Amalise went still, eyes riveted to the door. Jude followed her look but saw nothing to attract her attention.
Something was bothering Amalise this evening and she'd just disappeared down a rabbit hole. Her reserve put him on edge. So Jude filled the long silence by going on about his real estate idea, while part of his mind worked on putting the real question before her.
The waiter appeared. "Would you like coffee tonight?"
Still thinking about Amalise's odd behavior, he looked up at the waiter and then raised his brows toward Amalise. But her attention was fixed somewhere past him.
"Coffee, Amalise?" Jude tipped his head to one side. A busboy came and moved around them, whisking away their plates, silverware, and the basket of bread and refilling the water glasses.
She flinched. She looked up at the waiter and shook her head. "Not for me."
Jude suppressed an exasperated sigh. He looked at the waiter. "I'll have a cup, please. Cream and sugar." He turned to Amalise. "How about dessert?"
"Not tonight."
The waiter nodded, seeming to sense the tension. He scooped up their napkins, handed them to the busboy, and hustled off.
The incipient hope had died.
Rebecca. Jude kept mentioning her name. Amalise turned this over in her mind as he spoke to the waiter, moved aside for the busboy, asked if she'd like some coffee or dessert. She knew she couldn't eat a thing right now.
This new plan, this huge change in his life—giving up his pilot's license—he'd been mulling it over awhile, he'd said. He had never mentioned it to her before, but it sounded like he'd talked it over with Rebecca. Giving up the river! She could hardly take it in.
How long had Rebecca known about this, and why hadn't she mentioned it to Amalise? A wave of misery rolled through her as she tracked back over everything that Jude had said tonight, and the truth unfolded methodically in her mind.
Jude was giving up the river for Rebecca, to make a home. They were in love. And the moment the thought was articulated in her mind, she realized it was true, precise and to the mark. Once again that void yawned inside—the hollow longing for something she couldn't identify, a feeling that she'd had since the accident, an emptiness that so far she'd been unable to fill with work, as she used to do, or with the new house she'd just bought. Not even by clinging to the old friendship with Jude because, with Jude, she wanted more.
But she'd probably lost any chance of love with Jude long ago, on the day she'd married Phillip. He was Rebecca's now.
Recognition came as a brutal blow but not as a complete surprise. She turned, looking at the front door and the maître d' manning the podium there, hiding the tears that threatened, tears she'd never let Jude see, and suddenly the need to flee before she broke down pushed all other thoughts aside. She'd learned well enough from Phillip that pity was a trap. She'd never hang that kind of guilt on Jude.
Jude. Oh Jude, if you only knew.
But emotions could not be trusted now. She knew what had to be done. Hands on the edges of the chair, she straightened, saying "Hmm" and "Yes" as he talked about this new business—he'd already bid for two properties, he said—all the while calculating how far it was to that door.
Abba! Ten steps to the door. Fifteen, maybe. Help me get there!
And then he touched her arm, and that drew her full attention.
As he looked into Amalise's eyes, gathering the words he'd come here to say, he felt the love inside him swell and he allowed himself to hope. Perhaps he'd misjudged her and when he spoke the words, he'd find that she loved him, too. Perhaps, perhaps . . . Oh, just get the words out now, Perret.
So he reached over and picked up her hands and held them in his, and then he took a deep breath. "Amalise, I realize that this may sound a little strange . . ." And then he hesitated.
What were the right words? How do you tell your oldest friend that you're in love with her? That you love her, not just as an old friend loves a friend, but as a man loves a woman once in a lifetime. That you long to marry her, no matter the time you may have to wait. That you will love her for the rest of your life and into eternity beyond. That you want children together.
Even as that thought came, he could see himself and Amalise and their children—three or four or five—and the Judge and Maraine, all sitting together at the table on the pier over the lagoon at her family home in Marianus.
He closed his eyes for a second. That was his dream, but how to begin?
And then he opened his eyes, looked at her, and said, "You know, chère, relationships change over time. Even friendships like ours."
Relationships change. His words tolled in her mind as a warning. She'd seen how hard the words were for him to actually say, to tell her of Rebecca. Her heart plunged, but she couldn't seem to move, to pull her hands from his. She was careful not to allow her face to betray her as the cold, heavy words sank in, words that would change her life, that would take Jude from her forever.
And underneath the words, the way he looked at her with such joy and sadness all at once, underneath those careful words she heard the unspoken name. Rebecca.
In that split second she looked down the stultifying years ahead, seeing the course their friendship would take after he married Rebecca. And he knew her well enough to understand that taking second place to someone else would require a huge adjustment on her part.
The observer whispered, Remember, Amalise, he's being honest with you, respectful of your friendship. You didn't do the same for him with Phillip.
She glanced again at the door and knew that she had to leave before he spoke the words. However their relationship was going to change, she wanted to deal with her feelings on her own. And she knew that she couldn't let him finish what he was about to say, because no matter how gently he spoke the words, how carefully he phrased them, the weight of losing him and hearing about his love for Rebecca would break her.
Yes. Relationships do change.
As he sucked in a breath and opened his mouth to go on, Amalise pulled her hands from his. Leaning back, away from him, she held up one hand, palm out.
"Stop." Stop!
A frown creased his forehead and he drew back, brows raised. "Amalise? What's wrong?"
And now the waiter stood before them with Jude's coffee.
Quickly, before Jude could say another word, she pushed back her chair and stood, wishing she didn't have to walk through the other diners to get to the door. Wishing that she could just snap her fingers and be at home, alone.
"Amalise!" Jude's voice again.
The waiter stepped back, getting out of the way.
Jude reached for her arm, but she was moving now, lifting her purse from the chair, slinging it over her shoulder, turning away. She had to get out of here. Now.
She left him behind at the table. Murmured something about not feeling well. She was sorry, so sorry, to ruin this beautiful night, to have to leave like this. But she wasn't feeling well.
Jude's voice, full of concern, came behind her. He would take her home. She should let him drive her.
But she shook her head, eyes fixed on the door as she managed those ten or fifteen steps through the tables in between, ignoring the upturned eyes, leaving Jude in her wake as she begged Abba for help. She asked for her coat and let the maître d' help her put it on. Then turning, she looked at the door, knowing that once she walked through it, she would be alone and Jude would be lost to her forever.
"Amalise!" He'd reached her and was holding onto her arm.
Irrational anger swung her around. Anger was her shield. She moved closer to him and spoke low. "I'm not a child. I can take care of myself now, Jude."
But when her eyes met his and she saw pain, she softened. This was hard on him, too, she realized. She looked at him and knew she had to let him off the hook.
> So she managed a smile. "Like you said before, relationships do change. I'm enjoying my independence and the new house, and really . . . I don't need your help right now." She hiked one shoulder, freeing herself from his grip. "I can take care of myself."
He only stared.
Looking at him, she forced back the tears and clung to the shoulder strap of her purse. "Independence is what I need most right now, I suppose. And time."
His hands dropped to his sides. "I wouldn't interfere with that." His tone was flat.
She nodded, turned, and walked away, holding back the tears that she would later shed at home, fighting the longing to whirl around and run back to Jude and beg him to hold her in his arms just one last time.
But as he'd said, relationships change. And that's the way he wanted things.
Jude went back to the table and lowered himself into the chair, stunned by what had just occurred, feeling as though he'd slammed into a Mississippi sandbar full speed ahead.
The waiter hovered nearby, and when the black leather folder containing the bill appeared on the table, he paid it quickly. As though he were walking under water, he set his expression to neutral and managed to make his way to the door.
And then anger rose. And resentment. And he could feel the bile rising to the back of his throat as he pushed through the door and stood just outside. He simply could not understand Amalise. He'd been her bulwark for years. He'd protected her, always, helping her grow from an awkward girl into a strong young woman. He'd taught her how to swim, fish, paddle a pirogue through the swamp, how to dance, how to handle herself in a crowd. Always, he'd been there for her.
The worst thing was, he suspected that she'd known what he'd wanted to say and didn't want to hear that from him, her old friend. She wanted things to stay exactly as they were between them. She wanted no change. Status quo.
What a fool he'd been to set himself up for this without finding out first how she felt, how she might react. But a wan smile crossed his face at that idea, because Amalise was never easy to predict.
As he stood on the corner outside the restaurant, memories assailed him. Amalise in the skiff on a sun-kissed Thanksgiving Day, her hair blowing in the wind, her cheeks rosy in the sunshine and fresh air. Maraine, her mother, as close to a mother as he'd had since his own died when he was young. And the Judge, her father, who'd helped him become a man. Standing on that corner in the darkness, alone, with Amalise gone and all hope with her, he felt a cord winding about his chest, pulling tight. And it crossed his mind that this bound, empty feeling was how he'd go through life from now on.
He would always love Amalise—he knew that.
Jamming his hands into his pockets, neck bowed, he crossed the street and headed for his car.
Chapter Fifteen
The house on Broadway wasn't far from Clancy's, but the drive seemed to stretch for hours. Amalise whispered the words out loud, forcing herself to face the fact that this was real, that Jude was in love with Rebecca.
Abba, why did you let this happen?!
But she knew the answer. For the hundredth time since the moment she'd first realized she was in love with Jude, she replayed the past two years in her mind. While Rebecca and Jude had been falling in love, she had been too consumed by work—and by Phillip's needs, his demands—to notice. Yet through everything that had happened, Jude had stood by her side. Why had she never thought of losing him like this?
Relationships change, he'd said.
Turning from Magazine Street onto Broadway, she slowed the car, already regretting her abrupt departure from Clancy's. She should have given him time to speak, at least. That's what a friend would do. Should have been strong enough to listen to what he'd wanted to say and keep her thoughts to herself, let him tell her of his joy, of this big event in his life.
A tear slipped down her cheek. Everyone needs a listener for big moments. But then the muscles in her abdomen clenched as she thought of the wedding she'd have to attend. Worse, Rebecca would probably ask her to be in the wedding party, and she'd watch as the only man she could ever love married someone else. She swiped away tears from her cheeks with the heel of her hand, longing to turn the car around and drive toward Jude's house on State Street. To weep on his shoulders.
The thought of weeping on Jude's shoulders over his own wedding brought a smile through the tears. Jude was right. She was a master of the ability to compartmentalize. She was a constant victim of illusion. Indeed, she would learn to tuck away this problem, to go on without Jude. Somehow. She would have to learn to sever the friendship from the pain. Because despite the overwhelming sorrow, despite the searing pain, a little breath of wisdom told her that otherwise she'd lose Jude's friendship altogether.
She would have to be strong enough to let him go. Abba, I know you're listening. Will you give me the strength that I don't have?
Once home she forced herself to focus on her nightly routine. Pulled a gown from the dresser drawer, undressed, and threw it on. Hung up her clothes, turned down the cover on the bed, fluffed the pillows. She'd leave for work earlier than usual come morning.
Brushing her teeth, Amalise examined herself in the mirror, searching for reflections of the person she'd been in the days before Phillip, happier times when she and Jude were still so close that he'd seemed a part of her. The woman looking back at her had a wary look, guarded with, perhaps, a streak of new determination. She bent and splashed water on her face, reached for a towel, and patted her skin dry. Then she brushed her short dark hair and turned off the bathroom light.
It was a cool October night. Hadn't rained in weeks, she realized. She opened the windows and let the pungent scent of sweet olive fill the bedroom. Climbing into bed, she arranged the pillows neatly for her head, then lay down and pulled up the covers. She turned onto her left side, wiped away another tear, and jerking one of the pillows from underneath her head, hugged it to her chest. Minutes passed, and still hugging the pillow, she rolled over onto her right side.
For perhaps an hour she stared at the window and the branches of the sweet olive tree brushing against the screen. At last, she tossed the pillow onto the floor, rolled onto her back, threw out her arms, and stared up at the ceiling while the clock stubbornly continued its slow march toward morning.
In the early hours, just before dawn, she closed her eyes with one thought still hanging on: She would be strong. Abba would help her to be strong. Jude would never know how she felt.
Over the next few days she found that the raw pain began to diminish as she focused her energy and attention on the thousands of tasks to be performed for Project Black Diamond, leaving her little time to dwell on Jude and Rebecca. Tucked away, her misery became a melancholy vibration that was always with her, like the last piano notes of the Moonlight Sonata lingering even after the tune had ended.
The quiet times were the worst. That's when she let herself really listen to that music, recalling every good time she'd had over the years with Jude.
In the quiet times.
Chapter Sixteen
One morning not long after the disastrous dinner, before the music had settled in her mind, Amalise stood on the back porch of her house on Broadway and looked at the new boards in the fence. Her left hand was planted on her hip, her hip jutting out as it bore her weight. In her right hand was a steaming cup of coffee that she'd brought out to drink in the cool morning air before leaving for work. And then her eyes had lit on those three—no, she counted four. Oh! There were five unauthorized new boards in the fence. Jude had been here.
Rebecca's Jude.
Amalise scrutinized those boards and sipped her coffee, frowning. He'd come over and fixed the fence without even asking. Just torn out the old and replaced it with new.
Fury rose. Things aren't as simple as all that, Jude. One doesn't rip out the old and slam in the new without warning, not on some
one else's property at least.
Nor in a heart, the observer whispered.
But this was her territory. This was her fence. And Jude had not consulted her before making this change.
Turning, she stormed back into the house, went to the telephone sitting on the round three-legged table in the hallway, and picked up the receiver. But even as she pressed the receiver to her ear, her anger began to cool. Seconds passed as she listened to the dial tone.
Slowly she lowered the receiver back into the cradle.
This wasn't about the fence, she knew. Not really. This anger was about her old life, about Phillip and the double bind: his weakness and her strength and acquiescence. She'd sanctioned his demands, his control over every moment of their marriage, and she wasn't about to let that happen again. Not even with Jude.
The phone rang just as she was walking out the door.
"Amalise?"
"Yes."
"This is Jude."
Of course she recognized his voice. Her thoughts scattered.
"Oh. Hello, Jude." She thought of the boards in the fence, of how she didn't need his help, and of how he was leaving her alone for Rebecca. And then his face rose before her, and she thought how, no matter what, Jude would be a part of her life. She would always love him. Yet all she could think of to say was, "Thanks for fixing the fence. It looks nice."
"You're welcome."
"The boards you added are a lighter color," she said. "I hadn't realized there were so many old ones."
"The new wood will weather. Then you won't be able to tell the difference."
She closed her eyes. "How long do you think that will take?"
"Oh, I don't know. A couple of years, maybe."
"That long?"
"Yeah. Change takes a while, but it happens over time. And then everything looks the same."
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