Haunting Jasmine (6 page)
My answer to melancholy—technology. I’m on the phone, finally checking my messages. Robert’s voice still makes my heart jump, a reflex reaction to the sound of his smooth tenor, the faint hint of a Texas accent.
Heeeyyy, Jasmine.
Heeeyyy, Jasmine.
As I listen further, I clench my jaw. Robert’s tone is lightweight, unencumbered by guilt or regret. I wish he would grovel at my feet, so I could enjoy the pleasure of rejecting him. But he never comes crawling back to me.
I need to ask you a favor,
he says. The rest of the message is garbled.
I need to ask you a favor,
he says. The rest of the message is garbled.
I return his call, and his cell phone dumps me into voice mail.
You’ve reached the disembodied voice of Robert Mahaffey. You know what to do.
You’ve reached the disembodied voice of Robert Mahaffey. You know what to do.
I know what to do, and I would do it, if it weren’t illegal. If I wouldn’t end up in jail for life.
“The answer is no,” I say. “No to the lowball offer on the condo.” I hang up, blink tears from my eyes, and focus on returning calls from clients. I pitch portfolios, selling my skills as morning sunlight breathes across the sky. Cold, salty air whips against my face. In my windbreaker, jeans, and running shoes, I barely ward off numbness. I follow the line of the surf toward town.
“… choose our socially responsible growth fund,” I’m saying, and then I scream as an icy wave rushes up to my thighs. “Oh, I have to call you back!”
I run up the beach, lifting my feet like a prancing horse to get out of the water. I’m soaked, and I’m already more than halfway to the bookstore. No turning back now. By the time I reach Auntie’s doorstep, I’m on the verge of hypothermia.
Inside, the house is quiet and warm. The spicy scent of chai wafts down the hall, mixed with the usual dust and mothball odors. I’m shivering, my teeth chattering. “Auntie, hello! Help!”
Auntie rushes down the hall in a new clashing outfit—blue sari and purple striped sweater. “Bippy, did you fall in the sea?”
“Nearly.” I unload my technology in the parlor. “My feet are numb.”
“Come, come—we’ll put your clothes in the dryer and your shoes in front of the heater. I’ve got some pants for you to wear in the meantime.” She leads me to the laundry room, next to the office, hands me a towel, and rushes away.
I peel off my wet jeans, underpants, and socks, shove them in the dryer, and wrap a towel around my waist. Now what? I’m standing here half-naked, with no cell phone signal and no prospects for a happy life.
Auntie returns with a pair of baggy purple polyester pants with an elastic waist; orange socks; and giant fluffy slippers in the shape of rabbits, complete with two ears growing up from each foot. I put on the clothes. I look like a giant grape. I’m glad Auntie didn’t bring a pair of her panties. I hope my jeans dry in record time.
“You look nice and warm now.” She steps back and grins. “Perhaps you’ll wear this to Gita’s wedding!”
“So Ma told you.”
“She called me early this morning. What wonderful news!”
“The best news I’ve heard in years.”
Auntie pats my shoulder. “Stop making such a long face. You mustn’t stop believing in love, nah?” She glances at her watch. “I’ve got more packing to do upstairs before the store opens.”
“The front door is already open.”
“For early risers who like to come in and have tea or coffee before work.” She heads for the stairs.
“So technically, you’re open?”
“Oh, I suppose, but not really. I’ll be finished soon and come right back down.”
“But what about showing me—?”
“I’ll be down again soon. Make yourself at home.”
She disappears. Fine, leave me here.
I head for the parlor to retrieve my technology and nearly bump headlong into… Connor Hunt.
My face flushes. I gaze down at my baggy purple pants, my giant rabbit slippers. How did he get in here? Through the door, of course. But I didn’t see him come in. He’s not supposed to be here. Does he ever wear anything other than cargo pants, travel jacket, and hiking boots? Does he have a job, or does he spend his life reading in dusty old bookstores? “What are you doing here, Mr. Hunt?”
“Research.” He shoves a book back onto the Fun New Arrivals shelf:
101 Uses for an Old Farm Tractor
.
101 Uses for an Old Farm Tractor
.
“You have an old farm tractor?” I wish I could hide behind a bookshelf. I hope he can’t tell that I’m going commando.
“Not exactly.” He gazes at my slacks, the rabbit slippers, and smiles. “But the title looked… intriguing.”
“The book is obscure. This one, too.” I grab
Across Europe by Kangaroo
. “Who on earth would travel this way?”
Across Europe by Kangaroo
. “Who on earth would travel this way?”
“Someone adventurous?” He smiles. His eyes look darker today, more intense. “But this family took a van across Europe, not a kangaroo.”
“False advertising.” A book falls on its side on the shelf, making a dull clapping sound. I pick up the book—
Be Bold with Bananas
by Crescent Books. “Look at this picture. Makes me never want to eat another banana. Are they sliced or glazed? And what are those red things? Who buys this kind of book?”
Be Bold with Bananas
by Crescent Books. “Look at this picture. Makes me never want to eat another banana. Are they sliced or glazed? And what are those red things? Who buys this kind of book?”
Connor peers closely at the cover image. “Someone impulsive? Someone who departs from the ordinary?”
I put the book back on the shelf. “A bookstore is a business. My aunt needs to pay more attention to turning a profit, not departing from the ordinary.”
“Isn’t reading all about departing from the ordinary?” He’s staring at me, his gaze pinning me again.
“Sure, if you’ve got time for it….”
“That’s it? You have no interest in unusual book titles? I’m doing research on unusual tomes.”
“I’m sure my aunt has many more in other rooms as well. You’re here early, doing your… research.”
He glances at his watch, an old silver chronograph with a leather strap. “Is there a law against showing up when the store opens?”
“I’m not sure if the store is open yet… technically.”
“I like to get here before the crowds descend.”
What crowds? “Well,” I say, exhaling, “I’ll go and find my aunt.”
“Wait, not so fast. You’re so quick to reject me.” He touches my arm, sending a peculiar electric wave through my body.
I pull away, startled. “I have work to do, and I don’t know anything about you.”
“I’m a doctor. I used to live on the island, many years ago. I traveled quite a bit, and now I’m back, visiting. I’m thinking of settling here again. What else do you want to know?” His gaze follows my rabbit slippers up past the purple pants to my black turtleneck sweater, and I feel, somehow, as though he has magically removed every piece of my clothing.
“So, you’re a doctor?” I say quickly, annoyed. “What kind of doctor?”
“Internal medicine. And you? What do you do?”
My fingers are slowly thawing. I need to buy gloves. “I’m an investment manager.”
I can’t read the expression in his eyes—assessing, hungry, critical? “You don’t look like one.”
“And you don’t look like a doctor.”
“I don’t normally dress this way.”
“Me, either. I had a run-in with a rogue wave on the way here.”
“I’m glad you survived.”
I glance down at Auntie’s orange socks, the rabbit ears. “I didn’t know my aunt had these slippers. Better than pumps, I guess. More comfortable.”
“That’s why I like this place,” Connor says. “The absence of pumps. Not a single pair on the whole island. I believe the dearth of shoe stores is what keeps this place so quiet and rural. Stops people from moving here. That’s my theory.”
“It would certainly keep my ex-husband away.”
One eyebrow rises. That piercing gaze again, a doctor’s gaze. I wonder if he notices the pulse in my neck. “Your ex liked shoes?”
“Had way too many of them. Armani, Rockport, Ferragamo. He was a shoe junkie.” I’m telling Connor Hunt too much.
“So you’re single now, free of all those shoes. Have coffee with me.”
“We’re back to that. I have a bookstore to run.”
“And you don’t date because your bastard ex-husband screwed you and now you can’t ever fall in love.”
“You must be a mind reader.” I focus on the banana book. “It doesn’t matter, either way. I’m planning to be alone from now on.”
“But I can tell you’re an optimist at heart.”
“I know you mean well, Dr. Hunt—”
“Call me Connor.”
“Connor. I’ve been through a lot, and I need some quiet time in this store.” My voice is a wavering thread. I don’t want to date anyone. I’m not ready for that.
“I doubt this store is going to be quiet,” he says.
“It has been so far.”
“You showed up in the evening—I bet evenings are slower, when people go home for dinner.”
My heart skips a few beats. “Tony and I will handle what-ever comes.”
“You could take a break.”
“You’re persistent, aren’t you?”
He grins. “I don’t like to give up.”
“It was good to see you again,” I say in a neutral voice. “But I’m really sorry, I can’t go out with anyone right now. I hope you understand.” I’m crossing the room, on my way out to the hall, when the books begin to fall.
Chapter 8
The banana book tips over again, setting off a cascade of falling tomes like dusty dominoes. A hardcover tumbles at my feet, a book of poems by Emily Dickinson, open to a telling page:
Heart, we will forget him! / You and I, to-night!…
Heart, we will forget him! / You and I, to-night!…
I close the book and shove it back on the shelf. “I hope my aunt has earthquake insurance.”
Connor rubs his finger across his eyebrow, as if this will help him think. “Not an earthquake. The floor isn’t shaking.”
“Auntie needs to do a better job of securing these shelves, then.” Another book topples onto the carpet, this one a Neruda gift book open to a bright page and the illuminated words…
struggling and hoping, / we touch the sea / hoping…
A shiver runs through me. I shelve and straighten the books. “Why she keeps silly titles so prominently displayed, I’ll never know. Who buys these books?”
struggling and hoping, / we touch the sea / hoping…
A shiver runs through me. I shelve and straighten the books. “Why she keeps silly titles so prominently displayed, I’ll never know. Who buys these books?”
“People like me.”
“You’re strange.” I stride to the door, but it slams closed in front of me. I step back, my throat dry.
You have to live,
a voice whispers close to my ear. I whip around. “Stop whispering.”
a voice whispers close to my ear. I whip around. “Stop whispering.”
“I didn’t say a thing.” He holds up his hands.
“Who else could it be?” A chill ripples across my skin.
And this maiden she lived with no other thought / Than to love and be loved by me.
“Why are you quoting Edgar Allan Poe?” I say. How do I know the quote came from Poe? “I’m not here to love any-one.”
“I didn’t say you were.” Connor’s eyebrows rise.
I shake my head. “He wrote that, didn’t he? Poe?”
“Wrote what?”
I’m going insane. “I have to get out of here.”
Connor is beside me. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” I rattle the knob, but the door won’t budge. “We’re locked in.”
“Let me try.” He pulls and turns the doorknob, to no avail.
“Try again.” Connor and I both try to open the door. No luck.
“Looks like we’ll have to climb out the window,” he says.
“I think they’re painted shut in this room.”
“Then we’re trapped in here forever.” Connor’s grinning, as if the idea isn’t so bad.
“This isn’t funny.”
He glances at my pants, my shoes, the door, and laughs. “I’m sorry, but it is. Let’s have coffee and discuss it.”
“I don’t think so.” I twist and rattle and yank the knob, but the door doesn’t budge.
It’s only coffee,
he whispers.
he whispers.
“Okay, okay,” I say.
“Okay what?”
“Fine, coffee. But it’s not a date. I don’t date.”
Connor breaks into a dashing smile. “Hey, that’s great. Friday night? Around eight o’clock?”
“Okay, okay. Fine.” I turn the knob, and magically, the door swings open, setting us free.
Chapter 9
I rush up the stairs and crash headlong into Auntie. She drops a pile of books. They clatter down the stairs. “Bippy, you look pale.”
“The wind must have slammed the door in the parlor. I agreed to a date with that man, Connor Hunt….”
“What man, where? What door?”
“Here.” I pick up the books, lead Auntie down to the parlor. The door is wide open. Connor is gone, again.
“There was a man in here?” Auntie says. “Splendid. You’re going on a date.”
“It’s not a date. I didn’t mean to say date. He kept asking.”
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