Eric's little car was sort of understated, but very sleek, with the dark blue paint and the dark tire rims. I could only imagine how flashy it was in red. The valet was practically giddy as he got out and he handed over the keys almost reluctantly. Eric seemed to understand completely and clapped the man on the shoulder as he walked over and opened my door for me. He took his time circling around the car, gazing at it with an appreciative eye. I could have felt a little jealous, but mostly it was cute. While he was making his appraisal outside, I tried to find the button that would push the seat back for him. I found it on the side of mine, so easily leaned over to reach the one on his side. This was a pretty tiny car for such a big man. I couldn't really picture him in anything else but a sports car though. While I waited on the seat's slow backwards progression I tried to imagine Eric driving a pickup or an SUV. Nah, it just wouldn't work. I was still stretched across his seat when he opened his door.

"All done ogling your new baby?" I ask, grinning up at him.

"Apparently not," he says without missing a beat as he leers down at me, his eyes going right to my cleavage.

"Pfft," I wave him off with a grin. Jealous of a car? Me? Never was. I lift myself up. "You can fix it then," I say. "I don't know how you're even going to fit in here though." I sit back and buckle up, smoothing my skirt out with a dash of prim while he lowers himself in.

"The corvette is very good for that," he says as he settles in and begins his own adjustments. "Plenty of leg room, and I'm not bumping my head since the seats are so low." I'm surprised to see that he's right, though I don't know why I'm surprised, of course he'd know. By the time he's done fiddling with the whizgig that controls the seat, he seems situated quite comfortably. He starts making all kinds of adjustments to mirrors and pushing buttons and turning knobs, poking at the computer screen, opening and closing little hatches. Orienting himself, basically. I watch with some amusement because he's very focused as he does it all. The car appears to have every available option except an automatic transmission. I ask him about that.

"They don't make them," he laughs. "What would be the point?"

"So... people who can't drive stick can drive them?"

"People who don't drive manual don't need a car like this," he states with authority. Well then. I've been told. "Ready to go?"

"Do you know where we're going then?"

"I found a scenic drive, which is what I was looking up earlier. Should be good, it looked like lots of little winding roads." He's got a new favourite toy, and he gets to play with it allll morning. He's thrilled. His enthusiasm is contagious.

"Sounds great," I smile.

He clicks his seatbelt into place and makes a small demonstration of pushing the ignition button. He seems to purr right along with the engine as it rumbles to life. He gives me a side-eyed wink and sets the car in gear. I'm immediately jolted back in my seat and can't help but laugh along with him as he practically peels out. After a few blocks he drops the speed back into a slightly more reasonable excess of the legal limit, but we still make it out of the city fairly quickly, heading east toward St. Bernard Parish.

As soon as we hit the highway, Eric set out to break the sound barrier. It was definitely recklessly fast, but at least he wasn't weaving. He slowed for our turnoff and of course went slower once we reached the back roads. Slower, not slow. We bumped along while the bayou streamed past in a blur. It was scenic to some degree, although the landscape wasn't exactly unfamiliar to me. The scene that I was enjoying much more was Eric's glee. We were back in the vicinity of New Orleans a couple of hours later, and I waved him on past our exit when he showed the slightest reluctance to take it. This time we headed west and stuck to larger roads. He was putting his new car thoroughly through its paces.

We chatted sporadically throughout the drive, enjoying our conversation and being comfortable in our silences. I didn't bother trying to sneak a peak at the speedometer, but after a while I couldn't help commenting. We were passing other cars on the highway like they were parked, and they had to be going sixty at least.

"You might be going a little bit fast," I suggest, failing at nonchalance.

"This gauge goes up to two-twenty. We are going barely half of that," he grins, but I blanch. I think he dropped us back under a hundred after that. He told me he hadn't gotten a speeding ticket for two years, as a testament to his good driving.

"It doesn't count if the only reason you haven't gotten one is because the police can't catch you!" I say, and he laughs some more.

We had to stop for gas before heading back to the city. It was not that we had travelled particularly far, but fuel efficiency was not one of Eric's car's virtues. I will bring this up the next time he scolds me for buying bottled water. It was around two o'clock when we got back to New Orleans. It ended up being a much longer drive than either of us had intended, but since we only had a plan for the day in the very loosest sense, it was no matter. He steered us around the narrowing streets as we got further into the city. He asked if I still felt like going to the zoo. I'd been enjoying the peace and quiet of the car, and wasn't particularly interested in bursting the little isolation bubble that Eric and I were in by going anywhere too crowded. I suggested just walking the park loop instead. I was eager to stretch my legs and he agreed it would be nice.

"So what is the verdict?" I ask him. He's just set the alarm after treating the new corvette to another lingering stare. He steps to me and pulls his arm up to rest around my shoulder as we start to walk across the parking lot. I fidget for half a moment before tucking mine around his hip, catching my thumb to rest in one of his belt loops. I get a little squeeze of approval from him for that.

"I like it. I like the colour, which I wasn't sure I would. It's smooth to ride in, no?" he asks.

"Mm, I think it must be, otherwise I would have panicked a lot more. I'm glad you got to give it a thorough testing though."

"I am too, thank you."

"When's Pam coming in?" I ask.

"Monday afternoon again. It seems to work well when I need to be down here. She can make sure there's nothing pressing at the office first thing and be here before the end of the work day, generally."

"That's convenient," I agree. "I'm sorry I'll miss her though."

"Will you? When are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow in the afternoon I figured."

"Hm. I assumed you'd stay the week down here. I guess that explains your tiny suitcase. I thought maybe my perception was off and that was a normal amount of things, compared to Pam who packs for a month when she stays five days."

"She just likes to be prepared," I say. I'm unsure how to respond to the staying the week thing.

"And she always is, yes. Don't worry. There is so little substantive to criticize in your friend, that I can only resort to low teasing over her being a clotheshorse," he says, ameliorating. "Possibly a clothes-Clydesdale," he amends.

"Since you're her boss, it makes you her principal enabler, you realize," I say.

"Guilty," he admits, and we laugh.

My phone rings while we're walking and pull away from him to check it. He may not work on the weekends, but I need to make myself available to any calls. It's not work related though. It's Patti Parker. I tell him so, not answering immediately. I'm more asking if he minds the interruption. I can guess he doesn't approve of the caller, but he gives me a nod to go ahead. He keeps his arm around me, which is nice. It would have been weird if he recoiled.

"Hello?" I answer.

"Hi Sookie! It's Patti Parker calling," she says brightly.

"Hi Patti, how are you?"

"Oh I'm just wonderful. We've finally got up to Shreveport this week and I'm wondering if you're free to have lunch tomorrow?" she invites.

"Ah, I'm sorry, I'm down in the city this weekend," I apologize.

"Darn my luck!" she says. "Well, I'll have to try again for another time then. What brought you away, business or pleasure?" she inquires.

I glance up at Eric for a moment and smile, "Pleasure. I'm here visiting a friend for the weekend."

"That does sound fun!" she enthuses. She's so bubbly she could work for Coca-Cola. "May I give you a call next week then? It would be nice to get together while we're up here."

"Sounds great, Patti. I'll talk to you soon," I say.

"Take care, Sookie!" she says, and I disconnect, tucking my phone away and leaning back into Eric as I sling my arm back around his hip.

"I'm sorry for that," I say. "I'm just afraid to miss any calls lately."

"Understandable. She seems very eager to improve your acquaintance."

"She does. She reminds me a lot of my Gran's friends. It's a bit bolstering to talk with people who are so obviously pleased to be talking to you."

"Hm," he muses. "Am I to take it that you're susceptible to flattery, then?"

I grin. "I suppose, but isn't everyone, to some extent?"

"Maybe. I was going to use that as a segue to talk about you and this dress though," he say, letting his hand run across my shoulder and down to rest at my back. He isn't being fresh, just affectionate. We're in public after all.

"Oh really?"

"Yes," he agrees. "Though it's quite flattering in its own right. The view from just above your shoulder here is quite nice." I grin. Okay, a little fresh. The right amount.

We continue our stroll, hopping right back into our insulated bubble as the afternoon wears on. We stop a few times, to watch the birds and to watch some children trying to climb one of the big oaks. I think this is the second time that we've been lapped by the same pair of joggers.

"It's nice here," he muses, pulling me toward him. We'd dropped to hand holding. He had tried to do his best to slow his stride to match mine while our arms were linked around each other, but it hadn't lasted very long.

"It is. Did you come here much when you were living here?"

"No. It's one of those things I always thought of but didn't actually do. You know, thinking I should do my run here, but then the treadmill at my gym is just more convenient."

"Egh, I hate the treadmill."

"But you use that other torture device," he objects.

"The elliptical? Yeah, I like those, but it's different to running. There's resistance. And it's not a torture device, it's good exercise."

"Try concentrating on your free weights when it's my ass flexing hypnotically in the mirrored wall, and tell me that. You won't be able to. I've seen you looking," he says, with a little twitch of his hip. "I didn't say it was torture for you."

I giggle. So that's what that was about. "And here I'd been thinking you were pissed at me for intruding on your workout all this while."

"I was," he insists. "I had to leave or I'd have been forced to put you at my mercy."

"That's nice to know," I say. "Speaking of my being at your mercy, do you have anything planned for tonight, or will we just hang out?"

"I have some rather extensive plans for the evening, yes," he agrees, giving me another leer. "Though they can be put on hold if you'd like to go out."

"Maybe for dinner, later," I say.

"Much later," he agrees. "Much, much, much..." he trails off. We practically sprint the rest of the way to the car. Well not really, but we certainly walk the rest of the way with a deal more determination.

We muchly enjoyed our return to his bedroom, and were now muchly enjoying the enormous bathtub. I shivered and sighed as he toyed with me under the water. I was leaned back against his chest now, and he was running a warm washcloth over my shoulders. While I was struggling to stay in the moment, both today, and in general when it came to him and the unspecified us, I was distracted with wondering if I'd see him soon after tomorrow. Being like this, it was pretty hard not to be infatuated. I was genuinely enjoying myself, but also frustrated with the idea that this was a blip; a brief interruption of real life.

"You are thinking," he notices.

"Yes," I agree, without offering anything else.

He drops his head to kiss at my neck and his hair falls forward to brush across my chest. The ends are dipping into the water. "What are you thinking about?"

"You," I say simply. I don't really want to offer more than that. There are so many reasons to not have this conversation right now. As sweet as he's been with me on the whole, I'm aware of the fact that he's not like this in general. I don't really want to be let down in the future for disappointed hopes. I'm pretty sure I couldn't take it. Not that I would curl into a ball and die or something, but for all I'd coped, or was coping, with the Bill situation, having my legs kicked from under me again in succession seemed like it would leave me sprawled for a long time.

He runs his hand down across my arm and around my chest, still nuzzling at my neck. He's playing with my breast again, tracing his fingertips around my nipple and squeezes me to him tightly and suddenly and I gasp, not in pleasure, but as pain shoots across my ribs. My hands come up quickly, reflexively, and I have to push his arm away from me, sending water splashing out of the tub as I jerk forward. He catches on quickly.

"Fuck. I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry," he repeats. So much for not spoiling both our moods with unpleasant thoughts, I guess.

I've scooted away from him a bit, hunched forward with my arm across my chest, waiting for the throb of pain to continue as it often had right after my injury. It was only momentary, though. It's been much better. In the past week I've been nearly back to normal. It was just a bad angle and too much pressure from him. I think he has no idea how strong his hold is. I feel his fingertips trace down my back, feather light.

"Come back," he coaxes, and I comply, sinking slowly back against him. He readjusts his arm lower around my middle, but still doesn't make any effort to grip me. I hate that he can't.

"I'm sorry I'm still being fragile," I say. It's true. I'm not apologizing to him or anything. I regret the situation in general.

"It's fine. I just forgot for a moment there," he says. "How long until...until you're completely better?"

I sigh, "I guess about another month or so. I'm not really sure how it works, I've never broken anything before this. I don't know if you just wake up one day and it's like it never happened or what."

"It's gradual. Things that would make it hurt, hurt less and less, until eventually you just get the odd occasional throb. I don't know if it's actually that you stay effected forever, or if your brain just becomes permanently hyper-aware of the area so you notice little things you'd otherwise ignore."

"You're speaking from experience then? What bones have you broken?"

"My arm, when I was ten, and then my leg my senior year in college."

I learn that Eric had fallen out of a tree at his grandparents' house one summer when he was younger. He'd walked sedately into the kitchen and horrified the maid by telling her that his friend, who had been her son, had run off, while completely ignoring his fractured appendage. He'd apparently been in some kind of shock, and had been more concerned that the friend was now missing.

"I must have searched the whole property for that guy before it occurred to me to go inside," he was saying. And of course I can offer no more than aws and little placating noises at the adorable mental image of a pint-sized Eric wandering around stricken in search of his companion.

"He didn't turn up until the next day," Eric insists. "He thought he'd be in trouble for pushing me."

"Did he push you?"

"I don't remember really. If he did, it was probably because pushed him first. Just kids playing," he said. That happens. It was the main reason why Gran had always clamped down on the horseplay.

"Poor Fahma, she must have been so freaked out to have you injured while in her care," I said. Eric had already explained that he'd spent most of his summers down here in New Orleans with his grandparents. I wasn't sure where his parents were living at that time. I'd remembered my Aunt Linda's reaction the time she'd brought Jason home from a camping trip with a busted ankle though. Tears for days.

"Hm," he says, as though trying to remember. "I don't think she was at home when it happened. She was there when I came back from the hospital. She wouldn't let me draw on my cast," he says. I feel him shrug behind me and nudge me away. "Get up, the water's going cold." I'd noticed it, but had been too comfortable to bother. I drew away from him causing the much cooler water to rush back against his chest. He pulled a face as he quickly hopped up and reached for a towel. I pulled the drain-stop and stood up as well, taking the towel he offered.

"How'd you break your leg?" I ask.

"Eh. Skiing," he says, somewhat reluctantly.

"Is that a story you don't want to tell?" I ask.

"It was a really unpleasant day," he says.

"As opposed to all the joy one can usually recount about broken limbs," I say, teasing. Sumptuous hotel bathrobe? Don't mind if I do. "Very well, Mister Northman, keep your secrets," I continue, handing him a robe for himself.

"Is that supposed to be reverse psychology?" he chuckles.

"Only if it's working," I grin. He comes over to me, enrobed in his own right now, and guides me out to the living room so we can lounge on the sofas.

"Don't think badly of me then, it was sheer stupidity on my part," he begins. I nod.

"So, Christmas break, senior year. I'd been well into the mindset of having my last hurrah the whole year. Decided to beg off for the holidays and take a trip instead. I tried to get some people to come along with me, but they were all going home, so I went anyway. Long story short, I hit a mogul that I wasn't expecting on a double black diamond and landed terribly, and had to lay there for over an hour freezing until someone came along, and then it took almost three hours for the ski patrol to reach me and finally get me down the mountain." I made a face to let him know that my heart was going out to him. That did indeed sound like a particularly bad day. I went to pat his leg, and hesitated as I didn't know which one. He pointed out his right, so that's where my hand rested.

"I ended up spending Christmas alone in the hospital. And not even a cute nurse or a candy striper to flirt with while I was laid up," he bemoans woefully, making a little light of his recounting.

"Oh, Eric. You should have called your parents," I say. It's pretty clear it's been a long-term avoidance with him and his family.

"I did," he answers flatly. Oh. I flush immediately at my faux pas. Who knew I was so flexible as to fit my entire foot in my mouth this way. His thumb comes to my face to brush at the lip I'd mindlessly bitten down on in my worry. I give his hand a little kiss and take it in mine.

"I told you it wasn't a nice story," he says. He's right. it wasn't. I can find no silver lining to extol in response, either. Instead I just curled myself around him and held on for a while.

I really don't like to think ill of people I've never met, but right now, I am judging Eric's parents pretty harshly. Who leaves their son alone in a hospital on Christmas, for Christ's sake! It's true that I didn't know the circumstances of what had detained them, but since I did know that they were divorced that meant it was two independent decisions to not rush to his side. You couldn't have kept me away if it had been anyone I cared about, even if he had intended to skip the holiday. In fact, given that response? I could almost sympathize with his desire not to see them. I pressed myself more tightly to Eric as I thought about it. He wasn't saying anything. My hands started roaming of their own accord, a tiny outlet for my nervous energy. When I felt him stir beneath me I had a stroke of genius.

Kissing at his chest, I lean back to pull at his robe. I press my hands across the lean muscle of his pecs, letting my fingers trace the lines there, sliding to his sides and drawing the plush white garment further away from him. My mouth finds his nipple and I bite softly, letting my teeth drag before laving at it with my tongue. The fingers of my right hand come up to play across his other, pinching and circling as I push his robe from his hip with my left, taking time to stroke across his backside. My fingers clutch the flesh there as I kiss down his chest, moving almost feverishly now. I slide myself down his torso, dragging my chest across his stiffening cock as I go. When I reach it, I greet it with warm kisses across its head and down its length. I continue down, nuzzling against his thigh, paying soft-tongued homage to his sac.

I bring my left arm between his legs, reaching up to stroke lightly across the bottoms of his cheeks, which makes him shiver all over. I allow myself a satisfied smile when he moans and says my name, and take his length in my right hand, holding it to me so I can lick up and down him like the ice cream cone he'd so envied weeks ago. Finally I drop my mouth over him, taking immediately as much of him as I can manage as my fingers kneed his cheeks and my other hand trails up his chest again. He grabs at it, plainly feeling the need to hold on to something. I swallow against him, appreciating the sound he makes at that, before I begin to bob my head. He does not last long as I continue my steady efforts, bobbing then pausing to swallow over him in a long pattern I've been counting to myself. I take it as a commendation when he soon cannot refrain from bucking his hips in time with me. When he grabs a fistful of my still-damp hair and hollers out as he comes I am exceedingly pleased with myself. I am tender as I withdraw, taking care to clean him gently with my tongue as I come away.

I kneel up and look on at his blissed out expression with a smile. He looks sheepish when his eyes flicker open again. "You're really good at that," he says, sounding a little high.

"I am working with excellent materials here," I praise back.

He tries to lean up to grab at my hands, pulling me forward but I pull away shaking my head.

"I want to do something about dinner," I say, realizing I'm quite hungry for actual food as well.

He nods at that, pulling his robe back on and hoisting himself to a sitting position. He presses his palms against the soft on either side of himself. "I really love this couch," he states. I grin wider.

We debate going out which amounted to either of us professing that we were happy to go out, if the other wanted to, or to stay in, if the other didn't mind, or would prefer. It was several exchanges of mutual courteous attempts at accommodation before he declared we were staying in, ordering Thai food, and watching a movie. Perfect. We didn't even bother getting dressed. My hair had a little curl in it since I hadn't used the hair drier. This amused Eric to no end. I am pretty sure he paid more attention to the little wisps of curlicue he kept finding to play with than the movie. This was his loss, because it was terribly funny.

"I like hearing you laugh," he said at one point, which gave me the warm fuzzies.

I turned around and gave him a kiss for that, which threatened to turn into many more kisses, but I pulled away and insisted that he let me finish the movie. So that is what he did, and the second the credits began the television was switched off and he was pulling me back to the bedroom, turning off lights as we went.

I wake up the next morning feeling sore in a wonderful way and incredibly well rested. I have my arm stretched across his chest and my head tucked against his shoulder with his arm around me, cradling me to him. I stretch my legs, running my toes up and down his calf as I did. He barely stirred. I smoothed my hand across his chest and heard and felt his rumble as he murmured, but didn't wake. I raise myself up from him and peer down. His face is peaceful with the faint hint of a smirk.

"I'm ready to get up," I whisper, and paused. I kiss his nose. Nothing. "Okay sleepy head," I allow, and carefully disentangle myself from him, rolling away and off the bed and traipsing into the bathroom. The curtains and drapes are drawn shut and it's still dark in the room, but I see by the little blue clock that it's already after ten. The bathroom light blinds me when I switch it on, so I quickly switch it back off and just start my shower in the dark. As I stand there under the multiple streams of water I take a moment to be thankful for friends, family and friends who are family, and for simple pleasures. I grin a little bit at that last thought. I don't just mean the obvious pleasure. I mean the whole weekend. We've just totally enjoyed ourselves.

Since I'm listening attentively for it, I hear when he enters the bathroom. "Can you get the light?" I ask. He does and then appears a few moments later, still squinting. He steps in on the opposite side and lets the water run over him for a bit until he snugs up behind me, brushing his arms down my sides while I wash myself.

"Too bad," he says "I would have liked sneaking up on you in the dark."

"Maybe another time," I say evasively. I don't particularly feel like dwelling on that thought at the moment so I turn around and order him to lean down, and begin to wash his hair. Hopefully we can just breeze past the fact that I was weird just then. When we're both clean, I hastily exit the shower and dress quickly. I tell him to do the same when he comes out still wrapped in a towel.

"I'm taking you to brunch," I announce.

"Oh? Nowhere too popular I hope," he grins. No, I don't plan on taking him to the same place where we ran into his grandmother's friends.

"It is, but you'll see," I say. I duck past him back into the bathroom and dry my hair a bit. Not thoroughly though. I'm in the mood to be up and at 'em now. I don't bother with makeup at all.

"Are we driving?" he asks hopefully when I emerge once again. I smile, and nod at him, noticing that he seems to be moving a little more deliberately now.

Our destination is another of Lafayette's finds. That man knows his way to good food. It's the ambience that I is particularly notable though. It's decorated in the theme of a nineteenth century royal explorer's society clubhouse, complete with tent screens, wicker furniture, pressed plants and pinned insects set behind glass displays, and above all, a spectacular tribute to the taxidermist's art in all shapes and sizes. Some people may find it a little off-putting. When you think about it though, it's no different than mounted heads of deer or bears or similar, which are common enough here in the South. Besides, we're a city of the weird and the strange. It's a part of our charm. What's a little stuffed anteater over a first class English breakfast?

As I promised him, the place is busy, but after a twenty minute wait we're seated in our own little screened off area. There are two big white wicker chairs with plump cushions facing opposite ways, each with a matching ottoman. There's a round table between, already laid with a teapot and mugs along with our silverware. Eric settles into his overlarge chair with a look of approval. When our waiter comes, I just tell him we'll have two full breakfasts. They have menus, but only if you ask for them. Before he can fill the teapot with hot water, I ask him to take it away and bring coffee instead. He gives a horrified little gasp, but then follows it up with a wink and a smile.

Eric is looking around, bemused. Presumably both at the décor and the fact that I've ordered for us both. Our server comes back with a carafe of coffee for the table and presents Eric with the Sunday newspaper.

"What do you think?" I ask, once I've poured out the caffeine rations for both of us.

"It's cute. High marks already for the chairs," he says. I knew he'd like them. "What did you order for me?"

"Full breakfast here is eggs, bacon, sausage, French toast, tomato, mushroom, and hash. You have to ask for beans if you want them. Did you want them?"

"No, that's alright," he says, mollified at my description of his order. He opens the paper and begins thumbing through the sections. "Do you normally read the paper?" he asks.

I grin. "When it's available. I usually read the news online. I'll take the local and the real estate sections."

"Real estate, huh?"

"It doesn't hurt to look."

"Fair enough," he says, handing over the sections I've requested. He takes up the business section and starts to peruse it. After a few minutes he begins to laugh. I glance over and he clears his throat.

"Arkansas Confederate," he reads, in what is apparently his anchorman voice, "determined to bolster it's flagging share in the software market for key products...blah blah blah... has this week announced the addition of a new executive management team. Arkansas continues to strengthen it's foothold in Louisiana, expanding it's New Orleans office with plans to make one hundred new hires this quarter." He rolls his eyes. "What a joke," he finishes, voice now returned to normal.

"That's so weird," I say.

"What, that they're telling the press they have plans to add jobs this quarter, or the fact that half of their crack new management team can't enter the state they're trying to footprint for risk of immediate arrest?"

"Just that you're intimately aware of things in the newspaper," I say. "To the point where you can correct them. Are you in there too?"

He shakes his head. "We were a lot when we were shifting offices. Lots of negatives in the papers here about us taking jobs out of state. Totally ignoring of course the fact that we took the workers too, and we did it to make room for new jobs here. Honestly, I can see why some of these bigger companies diversify into media, to control what and how things are said about you," he rants.

I frown at that. "That's a bit cynical," is all that I can manage.

"No, unfortunately that's just true. I admit my view of reporters is not unbiased, but come on. You have an even less clear picture of Arkansas than I do. Does it seem like the reporter did any of his homework on that little piece? Seems like they might as well have just copy/pasted a press release from Peter Threadgill's own office and printed it."

"It does seem wrong," I agree.

"It's just fucking unfortunate that the trend toward merely regurgitating the talking points to pander to the lowest caste of readership has become so ubiquitous that they're not even capable of doing justice to a four inch blurb on page five of the financial section." Ending his rant, he glances over at me with a look which tells me he is eager to have me agree completely with his well justifiable qualms about modern newsprint.

"Please don't say, " I mouth the word 'fucking', before continuing, "at the breakfast table." I say. "You're absolutely right, though."

He has a self-satisfied little nod, and goes back to reading. I almost want to giggle, as that was too easy. I just press my lips together and smile though. A few minutes later he asks if I've got a pen. He's found the crossword puzzle. I happily supply him with one, hoping it will be more enjoyable than reading the news. I know that partly he was allowing himself to get carried away, almost enjoying the ranting, but I think toward the end there he might actually have been upset. And there should be no upset today, because this weekend has been great, and because I have to leave in a few hours.

Our breakfasts arrive and Eric is impressed with the portion sizes as well as the food itself. He eats everything he is served, but when I try to offer him some of mine he shakes his head and pours himself another cup of coffee, sitting back with his crossword again. The other reason I'm so fond of this place if that they don't try to rush you. If you want to sit there after you finish your food just drinking coffee and reading the paper, they're fine with that. I continue to pick at my plate for a while longer as I page through the local section. Maybe there's something we can do for a couple of hours before I have to head north. I come across something that pulls me up short and scan the article quickly.

"Eric, you need to read this," I say, holding the paper out to him and sitting up from my slouching.

"No, I've read enough of this paper, just tell me," he says, without looking up.

"Eric," I say, putting all the seriousness I can muster into my tone, giving the paper a rattle in his direction for emphasis. "Please."

Glancing up curiously he leans over to take the sheet I'm holding up for him.

Hotelier, Driver Hospitalized Following Fatal Crash

New Orleans, Saturday. Sten Northman, 89, and driver Jake Purifoy, 37, were taken to Tulane Medical Center late Friday night following a fatal car accident on the I-10. Jeffrey Piven, driver of the other vehicle, and his passengers Sarah West and Lisa McGraw were declared dead at the scene. A fourth passenger, Brett Harris, died this morning. The four LSU students were heading north when their car apparently jumped the median to intercept Northman's vehicle heading south. Both Purifoy and Northman remained in critical condition...

"Get the check, I'm going to get the car. I'll meet you out front," he says, getting up and leaving the table abruptly.

He must have seen Eric's rapid departure, because our waiter was back to check on me the moment I stood to look for him. I thrust my credit card at him and asked him for the bill. He tactfully did not delay me with any inquiries over my clearly upset state, even though it seemed to take a long time for him to return. I just sign the bottom of the slip and tell him to add himself twenty percent and rush out. Eric is just pulling up in front when I exit the restaurant and he doesn't wait for me to put my seatbelt on before he is zooming us away towards, presumably, the hospital. It's just a few blocks away from the hotel. He starts checking his phone as he drives. Maybe he is looking for a missed call, because he definitely had not received this news. He dials a number as we speed west and waits for an answer, but there is none.

We arrive and park and he's already walking toward the entrance before I'm properly out of the car. I have to hurry to catch him but stay a few paces behind until he reaches the desk.

"Sten Northman," he demands.

The woman's cold expression, natural considering his curt address, softens slightly as she directs us to the intensive care unit. He takes my hand as we head to the elevators. I'm faintly relieved he hasn't forgotten about me. We leave the elevator and follow the hallway around to the ICU waiting room. He looks in briefly but doesn't see anyone to talk to there. We find a nurse and he asks after his grandfather. She tells him she can take him in, but he may only have two visitors, and Mrs. Northman is in with him.

"Go," I tell him when he glances down at me. "I'm going to call Pam," I tell him, and he is taken away to wash his hands and be fitted with a cap and gown, since the entire unit is sterile.

I wander back toward the nurses' station near the elevators. There are rather prominent signs indicating that cell phones cannot be used here. I ask if there's somewhere I can go to make calls, and one of the nurses points me down another hallway.

"Pam, hey," I begin.

"Sookie, hello. Are you done diddling my boss?" she snarks.

"Pam, Eric's grandfather was in a car accident on Friday night. We just found out. We're at the hospital, Eric just went in to see him."

"Shit. Is he okay?"

"We literally just got here," I say. "He is in intensive care. We don't know anything. We found an article in the newspaper this morning. All of the people in the other car died. Sten and the driver are here."

"Shit," she repeats. "What can I do?"

"I don't know. I can ask him, or ask him to call you, when he comes out."

"No. Well, you can do that if you want, but I'll be on the first flight out. I need to make some calls and get to the office before I go to the airport. I'll call you when I know my flight."

"Sure Pam. Thank you," I say.

"Alright, talk to you soon," she replies, disconnecting.

I stand there holding my phone for a few minutes, not really knowing what to do with myself. I'm genuinely startled when it rings. It seems incredibly loud. I answer quickly.

"Hello?" I answer.

"Good afternoon, am I speaking with Sookie Stackhouse?" comes a man's voice.

"Yes, this is she," I reply automatically.

"Ms. Stackhouse, this is Headmaster Keeting from the Peterson School. I'm sorry to call on a Sunday, but I'm going over my schedule for tomorrow and I realized that I don't have you on it."

"Pardon me?" I ask.

"I received your resume some weeks ago regarding our vacancy. Are you still seeking a teaching position?"

"Oh. Yes sir, I am."

"I realize it's quite short notice, but I am meeting with some prospective candidates tomorrow. I do apologize for not calling to schedule sooner. I've had a niggling feeling all last week that I'd forgotten someone I intended to contact, but then I found your email again and realized who I'd missed."

"Tomorrow would be fine, sir. I happen to be in town this weekend."

"Ah, very good then. Can we say eight-thirty? It's a bit early, but then, our first bell rings at ten to eight."

"That would be fine sir, I'll see you in the morning."

"Very good Ms. Stackhouse, looking forward to meeting you," he says, and disconnects. That was a bit surreal, but I really far more concerned about the Northmans right at this moment. I realize I've been away for a while so I head back toward the waiting room, but find Inge and Eric in the hallway.

"Why wouldn't you call me?" he's asking her. He is using the cold and angry voice again.

"You very plainly asked me not to contact you when we last spoke," she says defensively.

"I asked you not to interfere in my life, not to ignore me in a real emergency. Sookie found an article in the God damned newspaper or I wouldn't even know right now."

"I didn't know you were in town, Eric," she says.

"Have you called my father at least?"

"Yes, he's coming in on Tuesday."

"Tuesday?" I see Eric ask incredulous. "Grandfather is fucking d-" I realize that Eric was about to say dying, but he stops himself when he sees Inge's stricken expression. Instead he wraps his arms around her, and she starts to sob against his chest. I don't want to intrude on the family grief, but don't want to stand here awkwardly. I brush his arm lightly as I walk past him, nodding to the waiting room to let him know where I'll be.

A few minutes later he comes to join me, but Inge isn't with him.

"She's gone to fix her face," he says, in explanation.

"How is he?" I ask.

"Fading," he says stiffly. "Stable for the moment." He stands up and begins to pace around the very small room. "I need to take her home, she's been here since Friday night."

"Eric, why don't I go and get my car and drive her so you can stay here? It's about the only thing I can think of to be useful right now, and this way someone will be here in case there is any change."

"That...would be helpful. Thank you. We're not allowed to stay in there for more than a few minutes at a time every hour. They are more lenient on her as the spouse, but I can stay in here."

"Alright," I say. "Pam's coming in tonight. She's going to call me as soon as she has her flight information. I can let them know at the hotel what time she'll be in so they can fix her car and her room. Can I bring you anything back?"

"Maybe my laptop," he says distractedly.

"I'll bring it, but you can't use it in here," I say, pointing to a sign with a big red slash mark through a pictogram of several kinds of electronic devices. There's no television in here. There's an old-style phone attached to the wall by the door, several end tables littered with dated magazines, and more chairs. There are no windows. Despite the light blue walls, this is an incredibly depressing room. "Do you have a book with you?"

"Yeah, it's in the laptop case. Here," he says, fishing out the keycard from his wallet and handing it to me.

"Alright," I say. "I shouldn't be more than twenty minutes back then, it's close."

"Thank you," he repeats. I lean down and give his hand a squeeze as I leave the room. I pass by Inge in the hallway and offer her a commiserating little smile as I pass, but just keep walking to the elevators. Eric can explain to her where I'm going, or why I'm here, for that matter.

I head downstairs and exit the hospital. It's a very short walk. I give Trudy at the desk a small smile when I reach the hotel, but don't stop to chat. Instead I go right upstairs and pack up Eric's laptop. I grab him a long-sleeved shirt out of his closet as well, since it was a little chilly in the hospital. The book is indeed in the front pocket of the laptop bag. I call Pam again before I head downstairs to see if she knows her flight information yet. She gives it to me and asks after Eric. He seemed to be holding up, so I tell her that, and that I'm going to take his grandmother home so he can stay at the hospital in case there is news. She asks after Sten again and I don't have anything to report beyond that it didn't sound good.

I head for the valet and ask him to bring the Rabbit up and then duck back into the lobby to let Trudy know that Pam would be arriving today, and I gave her flight number, which Trudy assured me she could look up and have a car waiting. I thanked her and left. I parked in the fifteen minute parking right near the front door, which I figured was for the best, since even after freshening up, Inge had looked dead on her feet. I stopped in the gift shop and bought Eric a crossword puzzle book, in case he couldn't focus enough to read, and a new pen, since I'd left mine at the restaurant in our hurry to leave.

Eric was holding Inge's hands in his when I entered the waiting room. She was staring ahead vacantly, but Eric looked up.

"Fahma, Sookie is here to take you home now," he told her. He had seemed to calm down a bit now. He was talking to her a bit like a child, but I suppose that she'd been holding up all along here for a while now. She was entitled to let go a bit. Her eyes were dull and she nodded.

"Thank you, Sookie," she said, standing up.

Eric stood as well, and gave both of us a kiss on the cheek as we walked to the elevator. I handed him over his laptop bag and took his grandmother's arm in exchange. We walked sedately out of the hospital and over to my car. I held the door for her, and she buckled her seatbelt as I closed her in. I crossed to my side and entered and asked her where we were headed. She gave me the address and I headed off. I was unsurprised to find it was one of the very regal mansions in the garden district. It seemed to be a large piece of property. There was the characteristic iron gating around the entire perimeter. I got out and walked her to the door, where we were met by her maid, who had clearly seen us drive up.

She had a worried and anxious look that shifted more towards concern when she saw Inge. I introduced myself to her and let her know that Eric was at the hospital, and would call them if there were any change. She nodded and brought Inge inside, thanking me again. I wasn't sure what else to do, so I went back to the hospital to sit with Eric. I was definitely not going home this afternoon. For lack of anything else to do with myself I stopped and picked up coffees for each of us on my way back. At least if he decided he wanted one, he wouldn't have to drink the stuff from one of those hospital vending machines, right?

He wasn't in the waiting room when I got back, but I didn't bother to go and look for him. He could be in with Sten, or in the men's room, or making a phone call, or taking a walk. I just sat down and waited. His laptop bag was still here, so he'd be back soon. It was another fifteen minutes before he stalked back in, looking furious. He threw himself down in the chair next to me and reached for my hand like it was some kind of security blanket and held it in his.

"Did you get to see him again?" I asked.

"I went to call my father," he says.

"Is he coming?" I ask.

"On Tuesday," he says with ice in his voice. I don't know if he was aware I'd overheard that earlier or not. I guess he had called either to yell at his father, or try to otherwise impress upon him that time seemed of the essence.

"Will that be soon enough?" I ask quietly.

He shakes his head. I have nothing to say to that.

Greta, their maid, brought us lunch about three o'clock, and let us know that Inge had finally managed to fall asleep only an hour ago. She left very quickly, after taking Eric's cell phone number. I don't know about him, but I wasn't particularly hungry. We ate anyway, just for something to do.

"You need to get back to Bon Temps," he said. He'd not said anything for a while.

I shake my head. "I'm staying. I got a call earlier, I have an appointment in the morning, but I would have stayed anyway," I say. A nurse came to get Eric a short time later to let him know that Sten was awake. I tried to feel encouraged by that until he returned another half an hour later looking weary and wan.

"Is it an improvement?" I ask hopefully.

"He's been in and out of consciousness the whole time, they say," he tells me. "It's not his brain, he's lucid when he's awake, it's just the stress on his body, all his organs. He's just giving out."

I nod.

Close to nine o'clock that evening Pam calls to let him know that she has arrived and has gone ahead and cleared his schedule for the following day. He steps away and briefs her on the situation here, giving her instructions for the morning. A short time after that, they moved Jake Purifoy out of the ICU and into a different part of the hospital. He'd been stable for the last twenty-four hours, and his prognosis was positive, were the only details they shared with us. Greta returned with Inge after that and Eric sent me back to the hotel to get some sleep for my morning. I suggest going to Amelia's to stay the night, thinking it would be strange to be in Eric's space without him present, but he asks me to stay, and I can't really refuse him anything at the moment.

I wake when I hear him come in. It's after three. Sitting up in his bed in the mostly dark room I watch him where he stands in the doorway, watching me right back. I reach out my hand to him and bring him to the bed. We have sex before I fall back to sleep. It is forceful and intense and needful. We say very little. He is not there when I wake up.

I am subdued as I prepare for my meeting with Headmaster Keeting. I had not packed for interviews, so I put on a simple white dress with a blue sweater. It's something I have worn to teach before, so I hope it is acceptable. Arriving at Peterson, I park in the visitor's lot and walk inside and wait for the Headmaster in their main office. I realize that as I'm completely unprepared, I'm equally not nervous. I try to take some confidence from that, and tuck away my worry for the Northmans for an hour or so.

Headmaster Keeting is a stout, round-faced man of about sixty with a shock of pure white hair and a matching beard. He is about six feet tall with a firm handshake and a kindly air about him. As we sit, he apologizes once again for not contacting me in the usual manner. I tell him that I am pleased he thought of me at all, and we have a brief joke about the need for personal assistants. I think briefly of all Pam does for Eric, and he admits that he shares a secretary with the Deputy Headmaster, but could really use his own. He tells me a bit about my predecessor's involvement outside the classroom, including the math club and the summer program, which he hopes the new candidate will be able to pick up. I'm not faking any degree of my enthusiasm the more he tells me. The prospect of having students so interested in academics-based extracurriculars is exciting.

We focus on my teaching method, which effectively boils down to the fact that math is fun and that's what I try to emphasize foremost. Figuring things out and then proving you are correct is extremely empowering for students. Unlike the subjects I refer to as the humanities, math is not contingent upon interpretation. Not at this level, anyway. It is simple and elegant and unequivocal. I catch myself going on at length about the value of analytical reasoning and hastily finish my thoughts as I catch his amused expression, realizing I've been talking almost non-stop for about ten minutes.

"Do you have a favourite mathematician?" he asks.

"Oh, several I think. Actually, that's one thing I do try to incorporate in the classroom, the people behind the theories. I think it is nice to remind students that the concepts they learn to employ were first realized by human beings, as opposed to just formulae that fell from the sky one day. I tend to use these tidbits for my extra credit points on exams. But to answer your question, classically, Euclid, and in the relatively more modern era, Ada Lovelace, of course, and Florence Nightingale."

"Florence Nightingale, really? I would have pegged you for a Sophie Germain fan," he replies with a smile.

"With due respect to Ms. Germain, I have to give my nod to the nurse. Her work in statistics, particularly the practical applications, which were quite tangibly life-saving. And then her contributions to the visual representation of data... I mean, the woman practically pioneered the modern infographic," I say with a smile. "Obviously, I am a teensy bit biased towards the women for favourites sir, my apologies."

"Not at all Miss Stackhouse, it's a delight to listen to a teacher so enthusiastic about her subject."

We talked a bit more about the school's philosophies in comparison to others, and about teaching in general. All in all the majority of the interview ran more like a loosely guided conversation. It was pleasant. The Headmaster showed me out with another warm handshake. I had no idea if I'd hear from him. The candidate who was waiting for him when we exited his office looked quite prim and professional in her dark green tailored suit. I'd done my best on short notice. I could do nothing more.

I called Pam to find out how things were going with Eric. She informed me that he was still at the hospital, that Inge had been taken home again to try to get some more sleep, and there had been no significant changes. I stopped at a bookstore and found a book of photography and bought it for Eric. I didn't think he was actually reading his book, or doing the puzzles, but maybe this at least would be something to stare at beyond the blank blue walls. I found him in the waiting room, resting with his eyes closed. I put the book in his lap and knelt in the chair next to him and wrapped my arms around him, feeling his head fall against my shoulder. We just stayed like that for a while.