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shame that her life’s path had not crossed with Mister Right’s.
    “He also insulted my novels, said they lacked passion, that I needed experience.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “What do you mean, yes, ma’am? My books have plenty of passion. Do not tell me, Chester, that you are agreeing with that… that… swine.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “Again, you yes-ma’am me? Stop being condescending.” She held her glass out. “Fill it, now.”
    He gave her another splash, only a bit more than last time. “What did you tell him?”
    She smiled and savored the memory for a bit before she shared. “That if I wanted to trash up my stories, I wouldn’t need any research with the likes of him.”
    “Good for you.”
    A sob welled, she turned her lips down, holding it back, sniffed once then met his eye. Her belly burned. “I thought he was going to propose.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “Such a cad, he is. I should have slapped him.”
    “No, ma’am. Why would a lady sully herself that way?”
    “Are you trying to be my mother?”
    “No, but she did say that a lot.”
    She took another sip and closed her eyes. For years, she’d been unable to pull her mother’s image to mind. Sometimes, she caught a glimpse of her in the mirror—when she only glanced or in her peripheral vision.
    Other times, in her dreams, she could see her, even talk with her, but never when she really needed her.
    “Yes, she did. What a shame she didn’t take her own advice.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “But, if she had, well then…” Her words died, and her eyelids grew so heavy. The empty glass fell from her hand.
    Like a feather, she floated into her bed, carried in Chester’s arms. The satin felt so cool and smooth and good against her cheek. She snuggled in and soon fell into a deep dark hole.
    Pain towed her to consciousness. Her legs ached, and it seemed as though a thousand of those desert humpedback beasts had run through her mouth. She rolled out of bed.
    Why was she still in her dress? She shucked the thing then stumbled to the water closet.
    Slowly that morning, the coffee overcame the rum’s lingering effects. Why had she drunk so much? She hated hard liquor. Truth be known, she didn’t care much for wine either, though it helped her find sleep on those troublesome nights.
    And all that horrible man’s fault! Three days of passion, indeed. Like she would ever trade her virtue for three meaningless days with him.
    Chester let himself in, carrying a tray with more coffee, an assortment of little sweet cakes, and a crystal tumbler half-filled with a reddish brown liquid.
    “What’s in the glass?”
    He set the tray down and took the seat across from her. “Drink the concoction; the cook claims it cures what ails you.”
    “You sample it?”
    “Isn’t too bad, a bit spicy for my taste.”
    Thick and creamy with a nice kick, the liquid burned some on the way down. She loved the tomato base, but for the life of her, could not discern anything else specifically.
    For a bit after she’d drained the glass, nothing happened, but soon enough, the last of the lingering hammer hiding behind her eyes vanished.
    She smiled. “Cook was correct. What was it?”
    “Don’t know, he refused to give it up, said it’s a secret.”
    She shrugged then chose one of the little muffins. “Chester, how soon before we dock?”
    “Not long. Why, ma’am?”
    “I don’t want to spend even one night in New Orleans.”
    “I will make the arrangements.”
    She rubbed the back of her neck; it too felt better. “Did you bring extra ink?”
    “Yes, ma’am. I brought plenty of ink, paper, and enough quills for at least three more manuscripts after this one.”
    “Good.” She pointed to her bedroom. “In my purse, get my winnings; I’ll not be needing them now.”
    He did as told then returned to his seat. “Excellent, I was not looking forward to visiting The Swamp.”
    “Well, I’ll admit I fancied to, but not now. I hate that man. And you’re