Night Jasmine by Erica Spindler Page B

appointment has been set up for three months, Papa. You are going to see Dr. Landry today.”
    Roubin grunted and muttered something uncomplimentary about doctors and daughters. She opened her mouth to reply but Oliver tugged on her arm, stopping her. She looked down at her son.
    â€œSwing, Maman?”
    â€œSure, baby. I’ll get cousin Alphonse to fix it.”
    â€œNow?” he asked, his expression hopeful.
    â€œI’ll call him today.” She smiled and kissed Oliver’s head. “Go on now and play in your room.”
    Oliver scooted off his booster seat and raced out of the kitchen. She watched him go, then turned back to her father. “Papa, I’m sorry. But you know this is for your own good.”
    He shook his head. “I know that if you were truly sorry, chère, you would not make me go.” Roubin pushed his wheelchair away from the table, slowly and as with great effort. He sighed. “My own daughter, she has turned against me.”
    â€œThat’s not true!” Aimee cried, angling a glance at Hunter, uncomfortable with his presence. He faced the other way, his attention on the Acadiana Times and his coffee. She suspected instead that he was soaking in every word of her and her father’s exchange.
    She looked once again at her father. The defeated line of his shoulders, the bitter set of his mouth, tugged at her heartstrings. “Dr. Landry needs to check to make sure your condition hasn’t changed. It’s a precaution.”
    Roubin’s lips twisted and he lifted his hands, palms up. “Look at me, chère. Has anything changed? I’m still an invalid, non? Still useless.”
    Tears filled her eyes, and she crossed to him. Bending down, she pressed her cheek to his. “You’re not useless, Papa. You’re still the head of this family. We depend on you.”
    He snorted with disgust. “How can a man be the head of his family when he is unable even to make a decision about his own body? I’m not sick, yet you insist on taking me to see the traâitre. ” He shook his head. “ Non, my life, she is over.”
    The newspaper crackled, and Aimee slid another glance at Hunter, this one withering. If he possessed an ounce of compassion or sensitivity, he would excuse himself. Annoyed, she stood and positioned herself behind her father’s chair. Well, if he wouldn’t leave, she would.
    â€œIt’s time to open up, Papa. I’ll wheel you over.”
    But she thought, narrowing her eyes, she wasn’t about to let Hunter get off so easily. They would discuss this later.
    â€œOliver,” she called, “I’m wheeling your Pépàre to the store. I’ll be right back.”
    Fifteen minutes later Aimee stalked back into the kitchen. Hunter still sat at the table, reading the paper. She quickly checked on Oliver, then returned to face Hunter.
    She stopped in front of him, drawing in an angry breath when he didn’t acknowledge her in any way. “How dare you eavesdrop on my conversation with my father?”
    Hunter looked up at her. He lifted his eyebrows coolly. “If you were worried about my overhearing your conversation, perhaps you should have had it elsewhere. I was just sitting here minding my own business.”
    â€œI doubt that.” She rested her fists on her hips. “Besides, if you had any manners, or sensitivity for that matter, you would have excused yourself. After all, my father is bound to a wheelchair. He can’t just pop up and walk out like you can.”
    â€œThat’s what he’d like you to believe.”
    She narrowed her eyes. “Excuse me? Are you saying my father can walk?”
    â€œOf course not.” Hunter folded the paper, then tossed it on the table. “I’m talking about his pitiful woe-is-me act.”
    Heat flew to her cheeks. “Great bedside manner, Doc. Really sensitive.” Furious, Aimee swung away from him.