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intentions are dishonourable, but her Prejudice against Henri is plain. “I have heard what he says to his men about her,” she says, but she will not repeat what she has overheard. She only says, “He does not hide his words from me as he does from you. It does not occur to him that a Savage might speak French.”
    But Susan is wrong, and tonight she will know it. Henri Lafourche, a cultured & educated Gentleman, has asked for a private audience with me after the women are abed. Our Blessed Lord’s Providence has provided Mariah with a Husband who is almost good enough for her.

Chapter 7
    Faye moved around Wally’s Marina as if she owned the place. She didn’t, but her friend Wally did, and praise the Lord for that. He gave her a place to park her car when she was on Joyeuse and a place to tie her boat when she was ashore, and refused any payment other than her friendship—and the occasional jar of green tomato pickle made by her grandmother’s recipe.
    In gratitude, Faye had given him the use of an old tabby storehouse on her island, so he would have a place to keep the house goods salvaged from his divorce. It had been years, yet he’d never come back for them. Still, keeping Wally’s stuff was the least she could do, considering what he did for her. Faye had a half-million other household projects to do before she renovated Wally’s shed and she didn’t need it to store surplus possessions. She didn’t have any.
    “Damn, Faye,” Wally bellowed as he emerged from the men’s room. “I didn’t think you knew what pantyhose were, and here you are filling out a pair so nice. And lipstick does great things for those lips. Shit.”
    Faye blew him a kiss with the lips in question and said, “I didn’t think you’d be awake yet. It isn’t noon.”
    “An emergency rousted me out of bed. Beer’s hell on the kidneys. Did you ride all the way over here in the skiff? Dressed like that?”
    “Nope. I brought the Gopher . I gotta give it a shakedown cruise now and then.”
    He grabbed her hand. “No nail polish? I guess they don’t make any that’ll hold up while you’re scratching around in the sand. At least you washed the dirt out from under your nails.”
    Faye gave a worried glance over her shoulder, but Wally squeezed her hand. “Forget about it, Faye. Ain’t nobody in the room but us. You know I wouldn’t tell your secrets.”
    Other than Joe, Wally was the only person who knew the particulars about where Faye lived and what she did for a living. He considered himself and his friends above the law—or beside the law or beneath the law, as the case might be. And that attitude appealed to Faye, whose relationship with the law was rocky at best.
    Faye teetered toward the door in her unfamiliar dress pumps. “I gotta go, Wally, but how ’bout coming out to see me at Joyeuse sometime? You could visit your hide-a-bed. Say ‘hi,’ to your pots and pans. Relax. Go fishing. Dry out.”
    “You been messing in my stuff, Faye? I know you’ve got your eye on my electric skillet.”
    “Your electric skillet is safe with me. At least until I get electricity.”
    She waved good-bye to Wally and hustled off to her car without giving him his usual hug. The smell of Wally’s breath didn’t bother her one whit, but she didn’t want to arrive in Tallahassee for a Friday morning meeting with a senator smelling of beer before the weekend even got underway.
    She worried over Wally. Business was obviously slow. How else could he spare a boat slip reserved just for her? The grill did a decent business, but there was only so much money to be made on coffee, eggs, and grits. Maybe it was a good thing that Wally had few needs other than beer and a place to sleep, and maybe it wasn’t.
    Faye crawled into her car, pumped the pedal, held it down, and turned the key. Praise God, all eight cylinders were still capable of internal combustion. The air conditioner might have blown its last breath sometime during the punk