meaningful relationship, nor was there anything particularly normal about sleeping with dozens of random men as a substitute. If it were normal, she wouldn’t have chosen to hide it from the people in her world. She would not have experienced such shame.
Nicolas had known about it, of course, but Nicolas didn’t judge. It was only the last thing that had happened, the catalyst for her departure, that Nicolas would never hear about. Not from her, and likely not from the other party involved. The latter had too much to lose, and it was really to protect him –and to hide from her shame, in what she had done to him, and to herself–that she had left town.
Being in Maine hadn’t helped her to forget, nor had it given her any deeper understanding of how to forge a new path for her life. She felt like an outsider here, an interloper, and this only magnified her existing feelings of isolation and despair.
People had been less chilly to her as time went on, but she was still completely taken aback by the rudeness of Jon St. Andrews. She understood that it was not always easy to meet others...was she not, also, a perfect example of a societal defect? There were those out there who probably thought she was rude as well. But she had never– never –treated anyone the way Jonathan St. Andrews had treated her.
And for what?
Was he also one of those narrow-minded gossips who thought she was some spoiled rich girl here on her daddy’s money? Even if that were true, why did it matter? Why was that such an affront to others?
It wasn’t true, anyway. She had inherited her mother’s share of Deschanel Media, but she hadn’t touched any of it. She lived simply back home. She had her small Chartres Street apartment in the Quarter, but the rest of her money went into savings or investments. She was, after all, a member of one of the most famous of investment families in New Orleans.
She had insisted on taking over all expenses for the house during her visit, including Alex’s pay. She hadn’t mentioned this to Alex, because it was obvious he preferred being the savior of women, not the one beholden to them.
“Come home, Muffins. You can be a whore there or you can be a whore here, but here is so much more fun...” Nicolas said that night on the phone, when she told him she was having mixed thoughts.
To Nicolas, this was affection. “Pot. Kettle. Black,” she joked back. She flopped back in the tall, carpeted armchair in her sitting room.
“Come home.”
“Not just yet.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you, Ana. There are plenty of insecure assholes out there who blow themselves up with self-importance and opinions who will tell you that there is, but a healthy sexual appetite is nothing to be ashamed of.”
That’s not all I’m ashamed of , she thought. I’m ashamed that I brought someone else down into this mess with me, someone I care about, and I can’t take it back.
To make matters worse, she was distraught over what happened to Cocoa the week before. She had watched Cocoa saunter down the long driveway and out into Heron Hollow Road beyond, and then observed helplessly as a truck swerve out of its way to hit her. The truck then squealed off, leaving Cocoa hurt and broken on the road.
Ana had closed her eyes and placed her hands over the tiny body. Heal...heal damn you! She had focused so hard–imagining positive energies around Cocoa, seeing the little cells come together in harmony–that the blood rushed to her head and she fell back into a puddle. Please Cocoa...please little girl...
When she failed to save her, she didn’t even think twice about taking her to see Dr. St. Andrews; didn’t think about how rude he might be to her when she showed up, or the possibility that he might even turn her away. She simply rushed to save the little cat that had become a part of her life in Maine.
In the end, he had saved her– because I couldn’t; because when it came down to it I couldn’t even save a
Nicolas had known about it, of course, but Nicolas didn’t judge. It was only the last thing that had happened, the catalyst for her departure, that Nicolas would never hear about. Not from her, and likely not from the other party involved. The latter had too much to lose, and it was really to protect him –and to hide from her shame, in what she had done to him, and to herself–that she had left town.
Being in Maine hadn’t helped her to forget, nor had it given her any deeper understanding of how to forge a new path for her life. She felt like an outsider here, an interloper, and this only magnified her existing feelings of isolation and despair.
People had been less chilly to her as time went on, but she was still completely taken aback by the rudeness of Jon St. Andrews. She understood that it was not always easy to meet others...was she not, also, a perfect example of a societal defect? There were those out there who probably thought she was rude as well. But she had never– never –treated anyone the way Jonathan St. Andrews had treated her.
And for what?
Was he also one of those narrow-minded gossips who thought she was some spoiled rich girl here on her daddy’s money? Even if that were true, why did it matter? Why was that such an affront to others?
It wasn’t true, anyway. She had inherited her mother’s share of Deschanel Media, but she hadn’t touched any of it. She lived simply back home. She had her small Chartres Street apartment in the Quarter, but the rest of her money went into savings or investments. She was, after all, a member of one of the most famous of investment families in New Orleans.
She had insisted on taking over all expenses for the house during her visit, including Alex’s pay. She hadn’t mentioned this to Alex, because it was obvious he preferred being the savior of women, not the one beholden to them.
“Come home, Muffins. You can be a whore there or you can be a whore here, but here is so much more fun...” Nicolas said that night on the phone, when she told him she was having mixed thoughts.
To Nicolas, this was affection. “Pot. Kettle. Black,” she joked back. She flopped back in the tall, carpeted armchair in her sitting room.
“Come home.”
“Not just yet.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you, Ana. There are plenty of insecure assholes out there who blow themselves up with self-importance and opinions who will tell you that there is, but a healthy sexual appetite is nothing to be ashamed of.”
That’s not all I’m ashamed of , she thought. I’m ashamed that I brought someone else down into this mess with me, someone I care about, and I can’t take it back.
To make matters worse, she was distraught over what happened to Cocoa the week before. She had watched Cocoa saunter down the long driveway and out into Heron Hollow Road beyond, and then observed helplessly as a truck swerve out of its way to hit her. The truck then squealed off, leaving Cocoa hurt and broken on the road.
Ana had closed her eyes and placed her hands over the tiny body. Heal...heal damn you! She had focused so hard–imagining positive energies around Cocoa, seeing the little cells come together in harmony–that the blood rushed to her head and she fell back into a puddle. Please Cocoa...please little girl...
When she failed to save her, she didn’t even think twice about taking her to see Dr. St. Andrews; didn’t think about how rude he might be to her when she showed up, or the possibility that he might even turn her away. She simply rushed to save the little cat that had become a part of her life in Maine.
In the end, he had saved her– because I couldn’t; because when it came down to it I couldn’t even save a
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