Read To My Senses The Nicci Beauvoir Series Book 1 for Free Online Page A

on the driveway, I saw a tall
figure emerge from the front door of the house. I drove over
Sammy’s front lawn to the street. There was no point in stopping to
see if it was David. There was nothing left to say.

Chapter 3
     
    June marks the beginning of the full heat of
summer in New Orleans. If you are lucky enough to survive the day
indoors, you are almost always greeted by an afternoon
thunderstorm. The rain brings a brief moment of relief to the
wilted city.
    One particularly hot
morning, my professor canceled one of my summer semester classes. I
found myself with no constructive way to fill the time until my
afternoon class began. I had no intention of boring myself even
further in the library, so I decided I would take the morning off
and do something I hadn’t done in quite some time. I headed to the
French Quarter.
    The French Quarter was the
tourist hot spot of New Orleans. For the locals, the Quarter can be
an escape from the hectic life of the city, built around the old
town. The Quarter is our link to the past. It’s possible to lose
yourself amid the cobblestone sidewalks, the antiquated
architecture, and the thousands upon thousands of
tourists.
    I made my way to my
favorite spot in the heart of the Quarter. It’s where the
Mississippi river curves, giving New Orleans it’s nickname, the
Crescent City. I had always felt the river to be a source of
strength for me. Despite whatever upheaval may be occurring in my
life, the river was always there, always flowing. I stood for a
while at the railing overlooking the swirling muddy water, then
decided to set out for Jackson Square.
    I slowly maneuvered through
the throngs of camera-toting tourists, to my favorite perfume shop
in the shadow of St. Louis Cathedral. Unfortunately, my perfume was
out of stock, so I went to investigate the other shops around the
square. Walking in front of St. Louis Cathedral, I spied a shop
window, displaying dozens of perfume bottles, in the recesses of
Pirates Alley.
    As I headed down the shady
alley, I stopped to admire the work of one of the artists whose
paintings were spread along the cathedral’s black iron fence. This
particular artist’s renderings were mostly skylines of the French
Quarter during daybreak. The dew on the city streets reflected the
bright reds and oranges of the early morning sun. There were a few
still-lifes scattered along the fence, as well. One was of workers
laying out produce to be sold at the French Market. Another
depicted an early morning deliveryman bringing long loaves of
French bread to a baker’s shop. The most captivating of the group
was an intimate painting of a dark haired woman dressed in a
cream-colored robe. She sat on her balcony at a black wrought-iron
table, reclining with her feet on the chair in front of her and
drinking coffee from a bright red mug. The bold colors seemed to
jump out at me, conveying a sense of frustration. It was as if the
artist felt limited by the image on the canvas.
    If this befuddled soul had
been around, I might have questioned him, or her, about the
painting. I figured this painter, like most of the peddlers around
Jackson Square, was probably catching a cup of coffee—or something
stronger—in one of the nearby bars. I left the pictures and went
along to the store.
    Later, I emerged triumphant
from the small perfume shop and headed back down the ally. I had
squandered away enough of the morning and it was time for me to get
back for my class. I was halfway down the alley, when I saw a man
sitting in front of the paintings I had previously admired.
Tentatively, I approached, as he frantically splashed paint across
another canvas. I stood behind him and watched him work, but he
didn’t appear to notice me. I stared, transfixed, as his head
bobbed and weaved about with every stroke of his brush.
    “ If you are going to stand
there and stare the least you could do is buy something.” His voice
was hard and cold.
    Then he turned to me and,
from the