The night was alive with movement and laughter. A woman in a spangled dress hawked Mardi Gras masks that had been stacked on a stick. Horse hooves clacked against the pavement as a calèche full of tourists rattled past a long black limousine. Buskers performed to clusters of onlookers, and a cacophony of music from at least four different sources echoed off the old buildings. Enveloping it all, the scents of fried shrimp and spilled beer drifted on the breeze, along with the underlying tang of the river.
Jackson inhaled slowly, his eyes half closing. “This is just how I remember it.”
She knew immediately what he was talking about. “I know what you mean. There’s nothing quite like the atmosphere of Mardi Gras.”
“Yeah, I’m glad I get the chance to soak it in while I’m here. You’re lucky, you see it every year.”
“As strange as it sounds, I don’t normally get the time to enjoy it. It’s mainly business for me.”
“It used to be the busiest time for the hotel when your parents ran things, too,” he said.
“I hadn’t realized how hard they worked back then. What I remember most were the colors. And all the movement. It seemed as if everything was in perpetual motion.”
“And the music.” He tilted his head as if to follow one melody in the mix. “The city was always full of music, but this time of year it explodes with it.”
Of course he’d remember that, she thought. Musical talent ran in his family; Jackson had inherited his love of music from his scandalous grandmother. He’d also inherited her long, supple fingers. And like his grandmother, he had chosen a career that had taken full advantage of those marvelous hands…
He was carrying her briefcase in his left hand, Charlotte realized. She looked at his right. He held it loosely by his side. The dark line on the back was barely noticeable in this light, yet now that she knew what to look for, she could see that there was something odd about the slack angle of his thumb.
“Go ahead and ask if you want,” he said.
She glanced up to find him watching her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare.”
“It’s okay, Charlotte. I’m not used to my limitations yet either, so I don’t expect you to be.” He pressed closer to her side as a group of people brushed past them. “We never tiptoed around each other before. I can’t see any reason to start now.”
He was right. They’d always been honest—they hadn’t known any better. “Is it all right to move your hand aroundlike that?” she asked. “Shouldn’t you be wearing a sling or some kind of support?”
“Not at this stage. It will have to be completely immobilized after surgery, though.”
“Does it…hurt?”
“The upside of nerve damage is that I don’t feel much.”
“I would like to say I’m glad for that, but I’m not glad about any of it, Jackson. It’s just not fair.”
“I gave up expecting fair a long time ago. One of the first things I learned with my NGO work is that fate doesn’t play favorites.”
There seemed nothing more to add to that, so they started walking toward the lot where Charlotte had parked. “Have you seen your friend at Tulane yet?” she asked.
He nodded. “He’s going to do some more tests the day after tomorrow to gauge how much healing has taken place on its own.”
“ Could it heal on its own?”
“Not anymore.” He sidestepped a pair of giggling young women who were weighed down with ropes of beads over their breasts. “That’s why I waited as long as I did to get treatment,” he said. “With an injury like this, it’s best to give the nerves a chance to regenerate. Everything that could already did.”
“Surgery could repair it, right?”
“I have to believe that, Charlotte.”
Although he spoke softly, his voice was threaded with steel. It was a stark contrast to the merriment that whirled around them.
“But Yves is too smart to make promises,” Jackson continued. “His initial diagnosis is
Jackson inhaled slowly, his eyes half closing. “This is just how I remember it.”
She knew immediately what he was talking about. “I know what you mean. There’s nothing quite like the atmosphere of Mardi Gras.”
“Yeah, I’m glad I get the chance to soak it in while I’m here. You’re lucky, you see it every year.”
“As strange as it sounds, I don’t normally get the time to enjoy it. It’s mainly business for me.”
“It used to be the busiest time for the hotel when your parents ran things, too,” he said.
“I hadn’t realized how hard they worked back then. What I remember most were the colors. And all the movement. It seemed as if everything was in perpetual motion.”
“And the music.” He tilted his head as if to follow one melody in the mix. “The city was always full of music, but this time of year it explodes with it.”
Of course he’d remember that, she thought. Musical talent ran in his family; Jackson had inherited his love of music from his scandalous grandmother. He’d also inherited her long, supple fingers. And like his grandmother, he had chosen a career that had taken full advantage of those marvelous hands…
He was carrying her briefcase in his left hand, Charlotte realized. She looked at his right. He held it loosely by his side. The dark line on the back was barely noticeable in this light, yet now that she knew what to look for, she could see that there was something odd about the slack angle of his thumb.
“Go ahead and ask if you want,” he said.
She glanced up to find him watching her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stare.”
“It’s okay, Charlotte. I’m not used to my limitations yet either, so I don’t expect you to be.” He pressed closer to her side as a group of people brushed past them. “We never tiptoed around each other before. I can’t see any reason to start now.”
He was right. They’d always been honest—they hadn’t known any better. “Is it all right to move your hand aroundlike that?” she asked. “Shouldn’t you be wearing a sling or some kind of support?”
“Not at this stage. It will have to be completely immobilized after surgery, though.”
“Does it…hurt?”
“The upside of nerve damage is that I don’t feel much.”
“I would like to say I’m glad for that, but I’m not glad about any of it, Jackson. It’s just not fair.”
“I gave up expecting fair a long time ago. One of the first things I learned with my NGO work is that fate doesn’t play favorites.”
There seemed nothing more to add to that, so they started walking toward the lot where Charlotte had parked. “Have you seen your friend at Tulane yet?” she asked.
He nodded. “He’s going to do some more tests the day after tomorrow to gauge how much healing has taken place on its own.”
“ Could it heal on its own?”
“Not anymore.” He sidestepped a pair of giggling young women who were weighed down with ropes of beads over their breasts. “That’s why I waited as long as I did to get treatment,” he said. “With an injury like this, it’s best to give the nerves a chance to regenerate. Everything that could already did.”
“Surgery could repair it, right?”
“I have to believe that, Charlotte.”
Although he spoke softly, his voice was threaded with steel. It was a stark contrast to the merriment that whirled around them.
“But Yves is too smart to make promises,” Jackson continued. “His initial diagnosis is