Windswept (38 page)

She’d admitted it to herself and then, to make it worse, had daydreamed about having both him and tenure, about how they would work out the long-distance relationship. She’d assumed he wanted her the way she wanted him.

In the heat--oh, definitely the scorching blaze--of the moment, she had done what she never did when researching: she’d theorized ahead her data, assumed facts not in evidence, jumped headlong to a conclusion, just the way her brothers accused her of doing when she was younger. She thought she’d learned not to leap when studying history. Evidently not, because she was living with the consequences now. All it had taken was one, no, two questions from him to show her beyond doubt, she was living in a fairy tale.

Oh, God, she was. Icy waves of despondency washed over her again and she bent over, clamping her hand over her mouth to stop a building need to whimper.

“No. Stop it,” she said out loud. “Don’t start bawling like an idiot.” It was better to discover his lack of trust now. Before she would be even more badly hurt. Now was not the time to give in to despair. She straightened and glanced around the office.

She had to get on with her life, work toward her professional goals. They had a contract, verbal and otherwise. She’d live up to her side of it, no matter what he decided. She’d negotiate from now to next Christmas to maintain her access and their publishing agreement.

And right now? She had a job to complete.

She stood tall, threw back her shoulders, and marched into the conference room. The trunk where the journals had lain hidden sat over in a corner and could stay there. With a grunt, she picked up box 1855-G, hauled it into her office, and got to work.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Davis watched the door close behind Barrett, and he leaned forward to scrub his face with his hands. What a mess. He rose, walked to the glass wall, and stood, gazing out at the tranquil pool, putting his thoughts in order.

Or, God knew, trying to.

Off and on all morning he’d thought about the repercussions the story would have among the various Jamisons. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t care what the family thought, but his grandfather’s death had changed things. The words of that particular Edgar came back to him again:
“You’re the protector of the family now.”

Some protector he was, about to tear down the family name by revealing its founding mother as a murderess, a cold-blooded killer, no matter how she portrayed herself as acting to preserve the family honor.

To hint, even slightly, that one of the primary Jamisons had murdered the other would bring the wrath of his relatives down on his head. The culprit’s written confession would mean nothing to them, would be explained away as the writings of a widow distraught in her grief, feeling guilty for not being able to nurse her husband back to health. But if he allowed Barrett Browning, a definite outsider, to publish the truth, even in a scholarly manner? He’d be thrown out of the family.

And Barrett? What would he do about Barrett?

He hadn’t answered her question,
“What’s the problem?”

Pick one.

The problem was the family in an uproar, beating--figuratively, even literally--on him for shaming them by publicizing their secrets. The problem was his being unable to protect them from ridicule and notoriety unless, another problem, he went back on his agreement with Barrett--his written agreement and his word.

The problem was he could lose Barrett over this debacle. It was clear she was mad as hell at him for even suggesting she ignore the facts. He knew from their talks she was a woman of integrity, a historian who wouldn’t hide the truth, no matter how unpleasant.

What had he expected? She’d agree to pretend Mary Maude’s journal confession didn’t exist and they’d all live happily ever after? Why had he even asked such a damn stupid question? Where were his wits? He’d known she would never consent to such a proposal. Hell, he could remember every word she said when they were negotiating the contract.

“Just so there is no misunderstanding, our agreement includes my absolute independence about what I choose to write or publish--no censorship on your part. Whatever I write will be my version of history, not yours.”

Being in a state of ignorance, he agreed, and then he’d told her he was the sole owner; he could do what he wanted to with the papers. Now here was his opportunity.

“Shit!” he said aloud and sat down at his desk, picked up a pen and rolled it between his hands.

Granddaddy had known the true facts about Edgar’s death, he was certain. Why hadn’t the old man brought them out in the open earlier? Protecting the family again? Or too old and tired to get into the fight sure to ensue? Or, more likely, he’d just run out of time and life before he could accomplish what he meant to do. After all, he had invited Barrett specifically to Windswept to inventory and research the papers.

Another problem: what had Granddaddy meant to do in the end, let her publish?

It sure as hell looked like it. Barrett had spoken the truth when she said Granddaddy wouldn’t have hidden the journals from her. The old man had trusted her. “She knows what to do,” he’d told Davis.

But did he, the present owner of the papers? This confusion, this indecision was totally unlike himself, Davis thought. He was a decisive, take-charge individual. His course of action always came to him as a crystal-clear path. But this one meandered, forked, came back upon itself and finally slid off into a swamp full of alligators.

What the hell was wrong with him?

He gave a short bark of laughter as the answer came: in a word,
Barrett
.

He had gone from wanting her physically as a summer dalliance, to wanting her physically for far longer than two or three months, to wanting her mind totally concentrated on him, wanting her company, her teasing, her laughter, her joy. Her body and her soul. Forever.

A wave of longing and possessiveness swept over him so swiftly he almost gasped as his body tensed, ready for a fight--or sex.

He could come to no other conclusion: He was right where he’d never thought to be again--in love with a woman. No, that wasn’t right. He was never in love with Sandra. Lust, maybe, self-delusion, certainly. Not love. Not like the way he felt about Barrett.

How he felt brought up yet another problem, probably the deal killer. Did he trust her enough to let her write Mary Maude’s story? He’d sworn after Sandra never to trust another woman. Could he trust Barrett? If he didn’t, would she leave?

Only one answer to the last question: yes, in a heartbeat.

“God damn it, what a mess!” He threw the pen down and pushed himself back in his chair.

Okay, okay, get a grip. Look at this like a business deal. He wouldn’t make a decision without more information. He’d asked for more time and she’d more or less granted it.

First, he had to tell the family. He’d put off any other determinations until later. To deal with the coming uproar would take all his energy.

What were his “talking points?” How would Barrett list them? He ticked them off on his fingers. The truth had seen the light of day. He wouldn’t hide it from them or anybody. The Jamison family was a strong one. They deserved to know the facts and would weather the storm of publicity sure to follow.

As for his cousin? Lloyd and his mother were unduly upset. Hell, once the titillation over a murderess in the family wore off, nobody would say a word against them. Not with all the dirt going back four generations ready to be slung against any gossip. No one in St. Gregoryville was without sin.

He was informing the family of her--no, their--findings. He wasn’t going to let them blame her for their own family misdeeds. Even if he let Barrett start writing today, the book wouldn’t be published for months. They’d have the time to come to grips with the situation, have ready answers when anybody mentioned Mary Maude and Edgar.

He’d emphasize that the decision to publish was his alone to make and he hadn’t made it yet. No, leave out the last part if possible. If they thought they could still influence him, he’d never hear the end of it.

Okay, those points made sense to him. Before he made the calls, however, he needed some factual backup. He rose and walked into the other office.

Barrett was on the floor, organizing the contents of another box. She wore her earbuds and was humming with the music from her iPod.

He said her name, but she didn’t respond, so he squatted down beside her and put his hand on her shoulder.

“Oh,” she said as she jumped. She snatched off the earbuds and turned to him, but said nothing. Her big blue eyes held no anger, no plea, no regret--nothing by which he could gauge her feelings.

Her expressionless face angered him slightly. Damn it, he was doing the best he could to handle a difficult situation. He didn’t let his frustration show, however. Instead he rubbed her shoulder lightly, ignored--by sheer strength of will--how good it felt to touch her, and said, “Before we do anything else, I have to let the family know what we’ve found. Would you do me a favor?”

“Of course.” She could have been talking to a complete stranger who’d asked if the bus stopped here.

He extended the rub across her shoulder and down her back. She shivered slightly. Good. She wasn’t immune to him. “Would you photocopy the relevant passages from Mary Maude’s journal so I can refute their disbelief with her own words?”

“When are you going to make the calls?”

“I’ll begin as soon as you give me the copies. Do you want some help?”

“No, I know exactly where the entries are.” She put down the papers she’d been holding and, easing out from under his hand, rose to her feet. “I’ll have them for you in a few minutes.”

“Thank you.” He stood up and watched her step over the papers to the table and pick up a volume. Her shoulders were slumped and her face looked momentarily forlorn. He wanted to take her in his arms, but knew they’d end up in bed if he had his way. He had the most absurd feeling they needed to restore and reassure at least the physical bond between them. This was not the time, however; he had to concentrate on his first task.

“Barrett?” he said, pausing in the doorway.

She turned toward him.

“We’ll get through this.”

She stared at him a few seconds, frowned, nodded and walked across the room to the copier.

He went into his office mulling over the best approach. First Taylor in Baton Rouge, then Lloyd. No. Martha first. She might have some good ideas for handling the others. Bill could wait. As he was jotting down the sequence of events as Barrett had related them, she brought in the journal copies.

“I highlighted the relevant passages,” she said.

“Good, thank you. Is this in the correct order?” He finished the last point and handed her his notes.

She read them, gave the page back, and said, “Yes, that’s correct. I’m going to take a swim.”

“Chicken?” he joked, hoping to tease some reaction from her.

“Excuse me?” She looked taken aback for a second.

“I don’t blame you. I don’t want to be around either when Lloyd starts yelling.”

She gave him a puzzled look and departed.

***

“Wooooeeee!” Martha’s voice squealed in his ear after he related the tale. “She certainly taught old Edgar the First a lesson, didn’t she? Way to go, Mary Maude! But, uh oh, this won’t go over well in Louisiana.”

“Look, I need some help here,” Davis said. “Any ideas on breaking the news to the bunch over there?”

She was silent for a few seconds, then said, “Let Taylor tell Aunt Phyllis and his side of the family. No sense you calling them all individually. I could call . . . ” She named another two aunts and a couple of cousins.

“Agreed. I’ll take . . .” He read from his list and ended with, “I thought I’d let Lloyd tell his mother.”

“Chicken.” It wasn’t a joke, but a flat statement.

“Correct. I know the second I hang up from Lloyd, he’s going to beat me to Aunt Cecilia on the phone, or he’ll go looking for her if she’s not home. He’s going to garble the story, but I can’t help it. The only alternative I could think of was to drive over there, call a family meeting, and tell them all at once. I don’t like the scenario because I’d want to bring Barrett as my expert and I won’t put her through the arguments sure to follow.”

“So, you are going to let her publish the truth.”

“I haven’t decided yet, but don’t tell anyone. Here are the relevant facts.” He read off his list of the events.

When he was done, Martha asked in a phony blasé voice, “How is she, by the way?”

“Fine.” He looked out at the pool where Barrett was swimming. How he wished he were with her.

“One piece of advice, brother dear. Don’t blow it with her.” She said the last sentence slowly and distinctly, the way she used to talk at him when she thought he was being a teenaged idiot.

“She’s none of your concern.” He practically growled the words, heard himself and purposefully changed his next to a calmer tone. “I have to call Taylor and Lloyd. I’ll let you know how it goes. Will you tell Bill?”

Martha said she would and Davis hung up the phone.

On to Taylor. This cousin wasn’t happy, but he took the news well, listened to the details, and agreed to tell his mother and his siblings. “Any chance of Dr. Browning, uh, ‘suppressing’ the facts?” he asked.

“No, not voluntarily. She wants to write a biography of Mary Maude. My agreement with her made no restrictions on any information she found in the papers.”

“This story is bound to be big news, at least around here.” Davis heard his cousin sigh and then ask, “How much control do you think we’ll have?”

“Over what gets said in the media? None. Over what people think of the family? Over what all those good neighbors in St. Gregoryville will say? Again, probably none. But if we present a united front, it should be easier--I hope. You know what my Granddaddy always told us: ‘People will think anything they want to. All any of us can do is tell the truth.’”

“Yeah, and mine said, ‘Never explain. Your friends don’t need it and your enemies won’t believe you.’ I don’t envy you being in this position, but I’ll stand by your decision. I’ll do what I can with the family too. I was going over to St. Gregoryville this coming weekend anyway. I’ll make the rounds, try to keep things cool.”