Page 99 of The Wondrous Life and Loves of Nella Carter

He gave me a look that asked me not to lie to him, or myself.

“Okay, maybe my passion’s been a little lacking.”

“A little?”

“Okay, a lot. What do you want from me?”

“That is too complicated to answer now. Tell me and tell methe truth, Carmella. When was the last time you felt passion?”

“I’ve had passion.”

“Real passion?”

I fixed him with a look of certainty. “I’ve had thebestkind. The kind where the world shrinks to the two of you, the searing connection of two souls becoming one. Ihadpassion. I had it—held it, was blinded by its light, and then I lost it.”

“That type of passion doesn’t die.”

“In my case, it does.” I traced his smooth skin, tanned, a whisper of five-o’clock shadow, rough under my knuckles. He didn’t know what it was to watch as that skin stretched and sagged until it had withered away.

“So that’s why you’re so protective of your heart. It makes sense.” He looked at me thoughtfully. “Who was he? Or she?”

An image of Gabby flashed in my mind, her wide smile on set as she gazed into the camera as if lit from within. I thought all the laughter in my life had gone when she died.

He held up his cast. “It’s a new millennium. I’m no judge. I happen to like the ladies myself.”

“Yes, she.”

“What happened?”

“Death,” I said. “Death happened to her. She died, and parts of me with her.” The music blared over us as the truth sat raw and unvarnished.

It was nice when his hand reached for mine, his thumb rubbing my fingers. “I am sorry,” he said, his words sincere. He released my hand and held his glass up. “To ...” He waited expectantly for me to finish.

“Gabrielle,” I said, the word catching. I missed saying her name out loud.

He nodded and continued, voice resonant, “To Gabrielle, a life of love, filled with meaning. In honor of her life and for what she meant to you.”

I didn’t expect my own tears. As I held my glass up to his, it was as if a ghost of her was there, laughing and teasing. She’d want me to dance, have fun, find the secret spots, tell bad jokes, and live freely. She’d ask me to say yes.

We stumbled into the street, and he lifted a hand for a cab. The car pulled up, and I tumbled inside, the books banging on my knees. It had been a good night. I wondered if we were going to my place or his, when the door slammed shut behind me. I looked back, surprised, and rolled down the window.

Diego stood outside, bag balanced on his arm, short curls tousling in the breeze. He waved to the driver, his voice stern. “You make sure she gets home safe.” He leaned down through the open window, reading the question on my face.

His words caressed my ears, voice soft, meant only for me. “When you’re with me, I want you to be a hundred percent present, clear, and sure. No hiding. No excuses.” He patted the side of the car and waved as my ride trundled into the night.

I slid back into my seat, reveling in the firefly of hope alight in my heart.

Thirty-Three

Strawberry-scented steam blossomed from the oven; the pink cake was lightly golden.

It was the best cake I’d ever made, the center high and full. I was always good at many things, but baking was not one of them. With my right foot, I shut the door and set the cake on the wire rack to cool until it was ready for the fresh strawberry-cream frosting, Diego’s favorite. All was going according to plan.

The cake was good.

Dinner would go well.

No need to worry.