Orleans Sunset

Contents

Note about the Author

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Our daughter Leigh was multi talented.

However, her passion was writing.

This book was finished because of our love for our Leigh Leigh

Note about the Author

On one our many girls’ trips together we decided we were more like sisters than friends. It was on that trip that we decided to call ourselves The Bartinis. We will never forget the many road trips we took where Leigh would entertain us by reading aloud one of the pieces of work she was currently writing. We all remember on one specific trip pulling into our hometown, Springfield, and not wanting the time together to end because she hadn’t gotten to the end of her novel. Little did we know that the storybook of our life would be the inspiration for her next great masterpiece.

What do we remember when we think of Leigh? Everyone who knew Leigh would agree with us when we say it was her positive outlook on life and her effervescent personality that could captivate a room with the mere sparkle in her eye. She always had brightness radiating from within. Our girl could infect anyone with her laugh or her perfect smile, or bring down the house with a little karaoke, Leigh style. She was a creative writer, a thoughtful listener, and a caring friend. The thing that was true for us and so many others is that Leigh was our rock. She was the person that we would all call first. You could talk to her about anything and there was never judgment—only understanding and love.

Leigh had a dream of putting her mark on this world as an accomplished writer who would someday share her stories with others. She had written pieces for the local newspaper, written many children’s stories, and had finished this piece you are holding now, which was one of the two novels she had been working on over the years. As many of our friends started to walk down the aisle, Leigh made it a tradition of hers to write poetry as a wedding gift. Her poems always seemed to capture every beautiful sense of the relationships. She had a way with words that made the reader hear, smell, see, taste and feel every part of the journey she took you on throughout her writings.

We have been truly blessed to have Leigh in our lives. She was one of our best friends, and we know that when we see her again she will make us laugh in heaven. Angels are often described as happy, smiling, sparkling, full of love, and absolutely beautiful inside and out—and that was Leigh, our angel.

Leigh and her only brother, Matthew, were taken from us on October 10, 2010. Her death was met with disbelief, shock, and despair, but unlike those whose lives turn quickly into a memory, Leigh continues to affect those she touched in life, because she had a light that shined brighter than most.

Love,

The Bartinis: Anna, Breanna, Demetra, Lindsay, and Jenny

Chapter 1

It was unseasonably warm for winter in New Orleans. The bold colors of sunset were stretching their way across the sky into the deep set of blue evening. Whitney stared off the hotel balcony at the already forming crowd. It was breathtaking to gaze out at all the bright colors of Bourbon Street. The spicy smells of food wafted up to her and scented the air throughout the city, and the jazz that seemingly played all night and all day set the mood to sizzling. All of her senses were filled with the South, each flavor contributing to the misplaced ambience that is the French Quarter. She hadn’t meant to sleep in that late, but New Year’s Eve on Bourbon Street had been the time of her life. She had the New Year’s Day hangover to prove it.

She had been to the romantic city before and had always felt some soulful connection, as if she had been a southern belle, living in one of the many old estates passed down from generation to generation. She could imagine growing up in one of the Grand Mansions in the Garden District, or being part of the crew during Carnival. There were no words to explain the easy invitation into decadence that the Big Easy provided. Somehow, each time she visited, New Orleans felt more like home.

She had arrived a few days before with her friend, Anne Fairchild, and immediately began to partake in the New Year’s festivities. The time off was a godsend. Whitney enjoyed her work as a journalist, but it was a chaotic scramble of stories and deadlines most of the time. The last year had been filled with everything from heartwarming humanitarian pieces to chilling unidentified human remains. Although her career path was never boring, even the most dedicated journalist needed some down time. Every day there was a new story, a new deadline, and she had to find a new story, a new deadline, and a new way to make the stories sensational. She felt an overwhelming sense of relief and excitement about having time to herself without any sort of deadline or pressure to make a mediocre story newsworthy on a slow day. While New Orleans was not a city of complete relaxation, it did offer up the chance to let loose, and she was anxious to begin a story all her own. The idea had been in the back of her mind for awhile, but the city seemed to demand she start writing.

She had followed in her father’s footsteps right out of college and become a journalist for the Springfield Herald. Some people thought that she had made senior staff reporter by the age of twenty-six partly because her father was an editor, but if anything, Whitney knew his expectations of her work were judged harsher than anyone else on the staff. She had always wanted to be a journalist and considered herself lucky to have a job right out of college, but there were so many things she wanted to experience and write about. It wasn’t just the reporting to her. It was the relating. Seeing and experiencing what lies beneath the surface was just as fascinating to her. For years her goals had been set. Having met her college goals, and some of her career goals, she was again feeling an all-too-familiar sense of incompletion. She needed to find something else to satisfy her and decided writing something for herself.

She turned back in to the room as the lump in the second bed, formerly known as Anne, began to stir. The women had never witnessed alcohol consumption in large quantities before. It is often the case that even the most professional drinkers will find themselves out of their element at happy hour on Bourbon Street. The laid back atmosphere on the French Quarter invites even the most docile, staid person to let go of her inhibitions. Which was the reason so many people came down for the different festivals and carnivals. Whether it was jazz, culture, food, or opulence itself, New Orleans and her people would have a way to celebrate it.

She was fortunate to have been talked out of flashing her chest to some drunken fraternity boys for a string of plastic beads the evening before. Anne had successfully described the would-be horror of Whitney’s mother if she ever heard about the indiscretion. After drinking too many hurricanes, they had the brilliant idea to get up on stage at one of the many crowded bars. Sitting in their room was a large golden trophy with a martini glass on the top and a pair of unknown men’s boxers hanging off the side. It was a first place trophy for a dance contest. Apparently, they had danced and won!

From under the lump of blankets on the bed, a quiet raspy voice whispered. When did you schedule my funeral?

Ah, sleeping beauty wakes! Whitney teased, walking over to the bed.

Why are you yelling at me? Anne said with a moan.

I’m not. However, I am afraid since you left home you have developed a common condition called a hangover. While I do know of a cure, I believe a New Orleans hangover is especially not treatable. Fortunately your condition is not terminal, and contrary to what you may be thinking now, you will live, she joked.

Thanks, doc. I didn’t think you were supposed to have a headache in heaven, anyway. The lump on the bed rotated to a more comfortable position.

You really think we are still going to heaven? After last night? Whitney laughed.

The answer to Whitney’s question was a slow groan. The raspy voice that came from the lump asked, Is the sun still out? I think I’ll go blind if I see natural light right now.

Actually, my nocturnal friend, you’re a vampire now. Don’t you remember that cute man sucking on your neck?

There was a short pause while, Anne remembered. Yes. He was an accountant.

The girls laughed heavily, then quieted with a simultaneous groan as the laughter thundered through their heads.

Why are you up so early, and so chipper? I thought you drank more than me, Anne croaked.

Ah, and that is the cure I was telling you about. Though I’m not a hundred percent yet, I know I feel better than you do. And it’s five o’clock at night.

Wake me up in an hour or so. I think I’ll see just one of you then.

Whitney tried to suppress her laugh as she sat down by the telephone. She searched over the room service menu. Ordering greasy cheeseburgers for the both of them, she also got two waters and a tomato juice for her friend. Tomato juice, water, and aspirin—the best hangover cure in the world.The night was nice and cool, and winter provided a relief from the oppressive humidity the Deep South was famous for. Even in January a person could get some idea of just how much hotter New Orleans could get in the summer months. She couldn’t complain, however. When she’d returned her mother’s call, she had been informed of the wintry weather in Springfield and how inconsiderate it was not to have checked in. She wanted badly to tell her mother she had slept all day but decided against it. Her mother was very understanding, but gluttony was not in her vocabulary.

They decided to take it easy in their room that night, but after failed attempts to block out the noise and voices from the balcony doors, and a call from Anne’s accountant, they decided that fate was calling them out onto to the street once more.

We can rest when we get home, Anne said to Whitney as she curled her hair.

Oh, I know why you want to go out there tonight. What is his name anyway?

I’m not sure, but he’s really hot, so when we get down there, introduce yourself again and shake his hand. That way he’ll reintroduce himself and then we’ll both know his name. Anne smiled at her own cleverness. Whitney envied her friend’s ability to find quick ways of getting herself out of uncomfortable situations.

So, I look like a drunken idiot, and you’re the one who doesn’t remember who he is? She asked as she took her straightening iron through her long blond hair.

Yes. Please! Anne begged and batted her eyes.

You know I will, Whitney gave in.

They were quiet as they walked down the hall to the elevator. Whitney watched as Anne fixed her hair through her reflection in the copper colored elevator doors. When the doors opened, a handsome man stood up. Not quite remembering what he looked like the night before, Whitney discreetly congratulated her friend on such good taste. He was tall and strong, with chestnut hair and green eyes. She saw the questioning look in her friend’s eyes and thought it would be funny to make her wait for her little name scheme to take place. Unfortunately, it looked as though the handsome accounting didn’t remember Whitney very well either. Flashing his too-cute-to-be-an-accountant smile, he presented his hand for an introduction.

Hi. I’m David. This is embarrassing, because we met last night, but what was your name? The words slid out of his mouth dripping with Southern charm.

You were reading my mind. Hi, I’m Whitney. David? You’re an accountant, right?

A lawyer, and you’re the journalist. Both girls had to fight back smiles.

Yes.

Well, now that we’re all acquainted, let’s hit Bourbon Street, chimed Anne, obviously as impressed with her own taste as Whitney was.

The night was fun and relaxing. David was a local and therefore knew of all the wonderful hidden spots in the Quarter. They chose a quiet booth in a small jazz club on Conti Street, off the beaten path. The conversation never dwindled and the martinis were excellent. Anne and David were really hitting it off, and Whitney thought it was too bad the women were going home soon. She liked David for her friend. The night went on until Anne announced that it was getting very late. David insisted on walking them back to their hotel.

I wouldn’t feel right about two beautiful women walking around the Quarter alone, and as an ambassador for tourism, I feel that it is my duty to see you home safely.

Actually, you’re just afraid that two gentlemen better looking than you will come snatch us up before you can see us again, Anne teased, with the slight stretching of her vowels alcohol always induced.

Are you calling me handsome? David asked, mimicking Anne’s slur. Whether it was on purpose, Whitney couldn’t say.

The threesome passed a large, brightly lit bar. Hey, I’m going to pop in here quickly to use the ladies’ room, Whitney stated, surprised to learn that her speech was less impaired than theirs was.

I don’t want you to go alone. I’m going to come with you, stated Anne, trying to sound official.

And give away our free escort? Are you kidding? He may be the only one who remembers where our hotel is. Two minutes if the line is short. I promise. Whitney held up a hand to stop Anne’s protest and started to turn.

Okay, we’ll wait right here for you. In fact, I’m going to lean against this wall and hold it up until you get back. Anne repeated the command Okay, we’ll wait right here for you. In fact, I’m going to lean against this wall and hold it up until you get back," Anne declared as if following out some military order.

Whitney turned once more to see Anne kissing David the Lawyer and whispering in his ear.

When Whitney finally got out of the bathroom, she was completely turned around. They had made it to Bourbon Street and the bar stretched a block wide off the Bourbon street entrance. With doors all around and a couple of cocktails down, she couldn’t tell which entrance she had come in. She walked up to the bar to ask the bartender which way she should go when a hand came out and touched her on the arm. Her first thought of the man standing before her was that he was tall. His jet black hair curled around his ears, his mud brown eyes sunk in over high, sharp cheekbones in a pail, sallow face, and his voice was deep when he spoke.

You look lost. Are you okay? he asked with a smile.

Her immediate thought was to find Anne and David, but this man was taller than her, and he could see better over the crowd.

Yes, I’m looking for my friends, an attractive girl with short blond hair and a man with brown hair. They should be outside by the entrance, but I can’t tell which one. She smiled, but the stranger didn’t seem to care.

Well, it’s my lucky day. I’m taller than you, and I get to help a beautiful girl. Here what would you like to drink? He put his hand on the small of her back to lead her to the bar.

She politely shifted so his hand would fall from her back. Oh, no thank you. I’m on my way home as soon as I find my friends.

No, you mean as soon as I find your friends. Come on, I’m picking up on this southern hospitality. He put more effort to his smile, and Whitney decided it wasn’t hurting anyone if she humored him.

Okay, well, a white Russian then please, Whitney said. She already knew not to take a drink from a stranger, but what did it hurt if the bartender handed her the glass directly? She shifted between the man and the bar.

Thank you … what is your name? Whitney asked as the bartender handed her a drink.

I’m Nate. Nice to meet you. And yours? He kept looking at her with anticipation as if she were the biggest present under the tree.

Whitney.

Would you like to dance, Whitney?

Oh, no. I really just want to find my friends. Thanks. She smiled apologetically and tried to hide how much he was getting on her nerves.

All right, then. Come with me. He smoothed over the irritated look on his face so quickly she thought she must have imagined it.

As she tried to walk behind the tall, persistent man, he reached behind and grabbed her hand. His hands were sweaty, and though he wasn’t terribly ugly, there was something about him that made her uncomfortable. As Whitney took a sip of her white Russian, she started to feel foggy and decided to set her drink down, but it was already too late.

As they walked away from the bar, she noticed the crowd of people outside was smaller than the crowd she had seen when she walked in. Was she on the wrong street? Had she told him where she thought her friends might be? She was beginning to feel very confused, and she couldn’t focus on one clear thought. Her feet and hands were beginning to tingle, as if they were asleep, and it felt as if she were gliding instead of walking. She tried to tell him to stop, but all she heard was a slur of words, and she was shocked to realize that the sound came from her. He had his arm around her now, as if he were helping her walk. She tried to make her body go completely limp to draw attention to herself, but in the French Quarter this late at night, everyone needed to lean on someone.

Drugs! The thought popped up clearly in her mind through the haze. Drugs? She questioned herself. She was probably dreaming. Any minute she would wake up and find that David the Lawyer was carrying her because she was sick. Then an ugly, hateful voice cut through Whitney’s last shred of hope. Her dream became every woman’s nightmare.

I’m sure you’re wondering what’s going on, aren’t you, angel! Well, even if you’re too drugged up to be wondering, I’ll tell you. His voice was still deep, but he didn’t sound the same. Was he a local? Are you with me? He shook her and stared at her eyes. Yeah, you can’t move, but I think you can still understand me. He smiled maliciously. The only thing Whitney seemed to be able to focus on were his pitch black eyes.

Shock and despair. Pain and panic. Maybe she could get away. Maybe if she thought long and hard she would be able to scream or cry. She heard an almost inaudible moan and realized that it had come from her. Her face felt wet. She was already crying.

You can cry and try to scream, he said as if he had read her mind, but I should warn you that you won’t be able to get away. There must have been something a little extra in that drink of yours. I suppose it might be registering now. Even though your face looks pretty numb. You already know what’s going to happen now, don’t you, angel? The anticipation is killing me. Her smiled at her now, fully. This man didn’t look the same at all. What she had taken for blandness in his eyes turned to malevolence.

Shock, terror, alarm, horror, despair, and finally hopelessness. As she tried to wiggle and move under his arm, the fear came that she may not have any choice. There was no defense against this monster who had walked her away from the lit, populated area of Bourbon Street. He was taking her away from her friends, away from the light. Whitney saw the back of his hand, and it barely registered in her mind that he was going to hit her before she felt the dull sting on her face. Her upper body jolted sideways with the impact, and she felt the warmth of her own blood and saw it seeping on to the ground. Her attacker was muttering something about angels and filth. She was on the ground in what looked like an abandoned alley, but she couldn’t make out where she was. He began to methodically tear at her clothes and reverently put his hands on her. Whitney tried to block out the cool sensation, enveloping her skin as more of it was exposed to the night air.

Her attacker stopped to look down at her, and saw that she had completely given up. The only outward sign that she was still conscious was the single tear spilling down her cheek. So, you don’t like what I’m doing to you, angel! You don’t think you’ll like me touching you? He swung back in anger and braced herself for the blow.

As he hit her numerous times she felt another tear and saw it fall on to the dark, cracked, concrete. Hopeless.

Chapter 2

Mason Sloan finally managed to lumber his way out of the bar. A cop’s bachelor party in the Quarter was always a reason to celebrate, but he was getting too old for this shit. The strippers at two of the previous establishments had been pinched for prostitution, a couple of them by him and his former partner. It was no surprise that they were jokingly offering their services to him. He hoped they were joking .

It was times like these when he was glad he lived in the Quarter. Walking home, he had time to clear his head and look around at his little piece of the city he loved. The flood had devastated the city, but it was being rebuilt, in some places literally brick by brick.

He heard a noise coming from an alleyway and stopped to strain his ears. The low groan sounded like a man. Probably a junkie, he thought. New Orleans was a beautiful, decadent city, but like everything else she had her ugly side. His cop mentality wouldn’t allow him to go on his way, and his instincts told him to use caution. As he entered the dark alley he reached for his gun, and remembered he had left it at home. He doubted any of the drunken off-duty cops at the party he decided to mix liquor and firearms. Cursing himself for realizing it too late, he continued to walk slowly in to the alley, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, looking for anything he might be able to use as a weapon. If a crackhead was hopped up enough, there was no telling what you could get stabbed with, and Mason did not feel like spending the night in the ER. He saw a figure startle and run away from what looked like a pile of trash. He yelled for the man to freeze but saw that he was already turning out of the alley. Then he noticed that the pile of trash was moving.

She had all but given up when she heard a voice. Was that a new voice? Was someone there to help her? She concentrated as hard as she could, straining to focus her voice and mouth. She was screaming inside her head, but she couldn’t tell if she was making any sound. Rape. Help me. He’s going to rape me. Help me. Her cries came out in muffled whispers. Her whole body was trembling as she tried to focus her eyes and ears. She thought she saw someone standing over her attacker. Looking at her. Was he an accomplice? Was she imagining him? Everything was hazy when she heard voices. Mumbles. She felt herself falling away as her blurred sight dulled. Fading into black, she passed out from shock and terror realizing the trash was a body, Mason immediately leaned over to check her pulse. Alive, he thought, barely. Another thirty seconds and she would have been a rape victim as well. The woman’s face was beaten pretty badly, and there was blood all over her torn blouse and the street. He heard her moan in pain as he laid his jacket gently over her. Mason barked his location and an order for an ambulance into his cell phone and held here when she passed out.

When Whitney came to, she could hear a woman’s frantic voice. Anne? Was that Anne? Her head was pounding, and her limbs felt heavy and sedated.

"A doctor, a nurse, somebody get in here now! Screamed Anne’s voice.

Anne? Whitney felt sick and couldn’t tell where she was.

Oh now, honey. You just relax. The doctor will be in here in just a minute. I’m so glad you’re okay. We looked everywhere for you. Luckily David is familiar with the police.

Anne was frantic. "Oh, Doctor, thank God you’re here. She just woke up. Whitney could hardly follow Anne’s rapid speech. A doctor? He was thin and didn’t look older than twenty.

Hello? What is going on? She gingerly touched her eyes when she realized only one of them was working.

"Hi. I’m Doctor Reynolds. You were brought in here by an