by Hailey North
“Mrs. James, good morning.” Wearing a lavender linen shift and a big, floppy hat, Emily looked dressed for a garden party.
Hunter glanced down at his shorts with the bleach stains above the frayed hem and wondered what Emily was up to. At least she remembered to add the “Mrs.” to his mother’s name. All his school friends had called her by the honorary title, but the hateful ones had left it off on purpose. Emily, naturally, had fallen into the latter category.
Now she fluttered her lashes and said, “Oh, Hunter, you’re in town!”
Her feigned surprise was so poorly done, Hunter almost laughed. Only he didn’t feel like laughing. The one time in high school he’d asked her out, she’d mocked the very idea, calling over her circle of followers to announce the insult to them, and said if he ever came near her she’d have her boyfriend, Roger, beat him up. Only now that he’d made money, Emily sang a different song.
Hunter began sorting the packing materials of the new computer. “My Jeep’s parked right out front.”
“Really?” She trilled an annoying note or two, then moved in for the kill. “Roger and I are having a little get-together tonight. Nothing fancy. Just the old gang. Want to come—since you’re in town and all?”
“How is Roger?” That was his mother inquiring.
“Fine. Busy.” Emily removed her hat, lifted her heavy hair away from her neck, and fanned it lightly. “He’s always at work.” Emily’s full lips formed a pout and she gave Hunter an inviting look he had no trouble interpreting. “Why, you’d think he was married to that bank.”
Instead of to you. Hunter caught his mother’s seemingly noncommittal expression. Only the tapping of her fingertips on the matting betrayed her annoyance.
“Thanks, I’m busy,” Hunter said.
“Oh, well, maybe another time.” She cast a smoldering glance at him and backed out of the shop.
Hunter ripped a large piece of cardboard packing material into a more manageable size. “Wonder which one she wants more, my money or my manhood.”
His mother quit tapping and smiled. “I think you know that answer. You must have been in PE with Roger.”
Hunter grinned. “What a shocking thing for a mother to say to her son.”
“Hmm. That reminds me of another motherly thing I have to say to you.”
Thelma let go of the matting and folded her arms across the bib of the apron she always wore when framing pictures.
“Serious time,” Hunter said.
She nodded. “Throwing smoke in Emily’s eyes is one thing—not that you encourage that trollop. But that sweet Lucy Simone is head over heels in love with you and she deserves better than being your playmate when you have time and sitting home moping when you’re busy in New Orleans.”
Hunter shifted his feet. His neck prickled with warmth—something it always did when he knew he was in the wrong. He wondered fleetingly if anyone would believe that a guy who’d just made the covers of Money and Security could still chafe under his mother’s tongue-lashing. “I never intended her to fall in love.”
“Well, if that’s all you can say for yourself—”
“We’ve dated a few times. She’s nice. Sweet. Pretty.” Not bad in bed, but in a functional way. No fire within. And she never knew when he was joking and when he was serious. “She should know as well as I do that she’s not the woman for me.”
“No.” Thelma sighed. “You’d be burned out on her in two months and light out.”
Just like my father.
Hunter crossed his arms. “I never gave Lucy one reason to expect more than what exists. No promises.” His voice was harsh. “I’ll never run out on a commitment—and I’ll never marry until I meet a woman I know I will stand by no matter what.”
“And just when do you think that miracle might take place?”
At least she unfolded her arms and picked up a straight edge.
“I’ll know it when I know it.” A vision of the blonde in black tapped at the backs of his eyes.
Daffodil Landry.
He’d avoided pursuing her. Just over a week had passed since the fund-raiser for the Orphan’s Club. He’d located her home address and her phone number. Yet he hadn’t contacted her. He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for, but he sensed that if he waited, the right time would show itself. Or maybe he was afraid she’d turn out to be like all the other women he’d pursued—beautiful on the surface but lacking that special quality he knew he needed for a long-term commitment. He meant what he said to his mother—he sought the woman capable of inspiring him to harness whatever wandering genes he’d inherited from his unknown and good-for-nothing “father.”
“Humph. Humph. Humph.” His mother had resorted to muttering and shaking her head.
The doorbell jangled for the second time and in walked sweet little Lucy Simone.
Trapped.
“Hi, Mrs. James.”
“Hi, honey. Glass of tea?”
“That would sure be nice.” Lucy smiled, revealing perfect white teeth.
Aw, hell. Thelma was capable of keeping Lucy there until Hunter addressed the subject of their relationship—or rather the lack of one. Hunter shot a glare in his mother’s direction, but she’d turned around to the sun tea jar she kept filled and chilled all summer long. He knew he needed to make a clean break with Lucy, but he’d rather do it without an audience.
Lucy accepted the glass handed to her by his mother and made a beeline for the computer table, to which Hunter had retreated.
“Hunter, I didn’t know you were at home.” His ears pricked up. That sweetly questioning tone would turn to an all-out nag the minute Lucy had a ring slipped on her finger. He grimaced.
“Ooh, did you hurt your hand?” Lucy leaned over, reaching for his hand. The V neck of her T-shirt gave him a full view of her best assets.
He suppressed a groan and said, “I’m fine.” His mother was no doubt right—he’d led Lucy on, but those assets of hers clouded his judgment.
“Good. Do you want to go to Emily and Roger’s party with me? I bumped into her and she invited me to her little get-together.” Lucy sipped her tea, looking very satisfied with life.
It irritated Hunter to see how impressed Lucy was that Emily had included her. He and Lucy had been friends in school back in the days when Emily hadn’t even known Lucy’s name. “When was this?”
“Oh, just a few minutes ago. I was coming out of Paul’s Café and she was leaving the real estate office.”
He felt his reaction parade on his face as he lowered his brows. That bitch had invited Lucy, guessing she would ask Hunter to accompany her—after he’d turned Emily down. “Women,” he muttered. “How about we take in a movie instead?”
Her shoulders drooped. “I’ve never seen their house. I heard they have a waterfall in their den.”
He took her gently by the shoulders. “Lucy, she’s invited you to get me there.”
She jerked back, causing his hands to fall. For a second, he watched his hands in midair, not connected to her and seemingly displaced from his own body. Quite a metaphor for the state of his life.
“You’ve gotten a pretty big idea of yourself lately, Hunter James.”
He heard his mother making that humph, humph noise of hers.
“What makes you think it’s you she’s after? She’s got a husband, a rich one.” Lucy was working herself up. “Maybe she wants to be friends with me.”
“Emily’s idea of friendship is a lot like a black widow’s idea of love,” Hunter said.
“I think we’re just not good enough for you anymore. You think you’ve outgrown this podunk town and that’s why you chase all those women in New Orleans.”
Hunter shook his head, wondering how she knew anything about the women he’d gone out with—most of them at Aloysius’s urging—in New Orleans. “Lucy, look at me. I’m here, on Saturday afternoon, wearing the same shorts I’ve worn for the last five years. This is my ancient LSU T-shirt. What’s really going on?”
Suddenly her mouth curved into a perfect cover-girl smile. She widened her eyes and stepped forward, tracing a circle on the pocket of his shirt with one pink-tipped nail. “Take me to the party, pretty please?”
Saved by the bell. The door swung open and Lucy stepped back as Beau, her fifteen-year-old brother, dashed into the shop. He ran errands for Mrs. James and delivered the weekly entertainment tabloid The Crescent. Whistling, he waved one copy of the newspaper. Pointing to the stack under one skinny arm, he said, “Get your copy now! There’s already a pool going over at the Pit Stop, guessing who wrote this week’s letter to the Love Doc.”
He winked at Hunter—man to man—and deposited his papers in the metal bin inside the shop’s door.
Lucy had backed away a step from Hunter. “Wh-what letter is that?” Her voice quavered slightly.
Odd. Hunter studied her expression, which had gone so swiftly from cajoling to vaguely anxious. No, scratch the modifer. She tugged on her underlip with one forefinger and thumb.
“Loyal But Lonesome in Ponchatoula.” Beau guffawed and helped himself to a glass of iced tea. “Women! Who needs ’em? Excepting you, Mrs. James,” he added. “Any deliveries?”
Thelma shook her head and looked from Lucy to Hunter with a maternal intensity that made Hunter wish he could read the undertones more clearly.
Lucy started toward the stack of papers. Hunter passed her and slid one hand on top of the stack. Whatever was in that paper was sure making Lucy nervous.
“Page eight,” Beau said, swallowing a huge gulp of tea. “If I were you, Hunter, I’d go on over to the Pit Stop and lay a bet.”
Hunter lifted a paper and Lucy followed. Even his mother stopped laying out the lithograph she was matting and strolled over and helped herself to a copy.
“They say at the Pit Stop that this column’s almost as hot as that Millionaire game show was when it first came out.”
“Would you hush?” Lucy glared at her brother.
Hunter examined the logo of a prescription pad in the shape of a heart that decorated the box in which the Love Doctor’s column was framed. A lot too cutesy for his taste. He scanned the letter and the response quickly, noting the italicized identification of the letter’s author. Sure enough—Loyal But Lonesome in Ponchatoula had sought the advice of the Love Doctor. Whoever the hell that was.
He bent his head and read the actual column. Not a word was spoken in the shop as Lucy and his mother did the same. Beau started to whistle, but evidently thought better of it when his sister leveled an even fiercer glare at him.
“I never thought they’d print it,” Lucy said, dropping the paper and holding her hands to her cheeks.
“You dummy!” Beau snorted. Then he seemed to realize what she’d actually meant. “You wrote that letter?”
Hunter stared from Lucy back down to the column. Her only answer to her brother’s question was a sniffle as a tear trailed down her cheek.
Beau walked over, patted her on the shoulder, and said, “Well, don’t tell anyone till I put in a bet over at the Pit Stop.”
“Beau Simone,” Thelma said, “you know better than that. That would be wrong the same way insider trading is wrong.”
He shrugged and shuffled his feet. “Yes, ma’am.”
Hunter heard the chattering, even had time to think it unlikely that the fifteen-year-old had any concept as to what insider trading was. But his mind focused only on the phrase that burned in his brain. Diagnosis Terminal. And the way in which the phrase was waved like a red flag—this Love Doctor had judged him terminal not just in relation to Loyal But Lonesome, but in every relationship.
He wasn’t sure why he knew that; one could argue a more innocent interpretation. But Hunter never ignored his hunches.
Lucy’s sniffles were now a stream of tears. Hunter dropped his paper and walked to her side. Putting an arm around her, he said, “Lucy, it’s okay. There’s no reason to cry. I’m not upset.”
“You’re not upset!” Lucy’s voice rose to a wail. “Well, I won’t be able to hold my head up in this town. I sound so pathetic.”
He stroked her hair. “No, you don’t. You sound—” He hesitated, caught his mother’s stern glance, and said, “Sweet and loving. Which you are.”
Her lashes fluttered. The tears stopped.
“We’re just not meant for each other,” he added, before she could get too happy.
“Hunter’s too smart for you,” Beau said.
“Out. Get out.” Lucy pointed to the door, but her brother didn’t budge.
Hunter tipped her chin up and faced her accusing gaze squarely. “Lucy, we’ve been friends a long time. You’re sweet and I’m all rough around the edges. I’m not ready to settle down, and until I am, nothing can change that.”
She smiled, and did some more of her lash-fluttering. “Okay, Hunter. I understand. But you’ll be ready someday.” Pulling away from him, she moved to a wall mirror and began patting her face and rearranging her hair. “I am glad you’re not mad at me for writing that letter.”
Beau hooted. “If you think a man is gonna stand still for being labeled Diagnosis Terminal, you’ve got another think coming!”
Hunter nodded. “You’ve got that right, Beau, but it’s not Lucy I’m upset with.” He snatched up the offending column. “It’s this so-called expert. Who does she think she is? She doesn’t know one dar—, one thing about me and yet she sits in judgment.”
“How do you know she’s a she?” His mother asked the question in her sensible way, walking over to Lucy with a fresh glass of tea.
“The Love Doctor?” Hunter balled up the paper. “With a name like that, it’s got to be a woman.”
“Ah,” was all his mother said.
“I’m going back to New Orleans and show this know-it-all a thing or two.”
“You can’t,” Lucy said. “It’s anonymous.”
“What does that mean?”
“And I thought you were smarter than my sister,” Beau said.
“There’s no real name. It’s a big deal that no one knows who writes the column. Someone even wrote a story in the New Orleans Times offering a reward to anyone who could reveal the identity, but no one’s found out yet.”
“So a lot of people read this trash.” Hunter grimaced. They’d be laughing at him all over Ponchatoula, but at least in New Orleans no one would have a clue. “I guess you’re a regular reader?”
Lucy moved away from the mirror. Her clear skin gave no hint that she’d been crying only minutes earlier. Her T-shirt hugged her breasts, outlining her nipples just enough to be alluring. Beneath her short shorts, her long, tanned legs called out for a man to explore their length. It was a shame, Hunter thought, that he couldn’t accept the simple, good things life had to offer. Lucy was sweet, willing, and faithful. She’d gotten it right when she’d described herself as loyal.
And lonesome.
He shook his head. What was he thinking? Hitched to him, Lucy would still be lonesome. Marrying Lucy—or any woman whom he could too easily influence—would be the worst mistake of his life.
“Hunter?” Lucy was looking at him as if he were slightly delusional.
He realized he’d been staring at her breasts, and jerked his head away. He could in no way continue to lead her on. “You were saying this Love Doctor is hot?”
“All my girlfriends read it. The author’s pretty funny sometimes.” She sighed. “But it’s not too funny when it’s you and a friend she’s writing about.”
“You mean skewering. How much
is the reward?”
“A thousand dollars.”
Hunter shrugged. “Money isn’t always the best means of persuasion.”
“It’s not?” Beau said.
“Oh, no.” Hunter shook his head, real slow. “Sometimes it takes a man’s tricks to catch a woman.”
4
“Well, well, well.” Hunter paused, one hand on the handle of the double glass doors of The Crescent’s mid-city offices. Just inside, perched behind a receptionist’s desk, sat the blond vision who had so enticed him at the Orphan’s Club fund-raiser.
After he’d dragged her identity out of the mysteriously reluctant Aloysius, he’d purposely avoided calling Daffodil Landry. He’d had to disentangle himself from Lucy, and if one good thing had come from that pain-in-the-ass Love Doctor column, it was that he’d been given an opening to clear the air with Lucy.
But he still had a bone to pick with that know-it-all columnist, which explained his trip to The Crescent’s offices.
And here sat Daffodil Landry.
Could the heavens have smiled more kindly on him?
Hunter had observed that heaven usually helped those who helped themselves. He’d come to the paper’s offices planning to target a likely-looking employee, ply her with food and drink, and coax the answer he sought from his quarry.
What he would do when he discovered the identity of the Love Doctor, he hadn’t decided. But he’d think of some fitting punishment. Diagnois Terminal, indeed! He simply hadn’t met the right woman.
Or had he? After taking another long look at the blonde, who now had her head bent over the desk, Hunter smiled and pushed open the door.
She glanced up, and as her gaze focused on him, her lush lips halted in mid-curve of a welcoming smile. Fumbling with something on the desk, she looked from his face toward the door, then down at the telephone as if willing it to ring, before she met his eyes again. A slight blush tinged her cheeks.
Hunter gave her his best smile. Perhaps she was embarrassed at the direct way they’d sized up each other at the Orphan’s Club fund-raiser. She needn’t be, but the modesty was oddly appealing. That she remembered him, well, he’d bet his latest software creation on that. Curious to see what she’d reveal, he paused.
