If You Could Read My Mind...
If You Could Read My Mind...
Jeanie London
IF YOU COULD READ MY MIND…
Jeanie London
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
To my very own hero—always.
Happy anniversary, honey!
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
About the Author
Coming Next Month
Prologue
When the trouble first started
EXACTLYwhy had she fallen in love with this man again? Right now, Jillian Landry honestly couldn’t remember, which was saying something since this man was her husband of seven years. Before marriage she’d dated him for five years and, before that, tagged after him for the better part of her life. Ever since the day her older brother had returned from kindergarten to proclaim Michael Landry as his new best friend.
But at the moment…after being restrained in said husband’s dental chair, Jillian couldn’t remember what she’d ever seen in a man who’d obviously lost his mind between the time he’d locked up the clinic after the staff’s departure and his return trip.
“Michael, what are you doing?”
Flipping off the overhead fluorescent lights, he shot her a smile that dazzled in the suddenly dim room. “I’m creating a fantasy for you. You said you wanted a fantasy, remember?”
Oh, she remembered all right. The whole idea of fantasies had come up during a conversation at a recent Main Street Rehabilitation fund-raiser. She and Michael had been chatting with the Prestons during cocktail hour, when Amelia Preston—a society matron with enough money to discuss whatever was on her mind—began an interrogation about how to keep the romance alive in a marriage.
Jillian hadn’t been sure whether Amelia had been grilling guests for tidbits to spice up her own decades-old marriage or the dull pre-dinner party. Whatever the motivation, she’d succeeded in getting Jillian to consider the question in the car on the way home.
No denying that after seven years of marriage, there’d been some trade-off of excitement for predictability. Not necessarily a bad thing, she’d been quick to point out. Orgasms were better than ever because practice made perfect. After so much practice, Michael was a locksmith with all the right keys.
But she’d admitted to seeing the appeal of a little fantasy now and then to keep the romance alive.
Apparently now was then.
The best Michael could come up with was handcuffs?
“Are you open for something different tonight, Jilly?” Michael shrugged off his white lab coat to reveal the shirt and pants she’d just picked up from the cleaners yesterday.
“Dare I ask how different?”
He strode purposefully toward her, his smile promising a satisfying answer to her question. “How about you just stick around to find out?”
Stick around?
Testing the steel restraining her to his dental chair, the very one his last patient had vacated not a half hour earlier, Jillian had to wonder where he thought she could go.
She wouldn’t ask where he’d gotten the handcuffs. Michael cared for the smiles of over half the police force in their hometown of Natchez, Mississippi. And those spit-polished good old boys—most of whom were lifelong friends—would be smiling if they knew why Michael wanted restraints. Just the thought was enough to make her wince.
Or maybe the crick in her neck was to blame.
Or her numb arm and tingling fingers.
“How about you just relax and trust me to show you a good time?” Michael loomed over her, blue eyes glinting with sexy innuendo, and slipped his hands beneath her uniform smock.
His warm fingers caressed her skin with tantalizing slowness as he eased the hem up, up, up, until he bared her bra to his gaze.
With that smile still playing around his lips, he descended, his mouth making contact with her skin to trail moist kisses in the wake of his hands.
“That feels nice.”
“You just wait.” His words broke against her skin in breathy bursts then, in one skilled move, he popped open the fastener on her bra.
Her breasts tumbled free, nipples puckering at contact with the climate-controlled air. Michael was there instantly, dragging his warm tongue over one peak in an arousing stroke, easing his fingers around the other and weighing her in his warm palm.
Willing herself to relax, Jillian forced her focus onto her husband’s sexy ministrations and not the dull throb of her shoulder. She supposed there’d been no other place to attach the handcuffs besides the mechanism under the chair arm. She might have suggested something more user-friendly had Michael not taken her by surprise by cuffing her here in the first place.
Now, she didn’t want to say anything he might perceive as a lack of enthusiasm. He wanted to create a fantasy tonight, and as she’d been the one to pursue Amelia Preston’s conversation…
But Jillian couldn’t help wondering if Michael had taken action on that conversation because he’d noticed the trade-off between excitement and predictability, too.
Surely all the passion couldn’t have gone after only seven years of marriage?
Of course not.
Through sheer determination, Jillian forced all her focus onto the feel of Michael’s mouth on her, the caress of his warm hands, the promise of an orgasm that was bound to leave her gasping.
Arching her back slightly, she lifted her breasts in an eager posture and bullied her libido into a response.
And there it was…a life sign.
Awareness flickered deep inside, and she closed her eyes to shut out everything but the feel of Michael’s mouth, the swirl of his tongue, the slow pull of his lips.
He let his hands join the game, pinching her nipples as if recognizing he’d have to break out the heavy artillery to coax her body to life after such an exhausting day.
A few firm squeezes did the trick. Her insides melted, and desire pooled warmly between her thighs.
“Mmm.” She exhaled the sigh on a breath.
“Like that, do you?” Michael sounded very pleased with her response.
“You know I do.”
He squeezed again, this time earning a shiver. “I can think of a few other things you like, too.”
“Be still my heart.”
He chuckled. “Uh-uh, Jilly. There’s going to be nothing still about you by the time I’m through.”
To prove his point, he caught the elastic waistband of her pants and tugged them over her hips and down her legs. Then he reared back and raked a hungry gaze over her.
“As gorgeous as ever.” He dragged his fingertips lightly over her stomach, a teasing touch that made her tremble. Then he toyed with the edge of her cotton panties, easing his fingers inside just enough to make her sound breathless when she said, “I’m very glad you think so.”
“Oh, I do, my beautiful bride. I do.” To prove his point, he gazed down pointedly at his crotch, drawing her attention to the promising bulge there.
“If I had free hands, I’d undress you, too.”
“Allow me.”
She thought he might free her, but he began a careful striptease instead. So, lying in his dental chair, nearly naked and definitely aroused, she watched him peel away clothes that showed the effects of the long day to reveal all the tantalizing secrets below.
He was just thirty-two, two years older than she was, and she could still see the boy she’d fallen in love with inside this more mature version. He’d been the high-school football star. The handsome homecoming king. The proud fraternity president. A devastatingly romantic groom.
Jillian still felt a tingle when she thought about all those yummy memories, still admired his strong features, the glossy black hair that contrasted so sharply with his blue eyes.
Michael.
She’d been involved with him for most of her life. She supposed it was only natural that their relationship ebbed and flowed. They’d weather this lull just as they’d weathered tough years during college and dental school and a financially difficult start to his practice.
Of course they would.
1
Several weeks later
THE WHINING of the high-speed drill hadn’t faded to silence before Michael Landry heard his wife say, “I’m leaving now.”
Glancing up from his patient, who reclined in the dental chair with his open mouth exposing a problem molar, Michael found Jillian standing in the doorway. He couldn’t help but smile at the sight of her, looking all brisk and businesslike in her colorful smock and white pants.
She wore the same uniform as his staff, although she’d applied her business degree toward managing his office ever since he’d set up his practice after dental school. Several years might have passed since they’d bought this old building in downtown Natchez, but Jillian looked the same as the sparkling-eyed young girl he’d fallen in love with so long ago.
She was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
Strawberry-blond hair waved around her face, and she had warm brown eyes that could melt with pleasure or twinkle with laughter. She could still catch him off guard with her smile.
“You remember we have an interview with the caretakers from New Orleans at the camp tonight,” she said.
“What time is it again?” He wasn’t about to admit he hadn’t remembered.
“Seven. If you lock up right after your last patient and leave with the staff, you should have plenty of time to get through traffic.”
“To Camp Cavelier?” Louis Bernard lifted his head from the headrest, almost nailing the equipment tray before Michael made a quick save. “You’ll make the camp by seven if you’re driving on the shoulder up State Road Twenty.”
“Not if he leaves with the staff,” Jillian said firmly. “Are you sure you don’t want me to wait for you?”
“You said you needed to look over their paperwork. Go ahead. I’ll be there.”
He could hear Charlotte snicker from behind her paper mask and shot his nurse a look he hoped would deter her from comment. He was already in enough hot water with Jillian about their latest investment venture.
But Charlotte O’Brien wasn’t in the habit of being deterred by him. This sixty-ish, pixie-ish dynamo had been a nurse since long before Michael had even thought about going into dentistry. She had a lot of know-how, and despite their years together, he still hadn’t decided why she worked for him. Some days he thought she was impressed with his skill and chair-side manner. Other days, he suspected she felt it was her duty to tell him what to do to keep his patients safe.
She didn’t even bother trying to hide her amusement now. “What your wife wants here is confirmation. Go on and tell her you’ll let us drag you out the door when we leave before she gets a gray hair.”
“Now that’s where you’re wrong.” He slid his stool back and stood. “Jillian’s just doing what she always does—keeping my schedule straight so I can devote myself to my patients. Don’t know what I’d do without this woman.”
He caught her around the waist and waltzed her through the cramped space in the exam room. With a gasp, she melted into his arms the way she always did, as if her luscious body had been designed exclusively to fit close.
“Michael!”
“Yes, my beautiful bride?”
“You’re crazy.”
“Only about you, love of my life.”
“Oh, Michael.”
He whirled her to the sound of Charlotte’s chuckles and Louis’s deep-throated guffaws. Unable to resist, he dipped her over his arm for good measure, one of those dramatic, romantic gestures that never failed to make Jillian sigh those breathless sighs that caught him hard in the gut.
She melted over his arm in a liquid move and exhaled a gasping laugh. That had been the first thing to attract him to Jillian—her laughter. Unrestrained, glorious laughter. He couldn’t resist kissing the sound from her lips.
So, flipping up his paper mask, he did.
Her mouth yielded beneath his, her kiss so natural and welcoming that he felt that twist low in his gut. He resisted the urge to deepen their kiss and taste the sweet greeting he knew would be his.
That was the way it had always been between them—right. Ever since he’d stolen his first kiss on the high-school football field after a particularly tight win, he’d responded to Jillian in a way he had no other.
He still did. She was such a tidy armful with her hands wound around his neck to hang on, her warm breaths clashing with his in easy rhythm. She made him think about sex.
They only parted after attracting an audience. His two hygienists stood in the hall beyond the open doorway, their applause muffled by their sanitary gloves.
“Show’s over, folks.” He waved everyone back to work.
With laughing comments, his staff disbanded, and Jillian rolled her eyes, pecked him on the cheek and said, “Now back to work before you get totally off schedule.”
“Or my anesthetic wears off.” Louis shot a worried glance at the drill.
Michael got back to his own work before Louis’s anesthetic did indeed wear off. He pointedly ignored the amusement glinting in Charlotte’s eyes above the mask.
He wasn’t entirely sure how he’d earned this open conspiracy, but his wife and office staff had taken it upon themselves to point him through his days as if he couldn’t find his own way. If it made them all feel useful to play mother hens, then Michael tried not to complain.
He could think of a lot worse things than a bunch of women caring about him.
Not to mention that Charlotte made the best damn fried chicken he’d ever tasted. He wouldn’t do anything to risk ticking her off and denying himself those little plastic baggies filled with crispy drumsticks.
Even their newest hygienist, Brandi, young as she was, had followed suit, to become his newest mother hen. And Michael chose to let these ladies do what made them happy. Most of the time keeping his ladies happy made him happy, too, but there were days when their hovering got annoying.
Like at the end of the long work day when he and the staff were leaving the office.
Michael patted his back pocket. “Damn, I forgot my wallet. Knowing my luck, I’ll get pulled over and not have my license.”
“Go on and get it.” Charlotte reached out to grab the door from him. “I’ll wait.”
Being mother-henned was one thing. Being made to feel incompetent was another entirely. “Thanks, but if you don’t get to Libby’s dance recital before the theater fills up, you’ll never get a decent seat.”
There was no argument there, but he could tell Charlotte didn’t want to leave until she saw him get inside his car.
“Jillian said to make sure you leave with us, Michael,” Dianne informed him.
“I only have to grab my wallet,” he informed his senior hygienist.
“You’ll only be a minute?” Charlotte frowned at him.
He frowned right back, and she obviously recognized that he was only half joking.
“See you tomorrow, ladies. I’m quite capable of grabbing my wallet and making it to my car without an escort.”
That the ladies didn’t look convinced annoyed him further.
“Enjoy the recital, Charlotte,” he prompted. “You two have a good night, as well.”
“G’night, Michael.”
Charlotte forced a smile and headed to her car.
Shaking his head, he wound his way through the space, flipping on lights as he went, finally reaching his private office at the rear of the building.
What made these women think he needed a babysitter?
Circling his desk, he retrieved his wallet from the drawer. He really didn’t have an answer to the question, but knew he’d simply have to weather the storm, which meant getting on the road. Glancing up at the wall clock, he found himself ten minutes ahead of schedule.
What had Charlotte been worried about?
Slipping his wallet inside his back pocket, Michael reached for his handheld recorder. He typically dictated his patients’ reports before leaving the office at the end of the day, while the information was still fresh in his head.
His medical transcriptionist came in for a few hours each morning. He could give her a few to start with in the morning, which would buy him time to dictate the rest. He glanced at the files stacked neatly on the edge of his desk. In ten minutes he could dictate at least two. With any luck, three….
JILLIAN WATCHED the old-model Lincoln Town Car wind down the long dirt drive toward the camp, kicking up clouds of dust into the twilight. The sun set in pastel strands over the Mississippi, and from her perch on the bluff, she let the quiet river soothe away her annoyance that Michael hadn’t shown up before the interview as she’d asked him to.
She’d decided to reserve judgment about why he wasn’t here. Jillian knew if an emergency had come up at the last minute he wouldn’t have hesitated to place a patient in his chair. Michael had the biggest heart of anyone she’d ever known, which was one of the things she loved best about him. He cared about what he did, so much so that she’d been forced to reevaluate their office system four times to figure out how to squeeze so many patients into one man’s schedule.
Jillian frowned. If an emergency had come up, Charlotte would have called.
She hoped he hadn’t had any trouble on the road or, God forbid, an accident. Just the thought was enough to erase the calming effects of the sunset and trap the breath in her chest.
But, Jillian reasoned, if Michael had had an accident, he’d have called. Or someone would have. They knew so many state troopers and emergency personnel around town that someone could have tracked her down if something horrible had happened.
But just in case, Jillian glanced inside her purse to make sure her cell phone was on. Yes, the phone was on and, yes, the battery was sufficiently charged. She resisted the urge to call him. The office phones rolled over to the answering service when the staff left. Even if his personal cell phone was on, which she knew it wouldn’t be, Jillian would only frustrate herself. Michael had said he would be here. She’d simply trust he had a good reason for not calling to say he was running late.
That was the last chance she got to dwell on Michael, anyway, because the old blue Lincoln pulled into the circle drive, following signs leading it straight to the office where she stood on the porch beneath a slightly sagging overhang.
This log cabin had been built by Camp Cavelier’s original owners and had seen every season since the camp had opened on this Mississippi bluff. She and Michael were the camp’s first owners who were not actually members of the founding family. It was a position that came with historic obligation and a lot of tradition, responsibilities Jillian intended to live up to.
But as she was learning firsthand since assuming the role, she needed help. Full-time help. And an up-close glimpse of the Lincoln coming to a stop in front of the stairs wasn’t inspiring much confidence. She smiled as the doors swung wide and the members of the Baptiste family from a bayou town south of New Orleans emerged.
These people were clearly related. Three shared glossy black hair; all shared dark eyes, elegantly refined features and deep gold skin. The distance of generations didn’t dim the beauty of these people. She had to force her gaze from the two young men and their sister to greet the elderly woman, who made Jillian hope to look so good at seventy-something.
Of course, this beautiful older woman also looked as if she’d just stepped off a Mardi Gras float, dressed as she was in a roomy skirt in Day-Glo orange and a shawl of a complementary yellow only slightly less radiant than the sun. To complete the ensemble, she’d woven matching ribbons through her hair, pulling the wildly curling gray locks back from her face.
“Mrs. Baptiste-Mercier, it’s a pleasure. I’m Jillian Landry. We spoke on the phone.” Smiling her most welcoming smile, she stepped off the last riser and extended her hand.
“Call me Widow Serafine.” The woman’s smooth round face split into deep creases as she smiled and she clasped Jillian’s with a strength that matched her size. “Every one else does. And you’re as pretty as I knew you’d be. I said to myself, ‘Serafine, any lady with that warm honey voice is surely Southern and one real beauty.’”
Her smoky gaze took Jillian’s measure in a frank glance, and there was something penetrating, almost fierce about the look. But her smile widened, leaving Jillian feeling sure about the compliment.
“Thank you.” She turned her attention to the three younger Baptistes, who clustered around Widow Serafine in pack-like fashion. “These are your…grandchildren?”
She hadn’t been entirely clear on the relationship from their one and only telephone conversation.
Widow Serafine shook her head. “Of a sort. My sister Virginie’s brood. Baptistes through and through, even if they haven’t accepted it yet.” She motioned to one, a roguishly attractive young man with a guarded expression. “Raphael’s the oldest. He’s twenty. Has a way with horses and cars. And his kin. He keeps them in line. Don’t know what I’d do without him, truth be told. This here’s Philip, the middle—Come on, boy, pay your respects to Mrs. Jillian.”
Mrs. Jillian?
Okay.
Philip sidled forward with the lanky grace of a boy who hadn’t quite grown into his body yet. He eyed her with an inscrutable expression, and she smiled in reply.
“Marie-Louise is the baby. She’s just graduated from high school, but she won’t turn eighteen until the end of the month. Hope that won’t be a problem.” She frowned. “I can sign any documents so she can work legal until then if need be. Wouldn’t want to cause you any trouble.”
Jillian wasn’t worried about trouble, or documents, which seemed to be jumping the gun when they hadn’t yet interviewed.
Lucky for her, she didn’t have to figure out how to diplomatically address this oversight because Widow Serafine herded her “sort-of” granddaughter to the front of the pack so Jillian got a good look.
“Marie-Louise will help me keep up the place,” Widow Serafine explained. “And cook. She’s a right Rachael Ray—talented, sensible and pretty as sin. Loves to work in the kitchen while she’s daydreaming about falling in love.” Widow Serafine winked. “Giving her brothers a run for their money keeping the young bucks away, I tell you.”
To confirm her statement, Raphael scowled. Philip nodded.
Marie-Louise just smiled, an easy smile that Jillian liked straight away. She was young, but such a beauty with that glossy black hair curling around her oval face and those almond-shaped eyes. Her sundress was simple and stylish, not suggestive like so many of the juniors’ fashions nowadays. Even so, it couldn’t hide a body that the young bucks would no doubt go ga-ga for.
“I’m pleased to meet you all,” Jillian said. “Shall we tour the place before it gets dark? I can tell you about the camp and what’s involved with the caretaking jobs.”
Before she moved off the bottom step or even opened her mouth to launch into a rehearsed spiel about how Camp Cavelier resided on fifty peaceful acres nestled between the Mississippi River and Lake Lily, Jillian found herself staring at the back of Widow Serafine’s head as she motioned to the car.
“Mrs. Jillian’s going to take us around. Let’s get those groceries settled in the fridge so we don’t attract every raccoon hungry enough to smell supper.”
Groceries?
Jillian watched in growing amazement as Raphael popped open the trunk and his younger siblings crowded around to unload what turned out to be exactly what Widow Serafine claimed. Groceries, and a week’s worth by the looks of it.
Had this woman misunderstood the telephone conversation? Could she possibly have confused being interviewed with being hired for the caretaking positions?
Jillian had been quite clear on the point, she was sure, but before she had a chance to question the elder Baptiste, she found herself holding a paper sack filled with what appeared to be a healthy variety of fruits and vegetables.
“Would you mind?” Widow Serafine asked. “Didn’t think that cottage you mentioned on the phone would have a stocked pantry, so we stopped by the market on the way through town. Now where will we be setting up house?”
This was a perfect time to address the misunderstanding. Jillian would simply explain that she’d envisioned moving this process along more traditional lines starting with an interview then following up on references before committing to employment.
That was certainly how she’d conducted business in the past when hiring staff for Michael’s practice or appointing people to various board positions on the Main Street Rehabilitation project. The process was tried and true and had always served her well. Obviously the Baptistes did things differently in the bayou.
And exactly where was Michael when she could have used his help? He’d have turned on that high-beam smile and charmed this old granny, buying Jillian some time to figure out how best to handle this unexpected situation.
As it was, she stood there wide-eyed and speechless—a rarity for someone not prone to wide eyes or speechlessness.
Widow Serafine proved much more astute because she clearly recognized the trouble and countered by launching into the tale of what had led her family to Camp Cavelier.
Hurricane Katrina.
When the storm had taken a turn at the last possible second to spare New Orleans a direct hit, landfall had happened directly over Bayou Doré—the Baptiste’s world for the better part of two centuries since they’d worked for the privateer Captain Lefever.
Widow Serafine stood there with her sister’s grandkids all clutching grocery sacks, and explained how the family had been rebuilding ever since the hurricane. But these three children had been so unsettled that they hadn’t seemed to be helping to make a difficult situation any better.
According to her, Raphael, Philip and Marie-Louise had never entirely settled in with the family in the five years since their granny had passed. They seemed to have taken on Virginie’s onus as black sheep and held it close no matter how friendly and inviting their extended family had been.
Widow Serafine explained that when she had seen Jillian’s ad for camp caretakers, she knew this was exactly what these three kids needed—a place to call their own. Virginie had raised her grandkids on a huge working ranch near Shreveport where she’d been the housekeeper.
With the stables and outdoor work, Camp Cavelier would be a familiar-type place where these black-sheep Baptistes could finally settle in. A place that would give them a purpose. And Widow Serafine had left her home to come with them because that was her duty to her baby sister.
The fact that Jillian hadn’t yet offered them the jobs didn’t appear to be of concern.
Before she could address that singularly important issue, Widow Serafine paused in her tale to draw a breath, fixed her gaze absently above Jillian’s head and said, “Well, that roof won’t hold up through the first summer rain. Philip worked with my son-in-law’s roofing company during the summer between ninth and tenth grades. He’ll get right on that. You hear, Philip?”
“I hear, Widow.”
While balancing her armful of groceries, Widow Serafine reached out a hand and beaned Philip on the back of the head, hard enough to make him wince. “Show some respect, boy.”
Philip peered over his bags, looking embarrassed but contrite. “I’ll get to fixing that roof straight away, ma’am.”
Jillian inclined her head, not trusting herself to open her mouth, not when she felt as if she’d been run over by a train.
“Looks like more than that roof will need to be fixed around here,” Raphael added. “We saw the sign out at the road. The whole thing’s rotting out.”
Jillian didn’t get a chance to reply before Widow Serafine informed her proudly, “When Raphael isn’t working on cars, he works with my son who does carpentry and millwork.”
It certainly sounded as if the young man was a hard worker, and Jillian forced herself to look casual, knew she needed to do more than stare and let Widow Serafine run roughshod over her. Even if a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach warned she wouldn’t easily sidestep this old granny’s strong will.
“Your application says you have experience with horses, too, Raphael,” she said cordially.
“I’ve been a stable assistant since I’ve been six years old, ma’am. Well, until we moved in with the widow.”
“He has a way with horses. This one does.” Widow Serafine nodded in approval. “Shame we didn’t have any in Bayou Doré. But Raphael branched out and learned new skills.”
“That’s always a good idea,” was all Jillian thought to say.
“Looks like you need a jack-of-all-trades around here.”
There was no denying Widow Serafine’s statement, so Jillian just smiled, buying herself more time to figure out how best to redirect this conversation.
No such luck.
“You have a whole stable full here at the camp, don’t you, ma’am?” Raphael asked. “Read on the Internet that you teach the campers how to ride all summer long.”
“You researched the camp on the Web?”
“Needed to know the place before we sent in our applications,” Raphael said.
Jillian couldn’t miss the gravity in those simple words. This young man took his responsibilities very seriously. In her preliminary research of this family, she’d spoken to the ranch owner where these kids had grown up. The man had assured her the Baptistes had been a family of dedicated workers, which was why she’d scheduled this initial interview.
Or what was supposed to have been an interview.
“Your Web site had most of the information,” Raphael continued. “Found out Camp Cavelier is the oldest resident camp on the Mississippi. It was named after the man who led the expedition that made the first documented contact between the Natchez Indians and Europeans.”
“That’s right,” she said. “Rene Robert Cavelier.”
“Told you the boy was enterprising,” Widow Serafine proclaimed proudly.
The fact that this young man had been thorough enough to research the camp certainly seemed to bear up that claim. Jillian wasn’t sure if she felt better about the situation or not, but when they all fell silent, she knew they were waiting for her to make the next move.
What could she say? “Take your groceries and go back to the hurricane-ravaged bayou where you came from?”
So she stood there, clutching her own bag in the growing darkness, staring at her interviewees and recognizing the fierce pride in their manner.
That sinking feeling in her stomach eased up a bit.
This was apparently one of those times when things weren’t going to work out exactly as planned. She would simply have to have faith that there was a reason, and that reason would turn out to be a good one.
“Well then, if you’ll follow me,” Jillian finally said, managing to sound normal. “The cottage is just past the cabins.”
“Lead the way.” Widow Serafine’s eyes twinkled.
Jillian couldn’t help but wonder what she’d just gotten herself into. She also wondered what Michael would think about this unusual situation.
Or if he would think about it at all.
She knew the answer to that question—no. If she didn’t tell him about it, he’d never know. And since he hadn’t been here, he’d just have to live with her decision, wouldn’t he?
2
NIGHT HAD FALLEN by the time Michael finally steered his SUV past Camp Cavelier’s weatherworn sign. His headlights sliced through the darkness to illuminate the winding dirt road and throw the surrounding forest into gloom.
During the drive, he’d imagined several scenarios at arriving nearly two hours late for Jillian’s interview—all of them involving a very unhappy Jillian. But dealing with her annoyance wasn’t his primary concern at the moment. Not when he pulled up to find the office dark.
He’d have to find her to know how annoyed she was.
Circling into the lot in front of the building, Michael pulled his SUV beside a Lincoln Town Car that had seen better days. Most likely the potential caretakers. He put his car into Park and got out.
He didn’t think Jillian would tour people through the camp in the dark. Even flashlights wouldn’t afford enough light to see much, as he well knew from combing these woods as a kid.
Camp Cavelier was an institution. So many campers flew in from all over the country that the camp ran a shuttle service to the airport. Most local kids, too, spent summers as resident campers. He and Jillian had been no exception, which was precisely why he was now an owner of the property.
A grudging owner, he amended.
Jillian and her causes—they’d be the death of him yet.
Shaking his head, Michael headed up the steps, hoping she’d left a note and some clue as to where he could find her. He was in enough hot water without wasting more time hunting her down. Then something caught his eye…
Her purse.
She’d left it sitting on the bench, and he flipped it open to find her car keys and cell phone inside, which explained why she hadn’t been answering her phone. He viewed the display. Sure enough, there was a log of her four missed messages.
All from him.
Damn it, but he should never have sat back at his desk tonight. He should have grabbed his wallet and headed out, as he’d told Charlotte he’d do. Or he should have accepted Jillian’s offer to wait for him to make the drive together.
Or maybe they should never have taken on this camp at all. They were just too busy to do right by the place.
The presence of the unfamiliar car drove home a sharp reminder that the interviewees were strangers. Michael’s only consolation was that she wasn’t entirely alone on the property. Camp Cavelier was more than a seasonal camp—these hallowed acres also played home to a small working farm. Year round, schools scheduled field trips, various organizations booked group tours and families hosted children’s birthday parties.
Ike Fleming had been running the farm since Michael and Jillian had taken their own school field trips. He was even older today than he’d seemed back then, which was saying something since he’d always looked seriously old and seriously big—a mountain of a man. But he was a warm body, at least, and a warm body that packed a loaded shotgun when patrolling the area at night.
Of course, Ike’s eyesight had to be failing by now….
An inspection of the office didn’t yield up any note from Jillian. Job applications scattered over a desk, assuring him that she’d stuck to her original plan. Helping himself to a flashlight, he locked her purse in his car then took off in the direction of Ike’s cottage on the south side of Lake Lily.
The dark night didn’t bring back memories of summers spent boating, horseback-riding or working the farm, although he had many. As a young camper, he’d not only communed with nature and wildlife in a place where technology wasn’t allowed, but had formed friendships that had weathered the passage of time.
Including a love affair with his wife.
But tonight Michael wasn’t remembering when he and Jillian had ducked out of a trail ride to make out in the hayloft, or the time they’d stolen out of the cabins late at night to skinny-dip in the lake.
No, tonight these well-worn trails only yielded grisly images of what could happen to a woman alone in the dark. By the time Michael saw the dull glow of Ike’s porch light, his heart was pounding unnaturally hard.
“Ike,” he called, knocking on the door. “It’s Michael. You in there?”
No response.
Michael waited on the doorstep, growing more agitated with each passing second.
“Ike!” He pounded harder this time. Looked like Ike’s hearing was going, too.
Nothing.
Impatiently, Michael tried the handle to find the door unlocked. He pushed inside, calling out loudly as he did, but it didn’t take long to realize that no one was home.
Yet Ike had obviously left in a hurry because a full coffee cup—now stone-cold—sat on the table beside an open newspaper.
The shotgun rack above the sofa was empty.
Michael was getting a bad feeling. He couldn’t be sure whether guilt or the darkness fueled his imagination, but his head raced with every horror story he’d ever seen in the news.
Had Jillian gotten into trouble? Had Ike taken the shotgun out to rescue her?
Had the old guy succeeded?
Racking his brain to remember what Jillian had told him about her interviewees, Michael found himself cursing that he hadn’t paid closer attention. But Camp Cavelier was Jillian’s pet project and he’d apparently only listened with one ear.
Guilt, definitely.
Heading back outside, he pulled the door shut behind him. Sounds from the stabled horses and forest wildlife filtered through the darkness, and he made his way to the trail. He’d circle around to the cabins. It was the only thing to do. There were cars, which meant Jillian was somewhere.
He’d damn sure find her.
Something crashed in the underbrush, startling the night quiet and drawing Michael to a sharp stop. With his heartbeat spiking hard, he waited for something—Ike, wildlife or a murderer?—to appear on the path ahead.
As the seconds ticked past, stillness settled over the night again.
He came upon the boys’ cabins first, and the rustic structures that had once seemed so offhandedly inviting now loomed eerily empty in the moonlight. There were no windows in these cabins, only screens to keep out the snakes and spiders. No air-conditioning, either, which made the bunks inside a stifling ride during the sultry summer.
He mentally rattled off the cabin’s names by rote: Company Thirteen. Pirates. Lightning Bolt. Dreadnought. Wave Runners. Hackers.
“Jillian,” he called out then waited to hear a reply, or any sound to indicate she was in trouble and needed help.
Nothing.
Making his way toward the girls’ cabins, he stumbled over what he belatedly realized was the ring of stones surrounding the bonfire pit. He almost landed face first inside a crater filled with winter-rotted leaves and ash.
He caught his balance at the last possible second, but dropped the flashlight.
“Oh, man.” He sank his fingers into the decomposing debris to retrieve the flashlight, which had managed to bury itself deeply enough to cut off the light.
An owl hooted sharply.
“I don’t need this grief,” he informed the wildlife. “I knew this camp was going to be trouble the instant Jillian came home with the idea.”
Not only had the investment run their credit dry, but the workload was creating conflict in their otherwise perfect lives.
Scowling into the darkness, Michael heard another sound, so faint at first that he might have imagined it.
Laughter?
He didn’t think it was a cry for help.
Rooted to the spot, he tried to make out the sound, but the night had fallen silent. Then he heard it again.
Laughter, definitely.
Following the direction of the sound, he found himself following the trail around the cabins toward the river.
What would Jillian be doing out on the bluff…? Then Michael saw light glowing through the darkness.
The caretaker’s cottage.
With a tentative sense of relief, he headed down the winding dirt path until he found soft light glowing from open windows and heard the sounds of more laughter.
And a fiddle?
Yes, a fiddle. He bolted up the porch steps and knocked loudly on the door.
He had to knock again to be heard, but finally a rather round woman with curly gray hair pulled open the door and broke into a big smile.
“Well hello, handsome. I don’t suppose you’re looking for me, since I just got here.”
The young man playing the fiddle screeched to a halt, but before Michael could reply, he heard Jillian’s silvery laughter.
There she was, standing by the kitchen sink with an apron around her waist. While he’d been getting an ulcer on his midnight tour of the camp, she was having a party.
The trade-off seemed wrong in the extreme.
“Heya, Michael.” Ike sat at the picnic-style dining table with the shotgun propped beside him. “You tracked us down.”
“Good evening, Ike.” Michael flipped off the flashlight. “I dropped by your place, too, looking for my beautiful bride.”
Jillian wiped her hands on the dish towel and joined him. “Widow Serafine, this is my husband, Michael.”
“The dentist,” said the woman with the unusual name, eyeing him with an approving smile.
He nodded. “I take it we have new caretakers.”
“In fact, we do.”
Given Jillian’s thorough screening process, he hadn’t expected this problem to be solved anytime soon. But when she introduced the younger generation of the Baptiste family, he thought the group seemed a nice enough bunch.
After exchanging greetings, Widow Serafine motioned him inside the kitchen. “Are you hungry, Dr. Michael? Marie-Louise whipped us up a welcome feast. You need to sit yourself down and get some before it’s all gone. Got growing boys around here.” She eyed Ike, who rubbed his stomach appreciatively.
Michael hadn’t ever seen Ike smile that widely, and his own stomach growled, recalling how long it had been since lunch. Casting Jillian a sidelong glance, he gauged her mood while deciding whether to deal with the issue between them now or wait until later when they were alone.
One way or the other, he’d better address his tardiness.
Since her honey-gold eyes didn’t give him a clue to what was happening behind them, he decided on the path of the least resistance.
Pressing a kiss to her cheek, he said, “Sorry, Jilly. I almost made it out the door on time.”
“What happened?”
As much as he hated to admit it… “Thought I had enough time to dictate a few of my patients.”
“You fell asleep.” Not a question.
Widow Serafine shot a curious glance between them. “You need some coffee then, don’t you, Dr. Michael?” She didn’t give him a chance to answer before she was gesturing to her granddaughter. “Put on the pot, Marie-Louise. We could all do with some waking up.”
With a nod, the dark-haired teenager busied herself at the counter. Widow Serafine ushered Michael to a seat at the table. He helped himself to a feast of shrimp, buttery oysters and a rice dish seasoned with bell peppers and green onions.
The great meal made up for the lousy start to the night. He ate while listening to Jillian, Ike, Widow Serafine and the boy Raphael discuss the various tasks to be accomplished to ready the camp for the summer campers. From the conversation, he pieced together the talents the Baptistes brought to the table.
Widow Serafine clearly reigned like a queen over her younger generation, and Michael felt his first hope that Jillian might actually pull off this stunt and survive the first season.
“I’M NOT MAD,” Jillian told Michael, not slowing her stride as they made their way back to the camp office.
But that wasn’t true. Still, several hours spent with the Baptiste family and Ike, discussing the various jobs to be accomplished during the next few weeks, had alleviated some of her unease about the Baptiste family’s unorthodox hiring.
And her concern about running this camp without reliable support from Michael.
“You look mad,” he persisted.
Jillian knew he felt guilty for being late. He wanted reassurance but, unfortunately, she was just tired enough, and angry enough, not to give him any. Why should she put forth more effort than he? She’d wanted his help tonight, but he hadn’t been available.
“Let’s let it go, Michael, please,” she said. “It’s been a long day for us both. I’m not up to this conversation right now. I have caretakers in place. That’s really all that’s important.”
If the man was smart, he’d cut his losses, but apparently good Creole food had dulled his senses.
“Why didn’t you call me?”
Jillian took a deep breath. The rational part of her mind reasoned he only persisted because he felt bad. Michael didn’t ever like to let her down—when he realized he was letting her down, of course.
But somewhere along the line, their priorities had gotten confused. Their relationship had taken a back seat to dental school, then his practice. Jillian didn’t mind caring for the day-to-day things that kept their routine running smoothly. But on the rare occasions she asked for help, she thought Michael should step up to the plate.
Camp Cavelier proved they weren’t even playing in the same ball field.
A part of Jillian understood. Michael had devoted himself heart and soul to getting through school and establishing his practice so they could live a comfortable life. She’d supported him unconditionally because she’d wanted that, too. But they were living a very comfortable life.
So when would their relationship come first?
They’d discussed the situation numerous times, but didn’t seem to be managing any changes.
She was beginning to think they never would.
And as Michael walked beside her, waiting expectantly as if he’d deserved another reminder to show up tonight, Jillian couldn’t help but question how many reminders she was obligated to provide. Two? Four? Why couldn’t one be enough?
Along with those questions came a niggling voice in the back of her head, a voice that jogged her memory about all the times she’d reminded him and he’d forgotten anyway.
She’d found a lump in her breast and just last week had gone in for a mammogram. Michael still hadn’t asked about the outcome. She’d been just busy enough since then, and annoyed enough, not to volunteer the information.
She didn’t think he’d ever notice.
“I didn’t see the point in calling,” she said matter-offactly. “The clinic phones would be on the answering service, and I knew you wouldn’t have your cell phone on.”
“You didn’t try?”
“No, I didn’t.”
Such simple words, but his frown told her he heard everything she wasn’t saying aloud.
If my wishes had been important to him, he would have shown up on time without another reminder.
That truth hung in the air between them, the weight of disappointment so tangible and real. She felt cloaked in that heavy silence.
And righteous.
Michael should feel bad. Was what she’d requested of him really so much to ask? He didn’t have to ask her to balance his books every day, schedule his appointments, buy birthday gifts for his staff, for his family…. He wouldn’t have even remembered his own parents’ anniversary had she not stuck a card under his nose and placed a pen in his hand to sign it.
“Don’t you think you’re being a little unfair, Jillian?”
“Unfair? I told you about this interview a week ago. I mentioned it again at the house this morning. And I reminded you before I left the office. How many reminders did you want?”
Emotions played across his handsome face, beginning with a startled hurt and working quickly to anger. He was wrong. He knew it. And he didn’t like it.
“Is that why you left your phone in your purse, so I couldn’t reach you?” he asked. “Did you want me to worry?”
“Did you worry?”
The exact wrong thing to say. She’d known it as the words had formed in her head, yet she’d let them out anyway.
Michael’s expression darkened into a scowl that transformed his face into a stranger’s. She’d known her good-natured husband most of her life but always found herself shaken by the heat of his anger when it reared its head, which wasn’t often.
They didn’t argue.
They discussed. They negotiated. They compromised.
But there didn’t seem to be any compromise with Camp Cavalier.
Michael liked to think he was the perfect husband. He always felt bad whenever he didn’t live up to his expectations. Unfortunately, she was too angry about his tardiness, and his disinterest in her mammogram appointment—not to mention a host of other things she usually dismissed—to let him feel no guilt. She should have reassured him. Reassurance would have taken so much less energy than this argument.
“Michael, I’m sorry I asked you to come tonight.” She didn’t make much of an effort to tone down her resignation. “I know it’s difficult for you to know exactly when you can get out of the office. I do understand.”
But there was no retreat from the road they’d started down. Especially not with such a half-hearted attempt.
“Jillian, the problem isn’t me getting out of the office. It’s you taking on this camp.”
Ouch. He’d made it clear from the start he wasn’t gung-ho about the whole idea, yet hearing him toss it out in anger still stung. “I know you had concerns, but I thought you loved this place as much as I do.”
“Not enough to run it.”
She came to a stop and stared. “It’s not as if I’ve asked you to do a whole lot. You make it sound as if you don’t think I can handle it alone.”
“Camp Cavelier is a full-time job. You’ve already got one of those. So do I—a practice and more patients than I know what to do with.”
“Now there’s the truth. It’s a catch-22. We shouldn’t work all the time, but you know as well as I do that if we didn’t work together, we’d never see each other.”
He arched a dark eyebrow in a look that she’d once thought was sexy. Now the expression only cut his point deep. “You don’t call running this camp work?”
“Not once we get good people hired and a feel for what needs to be done. I was hoping to renovate Bernice and Carl’s cottage. Then we’d have a great weekend getaway. We’ve wanted one for a while but have been too busy to find one. The camp is the perfect compromise. It’s an easy drive from the office. We won’t have to maintain the place, or a boat or a stable. All that’s already here. Yet, we’ll still be able to do all the things we enjoy and don’t have time to care for.”
“We’re caring for the whole damn camp, Jillian. A boat doesn’t sound like such a big deal by comparison.”
She didn’t know why she was trying to sway him to her side, but couldn’t seem to stop. “What about our children? Shouldn’t we make the effort to preserve history for them? I’d hate for them not to spend their summers at Camp Cavelier.”
“What children? We didn’t have time to make any even before we bought the camp.” He gave a sharp laugh. “But you’ve solved that problem. You’ll have kids swarming all over this place in a few weeks. How many are coming this season—eighty, ninety?”
One hundred and three, but she managed the impulse control not to admit it. Not when Michael was looking all inconvenienced and superior, as if he’d been the one doing all the work around here when he couldn’t even make an interview on time.
“I admit this place gets crazy in the summer, but the campers are only here for two months.” She tried to interject reason into a subject that didn’t feel reasonable tonight. “We still have the rest of the year. Spring and fall are gorgeous. Winter can be, too. Can you imagine celebrating Christmas here?”
“I can imagine celebrating selling this land to a development company and making a fortune. Then you can spend Christmas on that Tahitian island you’re always talking about.”
“I haven’t mentioned visiting a Tahitian island since we were planning our honeymoon. Are you saying you’d actually leave your office long enough to take a vacation?”
He scowled harder and didn’t answer.
She scowled right back. Of all the low blows…
“I can’t believe you’d even bring up developing this land. You know I promised Bernice and Carl. That was the whole reason they sold it to me for the price they did.”
“There’s nothing in the contract prohibiting us—”
“It was a verbal agreement I took seriously. Bernice and Carl trusted us to bring the camp into the twenty-first century. They had enough heartache losing their only son in the Vietnam War. Doesn’t trust mean anything to you?”
Her reminder fell flat between them. She could see Michael trying to rein in his anger, recognized how much effort it took, effort that felt as hurtful as his whole uncaring attitude.
What did he have to feel angry about?
She hadn’t asked anything of him except for a little support. She’d honestly thought he’d come through. And not the half-hearted, whenever-it’s-convenient efforts he’d been making. Not when she’d always done her one-hundred-and-ten-percent best to support everything he’d ever wanted.
Why else would she have given up a full ride to Duke if not to accompany him to college?
Why would she have crammed her course load into half the time if not to accompany him to dental school?
Why would she have turned down so many job opportunities if not to start up his practice?
Folding her arms over her chest as if that would help her keep her mouth shut, Jillian glared at him.
“Camp Cavelier is a life calling, not a hobby,” Michael said through clenched teeth. “Look at the Virgils. Look at Ike. Unless you want to close my practice and relocate here to do this job right then developing this land only makes sense. Bernice and Carl couldn’t find anyone to buy the place because it’s a lot of damn work.”
“That’s why I hired caretakers.” She shoved the words through teeth as tightly clenched. “We chose to return to Natchez to start up your practice and rear our family, so shouldn’t we be willing to put some effort into steering Natchez into the future? Life might be a little hectic for a while, Michael, but how is that any different than it’s ever been to reach our goals?”
“Your goal, you mean.”
That’s what the whole situation really all boiled down to—Michael was only interested in what he wanted.
The realization felt like a slap in the face, when she supposed it shouldn’t. Suddenly, she could see the emerging pattern so clearly.
She lived with him, worked with him, slept with him—it had always been about him. Ever since they were young, their lives had always been about what Michael wanted.
Michael, Michael, Michael!
She’d always gone along because she knew successful couples didn’t argue—they negotiated and compromised.
Jillian was getting tired of compromising.
“You know, Michael, that’s the real problem here. Life is fine as long as you get what you want, but the second you have to return the favor, you can’t be counted on.”
“That’s not fair—”
“I don’t know why I’ve let this be okay for so long, but this isn’t fair. I refuse to be married to a man who only thinks about himself.”
Now it was Michael’s turn to reel as if he’d been slapped, and mingled with her horror over what had degenerated into a nasty fight was satisfaction that she’d shocked him.
It was an unfamiliar, ugly feeling.
“What the hell does that mean?” he demanded.
“It means I’m too upset to continue this. We need to table this conversation until we’ve both had a chance to think about how we want to handle this.”
Because if she didn’t get in the car and have time to cool off on the drive home, she was going to say something that would end her marriage right here and now.
“YOU’RE EAVESDROPPING, Widow,” Raphael announced as he stepped through the cottage door to find Serafine sitting in the porch swing, rocking herself to the music of the rushing river.
Back home in Bayou Doré the nights were already sultry and hot, even after the sun went down. Here in Mississippi, darkness cooled the air, and the Landrys’ voices carried on the breeze.
“Need to test the water around here, don’t you think?”
“The Landrys seemed like nice enough people until you got them arguing.”
“That argument’s been brewing a lot longer than I been in Natchez,” Serafine scoffed. “Y’know, boy, I’ve got a really good feeling about this place. I knew as soon I read Mrs. Jillian’s advertisement we were meant to be here. Didn’t question it for a second. I just wasn’t sure why. I mean I knew the obvious—this job is a perfect fit for you and your kin, but there was more.”
“Don’t be meddling with these people.”
The warning in Raphael’s voice made her smile. He didn’t quite come out and argue, and that show of respect—however slight—marked a self-discipline she was happy to see finally in this young man.
“Haven’t been here long enough to be meddling with anyone, I just said.”
“You bullied Mrs. Jillian into giving us these jobs. You made her feel guilty, and she was nice enough to let you.”
“Ah, Raphael. You know how it is. I know we’re here for a purpose. Just have to figure out what it is, and how to do the job. Can’t get about business if Mrs. Jillian kept with her ideas about interviews and reference-checking. Why should we waste time when Mrs. Jillian only needed a bit of convincing?”
“I’d say you’ve been here long enough to meddle.”
“I’m only moving things along in the direction they’re meant to be moving. Your granny had the gift of knowing even stronger than I do. And Marie-Louise, too, even though you tell her to keep her feelings to herself.”
“My granny didn’t take with your hoodoo ways, Widow. You know that.”
“Your granny couldn’t deny who she was no matter how far and fast she ran from the bayou. She finally accepted it, too. Why do you think she sent you back to the family for rearing when she passed?”
Raphael frowned, an expression that bore so much responsibility for a boy who should have been exploring his youth with laughter. She wished he could bridge the distance between pride and his rejection of their family.
“For the record, I don’t practice hoodoo. I’m a God-fearing woman through and through. Just like the rest of your family.”
Baptistes were Baptistes were Baptistes. Life would be simpler all the way around if Virginie’s brood would accept they had people who cared for them. If they’d make an effort to fit in and accept a little help and guidance, they might just stand a chance of making something of their lives. That’s exactly what her baby sister had wanted, Serafine knew.
Virginie had known her eldest sister would feel obligated to do right by these kids, whether she’d admitted the truth to Raphael or not. There’d been bad blood between Serafine and her baby sister. Not intentional, of course. Serafine hadn’t wanted to marry Virginie’s beloved no more than Virginie had wanted to fall in love with the dashing politician from New Iberia Parish.
Neither sister had had a choice.
Not Serafine, whose daddy had decreed his eldest daughter should marry the boy he thought destined to become the next Louisiana governor.
Not Virginie, who’d been in love with falling in love and had used the whole situation as an excuse to break free of the bayou with the next rogue who’d sailed through their swamp.
Serafine had stood by her man’s side until the day he died, not because she’d loved Laurent Mercier but because that had been her duty.
Once she’d pressed her lips to the cool granite of his tomb, her duty had been done. She’d adopted the sobriquet of Widow, stepped into her husband’s place to rule their brood and refused to marry again.
This time her daddy hadn’t insisted otherwise.
He’d left Serafine free to do what she did best—set people to rights. And here she was in Natchez, doing just that. She’d thought only Virginie’s brood needed setting, but after eavesdropping on the Landrys, she knew more than three young ’uns needed her help.
She only wished Raphael would accept the situation so easily, and if his scowl was any indication…
“If you’re going to meddle, maybe me and my kin should keep moving on to Shreveport,” he said grimly. “Marie-Louise will turn eighteen soon.”
The reminder irked Serafine. Raphael and Philip had only stayed in Bayou Doré because they wouldn’t leave their sister behind. Once Marie-Louise reached the age of majority, the girl could make her own choices. No question she’d follow her brothers wherever they wanted to go.
“What are you planning to do in Shreveport, boy? Keep working on your jobs that take from sunup to sundown and barely pay the bills? You want a better life for your kin, but with you working so hard, you can’t keep your eyes on them. Philip’s already running wild, and Marie-Louise hasn’t turned up with a big belly yet because she’s holding out for true love—like your granny did. Better hope true love doesn’t turn out to be a scoundrel like your granddaddy. He spirited my baby sister from the bayou with his smooth talk and pretty smiles then left her breeding and too proud to come home.”
Raphael speared his fingers through his hair. To the boy’s credit, he didn’t deny her claims, though Serafine knew he wanted to. But Raphael had been privy to that part of his grandparents’ history, at least. He’d been reared without parents for the very same reason and was smart enough to know that, left to run wild, Philip and Marie-Louise would get themselves into trouble.
“You’re their only hope and you know it,” Serafine pointed out. “They listen to you. Your fortune’s going to change in Natchez, boy. I feel it. We’re here for a reason, and if you’re smart, you’ll keep that chip on your shoulder under your collar. For your kin’s sake. Your own, too.”
Raphael narrowed his gaze, but Serafine only clapped a hand on his back and smiled.
“Like it or not, boy, I love you and your kin. You remind me of my baby sister. I lost too many years with her. I plan to make the most of what I can get with you. You hear me?”
“I hear you, Widow.”
“Good. Then you might try working with me instead of against me for a change. Together, we might work some magic around here.”
Raphael met her gaze with those eyes that saw so much more than she’d wanted to reveal, a look that was pure Virginie. “That’s what I’m afraid of. That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”
But not all magic was hoodoo. Not all magic need be feared. A lesson Raphael was about to learn.
3
Several days later
“JILLIAN.” Charlotte poked her head through the open office door. “I’ve got a woman in the reception area who doesn’t have an appointment, but says you’ll squeeze her in. Do you know a Serafine Baptiste-Mercier?”
Jillian nodded and rolled the chair away from the desk. “Why does she need an appointment?”
“Broken bridge.”
Darn. This was the absolute last thing that needed to happen right now. As was typical, the clinic was busy, but worse than that, there was an oppressive tension in the air. Primarily because she and Michael weren’t right. She was still angry—at him for being so selfish and at herself for placing the status of their marriage in question.
There was a reason she didn’t like to argue, and Jillian had remembered it—somewhere between the drive back from camp the other night and the drive to work the following morning. Arguments fueled hurt feelings and fighting words—and statements made in anger affected everything and proved hard to take back.
But for now, she had to wedge another appointment into a crammed schedule. What else could she do about Widow Serafine—tell her brand-new caretaker to find another dentist?
With a sigh, Jillian glanced at the computer monitor. “Michael did book some extra time this afternoon to get that temporary crown out of his mouth. He might be able to squeeze her in.”
“Glad you mentioned it. I assume he’s expecting me to put his new crown in.”
Jillian recognized a rhetorical question and didn’t bother with a reply.
“So who’s this woman?”
“Widow Serafine, my new camp caretaker. She’s only been in town a few days.”
“Why do you look so stressed? You know Michael will take care of her.”
“I know.” She must have sounded as indecisive as she felt because Charlotte eyed her narrowly.
“I knew it. You two have been parading around here all week like strangers. Why haven’t you patched things up yet, Jillian?”
“It was a pretty nasty argument.”
“You’re going to make me stressed if you don’t get this thing all settled. You’re my favorite couple, you know?”
Jillian shrugged, not sure what to say. Some things just weren’t a quick fix. This situation had risen like the river during a hurricane. Up and over the levee then right through their lives.
“Well, I’m no marriage counselor, but I’m here if you want someone to listen,” Charlotte said. “Now you better go deal with your new caretaker. She’s a character, that’s for sure. I left her chatting it up with the Baker twins.”
“Oh, my.”
The Baker twins were the owners of an antebellum house that sat majestically on the bluff overlooking Natchez Under-the-Hill. Descended from a family that had grown wealthy during the cotton boom of the early nineteenth century, the Baker twins considered themselves Natchez royalty.
They lived in the upper stories of their family home and had opened the lower to the public. A cherished stop on the National Register tour, the Baker family home gave guests the opportunity to explore the nearby historic district. Under-the-Hill offered carriage rides with coachmen who could talk about the Cotton Kingdom origins and steamboat traffic as if they’d lived the lives of wealthy plantation owners.
As far as Jillian knew, these two eccentric old ladies didn’t talk to anyone but each other, their tour guests and their fourteen cats. They’d deigned to grace Michael with their business only after failing eyesight had finally forced Dr. Cavanaugh, the town’s long-time dentist, into retirement.
Following Charlotte toward the reception area, Jillian noted that Michael was inside exam room two, complimenting his young patient on her oral hygiene after her first month in braces. He didn’t look up as she passed.
Neither did Widow Serafine. But Jillian did a double take in the doorway of the reception area when she found her caretaker had actually sandwiched herself between the Baker twins on the leather sofa. Eugenie and Eulalie looked more than a bit shell-shocked with this striking stranger between them.
The scene could have been a skit from Comedy Central. The two wispy old ladies in their impeccable vintage dresses looked on the verge of swooning. By comparison Widow Serafine could have blown in on a hurricane squall. Not only did she equal the size of both Baker sisters combined, but her ensemble was as bright as a carnival tent.
After asking and answering her own question, Widow Serafine’s laughter rang out, too big for what Jillian had always considered a spacious and comfortable waiting room.
The Baker twins clearly didn’t know what to make of their new acquaintance, so Jillian jumped to the rescue.
“Widow Serafine, I see you’ve met Natchez’s ladies of distinction. Eugenie and Eulalie Baker own that gorgeous antebellum house on the bluff. They’re an important part of our heritage around here.” She hoped a deferential introduction would shake the twins from their daze and smooth any ruffled feathers. “Ladies, Widow Serafine is the new caretaker at Camp Cavelier. She’s newly arrived from New Orleans with her family.”
Two identical watery blue gazes focused in a disbelieving look that anyone would actually invite this woman to town. Jillian shut down any further conversation by reassuring the twins that Charlotte would retrieve them shortly.
“You can come with me, so I can get some information,” she told Widow Serafine, who swept past in a cloud of inviting lavender scent.
“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you fitting me in today.” She smiled a crooked smile to reveal the empty space where two upper molars should have been. “I couldn’t believe the luck. Marie-Louise and I were scrubbing out the shower stalls in the girls’ cabins when the darn thing broke clean in two. Had it been any smaller, I’d have swallowed it.”
She extended a hand to reveal the offending bit of dentistry, which was exactly in the condition she claimed.
“I’m sure Michael won’t have any trouble repairing it.” Settling Widow Serafine into her office guest chair, Jillian learned that she was the one in for trouble after asking for a dental insurance card.
“Dental coverage is one of the perks that comes with the caretaker job, isn’t it?” Widow Serafine asked.
“Yes, it is.”
“And when does that coverage kick in?”
“Ninety days.”
Widow Serafine placed the broken bridge on the desk and eyed the dislodged teeth with a contemplative expression. “I suppose I can come back then.”
“You don’t have any dental coverage?”
“Not since my husband died. God bless his soul. The government doesn’t keep providing for his widow, and those monthly payments were more than my mortgage. Wish I didn’t have to keep paying for a house that’s been blown away, truth be told.” Widow Serafine beamed a smile that revealed her missing molars. “Think you could hang on to the bill for ninety days until the coverage kicks in?”
Not unless she wanted to perpetrate insurance fraud. Jillian kept that to herself, but for a woman who normally handled her husband’s business efficiently, she found herself back to being speechless again.
Which gave Widow Serafine the upper hand.
“Back home old Doc Roup lets my kin work off my bill,” she explained. “My boy Denis is a carpenter. He fixes up whatever Doc needs fixing. My girl Lucie trims his hair—well, what little he has left, anyway. If I just need a filling, Doc’ll settle up for a big pot of my gumbo. Or bouillabaisse when Lucie’s husband goes out fishing. Says I make the best bouillabaisse in the whole parish. And I do, Mrs. Jillian. Do you like bouillabaisse?”
Jillian wondered what it was about this woman that kept catching her off guard. She ran into her fair share of characters around here. Michael was well-loved in town, which translated into a patient base of diverse demography—from eccentric old-timers like the Baker twins to members of local law-enforcement agencies and philanthropists like Amelia Preston.
Jillian knew Michael wouldn’t think twice about accepting a pot of whatever the widow might be cooking as repayment for her bridge. But this wasn’t exactly the best of times to be asking him for a freebie connected to Camp Cavelier.
But as she saw Widow Serafine’s newly imperfect smile reflected in her dark eyes, Jillian didn’t have a choice. She wouldn’t suggest the woman make the nearly four-hour drive to visit old Doc Roup. Nor did she feel right about taking the widow up on her suggestion to walk around without her bridge until her dental coverage kicked in.
No, the only way Jillian could look herself in the mirror meant forcing a smile and saying, “Actually, I think the office staff might enjoy a pot of gumbo for lunch one day.”
“BITE DOWN,” Michael said.
Widow Serafine did as he asked, and he inspected the impression, pleased with a job well done.
“There you go. Good as new.”
He stripped off sanitary gloves while Charlotte unfastened the paper bib from around Widow Serafine’s neck.
“You’re a miracle worker, Dr. Michael,” the widow said as he shifted the dental chair into an upright position.
Michael smiled, appreciating the sentiment even if he hadn’t exactly earned such accolades. The repair job had been simple.
“Now, you’re sure I didn’t run you too far off your schedule?” Widow Serafine asked. “You got plenty of time to get that crown of yours in your own mouth, right?”
She pointed to the equipment shelf behind him, and Michael followed her gaze to the bit of porcelain residing there. “Not a problem. In fact, Charlotte will put it in right now just so we don’t forget.”
“Thanks for telling me.” Charlotte snapped a glove on her hand with ceremony.
“Then I’ll get home to planning the menu. You sure you don’t want your luncheon until Monday?”
“Can’t think of a better way to start a week around here,” he said.
Charlotte nodded. “Now there’s a truth.”
“Just remember,” he told Widow Serafine as she swung her legs out of the chair and took his hand for a gentlemanly assist. “Go easy on that bridge until dinner. After that you can eat normally.”
“You betcha, Dr. Michael. Thanks again.”
“My pleasure.” He smiled as Widow Serafine disappeared down the hallway. Then he took his place in the dental chair.
Charlotte prepared the cement, and the process of replacing his temporary with a new crown took all of five minutes. He tested the impression and declared his bite satisfactory.
“You do good work.” He smiled widely, one of the cheesy smiles he coaxed out of his patients to capture on film and grace his office walls.
“Of course I do,” Charlotte said. “Now get back to work before we wind up working straight through lunch.”
But Michael hadn’t yet left the exam room to greet his next patient when Jillian showed up. He bit back a casual greeting—her serious expression told him everything he needed to know about her mood.
Damn it. Was she ever going to let their argument go, or was she planning to hold a grudge forever?
Or had she expected him to take her threats about their marriage seriously?
Right.
He eyed her chilly expression and settled on a noncommittal, “What’s up?”
“Did you get your crown in?”
“Good as new.”
“I just wanted to thank you for squeezing in Widow Serafine this morning.”
“No problem.” He glanced at his watch. “Should still have time to finish up, eat lunch and take a quick nap.”
“I’m glad,” she said. “Wouldn’t want you to miss your beauty rest.”
Michael glanced up, but Jillian had already turned and headed out the door.
His beauty rest?
He frowned at her retreating back. Widow Serafine might not technically have been his patient before today, but the woman had needed her bridge repaired. Had Jillian honestly expected him to turn her away?
No, which meant she was still holding a major grudge about Camp Cavelier.
Michael knew the drill. Because he’d run late for the interview and because of the things he’d said in the heat of the moment, so she’d decided to interpret his reservations about the camp to mean he didn’t want to be involved. He didn’t, of course, but he would never abandon her on one of her crusades.
He’d apologized, but, unfortunately, it looked like an apology wasn’t going to do the trick. Jillian was too damned efficient and proud. She didn’t like needing help in the best of circumstances. In all the years he’d known her, he couldn’t ever remember hearing her admit she’d bitten off more than she could chew. And she had, a few times.
His incredibly competent wife routinely faced challenges that would send most people running in the opposite direction. She always managed to buck up and keep her eyes on the goal, though. He knew the craziness would eventually pass, the pressure would be off and their days would return to normal.
But life could get hairy in the process….
On the rare occasions Michael had run afoul of her efforts, he’d found himself eliminated from the equation. Camp business, including Widow Serafine and her family, would now become Jillian’s exclusive domain.
He frowned at the doorway.
His beauty rest?
Her pettiness surprised him. Until right now, he hadn’t even known she could be petty.
While working on his next patient, Michael considered what he might do to ease his way back into her good graces. Not that he had any burning desire to squeeze more work into his already overbooked days. But Jillian’s mood was translating into every aspect of their lives. She was freezing him out, and he didn’t relish a summer with her ignoring him because she was mad.
Should he send flowers? She loved gladioli, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d brought her any. An anniversary maybe? But which one?
What about candy? She had a sweet tooth, and a box of expensive chocolate—milk, not dark—might assuage her temper.
Michael debated flowers versus chocolate as he wrapped up his morning, inhaled his lunch then settled into his office easy chair for a turbo nap.
By the time he’d awakened, refreshed and ready to take on the afternoon, he’d decided on the flowers. Had Jillian mentioned watching her weight lately? He couldn’t remember, but didn’t want to seem unsupportive of her efforts if she was.
Flowers would definitely be safer.
But Jillian was angrier than he’d ever seen her. Maybe he should take her to dinner. Hmm. That idea had potential. Dinner would mean she wouldn’t have to cook. If he presented his invitation right, not only would he seem sensitive, but unselfish because he hated leaving the house once he’d settled in after a long day.
Yeah, Jillian might really like dinner.
So after he finished his last patient of the day, Michael planned his strategy. She’d driven her own car into work, so he arrived home behind her, moved quietly through the house and caught up with her in the bathroom as she stripped off her uniform.
With the smock coming over her head, she didn’t see him sneak up behind her, but he got an eyeful. Strawberry-blond waves tumbled down her back as she deposited the shirt into the hamper. She wore a white cotton bra that looked so sexy.
Trailing his gaze down to the curvy V of her waist, he imagined slipping his arms around her, unfastening the clasp and trying a few moves sure to coax out those soft sighs she made whenever he touched her.
Maybe she’d be so taken by his thoughtfulness that he’d luck out and score. After a good meal, Michael would get a second wind. How long had it been since they’d made love anyway?
“Hey, gorgeous.” He caught her around the waist.
She let out a surprised yelp then went stiff in his arms.
Not good.
Twisting her around, he gazed down into her face. “Surprised to see me?”
“I didn’t hear you come in.”
“What do you say about dinner at Kevin’s tonight? Let me make up for being such an ass about the interview. We can discuss the camp. What do you say?”
She said nothing at all, just eyed him through a narrowed gaze as if she wasn’t sure whether or not to believe him.
It was enough to hurt a guy’s pride. “I don’t want you angry with me anymore. And I don’t want you thinking about not being married to me, either.” He nuzzled his cheek against the top of her head.
“Finally got your attention, did I?”
“Of course you got my attention.” He squelched a wave of irritation and forced his tone to remain conciliatory. “Let’s fix things. We don’t stay angry at each other. That’s what other couples do, not us.”
She still didn’t reply, so he tried again.
“Come on, Jilly.” He coaxed. “Kevin owes me for missing his last appointment. I’m sure he’ll give us a last-minute table. We love going to Kevin’s. It’s our special place.”
Would she give him a chance to make peace so they could get past this or would she keep hanging on to her anger?
She frowned, considering, but didn’t pull away. He considered that a good sign.
He tried again. “I don’t want you to have to cook. Not even to reheat last night’s leftovers. You’ve had a busy day. I want you to relax and be waited on tonight.”
“You don’t like going out after you get home from work.”
Okay, she was talking to him. That was a step in the right direction.
“Doesn’t matter what I like. I’m trying to apologize here.”
His words hung in the air between them, and he could feel her indecision in the way she’d started relaxing against him.
He went in for the kill. “I’m groveling, Jilly. Come on. Let me fix this.”
“You think dinner’s going to do that?”
“It’s a start. We’ll discuss the camp. I’m sure we can come up with something. We always do.”
He tightened his grip until she came up close against him, all her curves touching him in exactly the right places, sparking life signs just as she always did. “I want you to know how much I appreciate you and everything you do for me.”
“I’m your wife and office manager. I’m doing my jobs.”
“Which I don’t tell you often enough how much I appreciate.”
“I know you do.”
Tipping her head back, she gazed up into his face, the distance in her eyes beginning to melt away. She slipped her arms around his waist and rested her head on his shoulder.
First base.
“You don’t think it’s kind of late for dinner?” she asked.
“If we get a move on, we could probably be seated by seven-thirty.”
“It’ll be after eight by the time we’re served.”
Michael knew what was happening here, and if he didn’t catch her quickly, she’d talk herself out of his thoughtful gesture. “I wanted to do something nice so you know how much I appreciate the way you handle my patients.”
“Especially when you get behind?”
“Most especially when I get behind.”
“I owed you. For taking care of Widow Serafine.”
She was testing him, mentioning the camp to see how he responded. He walked a razor-sharp line with his response and shot for the right mix of repentant and sincere. Any defense would only lose the ground he’d gained.
“Widow Serafine is our caretaker. If we take good care of her, she’ll take good care of us, don’t you think?”
Again, she peered at him as if deciding whether or not to take him seriously.
“You know me, Jillian. Mr. Sweet Guy. That’s why you married me, remember? I’d never leave a lady without her teeth.”
The second it was out of his mouth, Michael knew it had been exactly the right thing to say. He could feel the last of her resistance melt away as she relaxed against him.
Second base.
He didn’t pressure her with words, just rested his chin on the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her, always fresh and feminine, not perfumed but reminding him of the way the air smelled after a spring rain.
He could see their reflections in the vanity mirror. Jillian looked sexy with so much bare skin revealed, her arms relaxed as she held him around the waist. He liked the way they looked together, right, the long lines of her body molding against him to create the perfect fit.
“He wants sex.”
“I always want sex with you.” He dropped his voice an octave into what Jillian always called his bedroom voice. “If you think it’s too late, we can always skip dinner and go straight for dessert.”
That statement didn’t have quite the effect he’d expected.
Jillian exhaled heavily. “At least it won’t be the kind of dessert that’ll put on any weight.”
He’d made a good call on the chocolate. Crowding her against the wall, Michael gave in to the urge to remove her bra.
“Michael, what are you—” Jillian broke off her words on a sigh when he filled his hands with her warm skin.
He recognized the mixture of hesitation and yearning in her voice, a tone that always made his blood crash straight to his crotch. Her mind might be saying, “No, we really shouldn’t.” But her body was saying, “Take me, I’m yours.”
He thumbed her nipples, a deep slow stroke, and was rewarded when the tips speared into tight peaks. She arched just enough to invite him to further exploration, and he found the sight of her reflection arousing in the extreme.
His hands looked dark against her skin, and she was all beautiful curves as she leaned her head against the wall, exposing the graceful sweep of her neck. Michael couldn’t have resisted a taste if his life had depended on it.
Lowering his mouth to the pulse beating low in her throat, he pressed an open-mouthed kiss there.
Jillian shivered.
He sucked gently, and was rewarded when she inhaled a long breath that whispered brokenly against his hair. He couldn’t resist dragging his hands down her ribs and anchoring her closer. He rode his growing erection against her belly. She rocked her hips, making him swell so hard his pants seam bit painfully into his skin, which dampened his enthusiasm for foreplay in the bathroom. Disentangling himself, he caught her around the waist and under her knees then lifted her into his arms.
She draped her arms around his neck to hang on. “You’re going to hurt your back.”
Michael only laughed, a sound that burst out harder than he’d intended and made her scowl knowingly.
Okay, so he wasn’t as young as he’d once been… “I can still think of a few ways to show my appreciation, Jilly.”
She turned to gaze in the mirror. “That’s not the problem. I’ve been watching what I eat, but I think my metabolism is slowing down now that I’m thirty.”
Michael exhaled a snort of disbelief that managed not to sound as if he was gasping for air. Maneuvering her through the bathroom doorway, he deposited her on the side of the bed. He didn’t give her a chance to protest, or to get away. Catching her around the waist, he worked the jumble of uniform and cotton panties down her legs before tossing the whole thing onto the floor.
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Jeanie London
IF YOU COULD READ MY MIND…
Jeanie London
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
To my very own hero—always.
Happy anniversary, honey!
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
About the Author
Coming Next Month
Prologue
When the trouble first started
EXACTLYwhy had she fallen in love with this man again? Right now, Jillian Landry honestly couldn’t remember, which was saying something since this man was her husband of seven years. Before marriage she’d dated him for five years and, before that, tagged after him for the better part of her life. Ever since the day her older brother had returned from kindergarten to proclaim Michael Landry as his new best friend.
But at the moment…after being restrained in said husband’s dental chair, Jillian couldn’t remember what she’d ever seen in a man who’d obviously lost his mind between the time he’d locked up the clinic after the staff’s departure and his return trip.
“Michael, what are you doing?”
Flipping off the overhead fluorescent lights, he shot her a smile that dazzled in the suddenly dim room. “I’m creating a fantasy for you. You said you wanted a fantasy, remember?”
Oh, she remembered all right. The whole idea of fantasies had come up during a conversation at a recent Main Street Rehabilitation fund-raiser. She and Michael had been chatting with the Prestons during cocktail hour, when Amelia Preston—a society matron with enough money to discuss whatever was on her mind—began an interrogation about how to keep the romance alive in a marriage.
Jillian hadn’t been sure whether Amelia had been grilling guests for tidbits to spice up her own decades-old marriage or the dull pre-dinner party. Whatever the motivation, she’d succeeded in getting Jillian to consider the question in the car on the way home.
No denying that after seven years of marriage, there’d been some trade-off of excitement for predictability. Not necessarily a bad thing, she’d been quick to point out. Orgasms were better than ever because practice made perfect. After so much practice, Michael was a locksmith with all the right keys.
But she’d admitted to seeing the appeal of a little fantasy now and then to keep the romance alive.
Apparently now was then.
The best Michael could come up with was handcuffs?
“Are you open for something different tonight, Jilly?” Michael shrugged off his white lab coat to reveal the shirt and pants she’d just picked up from the cleaners yesterday.
“Dare I ask how different?”
He strode purposefully toward her, his smile promising a satisfying answer to her question. “How about you just stick around to find out?”
Stick around?
Testing the steel restraining her to his dental chair, the very one his last patient had vacated not a half hour earlier, Jillian had to wonder where he thought she could go.
She wouldn’t ask where he’d gotten the handcuffs. Michael cared for the smiles of over half the police force in their hometown of Natchez, Mississippi. And those spit-polished good old boys—most of whom were lifelong friends—would be smiling if they knew why Michael wanted restraints. Just the thought was enough to make her wince.
Or maybe the crick in her neck was to blame.
Or her numb arm and tingling fingers.
“How about you just relax and trust me to show you a good time?” Michael loomed over her, blue eyes glinting with sexy innuendo, and slipped his hands beneath her uniform smock.
His warm fingers caressed her skin with tantalizing slowness as he eased the hem up, up, up, until he bared her bra to his gaze.
With that smile still playing around his lips, he descended, his mouth making contact with her skin to trail moist kisses in the wake of his hands.
“That feels nice.”
“You just wait.” His words broke against her skin in breathy bursts then, in one skilled move, he popped open the fastener on her bra.
Her breasts tumbled free, nipples puckering at contact with the climate-controlled air. Michael was there instantly, dragging his warm tongue over one peak in an arousing stroke, easing his fingers around the other and weighing her in his warm palm.
Willing herself to relax, Jillian forced her focus onto her husband’s sexy ministrations and not the dull throb of her shoulder. She supposed there’d been no other place to attach the handcuffs besides the mechanism under the chair arm. She might have suggested something more user-friendly had Michael not taken her by surprise by cuffing her here in the first place.
Now, she didn’t want to say anything he might perceive as a lack of enthusiasm. He wanted to create a fantasy tonight, and as she’d been the one to pursue Amelia Preston’s conversation…
But Jillian couldn’t help wondering if Michael had taken action on that conversation because he’d noticed the trade-off between excitement and predictability, too.
Surely all the passion couldn’t have gone after only seven years of marriage?
Of course not.
Through sheer determination, Jillian forced all her focus onto the feel of Michael’s mouth on her, the caress of his warm hands, the promise of an orgasm that was bound to leave her gasping.
Arching her back slightly, she lifted her breasts in an eager posture and bullied her libido into a response.
And there it was…a life sign.
Awareness flickered deep inside, and she closed her eyes to shut out everything but the feel of Michael’s mouth, the swirl of his tongue, the slow pull of his lips.
He let his hands join the game, pinching her nipples as if recognizing he’d have to break out the heavy artillery to coax her body to life after such an exhausting day.
A few firm squeezes did the trick. Her insides melted, and desire pooled warmly between her thighs.
“Mmm.” She exhaled the sigh on a breath.
“Like that, do you?” Michael sounded very pleased with her response.
“You know I do.”
He squeezed again, this time earning a shiver. “I can think of a few other things you like, too.”
“Be still my heart.”
He chuckled. “Uh-uh, Jilly. There’s going to be nothing still about you by the time I’m through.”
To prove his point, he caught the elastic waistband of her pants and tugged them over her hips and down her legs. Then he reared back and raked a hungry gaze over her.
“As gorgeous as ever.” He dragged his fingertips lightly over her stomach, a teasing touch that made her tremble. Then he toyed with the edge of her cotton panties, easing his fingers inside just enough to make her sound breathless when she said, “I’m very glad you think so.”
“Oh, I do, my beautiful bride. I do.” To prove his point, he gazed down pointedly at his crotch, drawing her attention to the promising bulge there.
“If I had free hands, I’d undress you, too.”
“Allow me.”
She thought he might free her, but he began a careful striptease instead. So, lying in his dental chair, nearly naked and definitely aroused, she watched him peel away clothes that showed the effects of the long day to reveal all the tantalizing secrets below.
He was just thirty-two, two years older than she was, and she could still see the boy she’d fallen in love with inside this more mature version. He’d been the high-school football star. The handsome homecoming king. The proud fraternity president. A devastatingly romantic groom.
Jillian still felt a tingle when she thought about all those yummy memories, still admired his strong features, the glossy black hair that contrasted so sharply with his blue eyes.
Michael.
She’d been involved with him for most of her life. She supposed it was only natural that their relationship ebbed and flowed. They’d weather this lull just as they’d weathered tough years during college and dental school and a financially difficult start to his practice.
Of course they would.
1
Several weeks later
THE WHINING of the high-speed drill hadn’t faded to silence before Michael Landry heard his wife say, “I’m leaving now.”
Glancing up from his patient, who reclined in the dental chair with his open mouth exposing a problem molar, Michael found Jillian standing in the doorway. He couldn’t help but smile at the sight of her, looking all brisk and businesslike in her colorful smock and white pants.
She wore the same uniform as his staff, although she’d applied her business degree toward managing his office ever since he’d set up his practice after dental school. Several years might have passed since they’d bought this old building in downtown Natchez, but Jillian looked the same as the sparkling-eyed young girl he’d fallen in love with so long ago.
She was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
Strawberry-blond hair waved around her face, and she had warm brown eyes that could melt with pleasure or twinkle with laughter. She could still catch him off guard with her smile.
“You remember we have an interview with the caretakers from New Orleans at the camp tonight,” she said.
“What time is it again?” He wasn’t about to admit he hadn’t remembered.
“Seven. If you lock up right after your last patient and leave with the staff, you should have plenty of time to get through traffic.”
“To Camp Cavelier?” Louis Bernard lifted his head from the headrest, almost nailing the equipment tray before Michael made a quick save. “You’ll make the camp by seven if you’re driving on the shoulder up State Road Twenty.”
“Not if he leaves with the staff,” Jillian said firmly. “Are you sure you don’t want me to wait for you?”
“You said you needed to look over their paperwork. Go ahead. I’ll be there.”
He could hear Charlotte snicker from behind her paper mask and shot his nurse a look he hoped would deter her from comment. He was already in enough hot water with Jillian about their latest investment venture.
But Charlotte O’Brien wasn’t in the habit of being deterred by him. This sixty-ish, pixie-ish dynamo had been a nurse since long before Michael had even thought about going into dentistry. She had a lot of know-how, and despite their years together, he still hadn’t decided why she worked for him. Some days he thought she was impressed with his skill and chair-side manner. Other days, he suspected she felt it was her duty to tell him what to do to keep his patients safe.
She didn’t even bother trying to hide her amusement now. “What your wife wants here is confirmation. Go on and tell her you’ll let us drag you out the door when we leave before she gets a gray hair.”
“Now that’s where you’re wrong.” He slid his stool back and stood. “Jillian’s just doing what she always does—keeping my schedule straight so I can devote myself to my patients. Don’t know what I’d do without this woman.”
He caught her around the waist and waltzed her through the cramped space in the exam room. With a gasp, she melted into his arms the way she always did, as if her luscious body had been designed exclusively to fit close.
“Michael!”
“Yes, my beautiful bride?”
“You’re crazy.”
“Only about you, love of my life.”
“Oh, Michael.”
He whirled her to the sound of Charlotte’s chuckles and Louis’s deep-throated guffaws. Unable to resist, he dipped her over his arm for good measure, one of those dramatic, romantic gestures that never failed to make Jillian sigh those breathless sighs that caught him hard in the gut.
She melted over his arm in a liquid move and exhaled a gasping laugh. That had been the first thing to attract him to Jillian—her laughter. Unrestrained, glorious laughter. He couldn’t resist kissing the sound from her lips.
So, flipping up his paper mask, he did.
Her mouth yielded beneath his, her kiss so natural and welcoming that he felt that twist low in his gut. He resisted the urge to deepen their kiss and taste the sweet greeting he knew would be his.
That was the way it had always been between them—right. Ever since he’d stolen his first kiss on the high-school football field after a particularly tight win, he’d responded to Jillian in a way he had no other.
He still did. She was such a tidy armful with her hands wound around his neck to hang on, her warm breaths clashing with his in easy rhythm. She made him think about sex.
They only parted after attracting an audience. His two hygienists stood in the hall beyond the open doorway, their applause muffled by their sanitary gloves.
“Show’s over, folks.” He waved everyone back to work.
With laughing comments, his staff disbanded, and Jillian rolled her eyes, pecked him on the cheek and said, “Now back to work before you get totally off schedule.”
“Or my anesthetic wears off.” Louis shot a worried glance at the drill.
Michael got back to his own work before Louis’s anesthetic did indeed wear off. He pointedly ignored the amusement glinting in Charlotte’s eyes above the mask.
He wasn’t entirely sure how he’d earned this open conspiracy, but his wife and office staff had taken it upon themselves to point him through his days as if he couldn’t find his own way. If it made them all feel useful to play mother hens, then Michael tried not to complain.
He could think of a lot worse things than a bunch of women caring about him.
Not to mention that Charlotte made the best damn fried chicken he’d ever tasted. He wouldn’t do anything to risk ticking her off and denying himself those little plastic baggies filled with crispy drumsticks.
Even their newest hygienist, Brandi, young as she was, had followed suit, to become his newest mother hen. And Michael chose to let these ladies do what made them happy. Most of the time keeping his ladies happy made him happy, too, but there were days when their hovering got annoying.
Like at the end of the long work day when he and the staff were leaving the office.
Michael patted his back pocket. “Damn, I forgot my wallet. Knowing my luck, I’ll get pulled over and not have my license.”
“Go on and get it.” Charlotte reached out to grab the door from him. “I’ll wait.”
Being mother-henned was one thing. Being made to feel incompetent was another entirely. “Thanks, but if you don’t get to Libby’s dance recital before the theater fills up, you’ll never get a decent seat.”
There was no argument there, but he could tell Charlotte didn’t want to leave until she saw him get inside his car.
“Jillian said to make sure you leave with us, Michael,” Dianne informed him.
“I only have to grab my wallet,” he informed his senior hygienist.
“You’ll only be a minute?” Charlotte frowned at him.
He frowned right back, and she obviously recognized that he was only half joking.
“See you tomorrow, ladies. I’m quite capable of grabbing my wallet and making it to my car without an escort.”
That the ladies didn’t look convinced annoyed him further.
“Enjoy the recital, Charlotte,” he prompted. “You two have a good night, as well.”
“G’night, Michael.”
Charlotte forced a smile and headed to her car.
Shaking his head, he wound his way through the space, flipping on lights as he went, finally reaching his private office at the rear of the building.
What made these women think he needed a babysitter?
Circling his desk, he retrieved his wallet from the drawer. He really didn’t have an answer to the question, but knew he’d simply have to weather the storm, which meant getting on the road. Glancing up at the wall clock, he found himself ten minutes ahead of schedule.
What had Charlotte been worried about?
Slipping his wallet inside his back pocket, Michael reached for his handheld recorder. He typically dictated his patients’ reports before leaving the office at the end of the day, while the information was still fresh in his head.
His medical transcriptionist came in for a few hours each morning. He could give her a few to start with in the morning, which would buy him time to dictate the rest. He glanced at the files stacked neatly on the edge of his desk. In ten minutes he could dictate at least two. With any luck, three….
JILLIAN WATCHED the old-model Lincoln Town Car wind down the long dirt drive toward the camp, kicking up clouds of dust into the twilight. The sun set in pastel strands over the Mississippi, and from her perch on the bluff, she let the quiet river soothe away her annoyance that Michael hadn’t shown up before the interview as she’d asked him to.
She’d decided to reserve judgment about why he wasn’t here. Jillian knew if an emergency had come up at the last minute he wouldn’t have hesitated to place a patient in his chair. Michael had the biggest heart of anyone she’d ever known, which was one of the things she loved best about him. He cared about what he did, so much so that she’d been forced to reevaluate their office system four times to figure out how to squeeze so many patients into one man’s schedule.
Jillian frowned. If an emergency had come up, Charlotte would have called.
She hoped he hadn’t had any trouble on the road or, God forbid, an accident. Just the thought was enough to erase the calming effects of the sunset and trap the breath in her chest.
But, Jillian reasoned, if Michael had had an accident, he’d have called. Or someone would have. They knew so many state troopers and emergency personnel around town that someone could have tracked her down if something horrible had happened.
But just in case, Jillian glanced inside her purse to make sure her cell phone was on. Yes, the phone was on and, yes, the battery was sufficiently charged. She resisted the urge to call him. The office phones rolled over to the answering service when the staff left. Even if his personal cell phone was on, which she knew it wouldn’t be, Jillian would only frustrate herself. Michael had said he would be here. She’d simply trust he had a good reason for not calling to say he was running late.
That was the last chance she got to dwell on Michael, anyway, because the old blue Lincoln pulled into the circle drive, following signs leading it straight to the office where she stood on the porch beneath a slightly sagging overhang.
This log cabin had been built by Camp Cavelier’s original owners and had seen every season since the camp had opened on this Mississippi bluff. She and Michael were the camp’s first owners who were not actually members of the founding family. It was a position that came with historic obligation and a lot of tradition, responsibilities Jillian intended to live up to.
But as she was learning firsthand since assuming the role, she needed help. Full-time help. And an up-close glimpse of the Lincoln coming to a stop in front of the stairs wasn’t inspiring much confidence. She smiled as the doors swung wide and the members of the Baptiste family from a bayou town south of New Orleans emerged.
These people were clearly related. Three shared glossy black hair; all shared dark eyes, elegantly refined features and deep gold skin. The distance of generations didn’t dim the beauty of these people. She had to force her gaze from the two young men and their sister to greet the elderly woman, who made Jillian hope to look so good at seventy-something.
Of course, this beautiful older woman also looked as if she’d just stepped off a Mardi Gras float, dressed as she was in a roomy skirt in Day-Glo orange and a shawl of a complementary yellow only slightly less radiant than the sun. To complete the ensemble, she’d woven matching ribbons through her hair, pulling the wildly curling gray locks back from her face.
“Mrs. Baptiste-Mercier, it’s a pleasure. I’m Jillian Landry. We spoke on the phone.” Smiling her most welcoming smile, she stepped off the last riser and extended her hand.
“Call me Widow Serafine.” The woman’s smooth round face split into deep creases as she smiled and she clasped Jillian’s with a strength that matched her size. “Every one else does. And you’re as pretty as I knew you’d be. I said to myself, ‘Serafine, any lady with that warm honey voice is surely Southern and one real beauty.’”
Her smoky gaze took Jillian’s measure in a frank glance, and there was something penetrating, almost fierce about the look. But her smile widened, leaving Jillian feeling sure about the compliment.
“Thank you.” She turned her attention to the three younger Baptistes, who clustered around Widow Serafine in pack-like fashion. “These are your…grandchildren?”
She hadn’t been entirely clear on the relationship from their one and only telephone conversation.
Widow Serafine shook her head. “Of a sort. My sister Virginie’s brood. Baptistes through and through, even if they haven’t accepted it yet.” She motioned to one, a roguishly attractive young man with a guarded expression. “Raphael’s the oldest. He’s twenty. Has a way with horses and cars. And his kin. He keeps them in line. Don’t know what I’d do without him, truth be told. This here’s Philip, the middle—Come on, boy, pay your respects to Mrs. Jillian.”
Mrs. Jillian?
Okay.
Philip sidled forward with the lanky grace of a boy who hadn’t quite grown into his body yet. He eyed her with an inscrutable expression, and she smiled in reply.
“Marie-Louise is the baby. She’s just graduated from high school, but she won’t turn eighteen until the end of the month. Hope that won’t be a problem.” She frowned. “I can sign any documents so she can work legal until then if need be. Wouldn’t want to cause you any trouble.”
Jillian wasn’t worried about trouble, or documents, which seemed to be jumping the gun when they hadn’t yet interviewed.
Lucky for her, she didn’t have to figure out how to diplomatically address this oversight because Widow Serafine herded her “sort-of” granddaughter to the front of the pack so Jillian got a good look.
“Marie-Louise will help me keep up the place,” Widow Serafine explained. “And cook. She’s a right Rachael Ray—talented, sensible and pretty as sin. Loves to work in the kitchen while she’s daydreaming about falling in love.” Widow Serafine winked. “Giving her brothers a run for their money keeping the young bucks away, I tell you.”
To confirm her statement, Raphael scowled. Philip nodded.
Marie-Louise just smiled, an easy smile that Jillian liked straight away. She was young, but such a beauty with that glossy black hair curling around her oval face and those almond-shaped eyes. Her sundress was simple and stylish, not suggestive like so many of the juniors’ fashions nowadays. Even so, it couldn’t hide a body that the young bucks would no doubt go ga-ga for.
“I’m pleased to meet you all,” Jillian said. “Shall we tour the place before it gets dark? I can tell you about the camp and what’s involved with the caretaking jobs.”
Before she moved off the bottom step or even opened her mouth to launch into a rehearsed spiel about how Camp Cavelier resided on fifty peaceful acres nestled between the Mississippi River and Lake Lily, Jillian found herself staring at the back of Widow Serafine’s head as she motioned to the car.
“Mrs. Jillian’s going to take us around. Let’s get those groceries settled in the fridge so we don’t attract every raccoon hungry enough to smell supper.”
Groceries?
Jillian watched in growing amazement as Raphael popped open the trunk and his younger siblings crowded around to unload what turned out to be exactly what Widow Serafine claimed. Groceries, and a week’s worth by the looks of it.
Had this woman misunderstood the telephone conversation? Could she possibly have confused being interviewed with being hired for the caretaking positions?
Jillian had been quite clear on the point, she was sure, but before she had a chance to question the elder Baptiste, she found herself holding a paper sack filled with what appeared to be a healthy variety of fruits and vegetables.
“Would you mind?” Widow Serafine asked. “Didn’t think that cottage you mentioned on the phone would have a stocked pantry, so we stopped by the market on the way through town. Now where will we be setting up house?”
This was a perfect time to address the misunderstanding. Jillian would simply explain that she’d envisioned moving this process along more traditional lines starting with an interview then following up on references before committing to employment.
That was certainly how she’d conducted business in the past when hiring staff for Michael’s practice or appointing people to various board positions on the Main Street Rehabilitation project. The process was tried and true and had always served her well. Obviously the Baptistes did things differently in the bayou.
And exactly where was Michael when she could have used his help? He’d have turned on that high-beam smile and charmed this old granny, buying Jillian some time to figure out how best to handle this unexpected situation.
As it was, she stood there wide-eyed and speechless—a rarity for someone not prone to wide eyes or speechlessness.
Widow Serafine proved much more astute because she clearly recognized the trouble and countered by launching into the tale of what had led her family to Camp Cavelier.
Hurricane Katrina.
When the storm had taken a turn at the last possible second to spare New Orleans a direct hit, landfall had happened directly over Bayou Doré—the Baptiste’s world for the better part of two centuries since they’d worked for the privateer Captain Lefever.
Widow Serafine stood there with her sister’s grandkids all clutching grocery sacks, and explained how the family had been rebuilding ever since the hurricane. But these three children had been so unsettled that they hadn’t seemed to be helping to make a difficult situation any better.
According to her, Raphael, Philip and Marie-Louise had never entirely settled in with the family in the five years since their granny had passed. They seemed to have taken on Virginie’s onus as black sheep and held it close no matter how friendly and inviting their extended family had been.
Widow Serafine explained that when she had seen Jillian’s ad for camp caretakers, she knew this was exactly what these three kids needed—a place to call their own. Virginie had raised her grandkids on a huge working ranch near Shreveport where she’d been the housekeeper.
With the stables and outdoor work, Camp Cavelier would be a familiar-type place where these black-sheep Baptistes could finally settle in. A place that would give them a purpose. And Widow Serafine had left her home to come with them because that was her duty to her baby sister.
The fact that Jillian hadn’t yet offered them the jobs didn’t appear to be of concern.
Before she could address that singularly important issue, Widow Serafine paused in her tale to draw a breath, fixed her gaze absently above Jillian’s head and said, “Well, that roof won’t hold up through the first summer rain. Philip worked with my son-in-law’s roofing company during the summer between ninth and tenth grades. He’ll get right on that. You hear, Philip?”
“I hear, Widow.”
While balancing her armful of groceries, Widow Serafine reached out a hand and beaned Philip on the back of the head, hard enough to make him wince. “Show some respect, boy.”
Philip peered over his bags, looking embarrassed but contrite. “I’ll get to fixing that roof straight away, ma’am.”
Jillian inclined her head, not trusting herself to open her mouth, not when she felt as if she’d been run over by a train.
“Looks like more than that roof will need to be fixed around here,” Raphael added. “We saw the sign out at the road. The whole thing’s rotting out.”
Jillian didn’t get a chance to reply before Widow Serafine informed her proudly, “When Raphael isn’t working on cars, he works with my son who does carpentry and millwork.”
It certainly sounded as if the young man was a hard worker, and Jillian forced herself to look casual, knew she needed to do more than stare and let Widow Serafine run roughshod over her. Even if a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach warned she wouldn’t easily sidestep this old granny’s strong will.
“Your application says you have experience with horses, too, Raphael,” she said cordially.
“I’ve been a stable assistant since I’ve been six years old, ma’am. Well, until we moved in with the widow.”
“He has a way with horses. This one does.” Widow Serafine nodded in approval. “Shame we didn’t have any in Bayou Doré. But Raphael branched out and learned new skills.”
“That’s always a good idea,” was all Jillian thought to say.
“Looks like you need a jack-of-all-trades around here.”
There was no denying Widow Serafine’s statement, so Jillian just smiled, buying herself more time to figure out how best to redirect this conversation.
No such luck.
“You have a whole stable full here at the camp, don’t you, ma’am?” Raphael asked. “Read on the Internet that you teach the campers how to ride all summer long.”
“You researched the camp on the Web?”
“Needed to know the place before we sent in our applications,” Raphael said.
Jillian couldn’t miss the gravity in those simple words. This young man took his responsibilities very seriously. In her preliminary research of this family, she’d spoken to the ranch owner where these kids had grown up. The man had assured her the Baptistes had been a family of dedicated workers, which was why she’d scheduled this initial interview.
Or what was supposed to have been an interview.
“Your Web site had most of the information,” Raphael continued. “Found out Camp Cavelier is the oldest resident camp on the Mississippi. It was named after the man who led the expedition that made the first documented contact between the Natchez Indians and Europeans.”
“That’s right,” she said. “Rene Robert Cavelier.”
“Told you the boy was enterprising,” Widow Serafine proclaimed proudly.
The fact that this young man had been thorough enough to research the camp certainly seemed to bear up that claim. Jillian wasn’t sure if she felt better about the situation or not, but when they all fell silent, she knew they were waiting for her to make the next move.
What could she say? “Take your groceries and go back to the hurricane-ravaged bayou where you came from?”
So she stood there, clutching her own bag in the growing darkness, staring at her interviewees and recognizing the fierce pride in their manner.
That sinking feeling in her stomach eased up a bit.
This was apparently one of those times when things weren’t going to work out exactly as planned. She would simply have to have faith that there was a reason, and that reason would turn out to be a good one.
“Well then, if you’ll follow me,” Jillian finally said, managing to sound normal. “The cottage is just past the cabins.”
“Lead the way.” Widow Serafine’s eyes twinkled.
Jillian couldn’t help but wonder what she’d just gotten herself into. She also wondered what Michael would think about this unusual situation.
Or if he would think about it at all.
She knew the answer to that question—no. If she didn’t tell him about it, he’d never know. And since he hadn’t been here, he’d just have to live with her decision, wouldn’t he?
2
NIGHT HAD FALLEN by the time Michael finally steered his SUV past Camp Cavelier’s weatherworn sign. His headlights sliced through the darkness to illuminate the winding dirt road and throw the surrounding forest into gloom.
During the drive, he’d imagined several scenarios at arriving nearly two hours late for Jillian’s interview—all of them involving a very unhappy Jillian. But dealing with her annoyance wasn’t his primary concern at the moment. Not when he pulled up to find the office dark.
He’d have to find her to know how annoyed she was.
Circling into the lot in front of the building, Michael pulled his SUV beside a Lincoln Town Car that had seen better days. Most likely the potential caretakers. He put his car into Park and got out.
He didn’t think Jillian would tour people through the camp in the dark. Even flashlights wouldn’t afford enough light to see much, as he well knew from combing these woods as a kid.
Camp Cavelier was an institution. So many campers flew in from all over the country that the camp ran a shuttle service to the airport. Most local kids, too, spent summers as resident campers. He and Jillian had been no exception, which was precisely why he was now an owner of the property.
A grudging owner, he amended.
Jillian and her causes—they’d be the death of him yet.
Shaking his head, Michael headed up the steps, hoping she’d left a note and some clue as to where he could find her. He was in enough hot water without wasting more time hunting her down. Then something caught his eye…
Her purse.
She’d left it sitting on the bench, and he flipped it open to find her car keys and cell phone inside, which explained why she hadn’t been answering her phone. He viewed the display. Sure enough, there was a log of her four missed messages.
All from him.
Damn it, but he should never have sat back at his desk tonight. He should have grabbed his wallet and headed out, as he’d told Charlotte he’d do. Or he should have accepted Jillian’s offer to wait for him to make the drive together.
Or maybe they should never have taken on this camp at all. They were just too busy to do right by the place.
The presence of the unfamiliar car drove home a sharp reminder that the interviewees were strangers. Michael’s only consolation was that she wasn’t entirely alone on the property. Camp Cavelier was more than a seasonal camp—these hallowed acres also played home to a small working farm. Year round, schools scheduled field trips, various organizations booked group tours and families hosted children’s birthday parties.
Ike Fleming had been running the farm since Michael and Jillian had taken their own school field trips. He was even older today than he’d seemed back then, which was saying something since he’d always looked seriously old and seriously big—a mountain of a man. But he was a warm body, at least, and a warm body that packed a loaded shotgun when patrolling the area at night.
Of course, Ike’s eyesight had to be failing by now….
An inspection of the office didn’t yield up any note from Jillian. Job applications scattered over a desk, assuring him that she’d stuck to her original plan. Helping himself to a flashlight, he locked her purse in his car then took off in the direction of Ike’s cottage on the south side of Lake Lily.
The dark night didn’t bring back memories of summers spent boating, horseback-riding or working the farm, although he had many. As a young camper, he’d not only communed with nature and wildlife in a place where technology wasn’t allowed, but had formed friendships that had weathered the passage of time.
Including a love affair with his wife.
But tonight Michael wasn’t remembering when he and Jillian had ducked out of a trail ride to make out in the hayloft, or the time they’d stolen out of the cabins late at night to skinny-dip in the lake.
No, tonight these well-worn trails only yielded grisly images of what could happen to a woman alone in the dark. By the time Michael saw the dull glow of Ike’s porch light, his heart was pounding unnaturally hard.
“Ike,” he called, knocking on the door. “It’s Michael. You in there?”
No response.
Michael waited on the doorstep, growing more agitated with each passing second.
“Ike!” He pounded harder this time. Looked like Ike’s hearing was going, too.
Nothing.
Impatiently, Michael tried the handle to find the door unlocked. He pushed inside, calling out loudly as he did, but it didn’t take long to realize that no one was home.
Yet Ike had obviously left in a hurry because a full coffee cup—now stone-cold—sat on the table beside an open newspaper.
The shotgun rack above the sofa was empty.
Michael was getting a bad feeling. He couldn’t be sure whether guilt or the darkness fueled his imagination, but his head raced with every horror story he’d ever seen in the news.
Had Jillian gotten into trouble? Had Ike taken the shotgun out to rescue her?
Had the old guy succeeded?
Racking his brain to remember what Jillian had told him about her interviewees, Michael found himself cursing that he hadn’t paid closer attention. But Camp Cavelier was Jillian’s pet project and he’d apparently only listened with one ear.
Guilt, definitely.
Heading back outside, he pulled the door shut behind him. Sounds from the stabled horses and forest wildlife filtered through the darkness, and he made his way to the trail. He’d circle around to the cabins. It was the only thing to do. There were cars, which meant Jillian was somewhere.
He’d damn sure find her.
Something crashed in the underbrush, startling the night quiet and drawing Michael to a sharp stop. With his heartbeat spiking hard, he waited for something—Ike, wildlife or a murderer?—to appear on the path ahead.
As the seconds ticked past, stillness settled over the night again.
He came upon the boys’ cabins first, and the rustic structures that had once seemed so offhandedly inviting now loomed eerily empty in the moonlight. There were no windows in these cabins, only screens to keep out the snakes and spiders. No air-conditioning, either, which made the bunks inside a stifling ride during the sultry summer.
He mentally rattled off the cabin’s names by rote: Company Thirteen. Pirates. Lightning Bolt. Dreadnought. Wave Runners. Hackers.
“Jillian,” he called out then waited to hear a reply, or any sound to indicate she was in trouble and needed help.
Nothing.
Making his way toward the girls’ cabins, he stumbled over what he belatedly realized was the ring of stones surrounding the bonfire pit. He almost landed face first inside a crater filled with winter-rotted leaves and ash.
He caught his balance at the last possible second, but dropped the flashlight.
“Oh, man.” He sank his fingers into the decomposing debris to retrieve the flashlight, which had managed to bury itself deeply enough to cut off the light.
An owl hooted sharply.
“I don’t need this grief,” he informed the wildlife. “I knew this camp was going to be trouble the instant Jillian came home with the idea.”
Not only had the investment run their credit dry, but the workload was creating conflict in their otherwise perfect lives.
Scowling into the darkness, Michael heard another sound, so faint at first that he might have imagined it.
Laughter?
He didn’t think it was a cry for help.
Rooted to the spot, he tried to make out the sound, but the night had fallen silent. Then he heard it again.
Laughter, definitely.
Following the direction of the sound, he found himself following the trail around the cabins toward the river.
What would Jillian be doing out on the bluff…? Then Michael saw light glowing through the darkness.
The caretaker’s cottage.
With a tentative sense of relief, he headed down the winding dirt path until he found soft light glowing from open windows and heard the sounds of more laughter.
And a fiddle?
Yes, a fiddle. He bolted up the porch steps and knocked loudly on the door.
He had to knock again to be heard, but finally a rather round woman with curly gray hair pulled open the door and broke into a big smile.
“Well hello, handsome. I don’t suppose you’re looking for me, since I just got here.”
The young man playing the fiddle screeched to a halt, but before Michael could reply, he heard Jillian’s silvery laughter.
There she was, standing by the kitchen sink with an apron around her waist. While he’d been getting an ulcer on his midnight tour of the camp, she was having a party.
The trade-off seemed wrong in the extreme.
“Heya, Michael.” Ike sat at the picnic-style dining table with the shotgun propped beside him. “You tracked us down.”
“Good evening, Ike.” Michael flipped off the flashlight. “I dropped by your place, too, looking for my beautiful bride.”
Jillian wiped her hands on the dish towel and joined him. “Widow Serafine, this is my husband, Michael.”
“The dentist,” said the woman with the unusual name, eyeing him with an approving smile.
He nodded. “I take it we have new caretakers.”
“In fact, we do.”
Given Jillian’s thorough screening process, he hadn’t expected this problem to be solved anytime soon. But when she introduced the younger generation of the Baptiste family, he thought the group seemed a nice enough bunch.
After exchanging greetings, Widow Serafine motioned him inside the kitchen. “Are you hungry, Dr. Michael? Marie-Louise whipped us up a welcome feast. You need to sit yourself down and get some before it’s all gone. Got growing boys around here.” She eyed Ike, who rubbed his stomach appreciatively.
Michael hadn’t ever seen Ike smile that widely, and his own stomach growled, recalling how long it had been since lunch. Casting Jillian a sidelong glance, he gauged her mood while deciding whether to deal with the issue between them now or wait until later when they were alone.
One way or the other, he’d better address his tardiness.
Since her honey-gold eyes didn’t give him a clue to what was happening behind them, he decided on the path of the least resistance.
Pressing a kiss to her cheek, he said, “Sorry, Jilly. I almost made it out the door on time.”
“What happened?”
As much as he hated to admit it… “Thought I had enough time to dictate a few of my patients.”
“You fell asleep.” Not a question.
Widow Serafine shot a curious glance between them. “You need some coffee then, don’t you, Dr. Michael?” She didn’t give him a chance to answer before she was gesturing to her granddaughter. “Put on the pot, Marie-Louise. We could all do with some waking up.”
With a nod, the dark-haired teenager busied herself at the counter. Widow Serafine ushered Michael to a seat at the table. He helped himself to a feast of shrimp, buttery oysters and a rice dish seasoned with bell peppers and green onions.
The great meal made up for the lousy start to the night. He ate while listening to Jillian, Ike, Widow Serafine and the boy Raphael discuss the various tasks to be accomplished to ready the camp for the summer campers. From the conversation, he pieced together the talents the Baptistes brought to the table.
Widow Serafine clearly reigned like a queen over her younger generation, and Michael felt his first hope that Jillian might actually pull off this stunt and survive the first season.
“I’M NOT MAD,” Jillian told Michael, not slowing her stride as they made their way back to the camp office.
But that wasn’t true. Still, several hours spent with the Baptiste family and Ike, discussing the various jobs to be accomplished during the next few weeks, had alleviated some of her unease about the Baptiste family’s unorthodox hiring.
And her concern about running this camp without reliable support from Michael.
“You look mad,” he persisted.
Jillian knew he felt guilty for being late. He wanted reassurance but, unfortunately, she was just tired enough, and angry enough, not to give him any. Why should she put forth more effort than he? She’d wanted his help tonight, but he hadn’t been available.
“Let’s let it go, Michael, please,” she said. “It’s been a long day for us both. I’m not up to this conversation right now. I have caretakers in place. That’s really all that’s important.”
If the man was smart, he’d cut his losses, but apparently good Creole food had dulled his senses.
“Why didn’t you call me?”
Jillian took a deep breath. The rational part of her mind reasoned he only persisted because he felt bad. Michael didn’t ever like to let her down—when he realized he was letting her down, of course.
But somewhere along the line, their priorities had gotten confused. Their relationship had taken a back seat to dental school, then his practice. Jillian didn’t mind caring for the day-to-day things that kept their routine running smoothly. But on the rare occasions she asked for help, she thought Michael should step up to the plate.
Camp Cavelier proved they weren’t even playing in the same ball field.
A part of Jillian understood. Michael had devoted himself heart and soul to getting through school and establishing his practice so they could live a comfortable life. She’d supported him unconditionally because she’d wanted that, too. But they were living a very comfortable life.
So when would their relationship come first?
They’d discussed the situation numerous times, but didn’t seem to be managing any changes.
She was beginning to think they never would.
And as Michael walked beside her, waiting expectantly as if he’d deserved another reminder to show up tonight, Jillian couldn’t help but question how many reminders she was obligated to provide. Two? Four? Why couldn’t one be enough?
Along with those questions came a niggling voice in the back of her head, a voice that jogged her memory about all the times she’d reminded him and he’d forgotten anyway.
She’d found a lump in her breast and just last week had gone in for a mammogram. Michael still hadn’t asked about the outcome. She’d been just busy enough since then, and annoyed enough, not to volunteer the information.
She didn’t think he’d ever notice.
“I didn’t see the point in calling,” she said matter-offactly. “The clinic phones would be on the answering service, and I knew you wouldn’t have your cell phone on.”
“You didn’t try?”
“No, I didn’t.”
Such simple words, but his frown told her he heard everything she wasn’t saying aloud.
If my wishes had been important to him, he would have shown up on time without another reminder.
That truth hung in the air between them, the weight of disappointment so tangible and real. She felt cloaked in that heavy silence.
And righteous.
Michael should feel bad. Was what she’d requested of him really so much to ask? He didn’t have to ask her to balance his books every day, schedule his appointments, buy birthday gifts for his staff, for his family…. He wouldn’t have even remembered his own parents’ anniversary had she not stuck a card under his nose and placed a pen in his hand to sign it.
“Don’t you think you’re being a little unfair, Jillian?”
“Unfair? I told you about this interview a week ago. I mentioned it again at the house this morning. And I reminded you before I left the office. How many reminders did you want?”
Emotions played across his handsome face, beginning with a startled hurt and working quickly to anger. He was wrong. He knew it. And he didn’t like it.
“Is that why you left your phone in your purse, so I couldn’t reach you?” he asked. “Did you want me to worry?”
“Did you worry?”
The exact wrong thing to say. She’d known it as the words had formed in her head, yet she’d let them out anyway.
Michael’s expression darkened into a scowl that transformed his face into a stranger’s. She’d known her good-natured husband most of her life but always found herself shaken by the heat of his anger when it reared its head, which wasn’t often.
They didn’t argue.
They discussed. They negotiated. They compromised.
But there didn’t seem to be any compromise with Camp Cavalier.
Michael liked to think he was the perfect husband. He always felt bad whenever he didn’t live up to his expectations. Unfortunately, she was too angry about his tardiness, and his disinterest in her mammogram appointment—not to mention a host of other things she usually dismissed—to let him feel no guilt. She should have reassured him. Reassurance would have taken so much less energy than this argument.
“Michael, I’m sorry I asked you to come tonight.” She didn’t make much of an effort to tone down her resignation. “I know it’s difficult for you to know exactly when you can get out of the office. I do understand.”
But there was no retreat from the road they’d started down. Especially not with such a half-hearted attempt.
“Jillian, the problem isn’t me getting out of the office. It’s you taking on this camp.”
Ouch. He’d made it clear from the start he wasn’t gung-ho about the whole idea, yet hearing him toss it out in anger still stung. “I know you had concerns, but I thought you loved this place as much as I do.”
“Not enough to run it.”
She came to a stop and stared. “It’s not as if I’ve asked you to do a whole lot. You make it sound as if you don’t think I can handle it alone.”
“Camp Cavelier is a full-time job. You’ve already got one of those. So do I—a practice and more patients than I know what to do with.”
“Now there’s the truth. It’s a catch-22. We shouldn’t work all the time, but you know as well as I do that if we didn’t work together, we’d never see each other.”
He arched a dark eyebrow in a look that she’d once thought was sexy. Now the expression only cut his point deep. “You don’t call running this camp work?”
“Not once we get good people hired and a feel for what needs to be done. I was hoping to renovate Bernice and Carl’s cottage. Then we’d have a great weekend getaway. We’ve wanted one for a while but have been too busy to find one. The camp is the perfect compromise. It’s an easy drive from the office. We won’t have to maintain the place, or a boat or a stable. All that’s already here. Yet, we’ll still be able to do all the things we enjoy and don’t have time to care for.”
“We’re caring for the whole damn camp, Jillian. A boat doesn’t sound like such a big deal by comparison.”
She didn’t know why she was trying to sway him to her side, but couldn’t seem to stop. “What about our children? Shouldn’t we make the effort to preserve history for them? I’d hate for them not to spend their summers at Camp Cavelier.”
“What children? We didn’t have time to make any even before we bought the camp.” He gave a sharp laugh. “But you’ve solved that problem. You’ll have kids swarming all over this place in a few weeks. How many are coming this season—eighty, ninety?”
One hundred and three, but she managed the impulse control not to admit it. Not when Michael was looking all inconvenienced and superior, as if he’d been the one doing all the work around here when he couldn’t even make an interview on time.
“I admit this place gets crazy in the summer, but the campers are only here for two months.” She tried to interject reason into a subject that didn’t feel reasonable tonight. “We still have the rest of the year. Spring and fall are gorgeous. Winter can be, too. Can you imagine celebrating Christmas here?”
“I can imagine celebrating selling this land to a development company and making a fortune. Then you can spend Christmas on that Tahitian island you’re always talking about.”
“I haven’t mentioned visiting a Tahitian island since we were planning our honeymoon. Are you saying you’d actually leave your office long enough to take a vacation?”
He scowled harder and didn’t answer.
She scowled right back. Of all the low blows…
“I can’t believe you’d even bring up developing this land. You know I promised Bernice and Carl. That was the whole reason they sold it to me for the price they did.”
“There’s nothing in the contract prohibiting us—”
“It was a verbal agreement I took seriously. Bernice and Carl trusted us to bring the camp into the twenty-first century. They had enough heartache losing their only son in the Vietnam War. Doesn’t trust mean anything to you?”
Her reminder fell flat between them. She could see Michael trying to rein in his anger, recognized how much effort it took, effort that felt as hurtful as his whole uncaring attitude.
What did he have to feel angry about?
She hadn’t asked anything of him except for a little support. She’d honestly thought he’d come through. And not the half-hearted, whenever-it’s-convenient efforts he’d been making. Not when she’d always done her one-hundred-and-ten-percent best to support everything he’d ever wanted.
Why else would she have given up a full ride to Duke if not to accompany him to college?
Why would she have crammed her course load into half the time if not to accompany him to dental school?
Why would she have turned down so many job opportunities if not to start up his practice?
Folding her arms over her chest as if that would help her keep her mouth shut, Jillian glared at him.
“Camp Cavelier is a life calling, not a hobby,” Michael said through clenched teeth. “Look at the Virgils. Look at Ike. Unless you want to close my practice and relocate here to do this job right then developing this land only makes sense. Bernice and Carl couldn’t find anyone to buy the place because it’s a lot of damn work.”
“That’s why I hired caretakers.” She shoved the words through teeth as tightly clenched. “We chose to return to Natchez to start up your practice and rear our family, so shouldn’t we be willing to put some effort into steering Natchez into the future? Life might be a little hectic for a while, Michael, but how is that any different than it’s ever been to reach our goals?”
“Your goal, you mean.”
That’s what the whole situation really all boiled down to—Michael was only interested in what he wanted.
The realization felt like a slap in the face, when she supposed it shouldn’t. Suddenly, she could see the emerging pattern so clearly.
She lived with him, worked with him, slept with him—it had always been about him. Ever since they were young, their lives had always been about what Michael wanted.
Michael, Michael, Michael!
She’d always gone along because she knew successful couples didn’t argue—they negotiated and compromised.
Jillian was getting tired of compromising.
“You know, Michael, that’s the real problem here. Life is fine as long as you get what you want, but the second you have to return the favor, you can’t be counted on.”
“That’s not fair—”
“I don’t know why I’ve let this be okay for so long, but this isn’t fair. I refuse to be married to a man who only thinks about himself.”
Now it was Michael’s turn to reel as if he’d been slapped, and mingled with her horror over what had degenerated into a nasty fight was satisfaction that she’d shocked him.
It was an unfamiliar, ugly feeling.
“What the hell does that mean?” he demanded.
“It means I’m too upset to continue this. We need to table this conversation until we’ve both had a chance to think about how we want to handle this.”
Because if she didn’t get in the car and have time to cool off on the drive home, she was going to say something that would end her marriage right here and now.
“YOU’RE EAVESDROPPING, Widow,” Raphael announced as he stepped through the cottage door to find Serafine sitting in the porch swing, rocking herself to the music of the rushing river.
Back home in Bayou Doré the nights were already sultry and hot, even after the sun went down. Here in Mississippi, darkness cooled the air, and the Landrys’ voices carried on the breeze.
“Need to test the water around here, don’t you think?”
“The Landrys seemed like nice enough people until you got them arguing.”
“That argument’s been brewing a lot longer than I been in Natchez,” Serafine scoffed. “Y’know, boy, I’ve got a really good feeling about this place. I knew as soon I read Mrs. Jillian’s advertisement we were meant to be here. Didn’t question it for a second. I just wasn’t sure why. I mean I knew the obvious—this job is a perfect fit for you and your kin, but there was more.”
“Don’t be meddling with these people.”
The warning in Raphael’s voice made her smile. He didn’t quite come out and argue, and that show of respect—however slight—marked a self-discipline she was happy to see finally in this young man.
“Haven’t been here long enough to be meddling with anyone, I just said.”
“You bullied Mrs. Jillian into giving us these jobs. You made her feel guilty, and she was nice enough to let you.”
“Ah, Raphael. You know how it is. I know we’re here for a purpose. Just have to figure out what it is, and how to do the job. Can’t get about business if Mrs. Jillian kept with her ideas about interviews and reference-checking. Why should we waste time when Mrs. Jillian only needed a bit of convincing?”
“I’d say you’ve been here long enough to meddle.”
“I’m only moving things along in the direction they’re meant to be moving. Your granny had the gift of knowing even stronger than I do. And Marie-Louise, too, even though you tell her to keep her feelings to herself.”
“My granny didn’t take with your hoodoo ways, Widow. You know that.”
“Your granny couldn’t deny who she was no matter how far and fast she ran from the bayou. She finally accepted it, too. Why do you think she sent you back to the family for rearing when she passed?”
Raphael frowned, an expression that bore so much responsibility for a boy who should have been exploring his youth with laughter. She wished he could bridge the distance between pride and his rejection of their family.
“For the record, I don’t practice hoodoo. I’m a God-fearing woman through and through. Just like the rest of your family.”
Baptistes were Baptistes were Baptistes. Life would be simpler all the way around if Virginie’s brood would accept they had people who cared for them. If they’d make an effort to fit in and accept a little help and guidance, they might just stand a chance of making something of their lives. That’s exactly what her baby sister had wanted, Serafine knew.
Virginie had known her eldest sister would feel obligated to do right by these kids, whether she’d admitted the truth to Raphael or not. There’d been bad blood between Serafine and her baby sister. Not intentional, of course. Serafine hadn’t wanted to marry Virginie’s beloved no more than Virginie had wanted to fall in love with the dashing politician from New Iberia Parish.
Neither sister had had a choice.
Not Serafine, whose daddy had decreed his eldest daughter should marry the boy he thought destined to become the next Louisiana governor.
Not Virginie, who’d been in love with falling in love and had used the whole situation as an excuse to break free of the bayou with the next rogue who’d sailed through their swamp.
Serafine had stood by her man’s side until the day he died, not because she’d loved Laurent Mercier but because that had been her duty.
Once she’d pressed her lips to the cool granite of his tomb, her duty had been done. She’d adopted the sobriquet of Widow, stepped into her husband’s place to rule their brood and refused to marry again.
This time her daddy hadn’t insisted otherwise.
He’d left Serafine free to do what she did best—set people to rights. And here she was in Natchez, doing just that. She’d thought only Virginie’s brood needed setting, but after eavesdropping on the Landrys, she knew more than three young ’uns needed her help.
She only wished Raphael would accept the situation so easily, and if his scowl was any indication…
“If you’re going to meddle, maybe me and my kin should keep moving on to Shreveport,” he said grimly. “Marie-Louise will turn eighteen soon.”
The reminder irked Serafine. Raphael and Philip had only stayed in Bayou Doré because they wouldn’t leave their sister behind. Once Marie-Louise reached the age of majority, the girl could make her own choices. No question she’d follow her brothers wherever they wanted to go.
“What are you planning to do in Shreveport, boy? Keep working on your jobs that take from sunup to sundown and barely pay the bills? You want a better life for your kin, but with you working so hard, you can’t keep your eyes on them. Philip’s already running wild, and Marie-Louise hasn’t turned up with a big belly yet because she’s holding out for true love—like your granny did. Better hope true love doesn’t turn out to be a scoundrel like your granddaddy. He spirited my baby sister from the bayou with his smooth talk and pretty smiles then left her breeding and too proud to come home.”
Raphael speared his fingers through his hair. To the boy’s credit, he didn’t deny her claims, though Serafine knew he wanted to. But Raphael had been privy to that part of his grandparents’ history, at least. He’d been reared without parents for the very same reason and was smart enough to know that, left to run wild, Philip and Marie-Louise would get themselves into trouble.
“You’re their only hope and you know it,” Serafine pointed out. “They listen to you. Your fortune’s going to change in Natchez, boy. I feel it. We’re here for a reason, and if you’re smart, you’ll keep that chip on your shoulder under your collar. For your kin’s sake. Your own, too.”
Raphael narrowed his gaze, but Serafine only clapped a hand on his back and smiled.
“Like it or not, boy, I love you and your kin. You remind me of my baby sister. I lost too many years with her. I plan to make the most of what I can get with you. You hear me?”
“I hear you, Widow.”
“Good. Then you might try working with me instead of against me for a change. Together, we might work some magic around here.”
Raphael met her gaze with those eyes that saw so much more than she’d wanted to reveal, a look that was pure Virginie. “That’s what I’m afraid of. That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”
But not all magic was hoodoo. Not all magic need be feared. A lesson Raphael was about to learn.
3
Several days later
“JILLIAN.” Charlotte poked her head through the open office door. “I’ve got a woman in the reception area who doesn’t have an appointment, but says you’ll squeeze her in. Do you know a Serafine Baptiste-Mercier?”
Jillian nodded and rolled the chair away from the desk. “Why does she need an appointment?”
“Broken bridge.”
Darn. This was the absolute last thing that needed to happen right now. As was typical, the clinic was busy, but worse than that, there was an oppressive tension in the air. Primarily because she and Michael weren’t right. She was still angry—at him for being so selfish and at herself for placing the status of their marriage in question.
There was a reason she didn’t like to argue, and Jillian had remembered it—somewhere between the drive back from camp the other night and the drive to work the following morning. Arguments fueled hurt feelings and fighting words—and statements made in anger affected everything and proved hard to take back.
But for now, she had to wedge another appointment into a crammed schedule. What else could she do about Widow Serafine—tell her brand-new caretaker to find another dentist?
With a sigh, Jillian glanced at the computer monitor. “Michael did book some extra time this afternoon to get that temporary crown out of his mouth. He might be able to squeeze her in.”
“Glad you mentioned it. I assume he’s expecting me to put his new crown in.”
Jillian recognized a rhetorical question and didn’t bother with a reply.
“So who’s this woman?”
“Widow Serafine, my new camp caretaker. She’s only been in town a few days.”
“Why do you look so stressed? You know Michael will take care of her.”
“I know.” She must have sounded as indecisive as she felt because Charlotte eyed her narrowly.
“I knew it. You two have been parading around here all week like strangers. Why haven’t you patched things up yet, Jillian?”
“It was a pretty nasty argument.”
“You’re going to make me stressed if you don’t get this thing all settled. You’re my favorite couple, you know?”
Jillian shrugged, not sure what to say. Some things just weren’t a quick fix. This situation had risen like the river during a hurricane. Up and over the levee then right through their lives.
“Well, I’m no marriage counselor, but I’m here if you want someone to listen,” Charlotte said. “Now you better go deal with your new caretaker. She’s a character, that’s for sure. I left her chatting it up with the Baker twins.”
“Oh, my.”
The Baker twins were the owners of an antebellum house that sat majestically on the bluff overlooking Natchez Under-the-Hill. Descended from a family that had grown wealthy during the cotton boom of the early nineteenth century, the Baker twins considered themselves Natchez royalty.
They lived in the upper stories of their family home and had opened the lower to the public. A cherished stop on the National Register tour, the Baker family home gave guests the opportunity to explore the nearby historic district. Under-the-Hill offered carriage rides with coachmen who could talk about the Cotton Kingdom origins and steamboat traffic as if they’d lived the lives of wealthy plantation owners.
As far as Jillian knew, these two eccentric old ladies didn’t talk to anyone but each other, their tour guests and their fourteen cats. They’d deigned to grace Michael with their business only after failing eyesight had finally forced Dr. Cavanaugh, the town’s long-time dentist, into retirement.
Following Charlotte toward the reception area, Jillian noted that Michael was inside exam room two, complimenting his young patient on her oral hygiene after her first month in braces. He didn’t look up as she passed.
Neither did Widow Serafine. But Jillian did a double take in the doorway of the reception area when she found her caretaker had actually sandwiched herself between the Baker twins on the leather sofa. Eugenie and Eulalie looked more than a bit shell-shocked with this striking stranger between them.
The scene could have been a skit from Comedy Central. The two wispy old ladies in their impeccable vintage dresses looked on the verge of swooning. By comparison Widow Serafine could have blown in on a hurricane squall. Not only did she equal the size of both Baker sisters combined, but her ensemble was as bright as a carnival tent.
After asking and answering her own question, Widow Serafine’s laughter rang out, too big for what Jillian had always considered a spacious and comfortable waiting room.
The Baker twins clearly didn’t know what to make of their new acquaintance, so Jillian jumped to the rescue.
“Widow Serafine, I see you’ve met Natchez’s ladies of distinction. Eugenie and Eulalie Baker own that gorgeous antebellum house on the bluff. They’re an important part of our heritage around here.” She hoped a deferential introduction would shake the twins from their daze and smooth any ruffled feathers. “Ladies, Widow Serafine is the new caretaker at Camp Cavelier. She’s newly arrived from New Orleans with her family.”
Two identical watery blue gazes focused in a disbelieving look that anyone would actually invite this woman to town. Jillian shut down any further conversation by reassuring the twins that Charlotte would retrieve them shortly.
“You can come with me, so I can get some information,” she told Widow Serafine, who swept past in a cloud of inviting lavender scent.
“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you fitting me in today.” She smiled a crooked smile to reveal the empty space where two upper molars should have been. “I couldn’t believe the luck. Marie-Louise and I were scrubbing out the shower stalls in the girls’ cabins when the darn thing broke clean in two. Had it been any smaller, I’d have swallowed it.”
She extended a hand to reveal the offending bit of dentistry, which was exactly in the condition she claimed.
“I’m sure Michael won’t have any trouble repairing it.” Settling Widow Serafine into her office guest chair, Jillian learned that she was the one in for trouble after asking for a dental insurance card.
“Dental coverage is one of the perks that comes with the caretaker job, isn’t it?” Widow Serafine asked.
“Yes, it is.”
“And when does that coverage kick in?”
“Ninety days.”
Widow Serafine placed the broken bridge on the desk and eyed the dislodged teeth with a contemplative expression. “I suppose I can come back then.”
“You don’t have any dental coverage?”
“Not since my husband died. God bless his soul. The government doesn’t keep providing for his widow, and those monthly payments were more than my mortgage. Wish I didn’t have to keep paying for a house that’s been blown away, truth be told.” Widow Serafine beamed a smile that revealed her missing molars. “Think you could hang on to the bill for ninety days until the coverage kicks in?”
Not unless she wanted to perpetrate insurance fraud. Jillian kept that to herself, but for a woman who normally handled her husband’s business efficiently, she found herself back to being speechless again.
Which gave Widow Serafine the upper hand.
“Back home old Doc Roup lets my kin work off my bill,” she explained. “My boy Denis is a carpenter. He fixes up whatever Doc needs fixing. My girl Lucie trims his hair—well, what little he has left, anyway. If I just need a filling, Doc’ll settle up for a big pot of my gumbo. Or bouillabaisse when Lucie’s husband goes out fishing. Says I make the best bouillabaisse in the whole parish. And I do, Mrs. Jillian. Do you like bouillabaisse?”
Jillian wondered what it was about this woman that kept catching her off guard. She ran into her fair share of characters around here. Michael was well-loved in town, which translated into a patient base of diverse demography—from eccentric old-timers like the Baker twins to members of local law-enforcement agencies and philanthropists like Amelia Preston.
Jillian knew Michael wouldn’t think twice about accepting a pot of whatever the widow might be cooking as repayment for her bridge. But this wasn’t exactly the best of times to be asking him for a freebie connected to Camp Cavelier.
But as she saw Widow Serafine’s newly imperfect smile reflected in her dark eyes, Jillian didn’t have a choice. She wouldn’t suggest the woman make the nearly four-hour drive to visit old Doc Roup. Nor did she feel right about taking the widow up on her suggestion to walk around without her bridge until her dental coverage kicked in.
No, the only way Jillian could look herself in the mirror meant forcing a smile and saying, “Actually, I think the office staff might enjoy a pot of gumbo for lunch one day.”
“BITE DOWN,” Michael said.
Widow Serafine did as he asked, and he inspected the impression, pleased with a job well done.
“There you go. Good as new.”
He stripped off sanitary gloves while Charlotte unfastened the paper bib from around Widow Serafine’s neck.
“You’re a miracle worker, Dr. Michael,” the widow said as he shifted the dental chair into an upright position.
Michael smiled, appreciating the sentiment even if he hadn’t exactly earned such accolades. The repair job had been simple.
“Now, you’re sure I didn’t run you too far off your schedule?” Widow Serafine asked. “You got plenty of time to get that crown of yours in your own mouth, right?”
She pointed to the equipment shelf behind him, and Michael followed her gaze to the bit of porcelain residing there. “Not a problem. In fact, Charlotte will put it in right now just so we don’t forget.”
“Thanks for telling me.” Charlotte snapped a glove on her hand with ceremony.
“Then I’ll get home to planning the menu. You sure you don’t want your luncheon until Monday?”
“Can’t think of a better way to start a week around here,” he said.
Charlotte nodded. “Now there’s a truth.”
“Just remember,” he told Widow Serafine as she swung her legs out of the chair and took his hand for a gentlemanly assist. “Go easy on that bridge until dinner. After that you can eat normally.”
“You betcha, Dr. Michael. Thanks again.”
“My pleasure.” He smiled as Widow Serafine disappeared down the hallway. Then he took his place in the dental chair.
Charlotte prepared the cement, and the process of replacing his temporary with a new crown took all of five minutes. He tested the impression and declared his bite satisfactory.
“You do good work.” He smiled widely, one of the cheesy smiles he coaxed out of his patients to capture on film and grace his office walls.
“Of course I do,” Charlotte said. “Now get back to work before we wind up working straight through lunch.”
But Michael hadn’t yet left the exam room to greet his next patient when Jillian showed up. He bit back a casual greeting—her serious expression told him everything he needed to know about her mood.
Damn it. Was she ever going to let their argument go, or was she planning to hold a grudge forever?
Or had she expected him to take her threats about their marriage seriously?
Right.
He eyed her chilly expression and settled on a noncommittal, “What’s up?”
“Did you get your crown in?”
“Good as new.”
“I just wanted to thank you for squeezing in Widow Serafine this morning.”
“No problem.” He glanced at his watch. “Should still have time to finish up, eat lunch and take a quick nap.”
“I’m glad,” she said. “Wouldn’t want you to miss your beauty rest.”
Michael glanced up, but Jillian had already turned and headed out the door.
His beauty rest?
He frowned at her retreating back. Widow Serafine might not technically have been his patient before today, but the woman had needed her bridge repaired. Had Jillian honestly expected him to turn her away?
No, which meant she was still holding a major grudge about Camp Cavelier.
Michael knew the drill. Because he’d run late for the interview and because of the things he’d said in the heat of the moment, so she’d decided to interpret his reservations about the camp to mean he didn’t want to be involved. He didn’t, of course, but he would never abandon her on one of her crusades.
He’d apologized, but, unfortunately, it looked like an apology wasn’t going to do the trick. Jillian was too damned efficient and proud. She didn’t like needing help in the best of circumstances. In all the years he’d known her, he couldn’t ever remember hearing her admit she’d bitten off more than she could chew. And she had, a few times.
His incredibly competent wife routinely faced challenges that would send most people running in the opposite direction. She always managed to buck up and keep her eyes on the goal, though. He knew the craziness would eventually pass, the pressure would be off and their days would return to normal.
But life could get hairy in the process….
On the rare occasions Michael had run afoul of her efforts, he’d found himself eliminated from the equation. Camp business, including Widow Serafine and her family, would now become Jillian’s exclusive domain.
He frowned at the doorway.
His beauty rest?
Her pettiness surprised him. Until right now, he hadn’t even known she could be petty.
While working on his next patient, Michael considered what he might do to ease his way back into her good graces. Not that he had any burning desire to squeeze more work into his already overbooked days. But Jillian’s mood was translating into every aspect of their lives. She was freezing him out, and he didn’t relish a summer with her ignoring him because she was mad.
Should he send flowers? She loved gladioli, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d brought her any. An anniversary maybe? But which one?
What about candy? She had a sweet tooth, and a box of expensive chocolate—milk, not dark—might assuage her temper.
Michael debated flowers versus chocolate as he wrapped up his morning, inhaled his lunch then settled into his office easy chair for a turbo nap.
By the time he’d awakened, refreshed and ready to take on the afternoon, he’d decided on the flowers. Had Jillian mentioned watching her weight lately? He couldn’t remember, but didn’t want to seem unsupportive of her efforts if she was.
Flowers would definitely be safer.
But Jillian was angrier than he’d ever seen her. Maybe he should take her to dinner. Hmm. That idea had potential. Dinner would mean she wouldn’t have to cook. If he presented his invitation right, not only would he seem sensitive, but unselfish because he hated leaving the house once he’d settled in after a long day.
Yeah, Jillian might really like dinner.
So after he finished his last patient of the day, Michael planned his strategy. She’d driven her own car into work, so he arrived home behind her, moved quietly through the house and caught up with her in the bathroom as she stripped off her uniform.
With the smock coming over her head, she didn’t see him sneak up behind her, but he got an eyeful. Strawberry-blond waves tumbled down her back as she deposited the shirt into the hamper. She wore a white cotton bra that looked so sexy.
Trailing his gaze down to the curvy V of her waist, he imagined slipping his arms around her, unfastening the clasp and trying a few moves sure to coax out those soft sighs she made whenever he touched her.
Maybe she’d be so taken by his thoughtfulness that he’d luck out and score. After a good meal, Michael would get a second wind. How long had it been since they’d made love anyway?
“Hey, gorgeous.” He caught her around the waist.
She let out a surprised yelp then went stiff in his arms.
Not good.
Twisting her around, he gazed down into her face. “Surprised to see me?”
“I didn’t hear you come in.”
“What do you say about dinner at Kevin’s tonight? Let me make up for being such an ass about the interview. We can discuss the camp. What do you say?”
She said nothing at all, just eyed him through a narrowed gaze as if she wasn’t sure whether or not to believe him.
It was enough to hurt a guy’s pride. “I don’t want you angry with me anymore. And I don’t want you thinking about not being married to me, either.” He nuzzled his cheek against the top of her head.
“Finally got your attention, did I?”
“Of course you got my attention.” He squelched a wave of irritation and forced his tone to remain conciliatory. “Let’s fix things. We don’t stay angry at each other. That’s what other couples do, not us.”
She still didn’t reply, so he tried again.
“Come on, Jilly.” He coaxed. “Kevin owes me for missing his last appointment. I’m sure he’ll give us a last-minute table. We love going to Kevin’s. It’s our special place.”
Would she give him a chance to make peace so they could get past this or would she keep hanging on to her anger?
She frowned, considering, but didn’t pull away. He considered that a good sign.
He tried again. “I don’t want you to have to cook. Not even to reheat last night’s leftovers. You’ve had a busy day. I want you to relax and be waited on tonight.”
“You don’t like going out after you get home from work.”
Okay, she was talking to him. That was a step in the right direction.
“Doesn’t matter what I like. I’m trying to apologize here.”
His words hung in the air between them, and he could feel her indecision in the way she’d started relaxing against him.
He went in for the kill. “I’m groveling, Jilly. Come on. Let me fix this.”
“You think dinner’s going to do that?”
“It’s a start. We’ll discuss the camp. I’m sure we can come up with something. We always do.”
He tightened his grip until she came up close against him, all her curves touching him in exactly the right places, sparking life signs just as she always did. “I want you to know how much I appreciate you and everything you do for me.”
“I’m your wife and office manager. I’m doing my jobs.”
“Which I don’t tell you often enough how much I appreciate.”
“I know you do.”
Tipping her head back, she gazed up into his face, the distance in her eyes beginning to melt away. She slipped her arms around his waist and rested her head on his shoulder.
First base.
“You don’t think it’s kind of late for dinner?” she asked.
“If we get a move on, we could probably be seated by seven-thirty.”
“It’ll be after eight by the time we’re served.”
Michael knew what was happening here, and if he didn’t catch her quickly, she’d talk herself out of his thoughtful gesture. “I wanted to do something nice so you know how much I appreciate the way you handle my patients.”
“Especially when you get behind?”
“Most especially when I get behind.”
“I owed you. For taking care of Widow Serafine.”
She was testing him, mentioning the camp to see how he responded. He walked a razor-sharp line with his response and shot for the right mix of repentant and sincere. Any defense would only lose the ground he’d gained.
“Widow Serafine is our caretaker. If we take good care of her, she’ll take good care of us, don’t you think?”
Again, she peered at him as if deciding whether or not to take him seriously.
“You know me, Jillian. Mr. Sweet Guy. That’s why you married me, remember? I’d never leave a lady without her teeth.”
The second it was out of his mouth, Michael knew it had been exactly the right thing to say. He could feel the last of her resistance melt away as she relaxed against him.
Second base.
He didn’t pressure her with words, just rested his chin on the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her, always fresh and feminine, not perfumed but reminding him of the way the air smelled after a spring rain.
He could see their reflections in the vanity mirror. Jillian looked sexy with so much bare skin revealed, her arms relaxed as she held him around the waist. He liked the way they looked together, right, the long lines of her body molding against him to create the perfect fit.
“He wants sex.”
“I always want sex with you.” He dropped his voice an octave into what Jillian always called his bedroom voice. “If you think it’s too late, we can always skip dinner and go straight for dessert.”
That statement didn’t have quite the effect he’d expected.
Jillian exhaled heavily. “At least it won’t be the kind of dessert that’ll put on any weight.”
He’d made a good call on the chocolate. Crowding her against the wall, Michael gave in to the urge to remove her bra.
“Michael, what are you—” Jillian broke off her words on a sigh when he filled his hands with her warm skin.
He recognized the mixture of hesitation and yearning in her voice, a tone that always made his blood crash straight to his crotch. Her mind might be saying, “No, we really shouldn’t.” But her body was saying, “Take me, I’m yours.”
He thumbed her nipples, a deep slow stroke, and was rewarded when the tips speared into tight peaks. She arched just enough to invite him to further exploration, and he found the sight of her reflection arousing in the extreme.
His hands looked dark against her skin, and she was all beautiful curves as she leaned her head against the wall, exposing the graceful sweep of her neck. Michael couldn’t have resisted a taste if his life had depended on it.
Lowering his mouth to the pulse beating low in her throat, he pressed an open-mouthed kiss there.
Jillian shivered.
He sucked gently, and was rewarded when she inhaled a long breath that whispered brokenly against his hair. He couldn’t resist dragging his hands down her ribs and anchoring her closer. He rode his growing erection against her belly. She rocked her hips, making him swell so hard his pants seam bit painfully into his skin, which dampened his enthusiasm for foreplay in the bathroom. Disentangling himself, he caught her around the waist and under her knees then lifted her into his arms.
She draped her arms around his neck to hang on. “You’re going to hurt your back.”
Michael only laughed, a sound that burst out harder than he’d intended and made her scowl knowingly.
Okay, so he wasn’t as young as he’d once been… “I can still think of a few ways to show my appreciation, Jilly.”
She turned to gaze in the mirror. “That’s not the problem. I’ve been watching what I eat, but I think my metabolism is slowing down now that I’m thirty.”
Michael exhaled a snort of disbelief that managed not to sound as if he was gasping for air. Maneuvering her through the bathroom doorway, he deposited her on the side of the bed. He didn’t give her a chance to protest, or to get away. Catching her around the waist, he worked the jumble of uniform and cotton panties down her legs before tossing the whole thing onto the floor.
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Jeanie London
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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О книге: If You Could Read My Mind..., электронная книга автора Jeanie London на английском языке, в жанре современные любовные романы