Night Jasmine (16 page)

She stared after him, her heart in her throat. Dear Lord, she loved him still. After everything, despite his ghosts, she still loved him.

How big a fool could she be?

A big one, she realized, clasping her shaking hands in her lap. Tears welled in her eyes. She would walk through fire for him. She would sacrifice her needs—for love and commitment, for emotional devotion—to be with him.

If she had only herself to think of.

She didn't. She turned her gaze to her son, his head bent in concentration as his grandfather baited his hook. She had Oliver to think of. He deserved a real family. With a father and mother who loved each other without reservation, without ghosts. And he deserved a father who would love him more than anything in the world.

The way Hunter had loved Pete.

Aimee lowered her eyes. On the blanket by her knee lay the blade of grass Hunter had handed her. Drawing her eyebrows together, she picked it up. Hunter had opened up to her more than he ever had before. He had told her how much he'd appreciated her back then, told her she'd been important to him.

But he hadn't said a word about love. Hadn't said a word about the future. And he never would. What Hunter had given her today was the most he ever would. Aimee closed her fingers over the piece of grass. Hunter had no more to offer her now than he had three and a half years ago.

Only now, she had a lot more—and less—to lose.

She opened her fist, and the blade of green dropped to the blanket. The time had come to get on with her life. After mass last Sunday, Roberto had cornered her and asked her to this week's
fais-dodo.
She'd refused.

Why? she wondered, gazing once more at her son. What was she waiting for? For Hunter to ask her?

She had to get on with her life, she thought again. She had to fall out of love with Hunter. Oliver deserved a real family. He deserved a father. He would never have either if she didn't do something about it. If she didn't face reality and stop clinging to her love for a man who could never love her back. A man who would never give her a happy-ever-after.

She would call Roberto and accept his invitation. And start living again. Before it was too late. For her. For Oliver.

Tears stinging her eyes, Aimee reached for the bit of grass, only to find it had been carried away by the breeze.

Chapter Eight

“Y
ou're going to the
fais-dodo?”
Aimee asked, looking at her father in surprise. He hadn't been to a
fais-dodo
since his illness. In fact, she hadn't been able to budge him from the property for anything but doctor appointments and the most special family functions. “Tonight?”

“Oui,”
her father announced, handing her his empty gumbo bowl. “We are all going.”

Aimee slid her gaze to Hunter. He leaned back in his chair and smiled at her. The proverbial Cheshire cat. “You knew about this?”

Hunter shrugged. “Roubin mentioned it. This morning.”

Aimee glanced back at her father. “It would have been nice if he'd mentioned it to
me.
”

“
Pardon, chère.
You were busy.”

She cleared away the remaining gumbo bowls, annoyed to see that her hands shook. When she had agreed to accompany Roberto to the
fais-dodo,
she hadn't anticipated having to announce it this way. What
had
she anticipated? she wondered. Slinking out of the house like a criminal?

Aimee squared her shoulders. Why should announcing her plans in front of Hunter bother her? She had nothing to hide from him or anyone else.

She carried the bowls to the sink. “Well, you should have interrupted me, Papa, because now it's impossible.”

“Not to worry,” he said, his eyes alight with mischief. “I have made arrangements for my
petit-fils.
Clementine, she has offered to watch him. With her broken toe, she cannot dance.” Aimee opened her mouth, and he held up a hand to stop any arguments. “It is all set. And Oliver, he is excited about spending the night with his cousins.”

Aimee looked down the hall to Oliver's room. She could hear him playing with his toys. She shook her head in disbelief. Oliver hadn't said a word about his cousins. When had her son learned to keep secrets from her?

She turned back to Roubin, narrowing her eyes. Her father, the same man who'd had to be badgered into wheeling himself across the yard just over a week ago, had planned all this? By himself? Even making arrangements for Oliver? Impossible. Unbelievable.

Unless he was up to something.

She placed her fists on her hips. “Okay, Papa, spill it.”

“What do you mean,
chère?
”

His innocence was as false as a Yankee's attempt at
étouffée.
He all but batted his eyelashes at her. “I mean, what's going on?”

“You are so suspicious.” He brought his coffee mug to his lips, looking irritated. “We are going to the dance. You are young. You should be having fun. You should be dancing. I thought you would be happy that I did something for myself.”

As she opened her mouth to apologize, he gave himself away. He glanced at Hunter from the corners of his eyes, all but giggling, and the truth hit her like a sack of oysters. Her father was matchmaking.

She let out her breath in an annoyed huff. She shouldn't be surprised. Her father had made it clear from the beginning that he expected Hunter to do the right thing by her. That he expected her to do the right thing by Oliver. And now, judging by the amount of time he was spending with Hunter, her father's desire to get them together had surpassed “doing the right thing.” Now, he liked Hunter and saw that Oliver did, too.

The old goat, she thought, fuming. He'd decided to give her and Hunter a little push in the right direction. Once again, he'd decided that he knew what was best for her. Wouldn't he be surprised when she told him Roberto had already invited her to the
fais-dodo,
and that she'd accepted.

She went back to the table for the bread plates and silverware. “Well, you still should have checked with me, Papa. I already have a date for the dance.”

“A date?” Roubin and Hunter repeated simultaneously.

“A date,” Aimee murmured, careful not to look at Hunter, though unsure what she hoped, or dreaded, seeing in his expression. Or, what she feared he would see in hers. “With Roberto.”

“Roberto?
Non,
Aimee.” Roubin shook his head. “His blood, it is no good.”

“Papa—”

“
Bon Dieu!
His cousin, Placide, he is a drunk. His sister runs as wild as the muskrat in the swamp. And his
maman
…” Roubin shook his head again and held his arms wide apart, “…she is
Très grasse.
You know these things,
chère.
”

Aimee took a deep breath, daring a peek at Hunter. He sat absolutely still, his face a mask of indifference. Annoyed, she turned back to her father. “Roberto's a nice man, Papa. A good man. It's time I started dating again, and Roberto wants to date me.”

“
Non.
I do not like this.”

“Sorry to hear that, but I'm a grown-up and can make my own decisions. I'm going.” She plucked his half-full coffee cup from his hands, then grabbed Hunter's. “Discussion's over, Papa. If you'll both excuse me, I need to get this place cleaned up so I can get ready for my date.”

Without waiting for a response, she turned back to the sink and began to fill it with water. Behind her, her father muttered in French about ungrateful daughters and bad blood as he wheeled himself out of the kitchen. Aimee waited a moment, listening, expecting to hear Hunter push his chair away from the table and follow her father. Instead, she felt his gaze on her back.

He didn't speak. Seemed not to even move. She heard no rustle of clothes, no creak of furniture or flooring.

The silence was deafening.

Swearing to herself, she slid the bowls into the water, being deliberately noisy, wanting to drown out the sound of his silence.

Instead, his silence became louder. His scrutiny more intense. She swore again, this time aloud. She did not feel guilty, she told herself. She did not feel like a liar or a fraud. She was doing what she had to. What was right—for her, for Oliver.

Then why was she acting guilty? Why was she acting like she had something to hide?

She wasn't, she told herself, scrubbing one bowl, then another. She didn't wish to talk to him right now. That was all. She didn't want a scene. If he would just stop staring at her, everything would be fine.

He didn't cooperate. As usual.

With a sound of impatience, Aimee slammed off the water and spun around to face him. As she'd known he would be, he was staring at her.

“What?” she asked.

He lifted his eyebrows. “I didn't say anything.”

“You didn't have to.” She grabbed the dish towel and dried her hands with quick, jerky motions. “Let's not play games, Hunter. You have something on your mind. Spit it out.”

“All right.” He stood and crossed to her, stopping directly in front of her. She inched her chin up, setting her jaw stubbornly. “Earlier, you asked your father what he was doing. I'm wondering the same thing about you.” With his index finger he brushed a soap bubble from her cheek. “Want to clue me in, Slick?”

She cocked up her chin another notch. “I'm doing the dishes.”

“That's not what I mean. And you know it. I'm talking about Roberto and your…date.”

“What's so difficult to understand?” She folded her arms across her chest. “Unattached female goes dancing with unattached male. The scenario is an old one. Surely you've heard of it?”

“Now who's playing games?”

Heat stung her cheeks. He was right, and she was above playing games. At least, she liked to think she was. She turned back to the sink and plunged her hands into the warm, soapy water. What
was
she doing?

And worse, what was she hoping?

End this now, she thought. Do it this moment and cleanly, before something happened that she would regret forever. Something that would complicate this already impossible situation.

Taking a deep breath, Aimee looked him fully in the face without wavering. “It's time for you to go home, Hunter. I want you to go. People here are starting to hope for things that will never happen.”

For several seconds, Hunter searched her gaze. Then he took a step closer, stopping so close he obliterated her view of everything but him. “What people, Aimee?”

Me, she admitted silently, dying a little inside as she did. She loved him, and her heart was already broken.

“Oliver,” she said instead, quietly. “Papa.” She turned back to the dishes. “It's going to hurt them when you leave, and the longer you stay, the more it will hurt.”

“And when are you going to leave, Aimee?”

Under the cover of the sudsy water, she clenched her hands into fists. It hurt to have him refer to her future, a future that didn't include him. She thought of Roberto and of opportunities. “I'm not. This is my home.”

“You don't belong here. When are you going to admit that? You did once.”

“No, Hunter. It's you who doesn't belong. Go back to La La Land. Leave us alone.”

She turned back to the dishes, shutting him out. He caught her arm, forcing her to face him. “The other day you told me you weren't `completely unhappy.' Come on, Aimee. You belong here no more than I do. When are you going to stop hiding and start living again?”

His words would be laughable if they weren't so tragic. He was right—and wrong—and neither made a damn bit of difference. So she held on to her anger, her frustration, throwing both back at him.

“I do belong, Hunter. I intend to stay.” She put a hand on his chest, curling her wet, soapy fingers
into the soft cotton of his pullover. “I'm going to marry a good Cajun, raise Oliver and have more babies. Right here in La Fin. I'm going to be happy.”

She tightened her fingers, wanting to wound him as he'd wounded her. “And while I'm being happy, Hunter, what are you going to be? Alone?”

A muscle worked in his jaw. “If that's true, Aimee, why have you waited so long? Where is your `good Cajun'?”

Aimee gazed up at him, water from her hands dripping down her arms, puddling at her feet. They both knew why there was no man in her life; she would die before admitting it out loud.

She jerked her arm from his grasp. “That may be him calling for me at eight,” she said softly. “So, if you'll excuse me, I need to get ready.”

Without waiting for a reply, she turned and walked away, leaving Hunter and the unfinished dishes behind.

* * *

Hunter stood on Aimee's front gallery, the blood thrumming in his head, frustration and jealousy churning inside him. Behind him, the bayou slept. Before him, the road curved empty and black. Mocking him.

Where the hell was she?

Roubin had arrived home hours ago. It had been nearly that long since the last car had passed the store. Hunter knocked his fist against one of the gallery's cypress columns. It was after midnight; what could they be doing?

A picture of exactly what they might be doing filled his head, and Hunter's jaw tightened. Why had he let her go? He should have punched the other guy silly, then dragged her off.

Great technique, Hunter thought, reaching for his can of beer. That really would have impressed her.

Tipping his head back Hunter took a long swallow of the brew, enjoying its almost bitter bite. Roberto had called for Aimee precisely at eight. Dark in the way of the Cajuns who were descended from French and Spanish blood, Roberto was handsome. Too handsome. Vital and fit in the way of a man who worked with his hands and back for a living.

Hunter had expected someone different, someone less good-looking. Less confident with women. Aimee had called the man nice, for heaven's sake. Who would have expected Don Juan from that description?