that had shocked Ash, because she’d known her mother was aware of Auntie Clare and the rumors that swirled around her.
But Ash’d made that trek, several times, bringing home herbs in a cheesecloth bag that she’d sprinkled into her mama’s tea. The tea had done its job, giving her comfort at the last, ensuring she maintained her dignity until the very end when she’d simply slipped away in her sleep.
At the funeral, Auntie—for she’d insisted on being called that—had been the one who held her hand throughout the service, while Siobhan had sat stiffly on the other side of her own mother.
Ash tossed back another shot and shook her head. “Gennie, I can’t go home. There’s nothing for me there.” Her home was gone. Sold at her mother’s death, and the funds used to pay her college tuition. And she’d never looked back. Never again spoken to Auntie or Siobhan.
At least Ash had New Orleans. The city was her friend. Not a good one. It had led her astray a time or two. But she was familiar. And never judged her. If Ash wanted to stay shit-faced for the next two weeks, no one would raise an eyebrow. Maybe she’d have to find another bar though for her bender.
Dark thoughts weighing her down, she paid for her drinks and left, winding her way through the quarter, away from the tourist center to a side street with two-storied houses hidden behind small courtyard entrances. At one gate, she pushed the latch and ambled through, her feet dragging over worn paving stones to the porch with an iron railing and the baby bougainvillea she’d been coaxing for months to wind around the porch rail. Didn’t matter anymore. The next tenant might hate the fuchsia blooms. Her lease was up soon. And without Marc sharing the rent, she couldn’t afford to stay. Not that she wanted to. Too many memories lay inside the house’s walls.
She unlocked the front door and stepped over the threshold, kicking the door shut behind her and stepping over the pile of mail the mailman had dropped through the slot the past weeks. She supposed she should go through it in case a bill needed paying, but the thought slipped through her mind and faded in an instant as she passed the living room and headed straight to the kitchen.
Cheap scotch sat on the counter. Yesterday’s tumbler beside it. She swished it clean with tap water, then poured a drink and headed back to the porch, to an overstuffed chair pulled close to the railing. She settled into the chair and set her feet on the rail, her drink resting on her belly as she stared between the branches of the old oak in the courtyard at the huge silver moon.
A breeze feathered her hair against her cheek. Almost like the light stroke of fingertips, and for a moment, she closed her eyes and allowed herself to imagine Marc’s fingers on her skin.
But only for a moment, because in the next, a deep painful twinge tightened her chest. She took a sip of her drink, let the liquor burn its path down her throat, and then breathed deeply.
Why couldn’t it have been me? I could have blocked the shot with my body if I hadn’t dived over the clerk on the floor.
If only I could go back and change it. I’d give anything. Please, God. Please.
A tear slipped down her cheek, and she sniffed then grimaced and wiped it away with the backs of her fingers. She’d cried enough. Doing so didn’t change a thing. Only left her with a headache and grogginess. And she’d had enough of both.
Ash set her drink on the porch rail, dropped her feet, and stood, swaying a little. She’d thought she’d have to finish the rest of the bottle before sleep consumed her. Maybe not. She reentered the house and made to step over the mountain of mail.
Her body swayed again, and she knew she’d better get to a chair fast. Her foot kicked an envelope the size of an invitation with a beautiful island-themed stamp and sent it sliding over the old, weathered oak floor.
Nearer the kitchen now, she saw her name written in thick, terse pen strokes. A man’s handwriting. Unfussy, bold. Rather like Marc’s had been, although his scrawl had been nearly illegible.
Curious, she eased down beside the letter and picked it up. She carried the letter into the living room, to the leather couch she’d used as a bed since she’d come home alone that first night. She pulled an afghan around her shoulders and turned on the lamp on the table beside her to take a closer look. She slid a fingernail under the flap and opened it.
Aislin…
No “Dear Aislin”, no “Dear Occupant”…
It was scam, right? One of those things where they made you think they knew you well, or knew your cousin or best friend at college, and they just hated to contact you, but they were stranded in Paris. Would you please send money? And if you were dumb enough to do it, you got hit with a huge credit card bill when some Ukrainian charged a Mercedes. Well good luck with that. Her credit card was nearly maxed out.
Or maybe the letter was one of those time-share things where she had to sit through a sales pitch…
She ought to toss it. But the trash can was all the way in the kitchen. And now, she was just a little bit curious.
The next line sat like a stone in her belly.
I’m a friend of Marc’s. We have to talk.
Below that was a phone number with a note to call day or night.
Was this from another friend who’d just found out he’d been killed? Ash wasn’t sure she could bear having that conversation even one more time. But she thought of Marc, and the fact he’d had a huge pool of friends, not only on the force, but from his time in the Navy SEALs. Blinking at the sudden burn in her eyes, she could almost hear him saying, “Don’t wuss out now, Dupree.”
So she rose, slid her phone from her back pocket, and quickly dialed the number before she did just that. Maybe she’d get an answering machine and could just hang up. Tomorrow, she’d forget about the urge that had her waiting as the phone rang.
She moved the phone away and raised her thumb to end her call, when she heard, “Ash, don’t hang up,” in a smooth deep voice.
Ash drew a swift breath but remained silent. How did he know the call was from her? And that voice—she’d felt a quiver ripple over her skin. His voice was a call to temptation, but she wasn’t interested. “I’m sorry. I dialed the wrong number.”
“Wait. Ash.”
That was the second time he’d used her name. Her fingers tightened on her phone. “How do you know it’s me calling?”
“Please, don’t be afraid,” came that deep voice. “Marc gave me your number, but I thought the note might be easier than another call from a stranger.”
The stranger’s voice was smoother yet again. “Marc’s dead,” she said, her voice more strident than she intended.
“Something I discovered a few days ago when I called the work number he’d given me. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
The very words she didn’t want to hear. Her throat tightened. “Well, thanks for that sentiment,” she said in a rush, ready to end the call as quickly and politely as she could.
“Forgive me, but this may come as a shock. Marc made arrangements for a trip to a Caribbean island, reserved a cottage, and bought plane tickets. He wanted to spring the getaway on you. Said something about tricking you into thinking you were vacationing on Grand Isle. He didn’t want you to know a thing until he drove up to the hangar where the plane would be waiting.”
“Grand Isle…” Her hand tightened on her phone. “But he’s gone, now,” she said, tears welling. He’d planned a sexy getaway. Something special. Marc wasn’t a romantic man, but he’d planned this?
“I’m glad you called. And I know it hasn’t been all that long, but the trip is already paid for. Yours, whenever you have the time to get away. You’ll have complete privacy, a house on the beach.”
“I can’t,” she said, her voice scratchy as she fought tears. She angled her head upward and stared at the ceiling. “I have work,” she lied.
“Like I said, any time you can travel. Everyone needs to get away some time, Ash.”
He paused.
She was surprised she wished he’d say something else. Something about his voice was soothing, making her feel like she wasn’t the only person in the world hurting. “Where is this island?”
“Western Caribbean. Just a hop from New Orleans. Let me know when you can come. I’ll make all the arrangements.”
She thought about what Melanie had said about her getting away. Ash would prefer to take her vacation inside a bottle. But she couldn’t be rude to Marc’s friend. “How did you know him?”
“We were on the same team in the SEALs.”
She nodded although she knew he couldn’t see. Her gaze went to the couch with its natty afghans, and then swept the room where they’d spent evenings cuddling on the sofa while they watched Saints’ games or the latest Avengers movie.
A chance to breathe air that wasn’t stale. To see a room that didn’t hold his imprint. To visit a place that they hadn’t been as a couple. “How many days’ reservation did he make?”
“A week.”
Maybe seven days would be long enough to figure something out. Or simply to sleep without Marc’s scent surrounding her. “I can come now.”
Another pause.
Had she surprised him? Did he need more time? She hoped not. Here was a chance to bolt from their home. And she’d had just enough to drink to sustain her courage to leave.
“I’ll make arrangements for a car to pick you up in half an hour.”
Her body stiffened, and she blinked. That soon? “O-okay.”
“Bye, Aislin.”
The call ended, and she lowered her phone to stare at the screen. Was she really doing this? Panic fluttered in her belly, and she hovered her thumb over the screen, tempted to redial the number. But again, she stared at the sofa.
“I have to pack,” she whispered. She’d cram clothes into a duffel and water the dying plants. Maybe if she kept moving, she wouldn’t think, wouldn’t change her mind.
And she needed to get away, to a place where the mirrors didn’t reflect the places Marc had been. Relief washed like a cool wave through her. The card, the call…both seemed like a divine hand had reached down to offer a second chance.
As she climbed the stairs, she realized she’d never asked his name. She snorted. She wasn’t worried about walking into a trap laid to kidnap lonely women. At twenty-nine, she was too old to be interesting to sex traffickers. Too tired to give a shit.