Check out my review of Sacrifice. Actually, there's two there...second one is for this novel; first is for the opening book, which I read at the same time...you'll see why!
New Orleans. The city conjured up
thoughts of Jazz bands, Mardi Gras, and drinking concoctions meant to impair
logical thought and encourage uninhibited merriment. Despite the ravages of
Katrina, tourists still came to see the old world sights and marvel at the
modern day destruction, hoping to take part in the national frenzy to save one
of the country’s oldest, and perhaps secretly, most admired city. Because only
in New Orleans could you drink from a plastic cup while dancing in the streets,
eat your way through the best the Gulf of Mexico had to offer, wear plastic
beaded jewelry like it was some family heirloom, and be embraced by the locals
as if you were their long lost child. One could always count on having a good
time, and remembering very little of it. Your sins may stay in Las Vegas, but
your heart would always yearn for the effortless charm and warm Southern
breezes of the city that care forgot.
I was back in my beloved hometown
to celebrate the wedding of my quirky cousin, Colleen. We had both grown up
beneath the scrutinizing gaze of New Orleans society, and had never done what
was expected of us. I had studied for a career in nursing, an occupation deemed
unsuitable for a woman of my financial worth and marriage potential. My cousin
had pursued her own interests in boys, booze, and bad choices, making her a
less suitable match for men of a certain social standing. But we had emerged
from our closed-minded backgrounds to find our own way in the world without
heeding the advice of the “old guard”–the older well-established ladies in our
circle of society who thought they knew what was best for everyone else.
Colleen had found a caring man in her redheaded groom, Ray Phillips. She had
finally put her unhappy first marriage to the socially prominent, but abusive,
Eddie Fallon, behind her. I thought on that day I would also be celebrating my
reprieve from the past, but as I stood among the jubilant wedding party in the
lavender and cream decorated Riverview Room of the Hotel Monteleone, a sense of
dread swept through my body.
A tight knot formed in the pit of
my gut as my heart pounded and my hands became clammy. My mind filled with
images from earlier in the day. I thought I had seen a familiar figure
strolling through Jackson Square just as the wedding guests had been departing
St. Louis Cathedral. Had I really seen the face of David Alexander in the
crowd? My logical mind balked at such an idea. David was dead, murdered almost
three years ago by the deranged psychiatrist, and my former fiancé, Dr. Michael
Fagles. Maybe I had only imagined my lost love strolling about the French
Quarter. But why on this day, of all days, had I seen David Alexander?
The sound of loud sucking laughter
suddenly distracted me.
“The Hoover looks happy,” my father
said as he came up alongside of me.
I shook my head. “Dad, stop calling
them that.” Hoover was the name my father had given my Aunt Hattie and her only
daughter, Colleen, as a result of the sucking noise they made whenever they
laughed.
My father looked dashing in his black tuxedo and red cummerbund. Then I
saw a glint of concern flash across his green eyes.
“You have been somewhere else this entire evening, Nicci.” He put a
caring arm around my shoulders. “Is your sullen mood because of Colleen’s
latest creation,” he said as he looked down at my purple satin bridesmaid
dress. “Or is something else going on?”
I glanced down at my dress and laughed. “Uncle Lance was right. I do
look like an eggplant.”
“Has something happened between you and Dallas?” he persisted.
I stepped out from under his arm. “You’re prying, Dad.”
A startled look of surprise crossed his pale face. “This isn’t you,
Nicci. What’s going on? Did you two have a fight?”
I rolled my eyes. “Why do you, and everyone else in my life, assume that
when I’m preoccupied it has something to do with Dallas? Perhaps I’m concerned
about my new book coming out next month, or maybe I’m just worried about the
effects of global warming.”
“Global warming?” My father laughed. “Now I know something is wrong.” He
studied me for what felt like an eternity. “When Dallas left New Orleans last
January, you were the one who went to New York and convinced him not to give up
on your relationship. You wanted him then, so what has changed?” He turned away
and shrugged. “I don’t understand why you just don’t marry Dallas. You can’t
keep putting the man off forever, Nicci. You two have been through so much
together.”
“Are you talking about our being hunted down and almost killed damn near
six months ago?”
My father frowned at me. “We said we were never going to mention that
incident again.”
“No, Dad, you said you never wanted to mention that incident again.
Ignoring what happened doesn’t make it go away.”
“Maybe it would be best if we could all just forget about what Michael
Fagles almost did to you and Dallas,” he suggested. “After everything he
admitted doing to David, I think everyone would be better off forgetting the
sick son of a bitch ever existed.”
“Yes, but if it hadn’t been for Michael, I might never have met
Dallas.”
My father stared at me. “How can you say something like that? I still
have nightmares about what almost happened to you that night in Hammond. But
you don’t seem to be the slightest bit affected by any of it. Most people would
be traumatized by having to kill someone. They’d have nightmares, anxiety
attacks or—”
“What do you expect me to do? Have a breakdown?” I raised my voice
slightly and said, “There are a lot of things about that night that you don’t
understand.”
“Then enlighten me!”
I could not find the strength to tell him that I was not the one who had
killed Michael Fagles. A bullet from a .357 Magnum had been pulled from
Michael’s body during the autopsy. A gun neither Dallas, nor I, had in our possession
on the night Michael was killed. Someone else had been inside my house the
night Michael had attempted to murder Dallas and me. And that someone had taken
out the enraged doctor with a single shot to the head, fired at the exact time
I had pulled the trigger on my gun.
“Jesus, Billy.” Uncle Lance stepped in between my father and me. “What
in the hell are you two yelling about?” he inquired.
My father looked nervously from me to his brother. “We were, ah, just
discussing Nicci’s new book.”
My father’s green eyes eagerly searched the room surrounding us. The
lines embedded across his forehead made him look older than his brother, even
though he was the younger of the two. My father’s face had none of my uncle’s
handsome features and his receding head of gray hair contrasted sharply with
his brother’s thick, wavy, brown mane. The years of running the family
business, Beauvoir Scrap Metal, had made my father look worn out and run down.
Whereas my Uncle Lance’s tan, square face held not the slightest hint of his
true age. Years of hedonistic fun, too much alcohol, and five failed marriages
had seemed to youthen my uncle, while it had simultaneously aged my father.
Uncle Lance eyed my father up and down. “You’re a terrible liar, Billy.”
I sighed and shook my head. “We were talking about Michael.”
Uncle Lance laughed. “Why on earth were you talking about the moron?
Don’t tell me he’s in your new book?”
“Christ, Lance,” my father muttered.
My uncle shrugged. “What in the hell is the matter with you?”
“Dad thinks I have unresolved issues about what happened in Hammond last
January,” I explained.
Uncle Lance frowned at my father. “So what? I’ve got more unresolved
issues than either one of you, but I don’t go around announcing them in
public.”
“I’m simply trying to help her get over what happened,” Dad insisted.
Uncle Lance laughed. “What are you trying to help her get over? David’s
murder or killing Michael?”
“Both. I want her to have a fresh start,” Dad insisted as he turned back
to his brother. “She has a chance at a new life with Dallas and I don’t want to
see her screw that up.”
I looked over to my father. “You think if I forget about David and
Michael then I’ll want settle down with Dallas?”
My father eyes were round and pleading. “Yes!” he yelled. “Look at all
that you’ve been through. If you could just get over David’s murder and the
shooting.” He stopped and ran his hands over his face. “Nicci,” he said
gentling his voice. “I think, no, I believe that all of your apprehension about
marrying Dallas, about planning a future together, stems from your inability to
deal with killing Michael.”
Uncle Lance laughed as he folded his arms across his chest. “What are
you channeling the moron now for psychological advice?”
I shook my head impatiently. “My reluctance to marry Dallas has nothing
to do with David or Michael. Maybe I’m just in no rush to get married!”
“I have yet to meet a woman not in a rush to get married. But it’s
usually to me,” Uncle Lance admitted with a grin. “And for the record, kid, I
don’t care one way or the other about your marrying Dallas.” My uncle winked at
me. “Marriage isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”
“That coming from a man who makes Henry the VIII look like a model
husband.” My father waved his hand at his brother. “Lance, nobody invited you
into this conversation and—”
~~~
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| Now here's the deal guys, we run down the aisle right before Nicci, and then disappear. She hates that dress so we're just diversion until she's standing next to the bride! |
Sounds like my kind of book.
ReplyDeleteMartha
Mine too.
ReplyDelete