Listen to Your Heart - Fern Michaels [46]
He knew it was a dream because his mother had never visited his apartment in New York, nor had Josie Dupré, and yet they were both standing in his kitchen and they were fighting over him. He watched from the doorway, wondering why they didn’t see him or the lady in the pink dress who smelled like a flower garden. He listened, a smile working at the corners of his mouth as his mother argued with the young caterer. He looked toward the doorway leading into the dining room to see if the lady in the pink dress was enjoying the dialogue as much as he was, but she was nowhere in evidence. That alone convinced him he was dreaming.
“My son can’t marry you, chère, because he is married to the family business. He is the firstborn son, and it is his duty. I am his mother, and I know of what I speak.”
Hands on her hips, her eyes sparking, Josie Dupré leaned toward Marie Lobelia. “I am the woman who loves him. He loves me. I have his dog. I love his dog. You wouldn’t let Paul have a dog when he was little. He has one now, and he isn’t going to give him up. I go with the dog. We all belong together. He took me to see Butterfunck ! If you loved him, you’d let him go. You’re his mother! My mother was the sweetest, kindest, most wonderful mother in the world. All she ever wanted was for Kitty and me to be happy. I never got to say good-bye to her. I will regret that for the rest of my life. You can make things right for Paul. Be the mother he always wanted.”
“Bravo! Bravo!”
Paul rolled over on the couch, his head and neck drenched in sweat. Why in the hell was the lady in the pink dress shouting bravo? He ground his teeth when he focused his gaze on the television screen to hear one of the anchors shouting. He bolted upright. What the hell kind of dream was that? He wasn’t certain, but he rather thought he smelled lilies of the valley.
The bar at the far end of the living room beckoned. He fixed himself a stiff scotch and soda. He gulped at the icy drink. He hated dreams because they made him think about his past.
Paul finished his drink and fixed a second one. He was almost finished with it when André Hoffauir rang the bell. His mood was expansive when he opened the door.
André was short and squat, a soccer ball of roundness. He had bright blue eyes that sparkled behind wire-rim glasses, and he wore a perpetual smile. “What are we celebrating, Paul?” he asked, tossing his jacket and the files he brought with him onto a bench in the foyer.
“My freedom and your shackles. I think it calls for a toast.”
“Are we talking about what I think we’re talking about?” André queried.
“You bet,” Paul said. “I’m turning the business over to you. My mother will probably fight us in the beginning, but, hey, it’s the way it has to be. There is absolutely no one else who can run the company or who wants to run it. You’re it, buddy. I know you have plans for the different companies, and I know that you know how to implement them. You have my blessing. I’m going back to New Orleans to go into partnership with Jack Emery. You know I’ve wanted to do this from the day I graduated from college. Hell, it’s all I ever wanted. Who knows, maybe I’ll make a lousy architect. If I do, I’ll find something else. I’m not coming back. Ever. We need to be clear on that.”
“You’re sure about this, Paul?”
“Hell, yes, I’m sure. For years you’ve ragged on me about getting married and raising a family. How could I do that when I’m so miserable and hate what I do for a living?”
“Are you saying you’re going to get married?”
“Hopefully I will one of these days. I met someone. I want to be free