If You Could Read My Mind...

“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?”