Restoring Hope (6 page)

She’d towed the line, kept the house perfect and became the dutiful wife like he wanted, never questioning him again. However, that hadn’t stopped the beatings. One particular beating ended the life of their child, a child she’d feared to bring into that house, but wanted desperately when she found out she was pregnant. Hope’s throat closed at the memory and tears formed in her eyes when she remembered her baby boy would have been five this year.

Hope never allowed herself to get pregnant again; she knew it was selfish to bring a child into this world with a father who was abusive, and one, Hope had suspected, didn’t want to share with his wife. He’d confirmed what she’d feared when he felt like being a loving husband one night, and confided he’d worried the baby would take her love from him. With sinking dread, she’d remembered his anger when she’d said no to sex; she was six months pregnant and tired. He’d lost it, then he’d beaten her and she’d lost her little boy.

The memory of that painful night came back to Hope, and she buried her head deeper into the pillow and cried. She’d never seen her son; her husband had insisted he be taken away when she’d delivered him stillborn, told her it would be too traumatic and then had her baby boy cremated. She never forgave herself for his death, never thought about having children again after that, just got her shots every three months and accepted her childless life.

In what seemed like forever, she heard the final thud and groans on the other side of the wall, and figured the deed was done. Hope heard laughing and giggling by the unknown couple, and for some reason, that disturbed her more than the sex she’d just been privy to. She covered her head to block out the sound, but the vision of a happy couple laying between crumpled sheets, clinging to each other in their post sex glow, wouldn’t leave her. For a brief moment, she traded places with the woman, and when she envisioned herself looking up into the eyes of this unknown lover, she saw almost black eyes looking back at her. Nic’s face came to her at that moment, and an involuntary blush ran up her face heating her, as her heart beat out a rapid pace with thoughts of the man.

When Nic had stood up for her, he’d made her feel safe for the first time in years. His overall package was sex personified, and even though she’d felt embarrassed in his presence, she’d been attracted to his virility. His strength had scared her at first, then it had called out to her on a primitive level, and she knew she needed to steer clear of him for several reasons. But, mostly, to guard herself against any attachments. It wasn’t fair to any man; woman or child to become close to them, and it would make it harder to leave when the moment came, and there was one thing she knew with certainty, she would have to run eventually. John wouldn’t stop looking for her, not as long as there was breath left in his body. He didn’t give up; never backed down, not in the ten years she’d known him.

Breaking her thoughts from Nic, and done giving John anymore headspace, Hope reached for her iPod, turned it on shuffle and the first song that played was “This Ain’t Goodbye” by Train. She closed her eyes and chuckled with a heavy heart; it seemed like all she had done her whole life was say goodbye. To her parents, to her son, even her dreams of a family who loved her, and now to any chance she had at a normal life as long as John was alive.

Nic closed the door on Nicky’s room after he’d checked him to make sure he was safe, this was something he’d done nightly when his son stayed with him since Chelsea’s death. He needed to reassure himself, know that he was in his bed and not out running around like his sister had done. Needing a drink, he walked into the kitchen of his three-bedroom condo in a remodeled historic building in the French Quarter he’d bought. He’d designed it himself, but only occupied the top floor, he still needed to finish the first floor condo and rent it out. He loved the French Quarter, its roots deep with his own French ancestry. They called to him, these old buildings, with their brick and mortar, steeped deep in architectural influences of the French, Spanish, Cajun and American’s. His view looked down on Royal Street, just around the corner from Frenchman’s street and only a three-block walk to the Bayou. He’d discovered The Bayou when he’d first moved to New Orleans. He’d gone out with a coworker one night and the old bar with its dark wood and Bayou theme he’d grown up around had felt like a piece of home. Rose had taken a liking to him right off, and her brand of Cajun cooking, love and acceptance had reminded him of a Creole woman who’d been a family friend. Being young, and in a new city, any semblance of home was welcome as he built his life here. Over the years, he’d taken his family there, and Rose had become close to his kids. When Chelsea died, she’d been like a mother bear looking out for him once his own family had returned to Baton Rouge, and the process of dealing with his loss began.

Nic looked around the condo at the old brick walls that were left untouched and incorporated with his design. He loved this condo; it suited him, more so than that gilded museum of the past that Kat had created when they were married. He loved old furniture and the history that went with them, but he preferred rugged pieces, hand-honed furniture rich in Creole and Cajun history. New Orleans was the perfect place for him as an architect, and after Hurricane Rita, his love for remodeling spaces and building conversions put him in high demand by those who could afford to remodel. His mind drifted to his ex-wife while thinking about the differences in their homes, and the all too familiar feelings of contempt he had for her resurfaced.

Kat’s blonde hair, the color of corn silk, morphed into hair that shimmered like snow on a sunny day and her face turned into Hope’s frightened one when that asshole had manhandled her. It still made him angry when he thought about it. No woman should be that scared by a man’s touch, and it bothered Nic to think about why she’d had that visceral of a reaction to being pawed at by a man. Most women would have been pissed and given a man like that what-for. That her natural reaction had been one of fear told him she’d had reason in the past to be afraid, and that made the anger he’d held onto like a slow-simmer heat back up.

He sighed; he didn’t need to be thinking about this woman, he needed to stay focused on his son, but for some reason he couldn’t shutdown his train of thoughts. Even when he tried to steer them in a different direction, something would take him back to their evening at the bar and those sky-blue eyes full of fear. Running his hands through his hair, and noting the time was well past two, he walked down the hall and climbed in his king size bed. Hands behind his head, he stared at the ceiling, the shadows of the fans blades keeping him company again as he continued to think about Hope. What he didn’t do as he fell asleep was turn his thoughts to his daughter for the first time in over a year. If he’d been aware of it, he might have taken a deep breath, and realized the knife in his chest wasn’t there for the first time in that same year, as well.

The bustle of Bourbon Street at mid-day might be annoying to some, but to Hope it gave her a sense of anonymity, just another faceless person in the crowd wandering the streets of the French Quarter killing time. With the tips she’d made the night before, Hope decided to visit some of the offbeat stores in the area. She wouldn’t buy much, needing to save her money, but she wanted to find a little treasure to remind her of this place when she left. She had about an hour to kill before work and was making her way down the crowded street when a woman stepped in front of her. Dressed in layers of gossamer fabric in vibrant colors, her long, dark hair in contrast with those bright colors gleamed in the sun, and the whole look gave her a gypsy feel.

“Your soul is in turmoil,” she replied looking Hope from top to bottom.

“Pardon?”

“I felt you from a block away it pulled me from my shop.”

“I’m sorry?” Hope replied, thinking the woman was upset but confused by this conversation all the same.

“Come, I will read you for free,” the gypsy woman continued and then grabbed her hand and pulled her into her store. The store was dark with similar gossamer fabric draped around sectioning off the front from the back and in the center, was a display of crystals and candles with the prices displayed. There were candles lit on mantels and tables scattered throughout the store, and incense burning in dishes; a kinda woodsy smell that made Hope relax. There was nothing much to her store, just a table and chairs in the back with a stack of tarot cards waiting to be shuffled.

“I
really
don’t need a reading,” Hope tried to explain to the woman.

“If anyone ever needed a reading it is you, now sit, I won’t charge you the spirits are yelling at me to read you. Now, what is your name?”

“Um, Hope, my name is Hope.”

“I am Madame LeFarr. Sit, sit, I need to stop the shouting in my head.”

Hope sat abruptly in the chair, forced down by Madame LeFarr. She could feel her heart beating quicker, afraid that the cards, though she didn’t believe they could tell someone their future, would somehow tell her sordid tale.

Madame LeFarr shuffled the cards while staring at Hope, reading her with her eyes, looking for whatever caused the sadness is this woman. She’d been drawn to the door, almost shoved out of it and into this woman’s path. Very seldom did the spirits push her so hard to read for someone, and her own curiosity as to this woman’s problems, and the need for the spirits to intercede, was making her own heart pound. Cutting the cards in half, she focused her mind on this woman so the cards could answer her questions. After she’d centered her thoughts, she took a deep breath and starting dealing out the cards.

“The Hierophant, the Fool, the Devil, the Ace of Cups and the Ten of Swords,” Madame LeFarr announced as she placed the card down in front of Hope. “The cards tell me you have met a mentor or teacher of some sort, someone who is showing you the way.” Hope couldn’t help but think of Maman Rose.

“The Fool card tells me you are starting over, and the Devil card tells you that no one has any power over you if you don’t let them.” Hope’s heartbeat picked up as the cards seemed to be telling her tale, but they were wrong in one aspect, someone could wield power over you whether you wanted them to or not.

“And the last two? What do they tell you?” Hope found herself asking.

“The Ace of cups usually stands for love. I would say there is a relationship in your future. One, if given time and attention, could move from a slow moving stream to a river flowing so fast and hard it will take your breath away. But, take heed, the Ten of Swords in my experience signals danger. The cards are telling you something, and you must be vigilant. I get the feeling you’re a magnet for trouble, that an unknown force is tracking you, always in the recesses of your life causing havoc.”

Hope rose abruptly, shaken by the reading, not wanting to acknowledge there was any truth to the cards. She smiled weakly at the woman saying, “Thank you for your time,” and without a backward glance ran from the store and into Nic Beuve as he walked past the shop on his way to lunch.

Nic, being plowed into from the side, grabbed onto whatever had hit him. Looking down, he saw sky-blue eyes staring back at him in shock. Hope’s mouth moved as if she was trying to say something, but the words wouldn’t come.

“You okay, sugar?” Nic asked concerned.

“I’m so sorry! I wasn’t looking where I was going,” Hope stuttered, shocked she ran into the last person she needed to be close to at that moment. Nic’s face had come to her when Madame LeFarr had spoken of love, and to run into Nic after that disconcerting reading, just made the whole reading seem genuine.

His arm at her waist seemed to grow tighter as he moved her out of the doorway of the store. His eyes moved to the sign above, and she could feel her cheeks grow hot with embarrassment. He’d think she’s stupid for being in that store.