Night Jasmine (12 page)

Hunter stood, excited at the prospect of helping Aimee and Roubin. Too excited to wait until Monday to act on his decision. Even though it was Sunday, he felt certain Landry would take the time to speak with him. As a professional courtesy. And because, if the physician was worth his salt, he was probably as frustrated with Roubin as Aimee was.

After calling out a greeting to Roubin, Hunter went in search of a phone book.

* * *

In the gathering twilight, Roubin sat alone. Hunter stood at the end of the wheelchair path, studying the older man. Motionless, his hands folded in his lap, Roubin stared off into the distance. Around him, the bayou prepared for night. Roubin seemed not to notice, seemed disconnected from all but his own isolation.

How long had he been sitting there? Hunter wondered, starting down the path. An hour? Two? All day? Compassion tugged at him. He supposed it shouldn't. Because of his profession, because he knew that Roubin had the ability to create or end his own alienation.

But how could he not feel for him? In many ways he and Roubin were alike—they were both lost men.

A chameleon scurried across the path in front of him, diving into the foliage on the other side. Hunter increased his pace, wanting the opportunity to speak with Roubin before Oliver and Aimee returned home.

“Good evening,” Hunter said, as he reached the house. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and smiled up at the older man. “How about some company?”

Roubin nodded and motioned for Hunter to come and sit beside him. Hunter did, and for several moments they sat in silence. Roubin broke it first. “Aimee and Oliver, they are not home yet.” He shook his head and lifted his face to the breeze, frowning. “And a storm, she comes.”

Hunter looked up at the cloudless evening sky. “I didn't hear anything about bad weather on the radio.”

Roubin made a sound of disdain. “Those Yankees, they go to school to learn about the weather. What can they know by looking at charts and numbers?
Non.
Feel the air.” The old man lifted a hand to the breeze. “She is alive. And listen. It is too quiet. The birds and the crickets, where have they gone? I do not hear them. The bayou, too, is quiet. She seems to be waiting.”

Hunter sat still, trying to tune in to what Roubin referred. Finally, he shook his head. “Sorry.”

Roubin laughed. “Do not worry, you are new to this place. Me, all my life, I have to rely on my senses. To make my living, to protect my family. Just once you forget, and maybe you don't come home that night.

“I know men like this,” he continued. “Men who watch the television to know what the Mother Nature, she is planning. Their wives become widows.” He shook his head. “It is very sad.”

Roubin narrowed his eyes, gazing toward the road. “I was the best on the bayou. Mother Nature, I outwit her every time.” His mouth thinned suddenly, bitterly. “But my own body, like the
gros farceur,
it tricks me.”

“But you're alive,” Hunter murmured. “You're lucky.”

Roubin scowled. “Luck, eh? That is what you call this? Chained to this chair, unable to be a man?”

“Some of those chains are of your own making.” Hunter met the other man's gaze. “I talked to Dr. Landry today.”

Roubin's dark eyes blackened with temper. “That
imposteur?
What does he know?”

“Quite a lot,” Hunter said easily. “Judging by our conversation.”

“Bon Dieu!”
Roubin slapped his palm down on the chair's arm. “This was not your right to do.”

“Maybe not.” Hunter glanced at the darkening sky, feeling for the first time the change in the air. A storm was indeed coming. He looked back at the other man. “You know I'm a doctor?”

“Oui.”

Roubin's expression communicated to Hunter just what he thought of that bit of information. Undaunted, Hunter continued. “I run a clinic that specializes in physical rehabilitation. Many of our patients are victims of strokes and aneurysms, most have problems like yours.”

Roubin grunted. “And what do you think this means to me?”

“Dr. Landry believes there's a good chance you could walk again. After speaking with him, I agree with his prognosis.”

“Walk with a cane,” Roubin murmured bitterly. “Or a walker. What good would I be to Aimee? To my
petit-fils?
”

“What good are you to them now?” Hunter said baldly. “Bound to that chair by your own bitterness and self-pity. Why, Roubin? What exactly are you afraid of?”

The older man's face reddened with fury. “What do you know about my life? About what I feel in my heart?” Roubin balled his hands into fists. “You are a stranger to me. To my family. Go home. You do not belong here.”

“No, I don't belong here. And I don't know you. But I know Aimee. I know she wishes, in her heart, to be somewhere else, but stays out of guilt. I know she needs some help around here. You know these things, too.”

Swearing in French, Roubin began to turn his chair toward the door. “What if Dr. Landry's wrong?” Hunter asked. “What if you can do better than a cane or walker?”

Roubin stopped and turned to meet Hunter's eyes.

“Doctors don't know everything,” Hunter continued. “I could be kicked out of the profession for saying so, but I'm saying it anyway. When it comes to the human spirit, the will to live or succeed, there's a hell of a lot doctors don't know.”

Roubin didn't reply, but he didn't move either.

“I learned early,” Hunter went on. “I was a first-year resident. There was a patient, a woman, who had suffered a basal brain aneurysm. Similar to yours. She'd been in a deep coma several months. One day, while on rounds with the lead doctor, we ran into the patient's daughter. The doctor berated the woman for not having signed a `no emergency measures' form, for holding on to delusions he said helped no one. He announced to us, in front of the family member and the patient, that the patient was severely brain damaged and even should she come out of the coma, she would be a vegetable. His words.

“The next day, that patient did come out of her coma. She opened her eyes and asked for mashed potatoes
and gravy.”

“Non.”
Roubin laughed and shook his head. “This is true?”

“Absolutely. The experience changed me forever.” Hunter smiled, remembering the look on the lead doctor's face when he'd heard the news. “The medical journals, the newspapers and magazines are filled with stories of people who are told they will never walk again, never run again, never live normally again, yet for some inexplicable reason they're able to do just that.

“Doctors like to discount these stories. Not because we want to be gods, but because, like God, so often we hold life and death in our hands. That's a damn frightening proposition, even without the element of the unexplainable. Science and our unshakable belief in the laws of science is our security blanket.”

“And you?”

Hunter lifted his shoulders. “I don't know.” He smiled. “Colleagues have been known to call me odd.”

Thunder rumbled in the distance. Roubin looked uneasily up at the darkening sky, then back at Hunter. “What you are telling me, what does it mean?”

“That what happens to you is
up
to you, Roubin. Only you can determine how far you can go in your rehabilitation.”

For long moments Roubin gazed silently down at his hands. Then he looked back up at Hunter. “But I could try my best and never walk again. Dr. Landry, he could be right.”

“True. But you would have lost nothing.” Hunter crossed to the older man, stopping in front of him. Hunter thought of Ginny, of Pete, of the senselessness of their deaths. “You lived, Roubin. You're alive. Life means something. It's worth something.”

Roubin nodded solemnly. “
Le bon Dieu,
he has a plan.”

Hunter motioned to Roubin's chair. “Is this it? Is this his plan for you? To sit and wish for a different life, to spend your days cursing fate? You're alive, but you have no life.”

Roubin stared at him. “You are a religious man?”

Hunter paused, then shook his head. “I used to be.”

Roubin seemed to consider that for a moment. “You speak plainly.”

Hunter smiled. “I've been accused of that before.”

“Bon.”
Roubin drew his heavy eyebrows together. “I will think about what you have said to me.”

“Do that.” Hunter took a step back. “And while you are, think about this as well—I'd like to take a look at your legs myself. I'd like to take you through a round of your PT exercises, to evaluate myself. Let me know if you'd be willing to—”

“Oui.”

Hunter stopped, surprised. He hadn't expected Roubin to agree so quickly. In truth, he hadn't expected him to agree at all. Excitement pumped through him. Until that moment, he hadn't realized just how much he wanted to help the other man.

“Now?” he asked.

Roubin nodded. “You have the time?”

“You bet.” Hunter smiled and motioned toward the door. “After you.”

* * *

Aimee and Oliver arrived home as the first drops of rain splashed against the windshield. All the way from Thibodaux it had been on her heels and Aimee had pushed the speed limit, hoping they could beat it. This one looked as if it were going to be a doozy.

“Come on, baby, we're going to have to hurry,” she said, helping Oliver from the car and glancing uneasily up at the dark, rumbling sky. “Hold on.”

Oliver obediently wrapped his arms and legs around Aimee and she started for the chair path, moving as quickly as she could with his added weight.

Her father had left all the lights on and the house glowed with warm, welcoming light. He would be worried; she should have called. Aimee frowned, acknowledging her ridiculous attempt at rebellion. She'd deliberately stayed late. She hadn't returned home in time for dinner because she'd wanted to avoid seeing Hunter. She hadn't called because she hadn't wanted Hunter to know her agenda.

And because she…just hadn't wanted to call.

Her father had known where she was; if he'd been really worried he could have called. He hadn't.

A fat drop of rain hit her cheek. With Oliver in her arms, she couldn't reach up to wipe it and it rolled down her face like a tear. In the light of her behavior of the night before, it had been difficult to face the dawn. Her head had been full of the way she'd reacted to Hunter's kiss and touch. Like a woman starved for sex. Like a wanton.

How could she have behaved so?

Even now, her cheeks heated. Aimee shook her head, fighting back the wave of embarrassment and self-recriminations. She could do nothing about the past, so she wouldn't dwell on it.

But she could control the future.

She'd realized that sometime during the day. At the same moment she'd remembered that Hunter was a transient in all their lives. That before long he would be gone and life would resume its normal pace.

The thought brought an ache, and she scolded herself for it. She wanted her life back. She did. A day without Hunter had cleared her head. When she was with him she couldn't think clearly, couldn't separate real feelings from leftovers from the past.

A crash of thunder shook the night, a brilliant flash of light on its heels. Aimee reached the house just as the sky opened up. She climbed the steps to the gallery, then set Oliver down. She motioned to the end of the gallery and his new tricycle. “Quick, baby, get your bike before it gets wet.”

He scurried down the gallery, and Aimee opened the front door, ready to call out. The greeting died on her tongue. She hadn't avoided Hunter. He was here, squatted beside the wheelchair holding one of her father's legs, gently bending and straightening it. Beside the chair she saw her father's exercise platform set up.

Aimee frowned, confused. What was he…

She caught her breath as she realized Hunter was taking her father through one of his PT exercises; it looked as if they had done an entire round. And her father was cooperating. She drew her eyebrows together. In fact, he wasn't just allowing Hunter to work with him, he was helping Hunter. Working with him. He had a look of concentration, of effort, on his face.

Several emotions collided inside her. Disbelief. Surprise and hurt. An overwhelming sense of betrayal.

Aimee shook her head, tears stinging her eyes. Her father had never gone along with her, not the way he was with Hunter. He'd fought her every time. He'd made it difficult and uncomfortable for them both. Grueling, even.

Yet here he was now, letting a stranger work his legs without a murmur of protest.

As if sensing her presence, Hunter looked up. Their eyes met and the tears in hers brimmed. Damn him, she thought. He knew exactly what she was thinking and feeling, she could see it in his eyes.

At that moment, Oliver barreled past her and through the door.
“Pépàre!”

Roubin looked up, his eyes bright and for the first time in what seemed like forever, full of life and hope. Aimee stared at him in stunned surprise, the feeling of betrayal deepening.

Laughter tumbled from her father, rich and deep, and he clapped his hands and held out his arms. Oliver ran to him and launched himself onto his lap.

Aimee drew in a quick, shocked breath. She gripped the door frame, the thunder booming outside no match for the thunder of her heart. In that moment her father looked as he had before his illness, before the two of them had begun to argue. Before she had left La Fin.

Hunter had made him look like that. For three and a half years she had tried and failed. The failure curled through her, tightening in her chest, squeezing her heart.

“Guess what, Pépàre?” Oliver said, twisting in his grandfather's lap. “I rode pony t'day. She try to make me fall off, but I didn't!”

Oliver turned his excited gaze to Hunter. “Should have seen! Maman was scared, but not Oliver! You come next time? Be real fun.”