Windswept (26 page)

October 29, 1848

Finally, a break from the heat as clouds black as pitch and rain as heavy as Noah’s deluge roared over us, leaving brilliant blue skies and a brisk cool air in their wake.

I have been in the doldrums all summer. And I have no reason for it. The children are healthy and growing. It is hard to realize my oldest is fifteen and my youngest is eight. Where have the years gone?

Edgar is his usual loving self. When I see him. He is so busy with politics and the plantation and other business interests, always working late or traveling to Baton Rouge or Washington. Sometimes it seems we only see each other at dinner, if then.

At the rate we are going, I do not have to fear the possibility of bearing another child. Why does the thought make me sad? And which part of it--another birth might do me irreparable damage or my husband and I seldom share our conjugal bed for anything but sleep?

***

Present Day

Saturday, June 16

Saturday evening before the party for Davis’s clients, Barrett stood before the full-length mirror in the bathroom and turned back and forth to check out her new dress. Her shopping trip on Friday with her sister-in-law had truly paid off. Beth had taken her to a boutique on Westheimer Road where she had found the perfect dark blue-green cocktail dress with a scooped neckline and a short slim skirt. Deceptively simple, it showed off her “assets,” as her mother used to say, in an elegant manner.

The stylish red-haired store owner had suggested just the right accessories--a silver necklace with shimmering blue and green stones and matching drop earrings. She had even offered some make-up tips to emphasize Barrett’s eyes so they took on overtones from the dress. Pleased, Barrett blinked at the mirror; her eyes had never looked so blue. A pair of strappy, high-heeled, dark blue sandals completed the ensemble.

She held up a hand mirror to view her backside and nodded in satisfaction. All the swimming she was doing was having a good effect on her body. It even--a miracle--seemed to be slimming her hips. She’d have to remember to kick more during her laps.

After making certain she had left nothing personal in plain sight, she walked out onto the balcony and closed the door firmly behind her. Davis had said guests sometimes used the bathroom in the other bedroom next to the stairs, but they wouldn’t come any farther, certainly not through a closed door. She had decided to be cautious anyway. As for the office wing, Davis had locked the conference room where they’d put all of the boxes currently under study, so she wasn’t worried about any curious guests being able to disturb the papers.

She glanced over the railing. A bar had been set up directly below her. The caterers, under Eva’s eagle eye, were laying all sorts of delicious-looking hors d’oeuvres around a multi-hued floral centerpiece on the long dining table. Silver and glass gleamed and the crystal waterfall shimmered with the reflections of the colorful array of food and flowers. For once, the dining room seemed, if not totally welcoming, at least warmer.

Davis was talking to Gonzales in the foyer. Last night Davis had said good night with another of those kisses that left her legs wobbly, but as before, he hadn’t intensified his caresses. She, however, couldn’t help running her hands over his back and shoulders and pressing her hips against his blatant arousal. He’d held her for a long moment and smiled under his mustache, then stepped back, turned her around and given her a nudge toward her room--just as she had given him the night before.

Okay, tit for tat--so to speak. What would tonight bring?

She hurried to the stairs and descended. Both men turned toward her.

Gonzales smiled and, hand on his heart, bowed as if he were a caballero. She wished she had a señorita’s fan to flirt with, but settled for smiling at him before he departed.

She turned to Davis. He was not smiling. He looked wonderful in his navy suit, snowy white-on-white shirt, and red power tie, all tall and dark and handsome, but his intent expression clearly said the black eagle was hunting again. She suppressed a shiver, then had to fight a stronger one when he lifted and kissed her hand and his mustache worked its magic.

“Good evening, Barrett. You look . . . spectacular.”

The velvet rumble of his voice tickled her nerve endings, and it was all she could do not to fling herself into his arms. She satisfied herself by stepping up to him, careful to not quite touch along the lengths of their bodies. She inhaled carefully; he smelled as good as he looked--fine clothing, faint spicy aftershave and his own particular self. “Thank you,” she breathed, doing her best imitation of a sultry femme fatale. “So do you. Is there anything I can do to . . . help . . . you in any way?”

He grinned, pulled her close, said in a husky voice, “Not right this minute, but I will definitely need some . . . help . . . later.” He stepped back as a couple of the catering staff passed them and continued in a normal tone, “I think the Gonzaleses have everything in hand as usual. I’m making one final round. Come with me and see if I missed anything.” Holding her hand, he walked her into the living room.

A tiny spotlight shining on the long painting against the far wall drew the eye to the bright colors, and the soaring glass walls reflecting the interior made the room seem even larger. Flower arrangements on the coffee tables of the two seating groups offered some softening effects, but Barrett thought the room still had its aloof, unwelcoming edge. She hoped having it filled with people would make it more comfortable, but she said only, “Everything looks fine.”

She glanced out at the patio where candles and torches flickered, and the exterior garden lights shone on tables on the lawn and the path down to the bayou. “How many are you expecting?”

“Anywhere from forty to sixty, what with my staff, investor clients, heads of the companies we invest in, and all their spouses.” He waved at the interior and included the exterior in the gesture. “We usually fill up the space inside and outside. Thank the weather gods for no rain and some breeze to keep the mosquitoes away.”

The doorbell rang. “Time to go to work.” He gave her hand a squeeze before releasing it and heading for the door.

The first to arrive were members of his staff, including Peggy Murphy and her husband Jim, an average-sized man with brown hair and friendly eyes. Barrett wasn’t able to exchange more than a few words with Peggy before guests started coming and Davis asked her to help welcome them. She watched him metamorphose into the perfect host, greeting all by name and asking the kind of questions which demonstrated he knew them as friends as well as business associates. He introduced her as “the historian who’s helping me with my family’s plantation records,” and before long, she found herself separated from him and in conversations about his guests’ family histories. Everybody had a story to tell.

From time to time, Davis sought her out to introduce someone. As he did so, he touched her arm or back, and more than once she felt his eyes on her across the room as she talked with his guests. A couple of times, when she was talking with a man by herself, especially a single man from his office, Davis appeared at her side and placed a proprietary arm on her shoulder or took her hand in his.
Men and their games
, she thought, raising her eyebrows at him after one such encounter. He grinned merrily, a flash of white under the black weapon on his upper lip. She knew his office would be buzzing with speculation about her on Monday.

About an hour into the party, Barrett had just finished munching on some of the cold shrimp, lobster puffs, and Eva’s spicy tamales when an absolutely gorgeous couple approached her. The man was movie-star handsome and the woman, in addition to being drop-dead beautiful, was wearing a little designer creation Barrett knew cost more than she herself would spend on five complete outfits. At the same time, they looked disconcertingly familiar.

When they introduced themselves as Martha and Bill Jamison, Davis’s sister and brother, she understood. No wonder they looked familiar--same coloring but different eye shades, similar facial structures. Neither had their grandfather’s nose nor any of the predator look so obvious in Davis. Bill had Davis’s height and Martha topped Barrett by at least three inches. She wondered briefly why Davis had not mentioned their coming to the party. All she could remember him saying about them was Martha was a realtor and Bill always wanted money.

“We heard you were here,” Bill said. “We knew he was arranging for the Windswept papers to be organized, but we practically had to drag the information out of him. I must say you’re nothing like what we expected in a history professor shuffling a lot of boring old records.” He looked her up and down appreciably. His grin was distinctly Davis-like, only more flirtatious.

“Bill, don’t be a jerk. I’m sure she hears those old non-jokes all the time.” Martha whapped him on the arm with her hand before turning to Barrett. “Please excuse him, Dr. Browning. He’s the family idiot. Always speaks before he thinks.”

Barrett chuckled. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both. The name is Barrett, and I have three brothers of my own.” She was getting tired of the stale compliment, though, having heard it at least half a dozen times already.

“Then you know how difficult being a sister is.” Martha rolled her eyes, then asked, “How is the work going?”

Feeling like she’d just found a friend, Barrett answered, “Well, but slowly. Cataloging is always tedious.”

“Found any family skeletons yet?” Bill asked with a mischievous smile.

“Not yet. Do you know of any?” She was serious, but knew he wasn’t.

Davis appeared at her elbow before Bill could answer. “I see you’ve met the rest of the family.”

“Davis, why didn’t you tell us Barrett is so charming? I’ll be happy to take a few days and help her, you know.” Bill’s look was guileless.

“I’m sure you’re quite busy, Bill. Barrett doesn’t need your help.”

Barrett thought his hands-off order was clear to all of them, but Bill just grinned at his older brother. She and Martha exchanged a glance, shook their heads.

“Brothers’ games,” Martha muttered.

Davis paid no attention. “Now, I need to introduce her to someone, if you’ll excuse us.” He grasped Barrett’s elbow and steered her toward a couple standing nearby.

She smiled at the two Jamisons as she allowed herself to be taken away. “It was nice to meet you,” she managed to say.

Before she could question Davis about his rudeness, she was in a conversation with the couple, both of whom were avid genealogists. Pleading he had to greet other guests, Davis excused himself after five minutes. It took Barrett another twenty minutes of comparing websites of census data, ship manifests, and immigration records before she could make her escape. She couldn’t blame Davis for abandoning her, however. He had been surprised to discover the couple’s avocation; they had only discussed business matters in the past.

She was beginning to feel like she was working at this party, acting as a source of information much the way a physician would be in similar circumstances. At least nobody wanted to tell her about his gall bladder.

Barrett was crossing the foyer down by the stairs when a hush fell over the guests closest to the front door. A man and a woman entered. He was tall but a trifle portly, possibly mid-to-late sixties, with thinning, iron gray hair and a conservative suit and tie. She was . . . Sandra, the ex from hell. And in a tight, short, cut-down-to-there, show-off-the-tan, shimmering white dress, with diamonds sparkling at her neck, ears, and wrists. She looked as beautiful, and as hard, as the crystal waterfall in the dining room.

Davis, who had been standing just down the steps in the living room, turned to the newcomers, and Barrett watched his expression change from friendly host to poker-faced negotiator. He approached the pair, shook the man’s hand and smiled--but only to the man. He barely glanced at Sandra. Barrett could see the grimness behind his greeting and the rigidity in his stance. Davis and the man spoke, but too quietly to be heard.

When no fireworks erupted from the trio, the other guests resumed their conversations--at just a little louder volume than before the interruption.

Barrett considered blending into the crowd to avoid Sandra all together, but when she saw the blonde, smiling like a shark spying a fat swimmer, reach out a hand and stroke Davis’s right arm from shoulder to elbow, she felt anger bubble up inside. Davis didn’t move until Sandra’s fingers continued down his sleeve and curled into his hand. Or attempted to. He smoothly moved his hand out of reach around his back as he listened to the fellow.

An irritated look flashed across Sandra’s face, but she recovered quickly and assumed a look of amused haughtiness. She glanced around and her eyes met Barrett’s. Her disdain became contempt as she flipped her long blond hair off her shoulder and turned her attention back to the men. She smiled brilliantly and laughed at something her companion had said.

The bitch!
Icy rage streaked down her backbone.
No way
would she let Davis face this harpy alone. It was time the hellcat got a little of her own back.

Feeling as though a green-eyed devil was sitting on her shoulder, Barrett sauntered up to the trio, insinuated herself on Davis’s right side between him and the woman, and took his right hand with her left. Davis give her hand a squeeze, but whether in warning or thanks, she didn’t know. With a surprised look, the other man had stopped talking at her approach. She held out her right hand to him. “Hello,” she said with a cheery smile. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Barrett Browning.”

“Milt Callahan,” he responded as he shook her hand. “This is . . .” He nodded toward Sandra.

“Oh, Sandra and I have already met,” Barrett said, turning her gaze to the blonde. “How are
you
, Sandra. That’s such a
pretty
dress. We’re
both
so happy you’re here.” She put so much saccharine into her delivery her teeth felt gritty, but she smiled with fake delight at the woman who was now scowling--a most unbecoming look for one so beautiful.