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She exaggerated her shudder for effect. “And yet you have none of your own and aren’t sure you want any.”
“Not because of the kids themselves. My parenting role models should have run fast and far from even the idea of bringing another life into their world. Jeremiah never taught me anything about being a father except through his actions, and those all fell under the category of things not to do to a child.”
He didn’t want to be a father unless he was sure he could be a good one. The realization touched Alia—and, of course, made her wonder yet again about the relationship he’d had with Jeremiah. Had Jeremiah been one of those fathers who couldn’t bear to not be the strongest, the smartest, the most successful, who would crush his son’s ego to puff up his own? Had things between them changed as Landry grew up, or had it always been ugly? Did Landry have one single good memory of his father?
“He may not have intended to teach you anything,” she said quietly, “but he did. He taught you the don’ts to raising a child. By elimination, the things left are the dos.” When he looked skeptical, she added, “There’s not much difference between being a good uncle and a good father.”
After his noncommittal gesture, the conversation lightened. They compared favorites. Sports: his, football; hers, baseball. Movies: his, action movies; hers, comedies, the dumber, the better. Books: his, mysteries; hers, thrillers. Music—blues and jazz—and food—Cajun for him, everything for her—were the only things they agreed on.
It didn’t bother Alia, because there was one other thing they agreed on, and it was the most important one: each of them liked the other.
Which led to another important thing: with the situation—and her job—in mind, how far could they explore that?
Chapter 8
The time was nearing midnight when they left the bar. Since Alia had driven, Landry offered to walk back to the Quarter; Alia offered to walk with him. “If something happened to you on the way home, it would taint your image of my neighborhood forever,” she said with a smug smile.
“Your feet hurt.”
“My house is right over there.” She gestured vaguely, but he didn’t bother to look. He preferred to watch her face and her body and the way she moved. Just something as simple as lifting her arm to point off into the night was enough to leave him in an off-balanced daze.
“I’ll change shoes.”
He agreed to that much, not because he really expected her to walk with him but because he wanted to see where she lived. Which of these small, stately houses had she liked enough to live in, both with DiBiase and without? What kind of house appealed to a woman who’d never lived more than three years in one place?
So he followed her to the car. Again, she kicked off the heels, this time ignoring the seat belt as she reversed down the street and around the corner, then headed for Divinity ahead.
The block was quiet, the streetlights buzzing, each one surrounded by a halo of bugs, while at least one light showed in every house. One of Landry’s neighbors played the TV loud every night; another was a huge fan of Miley Cyrus at eardrum-piercing levels. When he stood on Alia’s sidewalk, he didn’t hear anything but a few birds, a dog or two, an occasional car a few blocks away.
“Home, sweet home.” Alia joined him, heels cradled in her arms with her purse. “Would you have picked it out as mine?”
Landry glanced from her to the house. It was a cottage with a little Creole influence, a little Gulf Coast influence and a few embellishments from a typical Victorian. A half dozen broad steps led to the deep porch that stretched from end to end, with the door off center in the middle. Typically in a cottage of this style, every room had an exterior door to improve airflow, but here the second door had been replaced with a full-length window. The wood was painted pale yellow with shutters and trim the color of lime sherbet, and it sat on a good-sized lot of lush green grass in need of a mow.
It was fairly small, probably only four rooms downstairs and maybe two up. Great for a woman alone or a couple, but cramped once you added a toddler or two.
“It suits you better than those bigger places.” He gestured toward a row of three-story minimansions across the street. “But if I’d been guessing where you lived, my money would have been on a riverside condo.”
“I get that a lot. I don’t know why. I’m not rich. I’m not elegant. I’m certainly not all about modern sterility.” She climbed the steps and unlocked the door, pushing it open to reveal a living room filled by only two pieces of furniture: a huge sectional sofa and a square wood coffee table that looked as if it had been reclaimed from someone’s falling down old barn. Above the fireplace was the flat-screen TV, and built-in shelves to the right held an old-style turntable and a sizable collection of record albums.
