Night Jasmine (23 page)

Her father's lips lifted a little at that, and hers did, too. Growing up she had been self-confident to a fault. Her mother had always teased that in that way she was her father's daughter. In truth, she was his image in many ways.

“So here I was in La Fin. Licking my wounds. Hiding. And I guess that was okay, for a while. But I never stopped hiding, Papa. Never stopped licking my wounds and feeling sorry for myself. The time has come to stop.”

“What are you trying to say, Aimee?”

She crossed back to him and knelt in front of his chair. She gathered his hands in hers. “I love you, Papa. I wish I could be everything you want me to be. And I hate to let you down.”

She brought his hands to her cheek. “But I have to be everything I want to be first. I have to make sure I don't disappoint myself. I knew that once, but somewhere along the line I forgot it.”

“I did not make it easy for you.” He shook his head. “I am a hard, demanding man.”

“A good man,” she corrected. “A good father.” She kissed his hands, then released them. “I don't know what I'm going to do, not exactly. And I don't know where I'm going to go…I only know I have to make a change. I wanted you to know what was in my heart, Papa.”

“I have always known,
chère
.” He touched her cheek. “You are a good daughter.”

Emotion took her breath. Those words, from him, meant more than
any others could. “Thank you, Papa,” she whispered.

Aimee stood and crossed back to the window. She wished her answers were there in the dark, in the scent of the jasmine, the flash of the fireflies. But, she knew, the answers she needed could only come from within herself.

“You will take up your camera again?”

“Yes.” She smiled. “That much I do know.”

“Bon.”
Roubin nodded. “It is time. You are very talented. I have always been proud of your pictures, of your ability.”

Aimee gazed at him, tears of surprise and pleasure pricking her eyes. A moment ago she'd thought he couldn't say anything that would please her more; she'd been wrong. “You never said that before. You never indicated you thought I had talent or—”

“I always thought it.” He wheeled across to her. “I was jealous of your camera,
chère.
Jealous of your talent. I knew that one day, it would steal you from me.”

Her eyes brimmed, then spilled over.

“Oh, Papa—”

“Non.”
This time it was he who held up a hand indicating she should listen. “I have done many bad things in my life. Many selfish things. The biggest was trying to make you into the daughter, the person, I wanted you to be. Even when I knew it made you unhappy.”

His eyes grew bright. “For a long time now, I have refused to face your unhappiness.” He shook his head. “I see, but I do not want to. Because I am a selfish man…because I want you here. With me.”

He sighed heavily. “But you were so happy with Hunter, I could not refuse to see any more.” He turned his gaze, wet with emotion, on her. “Above all in life,
petite-fille,
I want happiness for you.”

“Oh, Papa…” She went to him, bent down and hugged him. “I love you so much.”

He hugged her back and for a long time, they just held one another. Finally, Aimee drew away, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “But what are you going to do?”

Roubin brushed at his own cheeks, looking flustered. He cleared his throat. “I have been a fool in so many ways. I have spent the last four years wishing for my old life, growing bitter with my own unhappiness. By wishing for my old life, I have thrown away the life I have now. I am still strong.
Le bon Dieu,
he does not take away my mind. Hunter, he helped me to see these things.

“I will work hard to walk again, Aimee. But, I will be happy with whatever progress
le bon Dieu,
he offers me.” He squared his shoulders. “I have talked to Cousin Alphonse. He tells me stories. Those boys, calling themselves fishermen. They know nothing!” Roubin snorted. “They need a man like me to talk to them, to guide them. No one knows the bayou like Roubin Boudreaux!”

Aimee laughed. This was the man she remembered. She hugged him again. “I'm so pleased. So… proud.”

Roubin snorted again. “I have been like the
petit-bébé
for too long. Enough!”

“We've come a long way, haven't we, Papa?” she murmured, looking back out the window, to the darkness beyond. Because of Hunter, she acknowledged silently. He'd come into their lives and healed them. If only they'd been able to do the same for him.

“You think of Hunter now, yes?”

Aimee nodded. “Yes.”

“You will go after him?”

“No.” She drew in a quiet breath. “It's over between us.”

“He loves you,
chère.
I know this.”

She shook her head, still gazing out at the night. “He wants to, Papa. He does. But he can't. His pain's too great. And I can't settle for less than his whole heart, no matter how much it hurts.”

Chapter Twelve

“B
onjour!”

Aimee looked up from her portfolio. The woman who had called out the cheery French greeting swept into the store like a whirlwind. Tiny, with fire red hair and startling blue eyes, she looked amazingly like a pixie. Or a leprechaun.

Aimee returned her smile. “Hello.”

“And, how are you,
chère?
”

“Fine, thank you,” Aimee answered automatically, fighting the urge to tell this stranger the truth—that she had a broken heart, that she was afraid it would never be whole again.

The redheaded pixie clucked her tongue in much the same manner Marie did. Aimee looked at her and experienced the strangest sensation that this woman already
knew
the truth.

Impossible, Aimee told herself, shaking off the sensation. She was oversensitized, her emotions turned upside down and backward because of Hunter. That was all.

Odd, though, Aimee thought, tilting her head, studying the other woman. She didn't recall having met the redhead before, yet something about the way the woman looked at her made her feel she had.

Could she be a friend of Marie's? Aimee wondered. Or of one of the other relatives?

“I'm sorry,” Aimee asked, “have we met?”

“Only indirectly.” The woman sailed across the room and handed Aimee her business card. “Marla's Small Miracles. Marla, at your service.”

“Oh.” Aimee stared at the card, the name plucking at her memory.

“
Merci Dieu!
There it is!”

Aimee looked up in time to see Marla scoop up the music box with a flourish. Of course, Aimee remembered. Small Miracles was the shop where Hunter had purchased the box. She drew her eyebrows together. But what was…Marla doing here? How had she found her?

Without taking her eyes from the box, Marla murmured, “Your Hunter, he asked me for directions to this place.”

Your Hunter.
Aimee squeezed her eyes shut, the words taunting her. Battling back the urge to tell Marla he was no longer
her Hunter,
Aimee folded her arms across her chest. “I see. But what—”

“I had hoped, prayed, the box would still be here.” Marla hugged it to her chest. “I must buy it back.”

“Pardon me?”

“Maman!” Oliver trotted into the room, dragging his push cart full of blocks behind him. “I hungry. Want…”

He caught sight of Marla, stopped and stared.

“What an adorable child!” Marla exclaimed. The music box still clutched to her breast, Marla bent down and motioned him closer. After sending Aimee a questioning glance, Oliver inched cautiously toward Marla.

He stopped in front of her, and she smiled. “And what is your name, beautiful child?”

“Oliver,” he said, studying the woman much the same as Aimee had moments before. Suddenly he smiled, big and brilliantly. “Saw you at hospital. Came to see me.”

She laid her hand softly on the top of his head, in the same manner as the priests at Communion. “I am glad you are well, Oliver. But you are mistaken,
petit.
We have not met.”

“Yes.” He nodded vehemently. “At hospital.”

Marla straightened and turned back to Aimee. She smiled and shrugged. “So many people, they look alike.”

Aimee bit back a smile. Surely Marla knew that no one looked quite like her. “My son had an…accident last week. He spent the night in the hospital and… well, it's a miracle he's alive.”

“A miracle,” Marla repeated, smiling and looking pleased with herself. “That is precisely why I have come. You will sell the box to me?”

Aimee shook her head. “I'm sorry you've come all this way, but the box was a gift from…a friend. It's very precious to me. I couldn't part with it.”

Marla clucked her tongue again and set the box back on the counter. “We should not become too attached to material things. After all, is not love the most precious gift of all? The only one worth clinging to?”

Sudden tears stung Aimee's eyes and she blinked against them. If only Hunter had believed her love worth clinging to. If only he had found the gift of her heart the most precious of all.

Aimee cleared her throat. “Of course, that's true. But I—”

“Then, there is nothing to discuss.” Marla caught Aimee's hands and looked her directly in the eye. “All the pieces, they are now fitting into place. The plantation this beautiful thing came from, it is to be restored. The owners are desperate to get the box back.”

Ashland, Aimee remembered. Hunter had told her about it. She'd been saddened by the plight of the family, saddened by the thought of them having to sell off their heirlooms. But still…

“It is a piece of their history,
chère.
A clue to their past.” Marla squeezed her fingers. “It means so very much to them.”

“I don't know….” Aimee looked at the box, torn. “As I said, it was a gift—”

“People need box?” Oliver asked suddenly, looking up from his push cart and blocks.

“Yes,” Marla murmured, her expression solemn. “Very much.”

Oliver tipped his head, studying Marla, puckering his lips in thought. Then he nodded his head. “Give to lady, Maman,” he said. “People need.”

Aimee gazed at her son. He couldn't have surprised her more if he'd just recited the Declaration of Independence. He loved that music box. He believed Hunter would come back to get it. Why in the world would…he…

Aimee let the thought trail off, and she shifted her gaze back to the pixie-woman. Marla smiled. “I'll pay you one thousand dollars for it.”

“A thousand dollars?” Aimee repeated incredulously.

“
Oui,
in cash. Now.”

One thousand dollars, Aimee thought. The box would go back to its original owners, where it belonged. She would have enough money to—

“Enough money to set up a darkroom,” Marla said, interrupting her thoughts. She gestured to the open portfolio. “These, they are yours?”

“Yes, I…” Aimee drew her eyebrows together, off-balance. The woman seemed to be reading her mind. Ridiculous, of course. But unsettling nonetheless. “Yes, they are.”

“They are very good.” Marla looked her in the eyes again. “You have a great talent.”

“Thank you, but I…” Aimee shook her head. “Thank you.”

Marla opened her purse and took out her wallet. She counted out ten one hundred dollar bills and held them out. “This, it is the right thing to do,
chère.
You do not need the box any more.”

“Don't need?” Aimee frowned, her thoughts a jumble. “I don't understand. I—”

Marla took Aimee's hands, placed the money in them and curled her fingers around the crisp bills. “Trust me,
chère.
I would not lie to you.”

Aimee gazed at the woman. Strangely, she believed her; strangely, she did think it was the right thing to do. Aimee nodded slowly. “All right. It's yours.”

Marla smiled. “You will not regret,
non.
” She started for the door, the music box nestled in the crook of her arm. She blew Oliver a kiss. “And you,
petit,
you stay away from the bayou.”

And then she was gone. Aimee stared after her, feeling as if she'd just gone through the eye of a hurricane. She shifted her gaze from the doorway to the money clutched in her hands. She'd sold her beautiful music box. It, like Hunter, was gone. Now, truly, it was over between them.

Tears pricked at Aimee's eyes, and she blinked against them, not wanting Oliver to see her cry. It was for the best, she told herself, crossing to the screen door and looking out. Every time she'd looked at the music box, she'd been reminded of what she'd almost had. And, now, what she would never have.

Oliver came up beside her. “Kiss make better?”

She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak or meet his eyes.

Reaching up, Oliver curled his fingers around hers. His were sticky. “No cry, Maman. Mr. Hunter come back.”

Aimee did look at her son then, her eyes swimming with tears. She tried to smile and failed miserably. “I don't think so, baby.”

“Yes.” He leaned against her legs and yawned. “Lady told me.”

“Lady?”

“One with red hair.” He yawned again. “Sleepy, Maman.”

Aimee shook her head and lifted him into her arms. He curved his arms around her neck and snuggled his face into the crook of her neck. Her heart turned over. How could she be sad when she still had Oliver? How could she not be deliriously happy when she had so much love?

She thought of Marla and for the first time in days, hope swelled inside her. Everything was going to be okay. She was going to be okay. Kissing the top of her son's head, she said, “I'd better get you some lunch before you fall asleep without it.”

* * *

The cemetery's ornate wrought-iron gates stood open. For long minutes Hunter waited just beyond, not quite ready to accept their invitation.