Read Restoring Hope for Free Online Page A

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,