conditioned lobby for the car to pull up outside.
As she’d pushed open the glass doors, the heat had hit her in the face like a blast from the studio furnace. The trees lining the avenues stood droopy and motionless, and the sprinklers that kept the lawns green in the summer sprayed a steady mist over shady beds of impatiens, begonias and maidenhair fern.
As her cab crossed the tracks on Canal Street, the driver seemed overly concerned about Claire’s health. He kept an eye on her in the rearview mirror and asked more than once that she please not be sick in his car. Luckily, Claire managed to oblige him, but as she climbed back out into the smoldering heat, a wave of dizziness washed over her and she had to seek refuge underneath a balcony until the dark spots stopped dancing before her eyes.
The sidewalk was damp from the rain the previous evening, and as the concrete dried in the sun, heat radiated up from the surface like a steam sauna. The air was thick and heavy, and the stench of stale wine and beer hovered over the gutters, turning Claire’s stomach until she had to retreat deeper under the balcony, where cool air wafted from an open shop doorway.
As she waited for the nausea to pass, she stared across the street at the store window, but from where she stood, the glare on the glass made it impossible to see inside. The cool air from the doorway helped revive her, and a moment later, Claire left the shade and crossed the street. Stepping up on the curb, she felt her heart begin to hammer, and she had to draw in several deep breaths to keep the vertigo at bay.
And then she was there, in front of the window, and it felt as if the sidewalk had melted away beneath her feet. Her knees trembled and she put a hand against the glass to steady herself.
The doll was gone.
The beautiful little inlaid table was still set with the miniature porcelain tea service, just as it had been the day before. But the tiny chair was scooted back, as if the doll had gotten up and walked away of her own accord.
The shock and disappointment were so staggering that Claire could do nothing but stare at the empty chair, her chest rising and falling as she gulped the hot air deep into her lungs.
The doll was gone.
The first clue that had surfaced in over seven years was gone.
The last link she had to her missing daughter…was gone.
After the night’s rain, the morning sky was a clear, fragile blue, the exact shade of a bowl Claire had made for Charlotte one Christmas. She kept the bowl on a table in the window of her apartment so that when the sun shone through, the glass became incandescent and warm to the touch, a living, breathing entity that seemed to glow with an inner soul. It was like having a piece of Claire with her always, and thinking about her sister now caused guilt to well in Charlotte’s chest as she stared out the window at the hot July morning.
Through the maze of buildings, she could see the shimmering glide of the Mississippi River, and she imagined herself on a fancy houseboat, sipping mint juleps beneath a striped umbrella as the current carried her out to sea. Away from New Orleans. Away from her family. Far, far away from what she had done last night.
That she imagined herself on a houseboat instead of a yacht was a testament, Charlotte supposed, to the lingering power of a childhood fantasy. When she was little, her mother used to drive them out to her cousin’s place in Metairie, and the houseboats moored along the lake had fascinated Charlotte. Back then she could think of no greater adventure than to live on the water and to wake up each morning with a new destination. It wasn’t until years later that she realized the houseboats rarely left their moorings, and that the view, breathtaking through it might be, was as static as the alley she saw out her own bedroom window.
Hitching the sheet over her breasts, she shifted her position at the window. When she turned a certain way, the river disappeared and she could see Alex’s reflection in the glass. He had his back to the window as he stood in front of the bureau, knotting his tie. Charlotte glanced over her shoulder and their gazes met briefly in the mirror before she looked away.
Tiny shivers whispered along her bare skin, and even now, with guilt and shame niggling at her conscience, she couldn’t say that she was entirely sorry for what had happened. She’d been attracted to Alex Girard for as long as she could remember. He was nearly a decade older, but age had never mattered to Charlotte. She’d always had a thing for mature men. What did matter was that he was still technically married to her sister.
“You’ve been standing at that window for ten damn minutes,” he said. “What are you looking at?”
“You can see the river from here.”
“Just enough so that they call it a view and charge twice as much rent.” He came over to stand behind her, casually resting his hand on her bare shoulder as he propped his other arm against the window frame.
He’d just come from the shower, and Charlotte could smell the soap on his skin and the starch in his shirt. She wanted to turn and bury her head against that snowy crispness, tug loose his tie and slide her hand up under his shirttail. His stomach beneath was flat and hard from the hours he spent at the gym. He took a lot of care with his appearance, and Charlotte appreciated the effort.
Absently, he massaged her shoulder. “Man, would you look at that traffic? Seeing all those cars out there, it’s hard to believe what a ghost town this place was after the flood. Of course, eighty percent of the city was underwater. Nothing going in and out but gators and moccasins.”
Charlotte glanced up at his profile. She felt a pull of desire every time she looked at him, so she hastily averted her gaze. This morning she wouldn’t have the excuse of fear and loneliness driving her toward irresponsibility. This morning she wouldn’t be able to blame anything but her own selfish needs.
“You rode out the storm here in town, didn’t you? I can’t even imagine what that must have been like.”
Alex squinted against the glare of sunlight that spilled through the window. “It was bad. Worst damn thing I’ve ever been through, but half of what you heard on the news was bullshit. Like the reports about cops leaving the city in droves. Never happened.”
“The first thing I learned when I went to work in the D.A.’s office was never to trust the media,” Charlotte said with a shrug. “But they got one thing right. New Orleans is never going to be the same.”
“No, probably not. But I’ve never seen much point in looking back. You can’t change the past. All you can do is play the hand you got dealt and move on.”
“Sometimes it’s not that easy, Alex.”
“And sometimes it is,” he insisted. “It’s all a matter of persective. Take this window, for instance. If you’re the glass half-empty type, you’d look out and see nothing but the memory of flooded streets and piles of garbage. But me? I prefer to be a little more optimistic. I look out that window and see opportunity.”
“Now you sound just like a politician,” Charlotte teased. “You can’t expect people to forget so soon. New Orleans has always been a city that lives in the past. It’s who we are.”
“And maybe that’s been our problem all along. Like I said, I don’t see much profit in looking back. I don’t believe in regrets.” His voice softened as he turned and traced a finger down her jawline. “That goes for what happened last night, too. I’m not sorry and I don’t want you to be, either.”
She kept her gaze trained on the window, as if the sunshine flooding through the glass could burn away her desire for him as easily as it melted the early morning mist over the river. “I can’t help it. I shouldn’t have come here, Alex.”
“Then why did you?”
“Because I could tell that you were hurt and upset when you left the hospital last night. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“One thing you gotta know about me. I’m not a man who takes well to charity. I don’t need your pity. That’s the last thing I want from you.”
“I don’t pity you, but I do understand what you’re going through. Last night you were hurt and vulnerable, and I was lonely. We let things get out of hand. It never should have happened.”
“Is that really the way you feel?” His eyes moved over her face. “If you don’t want to see me again, that’s fine. If the earth didn’t move or we didn’t click, or you can’t stand the way I hog all the covers in the middle of the night, then tell me straight up. I can handle the truth. But don’t give me any bullshit about guilt and regrets. We didn’t hurt anybody.”
