wondering if they could ever go back to being friends. "What did you read?"
"Whatever I was reading at the time. You seemed to enjoy Fanny Hill," she said deadpan.
Nat made a sound that was half laugh, half sob. "For God's sake, Faye. you don't read erotica to someone who's in a coma."
"You moved your hand that night, Natty. You knew I was there."
Nat didn't know what to say and for a moment all she could do was blink back tears. How very like Faye to do something so utterly unorthodox. And so selfless and kind, a little voice added.
Because she didn't want to cry, Nat took a deep breath and focused on the bottle Faye had set on the table. "What kind of wine is that?”
"Blackberry. From my own patch. I thought you might appreciate some about now."
"I hate your blackberry wine."
"That was peach cognac you tried, spoilsport. And for your information, I've refined my wine-making skills since you last tried it."
Rising, Nat walked into the kitchen and snagged two wine glasses from the cabinet. At the bar, Faye uncorked the bottle. "I like to let this breathe for a minute or two."
Nat met her at the bar and set down the glasses. Faye looked at her, her expression sober. "It hurt when you refused to see me after you came out of the coma."
"I was a mess, Faye. Physically. Emotionally."
"You were angry."
"I was a lot of things, and none of them were good."
"Considering what you've been through, you have a very positive energy, Nat." A smile whispered across Faye's features. "You look damn good for a woman who's spent the last two and a half years sleeping."
Nat thought of the months of grueling physical rehabilitation and grimaced. "It was tough, Faye. Even though I'd had quite a bit of physical therapy, my muscles had atrophied. I couldn't walk. I couldn't even sit up. It's taken me six months to get my strength back."
"Any lingering effects from the stroke?"
After her suicide attempt, Nat had gone into hypovolemic shock and suffered a minor stroke from blood loss. "I had some memory problems early on and some minor paralysis on my left side." She raised her left band and flexed her lingers. "My left hand is a little awkward. but since I'm right-handed, it's not a problem."
"That's good." Faye studied her face. "You look a little tired. A lot sad."
"I am. Both."
"But your energy is strong," The other woman's eyes narrowed. "Different somehow. Powerful. But good. That's the most important thing."
Nat had always been a skeptic when it came to things like personal energy and the woo-woo mumbo jumbo Faye subscribed to. The last six months had changed her view dramatically.
Faye raised her glass. ''To the healing energy of friendship," she said.
And the sweet promise of justice, Nat silently added, and clinked her glass against Faye's.
Chapter 6
The Blue Gator was hopping. the shift at the lumber mill had ended at four o'clock, and by four-fifteen half of Bobby O'Malley's crew were at the bar, their minds set on putting a dent in Mike Pequinot's supply of booze. A lively zydeco number blasted from the jukebox. Even though it was still early, several couples were already kicking up sawdust on the matchbox-size dance floor.
The boisterous atmosphere of The Blue Gator was a far cry from the jazzy elegance of the restaurant Nick had owned in New Orleans. The Tropics had been dark wood and candlelight, smooth jazz, Dominican cigars, and top-shelf liquor. But atmosphere was a relative thing, and Nick was in his element, no matter which bar he stood behind.
He'd always believed one of the things that made him good at what he did was his willingness to roll up his sleeves. Even back when he'd been wearing two thousand dollar suits, if a table needed busing, he jumped in and did it himself. Even after he'd had the money to hire the best bartenders in the city, he'd made it a point on occasion to elbow his way to the bar and serve up shots and drafts or whatever alcoholic concoction his customers wanted.
It
"Whatever I was reading at the time. You seemed to enjoy Fanny Hill," she said deadpan.
Nat made a sound that was half laugh, half sob. "For God's sake, Faye. you don't read erotica to someone who's in a coma."
"You moved your hand that night, Natty. You knew I was there."
Nat didn't know what to say and for a moment all she could do was blink back tears. How very like Faye to do something so utterly unorthodox. And so selfless and kind, a little voice added.
Because she didn't want to cry, Nat took a deep breath and focused on the bottle Faye had set on the table. "What kind of wine is that?”
"Blackberry. From my own patch. I thought you might appreciate some about now."
"I hate your blackberry wine."
"That was peach cognac you tried, spoilsport. And for your information, I've refined my wine-making skills since you last tried it."
Rising, Nat walked into the kitchen and snagged two wine glasses from the cabinet. At the bar, Faye uncorked the bottle. "I like to let this breathe for a minute or two."
Nat met her at the bar and set down the glasses. Faye looked at her, her expression sober. "It hurt when you refused to see me after you came out of the coma."
"I was a mess, Faye. Physically. Emotionally."
"You were angry."
"I was a lot of things, and none of them were good."
"Considering what you've been through, you have a very positive energy, Nat." A smile whispered across Faye's features. "You look damn good for a woman who's spent the last two and a half years sleeping."
Nat thought of the months of grueling physical rehabilitation and grimaced. "It was tough, Faye. Even though I'd had quite a bit of physical therapy, my muscles had atrophied. I couldn't walk. I couldn't even sit up. It's taken me six months to get my strength back."
"Any lingering effects from the stroke?"
After her suicide attempt, Nat had gone into hypovolemic shock and suffered a minor stroke from blood loss. "I had some memory problems early on and some minor paralysis on my left side." She raised her left band and flexed her lingers. "My left hand is a little awkward. but since I'm right-handed, it's not a problem."
"That's good." Faye studied her face. "You look a little tired. A lot sad."
"I am. Both."
"But your energy is strong," The other woman's eyes narrowed. "Different somehow. Powerful. But good. That's the most important thing."
Nat had always been a skeptic when it came to things like personal energy and the woo-woo mumbo jumbo Faye subscribed to. The last six months had changed her view dramatically.
Faye raised her glass. ''To the healing energy of friendship," she said.
And the sweet promise of justice, Nat silently added, and clinked her glass against Faye's.
Chapter 6
The Blue Gator was hopping. the shift at the lumber mill had ended at four o'clock, and by four-fifteen half of Bobby O'Malley's crew were at the bar, their minds set on putting a dent in Mike Pequinot's supply of booze. A lively zydeco number blasted from the jukebox. Even though it was still early, several couples were already kicking up sawdust on the matchbox-size dance floor.
The boisterous atmosphere of The Blue Gator was a far cry from the jazzy elegance of the restaurant Nick had owned in New Orleans. The Tropics had been dark wood and candlelight, smooth jazz, Dominican cigars, and top-shelf liquor. But atmosphere was a relative thing, and Nick was in his element, no matter which bar he stood behind.
He'd always believed one of the things that made him good at what he did was his willingness to roll up his sleeves. Even back when he'd been wearing two thousand dollar suits, if a table needed busing, he jumped in and did it himself. Even after he'd had the money to hire the best bartenders in the city, he'd made it a point on occasion to elbow his way to the bar and serve up shots and drafts or whatever alcoholic concoction his customers wanted.
It
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