“Get real, Jack. How in the hell do you expect me to turn my back on this thriving family business? I can’t do it. So what if I spent ten years going to school at night to become an architect after I got my business degree. It’s not something I can work at. We both know that. I know you’ll keep offering me a partnership every week, and every week I’ll have to tell you the same thing: Family obligations prevent me from accepting your kind, generous offer. So, tell me: What are you building these days? On second thought, don’t tell me. I don’t want this headache to get worse. What’s who like? Oh. She’s kind of dumpy—you know, thick around the middle, big feet, hair that stands out like a bush. Pop-bottle glasses. Loves dogs, though. She has a twin in case you’re interested. Your loss, buddy. Ah, how long are you planning on staying in N’awlins? That long! Uh-huh. Make sure you treat my dog good. On second thought, I think I’ll call my friend and tell her to drop Zip off at the house. I left a key with her. What time are you getting in? I’ll time it so he’s only alone for a few minutes. He’s kind of skitzy. Yeah, yeah, that’s what I’ll do. No sense getting her and the dog worked up. Call me if you think the flight is going to be late. Remember, Zip knows how to open the French doors, so keep a sharp eye. No, I’m not trying to pull a fast one on you. What gave you that idea? You must be between women. You’re paranoid. Yeah, yeah. See you in five days.”
One last worry off his shoulders. Kind of. Sort of. More or less. Paul smacked his leg in satisfaction. He didn’t trust Jack Emery any further than he could throw him. When it came to women, Jack was like a wild stud in a harem. Once he set his eyeballs on Josie Dupré it would be all over but the shouting. He raced by his sputtering secretary. “You’ll see me when you see me!”
“What about . . . ? When are you coming . . . ?”
“Deal with it or call André. I’m not taking my beeper, so don’t even think about trying to get hold of me. Maybe I’ll never come back!”
Paul jabbed at the elevator. “That’s the stuff dreams are made of. I’d make a hell of a ski bum. Or a beach bum. On the other hand, I’d make one son of a bitching grade A number one architect,” he mumbled as he stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the lobby.
Paul settled himself comfortably in the cab that would take him to the park, where he would do his ten-mile run. He squeezed his eyes shut. He’d never asked for this damn job. He’d never wanted to run the family business. All he ever wanted was to be an architect. He hated tradition and responsibility. He wished, the way he wished every day of his life, that he had an older brother, even a younger brother. Hell, he’d settle for anyone willing to take on his job. His mother had been adamant. As the only son you will take over from your father. He’d given up the best years of his life for his family and the business. When was it his turn? When did he get to do what he wanted to do? Never, that’s when. Sure he had a good life. Sure he could take days off, weeks, sometimes. But he always had to come back to Cajun spices and cornmeal. He had to stew and fret over the restaurants. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a peaceful, contented day. Maybe when he was ten or so. No, that’s when it all started to fall apart.
“Screw it,” he mumbled, tossing the cab driver a twenty-dollar bill. He checked to see that the other twenty was still safe in his pocket. After a ten-mile run he would be in no mood to hike back to his hotel.
He started out slow, building up momentum as he stared straight ahead, his mind refusing to let go of his thoughts. What the hell was wrong with André Hoffauir running Brouillette Enterprises? The guy loved the company, drooled over the Cajun spices and cornmeal, plus he was a natural when it came to the restaurants. He knew every aspect of the business and was family, even if he was a distant cousin. Blood was blood. The problem was Paul’s mother. She’d never give the okay to turn the business over to André when she found out Paul was going to close down the cornmeal plant. And yet, André agreed with him.
Three miles into his run, his head was still pounding, and his thoughts were just as jumbled as when he started out. If he’d been more alert, not so focused on his dark thoughts and the path in front of him, he might have seen the thugs coming at him from the left and the right. One moment he was running on the sun-dappled path. A moment later the sunny world around him turned black as he fell to the ground.
“Shit, man! Twenty fucking dollars! You could bench-press that Rolex. Grab it! C’mon, c’mon! We’re outta here, man. Go! Go!”
A nanny wheeling a baby in a stroller found Paul Brouillette fifteen minutes later. She dialed 911 on the cell phone the baby’s parents insisted she carry with her at all times. She watched, her eyes tearful when the runner’s unconscious body was lifted into the waiting ambulance by EMS workers. In a shaky voice she answered the questions the police asked her over the wailing cries of the child in her care.
Josie looked down at her wrist to check the time. It was hard not to notice the date. Paul had been gone five days, and he hadn’t called her. Five days was 120 hours. He said he would call. Men were such bastards. Why did they lie and say they would call when they had no intention of doing so? Jerks. She mentally added Paul’s name to her long list of no-call jerks. Kitty was right: He just wanted a dog-sitter, and I fell for his tired old line. I just might decide to keep this dog. Possession was nine points of the law.
Her shoulders slumping, Josie checked on the two dogs, who were lying under the oak tree next to the cottage. They both looked tired. From the moment she let them out in the morning they ran each other ragged until they both collapsed under the tree. She knew they were only getting their second wind before another game of run and chase. For the moment, they were good for at least an hour. She smiled when they both barked as she made her way to the test kitchen. She noticed Kitty at the window, motioning her to wait outside. She pulled up short and waited.
Her eyes wild, her shoulders shaking, Kitty looked on the verge of tears.
“What’s wrong, Kitty?”
“Everything and nothing. I didn’t know until today Yvette has cataracts and her vision is almost nil. That’s okay because Charlet has a hearing problem and wears two hearing aids. She’s Yvette’s eyes and Yvette is Charlet’s ears. It kind of evens out except for the mess they make. Réné can see and hear, but she can’t cook worth squat. She does have a plethora of recipes, though. Right now I have her cleaning up. She’s been ragging on Yvette and Charlet for two hours. I don’t think this is working out, Josie. All they do is fight among themselves. They pretend each dish they’re making is for the stars on the soap operas they watch. All morning, when they aren’t squabbling, they’re whispering about Marie and some family crisis. I tried to . . . you know, listen but they caught on to that real quick. They’re sweet and they are adorable but, Josie, this isn’t going to work. I don’t know how to tell them either.”
“I don’t think you’re going to have to tell them,” Josie whispered as she pointed to the three ladies exiting the kitchen, wearing their hats and white gloves. Josie found herself smiling. They looked so genteel, so sweet and charming.
“We are terribly sorry, Miss Dupré, but we won’t be able to continue working with you. Marie has just called on the cell phone and we are needed. You will forgive us, no, chère.”
“But . . . is something wrong? Can my sister or I help? I’ll . . . I’ll miss your . . . invaluable help,” Kitty managed to croak.
“We feel terrible, deserting you like this but family must come first. We left our recipes on the counter for you to use. It is the least we can do. Everything is spick-and-span, chère.”
“Thank you for all your help, ladies. Are you sure about the recipes?”
“We are sure. Marie said it was the fair thing to do. We always do what she says. We called a cab so as not to trouble you,” the sprightly Réné said as she adjusted her floppy-brimmed hat.
“I guess that takes care of that,” Josie said. “Call your friend, Kitty. We’ll bite the bullet and pay her whatever she wants. It’s n
ot like we have a choice. Tell her we’ll sign a six-month contract. That will take us through August. We’ll be winding down then since you’ll be leaving the first of the year. If she’s half as good as you are, I might keep her on and keep the business going. Let’s just get through this immediate crisis any way we can. Later will take care of itself.”
“No word from the big Cajun, huh?”
“I didn’t think there would be,” Josie said. Liar, liar, liar.
“You’ll have to hear from him eventually. After all, you have his dog.” Kitty twinkled.
“Look, let’s not get into any of that because I’m not in the mood. I have to pick up those dishes you ordered. While I’m out, is there anything else you want me to do?”
“You can pick up my dry cleaning. And, you can stop at the music store and pick up that new CD I’ve been wanting. I just can’t seem to find the time to do anything lately. Write this down, Josie, so you get the right CD. It’s Corinda Carford. Her CD is called Mr. Sandman. Pretty lady with a great voice. There’s a song on it that’s a hoot. It’s called ‘The Pantyhose Song.’ You’re gonna love it. Better yet, pick up two because you aren’t getting mine. Listen, I know this is sneaky but why don’t you, you know, sort of cruise by Paul’s house or hey, go inside and pick up some of Zip’s toys. You could, ah . . . look around. You don’t have to touch anything. Just look. You do have a key, and he did tell you if you needed anything to go in and get it. You might pick up some clues as to what makes that guy tick. I’d do it!”
“You would, huh? Well, I’m not you! That’s right up there with breaking and entering. No, I’m not going to do that. Keep your eye on the dogs, okay?”
“Sure. I think you should go for it. Once in a while you need to do something unJosie.”
The moment the Explorer was out of the driveway, Kitty clapped her hands and said to the dogs, “She’s gonna do it! I ain’t her twin for nothin’.”
Zip threw his massive head back and let out an earsplitting howl. Kitty shivered when Rosie ran under the big dog and cowered.
“Relax. You two aren’t going anywhere. I think, Zip, we just inherited you. It’s okay, Rosie. He’s staying.” A smile on her face, Kitty watched as the boxer picked up Rosie by the scruff of the neck and carried her back to the cool moss under the old oak. “Harry loves me like that,” Kitty said happily. “He does—he purely does.”
The last of her errands completed, Josie loaded the van and headed for the dry-cleaning shop. She had a good hour before she had to be home to help Kitty load the food into the van for a private dinner. She could stop for coffee, get a double praline crunch ice cream cone or perhaps she could drive by Paul’s house. Driving by wasn’t the same as going in the way Kitty suggested. “What would you do, Mom? Kitty is so . . . so much like you. Sometimes I wish I was more . . . impulsive like she is. Maybe I’m using the wrong deodorant. He did say he would call. I have his dog. That means he has to come back for him. Do I need more guts? What’s wrong with me, Mom? These last few days all I feel like doing is crying. That double praline crunch isn’t going to make me feel one bit better. Would you do it, Mom?”
Josie turned the corner but not before she rolled down the window. She eased up on the gas pedal when the overpowering scent of lily of the valley from the house next to Paul’s wafted through the window. She blinked and then shivered as she looked around. The flower border on Paul’s neighbor’s lawn was made up totally of lilies of the valley nestled in and among thickets of spiky monkey grass. Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m taking this as a sign, Mom. I’m gonna do it!”
Her legs felt like jelly as she got out of the car and walked boldly up the driveway to Paul Brouillette’s house. He’d said Zip knew how to open the French doors. Maybe it would be better if she walked around the back so the neighbors wouldn’t see her and possibly report back to Paul. Maybe the key in her hand would open the French doors. She felt like a thief as she meandered to the back of the house, striving, for a nonchalant pose when she reached the door.
Josie looked over her shoulder. There was nothing to be seen on either side of the house except thick, lush shrubbery pruned to perfection. With a shaking hand she started to fit the key into the lock and then changed her mind. She turned to leave when a light breeze rustled the trees overhead, bringing the scent of lily of the valley to her nostrils. A moment later, the trees were quiet. A dog barked in the distance. A tree frog leaped in front of her. She clapped her hands over her mouth to stifle the squeal that was about to rush past her lips.
There were no squeaks, no groans, no sound at all when the lock turned and the door opened. Josie stepped into an immaculate dining room. In an instant she knew the house was professionally decorated. A bachelor pad done in earth tones. No real color anywhere. She thought it depressing as she walked from room to room. It didn’t look like anyone lived in the house. Where were the treasures, the mementos, the family pictures? She eyed the expensive silk plants with a jaundiced eye. She hated silk plants. She decided she also hated the faceless decorator who had taken such modern liberties with the beautiful old house.
Josie peeked into the kitchen. Kitty would love the sterile, stainless-steel area. She wouldn’t like the wrought-iron table and chairs, though. There was no centerpiece on the table, no colorful place mats or napkins, no cushions on the hard, iron chairs. She shuddered. How could Paul Brouillette live in such a cold, impersonal house? Maybe he didn’t really live here; maybe he just came back and forth. Tentatively she opened the huge refrigerator. Her jaw dropped at the shelves full of food.
Where were Zip’s things, his bed, his toys? Maybe Zip was just a dog to Paul. A dog he fed and walked. She felt a frown building between her eyebrows. A dog was a commitment, a responsibility, a member of the family.
The frown stayed with Josie as she made her way to the second floor. She told herself going to the second floor was simply to look for Zip’s things. Certainly not to check out Paul’s bedroom. She’d never do something like that. Kitty would, but she wouldn’t. Kitty would want to know if he wore boxers or jockeys.
The doors to three of the bedrooms stood open. Josie peeked into each room. Clean, neat, professionally decorated like the downstairs. The bathrooms were done in pastel shades with matching towels and rugs. Even the soap matched. Josie winced. Were these rooms ever used? Did Paul entertain or have guests? She wondered if there was anything feminine in his room or bathroom. Someone who stayed over and left things behind.
Josie had to coax herself to open the door to what she assumed was Paul’s bedroom. Three times her hand reached out to turn the knob and three times she pulled it back. Checking out the rest of the house was one thing, but if she went into this room, she was invading Paul’s privacy.
On the fourth try she allowed her hand to close over the knob. She turned it slowly, sucking in her breath as she did so. It was dim and cool inside and she had to squint to see the dim shapes of the furniture. She had the impression of a large, square room with equally large furniture. She squeezed her eyes shut and then reopened them in hopes of a better look. Here there were photographs, four in all on top of the long dresser. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness in the room she allowed her gaze to sweep past the open bathroom door, the pile of clothes outside the door, to the night tables and the long king-size bed, where someone was sleeping.
Josie thought her blood froze in her veins in that one second. Someone sleeping. She clapped her hand over her mouth to keep from calling out. You bastard! You smart-ass bastard. You’re here sleeping while I stew and fret about why you didn’t call me. Kitty was right. All you wanted was someone to watch your dog.
Josie backed away from the open doorway and reached out to close it quietly. She wasn’t aware that she was crying until she was outside. Inside the Explorer, she reached for a tissue and blew her nose. The scent of lily of the valley was so strong she got back out of the car and walked across the lawn to Paul’s neighbor’s house, where she dropped to her knees to sni
ff the tiny flowers. There was hardly any scent at all. She moved along on her knees, realizing how stupid she must look to anyone watching. She didn’t care. Satisfied, she stood up and walked back to the Explorer. She felt light-headed when she leaned back in the driver’s seat to let the light flower scent wash over her. “Oh, Mom,” she wailed.
He knew he was in a hospital. He could tell by the smell and the way everyone was whispering. He knew a thing or two about hospitals. People died in hospitals. His father had died in one, his three stepfathers had died in hospitals and so had his two sisters. He knew he had to open his eyes, but the moment he did that, the voices in the room would start to talk to him, ask him questions. He didn’t want to talk, and he certainly didn’t want to answer questions. He needed to think. He needed to remember how he got here. He knew he would never voluntarily go to a hospital on his own. That had to mean he had had an accident of some kind, and someone else brought him here. He wanted to move his legs and arms, test his fingers, open his eyes but if he did that the voices would know he was awake. Better to wait and think. He heard the words John Doe Number 4. Were they referring to him? Was he a John Doe? It must mean they didn’t know his name. He remembered then. He’d been running in the park. All he had on him was a twenty-dollar bill for the taxi ride after his run. Did he trip and fall? Was he mugged? How had he gotten here? Well, the only way he was going to find out was to open his eyes and ask questions. He did just that.
There were five people in the room: two doctors and three nurses. “What happened to me? How long have I been here?” he whispered.
Instead of answering his questions, the tall distinguished doctor asked one of his own: “How many fingers am I holding up?”
Listen To Your Heart Page 8
