you it’s right.
She’d been intrigued by his manners, mildly impressed that he could navigate his way through a French wine list, and awe-struck that she—little old Carmela Bertrand—had seemingly grabbed this tiger by the tail.
Shamus, in turn, had been wildly smitten and declared her to be amazingly creative as well as the most divine creature he’d ever laid eyes on.
Their courtship had been whirlwind, the wedding ceremony a tableau of shocked relatives (on both sides). And their honeymoon, spent in one of the suites at the Oak Alley Plantation, had been filled with great sex and unbelievable tenderness.
Then all hell broke loose.
Oh, Shamus hadn’t stayed out late drinking, hadn’t been unfaithful, hadn’t been unkind or physically brutish in any way. He’d just . . . changed. Grew quieter, more somber, more unhappy.
Until one day he just left.
She’d likened it to a big cat who’d been caged. A chimera who’d been tamed.
And if I really believe all that hooey, I’m a bigger fool than I thought! mused Carmela.
Reality check? He’s an immature cad. A grass-is-greener kind of guy. If Shamus really wanted this marriage to work, he’d make it work. Because Shamus generally gets what he wants.
“I take it you heard about last night?” Carmela asked Shamus, her tone weary.
He nodded. “I’m just back from a trip out to New Iberia to look at some property, but the break-in and murder are still big stuff on tonight’s news. Channel Eight, Channel Four, some sketchy stuff on Six. That’s why I came over.” Shamus put a hand on Carmela’s shoulder. “Lean back,” he urged.
Warnings exploded in Carmela’s head, but she was too tired to heed them. Instead, she leaned back against Shamus. Absorbed his warmth, savored his strength, and snuggled her tired head against the curve of his shoulder. He felt reassuring, infinitely strong, and achingly familiar.
“Tell me,” he said. “Some of it was on the news, but I want to hear it in your words.”
And so Carmela told him, her voice breaking more than once. About Wren and Jamie. All the planning they’d put in. About how the much-anticipated party at Bon Tiempe had ended up as a crime scene with harsh black and yellow tape stretched everywhere.
“How’s Gabby doing?” Shamus asked when she’d finished.
“Upset about her cousin, but hanging in there. She came to work today.”
“That’s a positive,” said Shamus.
Carmela raised an eyebrow. This from a man who’d deserted his post at the Crescent City Bank and stayed away almost six months, pleading the Gauguin precedent?
“And Wren?” Shamus asked. “I don’t really know her, but I’m pretty sure I met her once when I stopped at Jamie’s bookstore to look for a Faulkner first edition. She worked there, didn’t she?”
Carmela nodded. “She’s shell-shocked, but I think she’ll eventually work her way out of it.”
“That’s good,” said Shamus. “Time heals.”
“So they say,” said Carmela, looking at him sideways.
Shamus sat for a long moment, then cleared his throat self-consciously. “So what’s the deal? Are you seeing that restaurant guy?”
Well, that came out of left field, Carmela decided.
“Quigg Brevard?” she replied. “No. Not really.” She’d sat next to Quigg at a dinner party and had gone to dinner at his restaurant a few times, but that wasn’t technically seeing him, was it?
“Good,” declared Shamus. “I don’t like him. I don’t like him one bit. The man favors European suits and slicks on too much hair gel.”
Okay, thought Carmela, let’s add those items to the column labeled Things Shamus Dislikes. A column that seems to expand exponentially with each passing day.
Carmela picked up the plush postal worker toy Shamus had given Boo. The mailman had a glib smile and a newly shredded belly.
“She already ripped the squeaker out,” said Shamus, a silly grin on his face. “Took her thirty seconds flat. It was like watching
She’d been intrigued by his manners, mildly impressed that he could navigate his way through a French wine list, and awe-struck that she—little old Carmela Bertrand—had seemingly grabbed this tiger by the tail.
Shamus, in turn, had been wildly smitten and declared her to be amazingly creative as well as the most divine creature he’d ever laid eyes on.
Their courtship had been whirlwind, the wedding ceremony a tableau of shocked relatives (on both sides). And their honeymoon, spent in one of the suites at the Oak Alley Plantation, had been filled with great sex and unbelievable tenderness.
Then all hell broke loose.
Oh, Shamus hadn’t stayed out late drinking, hadn’t been unfaithful, hadn’t been unkind or physically brutish in any way. He’d just . . . changed. Grew quieter, more somber, more unhappy.
Until one day he just left.
She’d likened it to a big cat who’d been caged. A chimera who’d been tamed.
And if I really believe all that hooey, I’m a bigger fool than I thought! mused Carmela.
Reality check? He’s an immature cad. A grass-is-greener kind of guy. If Shamus really wanted this marriage to work, he’d make it work. Because Shamus generally gets what he wants.
“I take it you heard about last night?” Carmela asked Shamus, her tone weary.
He nodded. “I’m just back from a trip out to New Iberia to look at some property, but the break-in and murder are still big stuff on tonight’s news. Channel Eight, Channel Four, some sketchy stuff on Six. That’s why I came over.” Shamus put a hand on Carmela’s shoulder. “Lean back,” he urged.
Warnings exploded in Carmela’s head, but she was too tired to heed them. Instead, she leaned back against Shamus. Absorbed his warmth, savored his strength, and snuggled her tired head against the curve of his shoulder. He felt reassuring, infinitely strong, and achingly familiar.
“Tell me,” he said. “Some of it was on the news, but I want to hear it in your words.”
And so Carmela told him, her voice breaking more than once. About Wren and Jamie. All the planning they’d put in. About how the much-anticipated party at Bon Tiempe had ended up as a crime scene with harsh black and yellow tape stretched everywhere.
“How’s Gabby doing?” Shamus asked when she’d finished.
“Upset about her cousin, but hanging in there. She came to work today.”
“That’s a positive,” said Shamus.
Carmela raised an eyebrow. This from a man who’d deserted his post at the Crescent City Bank and stayed away almost six months, pleading the Gauguin precedent?
“And Wren?” Shamus asked. “I don’t really know her, but I’m pretty sure I met her once when I stopped at Jamie’s bookstore to look for a Faulkner first edition. She worked there, didn’t she?”
Carmela nodded. “She’s shell-shocked, but I think she’ll eventually work her way out of it.”
“That’s good,” said Shamus. “Time heals.”
“So they say,” said Carmela, looking at him sideways.
Shamus sat for a long moment, then cleared his throat self-consciously. “So what’s the deal? Are you seeing that restaurant guy?”
Well, that came out of left field, Carmela decided.
“Quigg Brevard?” she replied. “No. Not really.” She’d sat next to Quigg at a dinner party and had gone to dinner at his restaurant a few times, but that wasn’t technically seeing him, was it?
“Good,” declared Shamus. “I don’t like him. I don’t like him one bit. The man favors European suits and slicks on too much hair gel.”
Okay, thought Carmela, let’s add those items to the column labeled Things Shamus Dislikes. A column that seems to expand exponentially with each passing day.
Carmela picked up the plush postal worker toy Shamus had given Boo. The mailman had a glib smile and a newly shredded belly.
“She already ripped the squeaker out,” said Shamus, a silly grin on his face. “Took her thirty seconds flat. It was like watching
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