Night Jasmine (8 page)

He lifted his gaze. Aimee stood directly across from him, talking with a customer. She held Oliver in her arms; he snuggled against her, his arms wrapped around her neck, his legs her middle. The boy's eyes drooped sleepily and Aimee rocked gently back and forth as she talked.

It hurt to watch them. Flat out. On a gut level, the place where he had
felt
being a parent, in the place that had once welled with pride and tenderness while watching Ginny hold Pete the very same way.

Hunter fisted his fingers against the pain. As he watched, Aimee lightly stroked Oliver's hair; every so often she would touch his cheek or the back of his neck. The gestures were ones of love, of ownership, ones that strengthened the physical bond between parent and child.

He'd touched Pete the same way. A lifetime ago. Then it had seemed as natural as breathing—now it seemed strange, foreign. The man he'd been five years ago was a world away from the one he was today. Hunter drew his eyebrows together and shifted uncomfortably in the rocking chair. Was he even capable of such tenderness, such love, any more?

He thought not. That part of him had died with Ginny and Pete.

Although looking at Oliver and knowing he was a part of the child but not a part of his life tugged strangely at him. It felt odd, knowing he was connected to Oliver in the most basic way, without ever having touched him at all—certainly not in the small, possessive ways of a parent. Odd, knowing that in all probability he never would.

He'd missed that part of being a parent. He hadn't realized how much until this moment. The memory of how Pete's skin had felt, baby smooth and as soft as rose petals, slipped out of his strongbox of memories and filled his head. Hunter's throat closed with emotion. Pete had liked his back rubbed as he drifted off to sleep. Hunter remembered continuing to stroke him long after Pete fell asleep, just because it felt so good to touch him.

Hunter squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the sweet memory because he knew what would follow it, fighting even though he knew it was too late. With his mind's eye he saw Pete, angelic in sleep, curled up on his side, his favorite toy, Toby Tiger, clutched to him. Hunter felt his mouth lifting at the mental picture, the joy of it filling him. Although a towhead, Pete had had long, dark eyelashes. Women had laughed about how unfair it was for a boy to have such lashes. In sleep they had formed soft, dark crescents against his downy cheeks, and his rose-colored mouth had been pouty in total relaxation.

Suddenly, the image in his head shifted, changing into another image, that of the very last time he'd seen his baby. Not sleeping. Not angelic though surely with the angels then.

Pain, swift and sharp, knifed through him. Jumping to his feet, Hunter strode out to the gallery, directly into the harsh sun. His eyes teared, then ran. He sucked in a deep breath, hoping to clear his head, but instead filling it with the smell of the morgue. And of the fire.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Powell, but I have to do this. Is this your son?”

Hunter's stomach pitched, the bile rising in his throat, hysteria with it.

His baby. His little Pete.

Hunter pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, the nightmare upon him.

“And this? Is this your wife?”

Dear God. Ginny…Ginny…

He'd lost it then, crumbling. They'd had to drag him out; he hadn't wanted to leave them there like that. They deserved so much better. His boy. His wife. In that moment he had understood the madness that sometimes takes a person at the death of a loved one.

“Why not me instead?” he'd cried. “Why not me instead?”

The screen door squeaked, and Hunter opened his eyes. Oliver peeked at him from around the door, his dark gaze unblinking and full of curiosity.

Hunter stared at the child, the terror retreating, reality and a sense of equilibrium returning. He put a hand on the cypress column for support and tried to smile. He failed miserably.

For a moment it looked as if Oliver was going to duck back inside without speaking, then he pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Owie?” he asked.

Hunter made a choked sound and nodded. Oliver cocked his head, moving his gaze over Hunter. He frowned. “Where it hurt?”

Emotion rose in Hunter's throat and he flexed his fingers, forcing the emotion back, fighting for control. “Here,” he said finally, thickly, pressing a hand to his chest, to his heart.

Oliver was silent for a moment as if considering that. Then he inched the rest of the way through the door and crossed hesitantly to Hunter, stopping in front of him.

The boy tipped his head back to look up at Hunter. “Kiss make better?”

Hunter's breath caught. Pete had started doing that, right before he…before the end. He had started pressing soft, sloppy kisses on every hurt, real or imaginary.

Hunter shook his head, a thread of panic curling through him, recoiling at the idea of a child other than Pete kissing him. “I don't think so,” he murmured, taking a step back. “Thanks, but I…don't…need…”

Hunter's words faltered as he gazed down at Oliver's face. In it he saw trust and the simple, unshakable belief that a kiss really had the ability to take pain away. Oliver didn't know him; judging by his previous behavior, he didn't even quite trust him. Yet, he was offering to take his pain away. Hunter swallowed past the knot of emotion in his throat. Oliver was offering him a gift born out of pure love for a fellow human being.

Nothing
could be less—or more—complicated.

He couldn't turn Oliver down, Hunter thought gazing at the little boy's upturned face. Oliver wouldn't understand the refusal. He didn't yet have the ability, hadn't yet experienced enough of life's hard knocks.

But if he had the ability, he never would have made the offer.

That meant something, Hunter realized. It was important. And suddenly, more than anything in the world, he wanted the gift of healing this child offered.

Hunter dropped to Oliver's level. The boy looked into his eyes for one brief moment, then leaned forward and touched his lips to the place directly over Hunter's heart.

As light as the stroke of a butterfly's wing, Oliver's touch hit Hunter with the force of a punch to the gut. Hunter sucked in a sharp breath, the aftershocks ricocheting through him.

“Oliver?”

Hunter shifted his gaze to the doorway. Aimee stood there, her expression blank with surprise. She opened her mouth to speak, then shut it.

Oliver turned and ran to his mother. He paused when he reached her, taking a quick peek back at Hunter. A ghost of a smile touched his mouth, then he ducked into the store. Without saying a word, Aimee followed him.

Hunter stared at the empty doorway for long moments, his thoughts a jumble.

Kiss make better.

Hunter shook his head, the strangest sensation building inside him. A sensation at once heavy and light, brilliant and dark. An ache. A sweetness.

A need.

Hunter shook his head in denial. He was becoming fanciful. He'd been moved by the child's generosity, by the darkness of his own memories. That was all.

He needed to get away from Aimee and Oliver, this place. He needed a couple of hours' change of scenery, needed something to occupy his mind other than the past and the dynamics of a family he had no business becoming involved with.

He had to find a way to put more emotional distance between himself, Aimee and Oliver.

Straightening, Hunter crossed the gallery and descended the stairs to his car. As he opened the door, he looked back at the store. Aimee stood at the window. Something in her expression pulled at him and for long moments, he stood unmoving, his gaze locked with hers. Then he broke the contact, climbed into his car and drove away.

* * *

It took Hunter nearly three hours to put what had occurred between him and Oliver into perspective, and to rationalize how the boy's gesture had made him feel. During that time he'd also assured himself that he was not becoming involved in Aimee or Oliver's life. He'd reasoned that he hadn't totally recovered from the shock of discovering he had another child. Once he did, he wouldn't have any problem maintaining his emotional distance.

Sure.

Hunter parked his car beside the store and stepped out into the early afternoon sun. An older woman sat in a rocking chair on the gallery, Oliver asleep in her lap. She looked up and smiled as he approached.

“You must be Hunter,” she said in a voice heavily laced with the Cajun patois. “I'm Marie. Roubin's sister.”

Her smile was broad, genuine and full of warmth. Hunter found himself returning it in kind. “It's a pleasure to meet you.”

She looked him over, her expression openly curious. He wondered if she'd been told of his relationship to Oliver. If she had, he saw no antagonism in her expression, no judgment.

“You are a friend of Aimee's from California.”

It wasn't a question, but he answered anyway. “Yes.”

“Me, I've never been to California.” She laughed. “But I've been to Shreveport.”

Hunter stopped at the base of the stairs. “Well, you have me there. I've never been to Shreveport.”

“You are not missing much.”

Hunter laughed, liking Marie's sense of humor. Her openness. “Is Aimee here?”

“
Non.
She took Roubin to New Orleans. To see the physical therapist.” She clucked her tongue. “What a mess! My brother, he is not a good patient.”

“I've noticed,” Hunter murmured, unwittingly shifting his gaze from hers to the sleeping Oliver.

“He is beautiful,
non?
”

Hunter looked up at the woman, then back at Oliver, a catch in his chest. “He looks like his mother.”

“More than you know,
cher.
I could show you photographs.” She shook her head and clucked her tongue again. “
Incroyable!
They are like mirror images.”

Hunter told himself to murmur a nicety or two, then excuse himself. Instead, he found himself climbing the stairs. “Really?”

“Of course, there are differences. He is a boy, after all. But he looks like Roubin, too. And like me.” Marie threaded her fingers through Oliver's hair. “The Boudreaux blood, it is strong. No matter who we marry, our babies, they look like our people.”

She shook her head and squinted at a car that drove past, then lifted her hand in greeting. Turning back to him, she looked him straight in the eye. “Your blood, it is good?”

Hunter met her gaze just as seriously as she met his. “I like to think so.”

For a moment she remained silent as she rocked the chair rhythmically back and forth, then she angled him a glance from the corners of her eyes. “You are enjoying your visit?”

“Very much.”

“The bayou, she is beautiful.
Non?
”

“Yes.”

The chair creaked as Marie shifted her weight. “And so are her women. The most beautiful in the world. You agree?”

She gave him a look that dared him to disagree. Hunter smiled. But how could he? He'd always thought Aimee the most beautiful woman he'd ever known. “I do agree. Present company included.”

Marie colored with pleasure. “And Aimee, she has been cooking for you?” When he nodded, she continued, “She is a good cook. She makes the gumbo, the
étouffée,
the couscous. She has cooked these for you?”

Marie was matchmaking, Hunter realized. Gently. But with about as much subtlety as a steamroller. Instead of making him uncomfortable, Marie's obvious love and concern for Aimee pleased him. He fought a smile, imagining what Aimee's reaction to this conversation would be if she could somehow overhear it. She would be furious.

Hunter settled into the rocker next to hers. “Some,” he answered.

“Bon.”

The woman said the word as if Hunter's fate was now sealed. Little did she know, Hunter thought ruefully, that Aimee wouldn't have him even if he had the ability to make a commitment.

“Poor Aimee,” Marie murmured. “My brother, he is so stubborn. He makes it very difficult for her to be a good daughter.” The woman sighed. “It has always been hard between them. They are so different, yet so much the same. If there had been other children, maybe things would have been otherwise. But Roubin and his Rose were only blessed with Aimee. It was a great tragedy for them.” She readjusted Oliver in her lap, and the small boy whimpered in protest. “My brother, he pinned so many hopes on Aimee, that when she wanted to leave…well, they fought bitterly over it.”

Aimee hadn't talked much about her family, not in terms of problems anyway. Not in terms of dynamics. She'd described them all, had talked lovingly of both her people and the bayou. Although she'd mentioned his stubbornness, she had spoken only with pride of her father.

And sadness, Hunter remembered, frowning. Aimee had always sounded sad when speaking of her father and her home. She'd written letters to her father, but to Hunter's knowledge, she had never received any in return.

Let it drop, he told himself. This definitely qualified in the “getting too involved, maintain distance” category. Instead, he turned back to Marie. “What happened?”

She shrugged. “My brother, he thought he could keep her with him through guilt. And shame. But he could not. It broke his heart when she left, yet still he closed the door.”

Hunter reached out to touch Oliver's silky hair, then realizing what he was doing, frowned and dropped his hand. “What do you mean, closed the door?”

“He told her she was dead to him, to the family, until she came back to her people. Until she was ready to be a good daughter, to do her duty toward him.” At Hunter's shocked expression, she said, “You did not know any of this?”

When Hunter shook his head, she continued, “It was very bad. Both so unhappy. But both so stubborn.” She lifted her shoulders. “Even when Roubin became ill, he would not relent. He forbade any of us to contact her. It caused us all great pain, but we felt we must respect his wishes.”