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months before they turned tail. Probably they ran out of money.”
    Lifting his eyebrows, Remy ran a finger over the floor, studied the layer of dust he picked up. “Too bad you can’t sell this dirt. You’d be filthy rich. Ha. Oh yeah, I forgot. You already are filthy rich. How’s your family?”
    “About the same as always.”
    “And they think, our boy Dec, il est fou. ” Remy circled a finger by his ear. “He’s gone round the bend.”
    “Oh yeah. Maybe they’re right, but at least it’s finally my damn bend. If I’d gone to one more deposition, faced one more meeting, handled one more pretrial negotiation, I’d have drowned myself in the Charles.”
    “Corporate law’s what stifled you, cher. ” Remy licked sauce from his fingers. “You should’ve tried criminal, like me. Keeps the blood moving. You say the word, we’ll hang out a shingle together tomorrow.”
    “Thanks for the thought. You still love it.”
    “I do. I love the slippery, sneaking angles of it, thepomp and ceremony, the sweaty wrestling, the fancy words. Every damn thing.” Remy shook his head, tipped back the bottle. “You never did.”
    “No, I never did.”
    “All those years busting ass through Harvard, tossed aside. That what they’re saying to you?”
    “Among other things.”
    “They’re wrong. You know that, Dec. You’re not tossing anything aside. You’re just picking up something different. Relax and enjoy it. You’re in New Orleans now, or close enough. We take things easy here. We’ll wear some of that Yankee off you soon enough. Have you doing the Cajun two-step and stirring up some red beans and rice on wash day.”
    “Yeah, that’ll happen.”
    “You come on into town once you’re settled in, Effie and I’ll take you out to dinner. I want you to meet her.”
    Remy had pulled off his tie, shucked his suit jacket, rolled up the sleeves of his lawyerly blue shirt. Except for the hair, Declan thought, he didn’t look that different than he did when they’d been at Harvard sucking down pizza and bourbon.
    “You’re really doing it? Getting married.”
    Remy let out a sigh. “Twelfth of May, come hell or high water. I’m settling my bad ass down, Dec. She’s just what I want.”
    “A librarian.” It was a wonder to Declan. “You and a librarian.”
    “Research specialist,” Remy corrected and hooted out a laugh. “Damn prettiest bookworm I ever did see. She’s a smart one, too. I’m crazy in love with her, Dec. Out of my mind crazy for her.”
    “I’m happy for you.”
    “You still got the guilts over . . . what was her name? Jennifer?”
    “Jessica.” Wincing, Declan took another swig to cut the taste her name brought to his tongue. “Calling off a wedding three weeks before you’re due to walk down the aisle ought to give you the guilts.”
    Remy acknowledged this with a quick shrug. “Maybe so. Feel worse if you’d gone through with it.”
    “Tell me.” Still, his gray eyes remained broody as he stared at the bottle. “But I think she’d have handled it better if we’d done the thing, then gone for a divorce the next day.” It still gave him a twinge. “Couldn’t have handled it any worse, anyway. She’s seeing my cousin James now.”
    “James . . . James . . . That the one who squeals like a girl or the one with the Dracula hair?”
    “Neither.” Declan’s lips twitched. Jesus, he’d missed this. “James is the perfect one. Plastic surgeon, polo player, collects stamps.”
    “Short guy, receding chin, broad Yankee accent.”
    “That’s him, but the chin doesn’t recede anymore. Implant. According to my sister, it’s starting to look serious between them, which just serves me right, I’m told.”
    “Well, hell, let your sister marry Jennifer.”
    “Jessica, and that’s what I told her,” he said, gesturing with the bottle for emphasis. “She didn’t speak to me for two weeks. Which was a relief. I’m not very popular with the Fitzgeralds right