CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Marie was looking through a bookstore window. Love’s Tender Fury was prominently displayed and she realized for the first time that it didn’t look like an awful book. The cover was tasteful and the colors were nice. The models were gorgeous and looked passionately happy. Or drunk, possibly. She wondered if readers were enjoying this one.
“Excuse me...Miss LeFleur?”
She turned. A short, dark-haired woman was standing behind her, timidly holding Love’s Tender Fury. When Marie faced her, the woman smiled, relieved, and held out her hand. “Hi. I’m a big fan of yours. Bren Louis.”
She shook Barb’s hand. “My name isn’t Bren Louis.”
Barb laughed. “Um...I hope I’m not disturbing you. I thought maybe...you were on your way to a funeral or something.”
Marie glanced down at her black shoes, black pants, black turtleneck. She realized she was still holding the unlit cigarette and self-consciously tucked it into her fist. “I sort of am. I’m mourning the death of my literary talent. Although you can’t really mourn for something that never existed, can you?”
“Who told you that? People are sad for things they never had, pretty much every day. Anyone who says different is a fool or a liar.”
“You are really refreshing. Ever think of going into publishing?”
“Never once. I’m sort of prejudiced. I love my job, and I think anything outside my field is sort of a waste.”
“What, anything? What do you do?”
“I’m an ICU physician.”
“Oh. Yeah, you’re right...saving lives trumps publishing books. Although books can save lives, too. You can—uh—stack them under an unconscious person’s feet so they come around quicker. Speaking of books, did you want me to sign that for you?”
She reached for it, but Barb clutched the book and slowly shook her head. “I’m going to be really forward, here. If you’re not doing anything for the next hour, could I get you to come with me? The book’s not for me, it’s for a friend. And meeting you would make her day. Her year. I can’t even believe I’m asking you, but what are the odds that you’d be here at this moment?”
“No idea. So go off with a stranger to parts unknown?” Marie shrugged. “What the hell. The week I’ve had, walking off with a perfect stranger to meet another stranger seems logical.”
“Actually, studies show that less than thirty percent of strangers are perfect. In fact, some people think it’s more like seven percent.”
“Do you stumble across a lot of trivia in Intensive Care?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. Listen, if you’re going to smoke, you’d better do it before we get to the hospital.”
“God, no. I don’t want it. I don’t smoke.”
“Oooooo-kay...”