God, he loved it when she really smiled, a God-save-his-soul smile. “Oh, but sure I want to know what our friend Carol Anne had to say.”

“She said that she thought you were down in Costa Rica the entire time getting more ass than a toilet seat.” Amy’s smile widened. Then she laughed.

“She is such a delicate Southern flower.”

“The funny part is, she is. She is kind and sensitive and wise.”

“Well, did she have any advice?”

“Do you mean before or after I drove off with the hose from the gas pump still in my car and sat on the pavement in front of half the old biddies in town getting their hair done?”

“What?”

She amused him with the tale of the gas pump, and Nick felt such a release of laughter and joy at her storytelling, at her obvious preoccupation with him.

“It’s not that funny. I’m a mess.”

“So, really, after all that, what did Carol Anne have to say, advice-wise? I’d love to hear it.”

“To stay as far away from you as Costa Rica. Farther.”

“Ah, she’s still jealous.”

“No, just protective of me.”

“I’m obviously joking about the jealous part, but you don’t need to be protected from anything . . . or anyone. I believe you know how to take care of yourself.”

“No, I’m not sure I do anymore.”

“Don’t you dare let that happen to you—you were always able to be whatever someone wanted of you—the small-town good-girl syndrome. But you’ve always known what you wanted—always taken care of yourself.”

Amy stared at him. He reached out his hand for hers. She shook her head. “Did you come here to tell me your version of who I am, or just to tell me your dreams?”

“I came to tell you about the plant, to hear your voice, even if you were mad at me. I came to see you, to touch your face, to hear you tell me what you’ve been thinking.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

He lifted her chin, ran his finger down her neck and let it rest at her throat. “It’s me. Talk to me. You don’t have to make any sense, just talk to me.”

“I’ve been sleepwalking. How does that make you feel? Better? I can’t be this way. I can’t. I’m burying myself in chores and—”

“It doesn’t work, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t.” She folded her hands over her face.

“What are we going to do?”

She looked out from her hands. “Nothing. We aren’t going to do anything. If you want to talk or . . . but we’re not going to do anything.”

“We’re going to take a walk. That’s what we’re going to do. Walk down to the river, get some fresh air, a glass of wine, maybe some oysters. Come on.”