Chapter 1
CHAPTER ONE
claire
“So sorry to hear about your divorce, my baby,” my great-aunt Verna leans in to whisper, patting my hand softly. “But good riddance. I know it’s a terrible thing to say, but—Wait, are we talkin’ shit on him yet?”
Half of my mouth lifts in a smile. “Yep. Let ‘er rip.”
“Thank God you never had kids with that asshole.”
“Thanks, Tante.” I know she means well, but it hurts all the same. And since she’s one of my favorites, mostly because we both lack a filter, I try to take her consolation as the show of love and support she intended.
“What are you going to do now that you’re single and on the prowl, my Claire Bear?
” she asks as she takes a sip of the Bloody Mary a waiter has just placed down in front of her.
“Mm, thank ya, bébé,” she drawls and winks at him.
Despite being born and raised here in the Acadiana area, she’s developed one of those “Nawlins Dahlin’ ” accents after living in the Crescent City for decades.
It’s another reason she sticks out like a sore thumb now that she’s returned to be closer to the rest of our family.
I shrug and take a sip of my own drink, a salty margarita, but it doesn’t go down all that well. I’ve never been a huge fan of alcohol, anyway.
“I don’t know. You lookin’ for a roommate?” I bump her shoulder playfully and smile again so she knows I’m joking.
“Oh, hush, child. Although your mama and I would both love to have you close by, we both know you’re meant for country living. You’re too much for these city boys to handle.”
“Are you referring to the boys I’d be teaching or the ones I’d be dating?” I pose, cocking an eyebrow.
“Both,” she clarifies with a tilt of her chin. “They wouldn’t be able to keep up with you in the classroom or the—”
“I’m only worried about the classroom for now.”
“What you need is to get back on that horse.” She wags her finger at me, making her bracelets clink together.
“I don’t know. Maybe I’m just not meant for married life … or kids.”
Verna reaches over to smack the side of my thigh, and I wince. “No ma’am, none of that pouting. We don’t sit around and bouder, hmm?”
She tips her head to look me in the eyes, wordlessly conveying her empathy.
Her partner of over four decades, Reggie, passed away about five years ago.
She’d followed him to New Orleans after they met in college, and they’d always seemed so happy together, even though they’d never actually gotten married or had children.
It took me years to understand why she moved away, especially when everyone loved Reggie so much. But I figure they simply wanted to evade the endless commentary on their decision to “shack up” and the constant questions about having babies.
“No, we don’t,” I say, offering her another sad smile.
“Your Reg is out there, somewhere, waiting for you. Don’t stop looking until you find his handsome ass.” My smile widens, and she sniffs and pulls me in to kiss my cheek, leaving me with an imprint of her bright red lipstick and floral perfume.
I always thought I took after Verna, and I’d basically followed in her footsteps when I’d chased my ex-husband to the small town of Camellia.
But maybe my great-aunt had also felt like an outsider in her own family, despite their love and tolerance.
Maybe it was the same for her as it is for me—too difficult to face her parents when she’d already second-guessed most of her decisions.
Unlike me, however, my Tante Verna is the type of woman that won’t stay down, even with a gaping hole in her heart.
I wish I were strong enough to crawl back to my family with my tail between my legs.
But I’m not sure I can withstand my parents’ disapproval of my life choices or that look on my mom’s face when I inevitably say the wrong thing or laugh too loud in front of company.
Better to stay where I am and take it in small doses.
“Can I ask you something?” I venture.
She waves off my trepidation. “Anything, my girl.”
“Why didn’t you and N’oncle Reg have any kids?”
I barely catch the flicker of pain in her eyes.
“We only meant to put it off for a while,” she begins, her voice laced with regret.
“But by the time we’d done enough traveling and working and everything else you think is more important when you’re young, I couldn’t get pregnant.
We talked about adopting, but they only wanted to give kids to married couples back then. ”
“And you didn’t want to get married.”
“I didn’t. He did,” she admits. “Can’t even remember why I wouldn’t do it anymore, though.”
“Well, I’m sorry. You would have made the best parents,” I offer, and I mean it.
She pats my thigh again. “Reg would have been a great daddy. But it wasn’t in the cards for us, I guess. Or maybe we were too stubborn to recognize the opportunity before it passed.”
I bite my lip and look away, my eyes stinging. “Yeah. Um, I think I’ve gotta visit the little girls’ room. Be back in a minute.”
She nods knowingly and lets me go. I keep my head down as I pass the rest of my extended family on my way out of the small yet lavish hotel ballroom hosting my great-grandparents’ sixtieth anniversary party, no doubt chosen by my mother, then I dart into the lobby restroom to dry my tears.
I take a second to scrutinize my reflection in the brightly lit mirror.
My fitted cocktail dress, blown-out hair, and full face of makeup were enough to shock my family tonight, as if they forgot it was even possible for me to wear anything else besides the button-down work shirts, steel-toed boots, and canvas carpenter pants I’m relegated to for my work as an agricultural sciences teacher—another one of my choices they never quite understood.
My mother was at least hoping I’d have worn something modest enough to cover my tattoo sleeve, if the frown she failed to disguise upon my arrival was any indication.
But I think I clean up nice, when I make the effort.
And this party was worth the effort, especially since I knew I’d be fielding questions and mock concern after finally owning up to my change in marital status.
I sure as shit wasn’t going to show up alone and frumpy.
After one more dab at the lipstick stain on my cheek, I venture out and zero in on the hotel bar in the corner of the lobby.
I’m not ready to face my family again. And I’m tired of talking about my failed marriage.
But as soon as I take the first step toward the bar, a solid shoulder bumps mine, causing me to stumble backward.
“Oof, watch it,” I grumble ungraciously, trying to right myself on the heels I don’t wear often enough according to my mom.
“I’m so sorry, ma’am,” a deep voice returns before a pair of firm hands grips my arms on both sides. “Are you okay?”
I look up to find a pair of crystal blue eyes gazing into mine. “Fine,” I retort, taking a step back and extricating myself from the man’s grasp. Though I immediately regret it once I realize he’s absolutely gorgeous.
“Please excuse me, I’m … not feeling well.” He swallows hard, and I watch his chest rise and fall, as if he’s struggling to breathe.
My brow furrows as I study him. He doesn’t appear to be drunk; if anything, he’s a little too tightly wound for that. He staggers backward to brace himself against the wall while he removes his suit jacket and lets it fall to the floor.
“Do you need help?” I ask carefully as he loosens his bowtie.
He clears his throat uncomfortably and nods after a second. “I think I might,” he croaks, crossing himself as if he’s sending up a prayer.
“Okay, what can I do?”
“Use … this … please,” he wheezes between increasingly shallow breaths. One of his hands delves into his pocket while he takes mine with the other and slaps an EpiPen into my palm.
“Right, yeah, okay,” I mumble when he pokes himself in the leg, miming an injection and prompting my memory, and I’m suddenly grateful our school nurse insisted on training me for this type of emergency.
I skim the directions on the pen. It’s similar enough to the devices I’ve seen before, so I flick off the bright blue safety cap.
“Ready?” I ask.
His nodding grows more frantic as I kneel and cup one of my hands around his inner thigh, preparing to jam the syringe into his muscles. And what muscles they are. I can feel his hamstrings flexing through the fabric of his dress pants.
Focus, Claire. Sure, the man is sexy, but he’s also dying.
Cringing, I force myself to stab his leg.
The stranger barely flinches as his hands fly up to my shoulders, steadying himself and struggling to slow his breathing as I count to ten.
He’s still hyperventilating after I remove the needle, so I do my best to support both of us until his gasps and gulps start to sound more like measured inhales and exhales.
My eyes dart around when I realize we’ve garnered an audience.
I can only imagine the assumptions they might be making, especially if they missed the part about me being down here to administer an injection.
Tante Verna will certainly have a field day once she hears about me groping a stranger in the lobby.
“Thank you,” the man rasps after a minute and moves his hands to scoop me up to a standing position.
“Yeah, no worries,” I reply once I’m back on my feet, ignoring the way my skin tingles where his hands linger on my skin.
“I’m glad I bumped into you. Believe it or not, you may have just saved a life.”