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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.