Listen to Your Heart - Fern Michaels [14]
He took so long to reply, Josie prodded him as she peered at him in the yellowish light from the lamp. She wasn’t so tipsy that she couldn’t see the misery in his eyes or the slump of his shoulder. “Well?”
“Probably someone who knows her son’s name, makes him breakfast, kisses him good-bye before she sends him off to school and listens to his prayers at night when she tucks him in. Are you writing a book?” he asked stiffly.
“My mother was like that, but she wasn’t perfect. It has to be more than that. I might write a book. The idea . . . intri . . . intrigues me.” Josie hiccuped.
“Come along, Miss Dupré. I’ll walk you home. Do you think you can pull the wagon, or should I do it for you? It’s amazing that we were both doing the same thing. Zip likes to ride in the wagon. I guess I’m just a sucker for dogs. May I say you look lovely this evening.”
“This is my dog-walking outfit. I bought it for that . . . diplomat. He had diplomatic immunity. They can get away with anything. I gave him a black eye and bit him on the neck. I’m going to throw it away.”
“That sounds like it might be a good idea.”
“Why?”
“Because it brings to mind an unhappy experience. By the way, I got a stuffed dog in the mail today that was obviously meant for you.”
“Yeah, well, I got yours, too, and I’m keeping it. Rosie loves it. She thinks it’s your dog.”
“I know. Zip thinks the same thing. All he did this afternoon was moon over it. That’s why I took him for the walk.”
“Rosie didn’t eat her supper.”
“Zip didn’t eat his either. Maybe we could feed them when we get to your house. Together they might eat. Are you agreeable to that?”
“Sure, why not? What else makes a perfect mother?”
The Cajun threw his hands in the air. “I don’t know . . . maybe one who doesn’t palm her kid off on a housekeeper, one who goes to his baseball games and school plays. One who isn’t too busy. One who says I love you once in a while.”
“My mother did all that, and she wasn’t perfect. No, it has to be more than that.” Josie hiccuped again.
“When you find out, please let me know. Whoa, this is where you live. See, the sign says Dupré Catering.”
“I knew that. I was going to go in the front way. It’s dark going around back. What do you want to do?”
“Let’s go in the front. You’ll probably kill yourself on that cockamamie walk you have in the back.”
He didn’t like the ladybugs. She’d get rid of them tomorrow. Every last one.
Josie pushed open the door. “I’m home,” she yelled.
“I’m upstairs,” Kitty responded.
“Kitty doesn’t like unexpected company. She likes to prepare for company.”
“I won’t stay long. Let’s just feed the dogs, and then I’ll leave.”
“That sounds like a plan,” Josie said, flopping down on one of the kitchen chairs. “Do your thing.”
The clock read ten-thirty when Josie finished the coffee in front of her. She squeezed her eyes shut as she tried to remember what she had said under the lamppost. She shuddered when she remembered swinging around it. Had she really told him about the diplomat? Of course she had—she always had loose lips when she had too much to drink, which was usually Christmas Eve. One day out of the year she let it get away from her. Now it was two days. She cleared her throat. “Thank you for walking me home.”
“It was my pleasure. I can’t remember when I’ve had such an interesting evening. This is a very nice house. Have you lived here all your life?”
“Except when I went away to school, and then Kitty and I lived in Baton Rouge after college until our parents died. We came back here to take over the business. The article said you live here in the Garden District, too.”
“I do when I’m not traveling or when I’m at our main headquarters.”
“Why did you come here today? Did you want to hire us?”
“I thought I did. Now I’m not sure. Don’t look like that. It has nothing to do with you or your business. I’m not sure it’s the right thing for me to be doing. I don’t normally make rash decisions, and that was a rash decision. It might