Night Jasmine (22 page)

Hunter swore, refusing to think of Aimee's hurt. Of Oliver's. They would get over him, he told himself. They would go on to have a nice life, one free of his ghosts. A life with someone who could freely love them.

He would bring them nothing but unhappiness.

“If you need anything, if Aimee or Oliver needs anything, don't hesitate to call.” Hunter held out one of his business cards. “Here are my numbers. If they need…anything, call me. Aimee won't want to, you know that. I'm depending on you to do this, Roubin.”

Roubin gazed at his outstretched hand a moment, then nodded and took the card.
“Oui.
I will do this.”

“I'm going to set up a college fund for Oliver. Aimee will agree. And even if she doesn't, it will be there.” Hunter took another step back. “Well, I guess this is goodbye.”

“So you will run away like the swamp dog?” Roubin frowned up at him. “I was wrong about you,
mon ami.
I thought you were a man.”

Hunter stiffened, against the other man's words, against the way they made him feel. He hadn't realized just how much Roubin's respect had meant until this moment, until he'd lost it.

Hunter made a sound of frustration. He didn't have to justify himself to Roubin. He owed him no explanations.

Then why did he feel the urge to explain? To convince? And why did it bother him so much that he couldn't?

“I want Aimee and Oliver to have this,” he said stiffly. He handed Roubin the packed music box. “She can do what she wants with it. Maybe Oliver…” Hunter's voice thickened, and he cleared his throat. “Goodbye, Roubin.”

The older man didn't respond, and Hunter didn't hang around waiting for him to. Feeling as if he were leaving a piece of himself behind, maybe the most important piece, Hunter walked down the gallery steps for the last time.

* * *

When Aimee returned home the following day, Hunter was gone. She would have known, even if her father hadn't called her at the hospital with the news, even if she hadn't been the one who'd pushed Hunter into leaving. Everything felt different—quieter, emptier. Somehow gray.

She felt as if a part of her was missing.

She shook her head against the thought and moved her gaze around the store. It was unbelievable to her how accustomed she'd become to Hunter's presence, how much she'd grown to depend on seeing him. He'd fit so quickly into their lives, so easily.

He'd taken up residence in her heart with even less effort.

Aimee found her father's gaze, then looked away from the compassion in his eyes. She'd never announced her feeling, her love, for Hunter. Obviously, he'd known anyway.

Oliver squirmed out of her arms and raced for his grandfather.
“Pépàre!”

Roubin caught the boy to his chest, holding him tightly. “No worse for wear, eh?” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

“Hospital smelled funny.” Oliver wrinkled his nose. “Yucky.”

Aimee smiled. The invincibility of youth. After everything he'd been through, the two things that had made the biggest impression on her son had been the smell of the hospital and the green Jell-O they'd served with lunch.

“If you don't mind, Papa, I'd like to take Oliver over to the house for a while. Let him play with his toys and…”

Her voice trailed off, her smile faded. She met her father's eyes. On the counter by the cash register sat Hunter's music box.

“He left it for you. And Oliver.”

Her legs trembling, Aimee crossed to it and touched the glass dome lightly. Her head filled with the memory of lying in bed with Hunter, of gazing into one another's eyes, the music box's melody filling the quiet. She blinked against the tears that stung her eyes. She would never be able to look at the beautiful box and not remember making love with Hunter.

Aimee drew her hand back from the glass and wrapped her arms around her middle. Why had he left it? She didn't want to remember, didn't want to spend another moment wishing for what would never be.

And yet, when she looked at the music box, she could do nothing but.

“I tried to get him to stay,
chère.
”

Aimee smiled sadly. “I know, Papa. It's okay. I'm going to be fine.”

Oliver squealed, suddenly seeing the music box. “Wind, Maman.” She did, and he slid off his grandfather's lap and raced over to it. For several moments he watched the belle circle the base, then looked back up at Aimee. “Where Mr. Hunter?” He looked around, his expression expectant.

Aimee took a deep breath and counted to ten. The moment she had been dreading had arrived. He would be hurt by Hunter's departure, and there was nothing she could do but tell him the truth. “Honey,” she began gently, “Mr. Hunter had to go home.”

Not listening, Oliver ran to the rear of the store, to the back door and yard beyond. A second later he trotted back, frowning. “Where Mr. Hunter?”

Aimee exchanged a worried glance with her father. “Come here, Oliver.” She bent down and held out her arms. “Maman needs to talk to you.”

Oliver started toward her, dragging his feet as if he knew what was coming and wanted to put off the inevitable. When he reached her, she scooped him into her arms and carried him out to one of the rocking chairs on the front gallery.

For several moments she rocked him silently, preparing her thoughts, using the moments and the gentle motion of the chair to lull him. “Mr. Hunter,” she began softly, “went back to California. Remember, we talked about this. I explained about his business.”

“No…no.” Oliver shook his head. “Music box here.”

“He left it for us. It's a gift.” She forced a smile. “He knew how much you liked it.”

Oliver's eyes filled and he shook his head again, this time vehemently, as if by denying reality, he could change it.

“Yes, baby. He's gone. He had to go.”

“But…he no said goodbye to me.”

“He did. At the hospital.” She rubbed his back in soothing circles, wondering if Hunter really had. “You were sleeping.”

Oliver
drew in a trembling breath and hung his head. “I sorry,” he whispered.

She nuzzled the top of his head. “For what, baby?”

“Going to water alone. Mr. Hunter left `cause I bad boy.”

“No.” Aimee hugged her son tightly, hating that he blamed himself, hating herself for making his misery possible. “You're not a bad boy. And you had nothing to do with Mr. Hunter leaving. California is his home. It was time for him to go…home.”

She squeezed Oliver tighter, the image of her son, face down in the bayou, filling her head. With the image came a choking fear. She battled it. Her son needed her now, he needed her strong and calm.

“Hunter was worried about you,” she said softly. “So was your
Pépàre.
We were all very frightened. Promise me you'll never go down by the water without an adult again.” She tipped his face up to hers and looked him in the eye. “Can you promise me that?”

He nodded, tears trembling on his lashes. “Promise, Maman.”

She smiled with more confidence than she felt. “Good boy.”

He looked up at her, his dark eyes hopeful. “Mr. Hunter come back now?”

“No, baby. He's not coming back.”

“But…I no want him to go.” He started to cry and pressed his face to her chest. “Want him to stay.”

“I know.” Aimee rubbed his back, letting him cry, struggling against the need to cry herself. She had wished for Hunter to stay, too. “But sometimes,” she murmured as much to her son as to herself, “even when we want something more than anything, we can't have it.”

“Why?” Oliver whispered, the sound muffled against her T-shirt.

Good question, she thought. If only she had a good answer. She kissed the top of his head. “It's just part of life, baby. Part of living.”

* * *

“Oliver, he is going to be all right?” Roubin asked two nights later.

Aimee tucked the blanket around her son, then turned and faced her father, sitting in the doorway behind her. She knew her father referred not to Oliver's near drowning, but to his grief over Hunter's departure. Tears filled her eyes. The last couple of days had been difficult, in different ways, for them all. Even her father had seemed to be grieving.

She didn't fight or try to hide the tears in her eyes and voice. “He's hurt. He'd grown to love Hunter.”

“We all did,
non?
”

“Yes.” She drew a deep breath and expelled it slowly. “He thinks he's coming back. Because of the music box.”

“I am sorry,
chère.
So sorry.”

“Me, too.”

“Come.” Roubin motioned behind him. “Oliver, he will be fine. Let us talk.”

Aimee nodded and stood. “I think that's a good idea, Papa. There are some things I need to discuss with you.”

They went to the kitchen, moving side-by-side, Roubin wheeling himself. Only a few short weeks ago, she would have pushed him, and neither one of them would have questioned it. Now her father rarely asked for her help.

When they reached the kitchen, Aimee saw that he had made coffee and put out some of the cookies Tante Marie had brought by.

She looked at him in surprise, and he laughed. “This old man, he is still some good to you,
non?
He can still surprise his
petite-fille.
” He motioned to the table. “Sit…sit.”

Aimee did, and Roubin poured her a cup of coffee and brought it to her. Her throat constricted at the pride and pleasure in his eyes as he handed her the cup.

She wrapped her hands around the steaming mug, finding the heat comforting despite the warm night. Hunter was responsible for her father's progress. In the weeks he had been with them, he had done so much for them. He'd changed their lives.

Would she ever be able to look at her father, accept a cup of coffee from him, and not remember? Not think of Hunter?

Bittersweet pain curled through her, and she sipped the coffee. She looked up to find her father watching her carefully, his expression worried. She smiled. “I'm fine, Papa. I am.”

Flustered, he set his own mug on the table. “I am your father. I am entitled to worry.”

Aimee laughed and gazed at her father with affection. It felt good sitting here with him like this, talking. When was the last time they'd shared a cup of coffee and a laugh? Too long.

She reached out and covered his hand with her own. “Oh, Papa, you never change.”

“And this is bad?”

“Non,”
she said, falling into his patois. “It is good.
Très bon.
”

He curled his fingers around hers. “I love you,
chère.
I always have.”

She returned the pressure of his fingers. “And I you, Papa.”

“Bon.”
He eased his hand from hers and inched the cookie plate her way. “Eat. Marie, she says you are too thin.”

“She does, does she?” Aimee murmured, grinning, but selected a cookie obediently. It did as much good to argue with Marie as it did with her father.

But, the time had arrived to become fully an adult. To live for herself, to make the choices she needed to—for herself and her own well being. And she needed to make a change. She needed to move forward with her life. It would affect her father. He would be hurt.

How could she make him understand that her need for change had nothing to do with him? Aimee broke off a piece of the cookie and tasted it, finding it rich and almost cloyingly sweet. She hated to hurt him;
she'd disappointed him so often.

She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. She'd disappointed herself more.

“We are at a crossroads. I know this,
chère.
You do not need to worry over your old papa. He will understand.”

Aimee looked up, surprised. She lifted her eyebrows in question.

He shook his head and chuckled. “I could always read you. Sometimes, I pretend otherwise because I do not like what I see. Just as sometimes you do not like to face the truth.”

“We're so much alike.”

Roubin nodded. “
Oui.
It has always been so.”

Through the open window came the cry of an egret, the croak of a bullfrog. Aimee pushed her chair from the table, stood and crossed to look out. In the dark, she saw the flash of the fireflies. She thought of the summer nights of her childhood, of the hours spent chasing them. The days and nights had seemed endless then, yet now they slipped by so quickly, faster even than the wink of a firefly's light.

She reached out and touched the screen. “I had a wonderful childhood, Papa. I think of that girl sometimes, of her growing up here on the bayou, as much a part of this place as the jasmine or the egret. And yet, I always wanted something different. Always dreamed of some place else. I don't know why. I love it here. I love being near you and the rest of the family.”

Aimee drew her hand back from the screen. “But I'm the same girl I was then, the same young woman who defiantly left La Fin,” she continued quietly. “I have the same dreams. The same longings.”

She looked over her shoulder at her father, smiling sadly. “For a while I gave them up. I told myself I'd been foolish to wish for something other than what I had, I told myself my dreams were foolish.”

She turned back to the fireflies and their elusive light. “I told myself I believed what you'd told me so many times, that I belonged here and no place else. That I was wrong to leave.”

“chère,
I—”

She turned her back to the night and faced her father fully. “Let me finish, Papa. This isn't easy for me. It'll be better if I just say it.”

He inclined his head and folded his trembling hands in his lap.

“For a long time now,” she continued, “I've been floundering. Not happy, but not unhappy, either. Hunter helped me…see that.” Her throat closed, and she cleared it. “California was a disaster. Because of my love affair with Hunter and because my photography exhibit bombed. I ran home to lick my wounds. I ran home because I was afraid. For the first time in my life I'd failed. For the first time in my life I had no self-confidence.”