Windswept (23 page)

“Wait a minute,” she objected, trying at the same time to ignore the thrill his statement had given her. She couldn’t let him take control. She had to think about this, come to her own conclusion, get used to the idea he was as attracted as she was. They were negotiating. She had to state some conditions of her own. “We have to treat each other professionally, as equals, as adults. I am not here for. . .” She shied away from finishing the sentence. Whatever she said might be too revealing. She regrouped, and hurried on. “I am here to work, not fend off lecherous advances. No ambushes. No chases around the desk. No gratuitous gropes.”

He laughed. “All right. I’ll act, we’ll both act . . . professionally.” He gave the word an ironic twist.

She nodded, thinking she could handle that--until he added, “During working hours,” and covered her mouth with his again.

He kept this kiss light, she realized, but it weakened her knees just the same. She had to fight not to clutch his lapels. When he ended the kiss, he held her to him for a long moment. Then he nudged her back a step, straightened, and whispered, “Good night.” He turned and walked toward the stairs.

“Good night,” she answered softly and watched him turn the corner toward his own room.

She closed the door and walked to the closet on shaky legs. Her whole body tingled, her breasts felt heavy, and there was an ache between her legs. She had never imagined being so attracted to a man. And his mustache brought a whole new dimension to kissing.

While she washed her face, she repeated all the reasons she couldn’t get involved with him--career goals, reputation problems, and the worst possibility--the relationship would flounder, go wrong, end horribly in anger, and with it would go all her professional dreams.

But what about her personal ones? Did she even have any?

She did expect to get married and have children--some day. But first came the career. She was no Peggy Murphy who would subordinate those dreams to a man. Peggy might be happy, but she, Barrett, would never be. She was too ambitious, too goal oriented. Her brothers had succeeded in their chosen fields; she would too.

No, she wouldn’t think about a personal life. This was her career-building summer and she had to concentrate on her goals.

But here was Davis Jamison, bigger than life, as handsome as sin, and more tempting than a hot fudge sundae. Wanting her, enticing her, offering her . . . what? Oh, she knew she’d find pleasure in his love-making. It was obvious, from the way she felt in his arms and from his kisses.

On the other hand, did she have to say no? If she was careful, really careful, what did she have to lose by, what was his term,
enjoying the summer
?

She mulled it all over while she put on her huge team T-shirt she’d “borrowed” from her younger brother and got into bed. She usually slept nude, had gotten into the habit in her first apartment with the lousy air-conditioning, but it didn’t feel right to go without clothes here. She switched off the light, settled into the pillow, and pondered the question.

They had a deal for the papers. From all their dinner conversations about his business and from her own research, she knew he was a man of his word. He wouldn’t renege on an agreement, no matter what happened between them, and he’d confirmed it again just a few minutes ago. If worse came to worse personally and they couldn’t tolerate being around each other, she could always come to the house only when he was at work, or he could put the papers at a neutral site.

What if their affair lasted only for the summer? He certainly wasn’t thinking long term, and she shouldn’t be either. A long-distance situation wouldn’t work anyway, with her up there and him down here. They’d be lucky to see each other once a month. She just had to be sure they parted amicably in August. She wouldn’t count on resuming anything but the inventory when she returned to finish it.

But what if . . . Oh, Lord, she was so attracted to this man. What if she fell in love with him? What if he didn’t reciprocate her feelings?

Disaster. Unmitigated disaster.

How could she bear to be around him then? Longing for him, unable to touch, acting like a total fool. How could he stand to have her in his life, this idiotic woman, mooning over him all the time--or worse, acting shrewish like his ex? Either way, she’d remind him of his mistake in having anything to do with her in the first place.

She would simply--simply, hah!--have to make certain she did
not
fall in love with him. Keep her wits about her. She’d had no trouble doing it with every other man she’d ever dated. She’d treat their attraction as nothing more than a pleasant interlude.

Just as he was doing.

No thinking long term--except about completing the inventory, of course.

Just as he was doing. He probably wanted nothing to do with a long-term relationship. That bitch of an ex-wife was enough to make anybody think twice about a serious involvement. And her brothers had said he currently played the field.

Fine. They could both live with an enjoyable summer then.

She wasn’t going to simply fall into his arms, however. She didn’t surrender to any man, from her brothers on down. She’d concentrate on the inventory and her own research and see what happened. She’d never been seduced before. She couldn’t help giggling at the idea. It might be fun.

Chapter Sixteen

The Journal of Mary Maude Davis Jamison

Windswept Plantation

November 25, 1843

After a long, difficult labor a month too early, our fifth child was stillborn on November 3. Edgar buried our third son, John Calhoun Jamison, in the church graveyard while I watched from a pallet in the back of a wagon. I refused to stay in my sickbed and let Edgar bear the burden all alone. The dull, gray, autumn day chilled our souls and reduced us all to tears. Even the heavens wept as the tiny coffin was lowered into the ground.

My convalescence has been slow, and Heeba is plying me with all sorts of potions and teas to restore my health. She has not said ‘I told you so,’ and I thank her for her silence. Edgar has brought in a doctor from New Orleans and encouraged me to concentrate on becoming well. I don’t think much of the doctor’s nostrums, however, and Heeba absolutely scorns them, so we are pouring them out when Edgar isn’t looking.

Edgar is saying things like, “Don’t worry, Mary Maude, you can still have another child.” I know he is trying to cheer me up, but I don’t know if I can bear another one, either physically, or, God forbid, mentally if I were to lose another baby. But I won’t speak of my reluctance to Edgar. He needs all my support and love right now.

And we must prepare for Christmas, a usually joyous time in our household. The children are sad, of course, but their normal high spirits are returning. I must be happy with them and for them. I must!

Windswept Plantation

February 27, 1845

A frigid day, spent huddled around the fire, trying to read the Bible for solace.

I suffered a miscarriage (the excess bleeding could have been nothing less) on February 15. Having been too busy to even think about my regularity--or lack thereof--I didn’t even know I was carrying a baby. At first Edgar was angry, claiming I had been working too hard in the greenhouse, preparing for planting, and I should have taken greater care, but he finally understood I hadn’t known my condition. He has been remorseful and solicitous ever since, spoiling me at every turn.

As for me, I am tired, but not totally exhausted. Sad because of what might have been, but (dare I admit) somewhat relieved not to have to face child-birth. I honestly do not want to go through it again. I am thirty-four years old and have four healthy children. That is enough for me. Pray God it is enough for my husband.

The doctor Edgar brought from New Orleans when dear John was stillborn will be my ally, I think. He was most insistent then that my bearing another would be dangerous. I will ask Edgar to bring the doctor back and enlist his aid in speaking with my husband.

Heeba told me she had suspected, but wanted to wait a little longer before confirming her diagnosis. As I write this, she is preparing some of her fortifying tonics and her concoctions to prevent conception.

I think the child was conceived during the New Year celebration (especially Edgar’s and my private welcoming of the new year) when I was not as careful as I might have been. I know there must be ways to enjoy each other without running such a risk. I must speak with Edgar about this. I will certainly be careful from now on!

***

Present Day

Sunday, June 10

Davis woke up Sunday morning at his usual early time and lay there grinning. He was looking forward immensely to the next step in his campaign. Those kisses last night had left him aching, but extremely optimistic.

She hadn’t said no, she hadn’t left his house. What were her terms again? No lecherous advances? The words sounded like a “historical” phrase--or out of a bad novel. No ambushes. No chases around the desk. No gratuitous gropes. He chuckled at her “deal breakers.”

Then he sobered. What had she put up with from men before? He’d show her how real men operated. What real men? How
he
went about courting. Courting? Another “historical” word, one implying more than just a roll in the hay.

No matter. The end result would be the same: Barrett in his bed.

When he walked into the kitchen, Barrett was reading the papers and drinking coffee at the table. She had on her usual uniform of jeans and a T-shirt, this one from Notre Dame, and looked so cute he wanted to scoop her up and carry her off. But he couldn’t--it was too much like an “ambush”--so he strolled up to her, leaned down, and gave her a quick kiss. Then he took a gulp of her coffee while she frowned at him. He returned a grin.

“I was just about to fix myself some breakfast,” she said with a tinge of exasperation in her voice. “Do you want some?”

“No, I have an early golf game. I’ll grab something at the club house with the guys. I’ll be home about one, probably. What are your plans?”

“I’m going to read Edgar’s journal and compare it to what Mary Maude was writing to her parents and sisters. I have a couple of ideas for articles, and I want to see if I have enough data to put one together.”

“Sounds good.” He rummaged through the sections of the paper to find the front page and read the headlines.

“Davis, I’d like to get something straight about ‘working hours,’” she said in a firm tone.

He put the paper down and looked at her. Unlike someone else he could name, Barrett certainly faced everything head on, brought it right out in the open, and he admired her for it. He was coming to love negotiating with this woman. What had she thought up now? “Okay, what?”

“Since I’m inventorying the papers both day and night, I consider ‘working hours’ to be highly flexible and define them as any time I am engaged in the inventory or research, be it research for the papers or for my own publication. Also included in this characterization is when I am actively writing my articles. Is this definition acceptable to you?”

She tried to keep her expression neutral, but he could see her satisfaction. She thought she was putting boundaries around him and his “persuasive” abilities. He kept his face straight, but it wasn’t easy. “Let’s see. That would mean from eight in the morning . . .”

“I usually start my day before seven-thirty.”

“From roughly seven-thirty to five in the afternoon? Time out for a swim and dinner, back to work between seven and eight to . . .?” He raised his eyebrows at her.

“The last is flexible, depending on what I’m working on,” she answered. “Usually between ten and eleven, but it could easily be later if I’m writing and it’s going well.”

“What about lunch?”

“I eat it at the desk, since I’ve talked Eva into making me simple sandwiches or salads.”

“And on the weekends?”

“Oh, the weekends . . .” She looked a little disconcerted for a second, like she’d forgotten those two important days, but she rallied quickly. “I consider Saturday and Sunday like any other day.”

“If I have my calculations correct, leaving dinner out of it, you will have time for me between five and six in the afternoon, and from ten or so at night to six or seven in the morning.” He rubbed a finger along his mustache, trying to make the impression he was pondering the situation. It was really to hide his smile. “All right,” he said after a long pause during which she did not move a muscle, “it works for me.” He held out his hand to shake on the deal.

She regarded his hand with suspicion, then slowly put her own in it. They shook. He didn’t let go, but turned her hand over and kissed the back of it, taking care to give her knuckles a little brush with his mustache. He felt the tremble ripple up her arm. He kept his face perfectly straight as he gazed into her blue eyes and said, “What I want most are your nights.”

She gasped and jerked her hand out of his grip.

Before she could do anything else, he leaned over, gave her open lips a quick kiss, straightened, and headed for the door. “I’ll see you later,” he said as he went through and closed it behind him. He heard a muffled “Mmmmmmmgh!” and a bang like she’d hit the table with her fist. He grinned all the way to the garage.

Davis returned home around one, not particularly happy about being waylaid at the club. Now he had to ask Barrett to do him a favor and he hoped she wasn’t angry after their “working hours” deal. No, she wouldn’t be angry, but she would be plotting how to get even. His sister always had when he played a trick on her.

He found her in her office, sitting at the round table with one of Edgar’s big journals open, taking notes on a pad. “Hi, how’s it going?” he asked as he took a seat across from her.