Windswept (39 page)

“Thanks, Taylor. Tell everyone they can call me if they have any questions. And I’ll send you a copy of Mary Maude’s journal entries so you can see what she wrote for yourself.”

“Good luck with Lloyd.”

“Thanks.” Davis hung up the phone and stared at it for a minute. Then he looked out again at Barrett. She was floating now, serene. Then she flipped over, swam to the ladder, and climbed out. He let his eyes roam over her body, enjoying her curves. He was already looking forward to the night, when he would make certain they were still together. He watched her dry off and go inside. Damn. There went his plans to join her in the water.

 But now . . . It was almost five. Lloyd should still be at his office. Davis lifted the receiver and punched the buttons.

“Hello, Lloyd,” he said after the receptionist put him though. “Sit down and listen. I have some news to tell you.”

After he finished explaining what Barrett had discovered, Davis waited for his cousin to speak. When the silence lasted too long, even for him, he said, “Lloyd? Lloyd. Are you there?”

“Hellfire and damnation,” Lloyd croaked in an old man’s voice. “Mary Maude
murdered
Edgar Sr.?
Poisoned
him?”

“That’s what she wrote in her journal. Do you want me to read the passage again?”

“No. I heard it the first time.” Davis could hear him take a deep breath before he burst out with, “We have to burn those journals and fix it so Barrett Browning
never
mentions a word of this to anyone.”

“No, we don’t and we won’t,” Davis responded. “Barrett’s planning to write a biography of Mary Maude. A
scholarly
biography. No sensationalism, no tabloid literature. But she’s not going to lie or sweep the facts under the rug.” He knew he was implying publication, but he kept his mouth shut about his own indecision. Whatever he concluded, he did not want his cousin thinking for a moment he had a say in the matter.

“You listen to me now,” Lloyd snarled. Davis could practically hear his teeth grinding. “This news will destroy the family, our good name and standing. We’ll be laughing stocks, or worse, be called killers. People will say”--he assumed a snide falsetto--“‘there goes one of those Jamisons. If they all take after Mary Maude and her bad blood, you can’t trust even one.’” His voice fell back into its usual register. “Nobody with any sense will have anything to do with us. You won’t feel anything over there in high-and-mighty Houston, but here in the parish, we’ll get the brunt of it. You don’t know what it’s like over here. I’ll be ruined!” He was wailing by his last words.

Davis tried to stay calm and rational, but it wasn’t easy. His cousin was as volatile and unreasonable as ever, and Davis wanted to reach through the phone and give him a good shaking. “Lloyd, take it easy. Nothing’s going to come of this except a little publicity. And it will be at least a year before any of it appears in print.”

“Why are you doing this, Davis? Why are you being so mean and ruthless? The family never meant anything to you, did it? Granddaddy was crazy to leave you all the papers. He didn’t care about the Jamison name either. He must have known all this scandal would come out. It was always you who was his favorite. He never liked me, but I didn’t think he’d try to get me from the grave!”

“Hey!” Davis yelled back. “This is not about you or me. It’s history, our family history. It happened over a hundred and fifty years ago. Nothing coming out of this can hurt us.”

“I’ll sue! I’ll take you and the bimbo to court!”

All Davis’s weariness came back and hit him between the eyes. “All right, Lloyd,” he said and heard his voice come out in a flat, disgusted tone. “You do that. I told you about Mary Maude out of courtesy so you could get used to the idea before the book and articles come out. I’ll be over there in a couple of weeks to talk with the family. But this plan is going forward, and you can’t stop it.” He hung up on Lloyd’s sputters.

He didn’t have a chance to think about what he had just told Lloyd because the house line rang immediately. “It’s your Aunt Phyllis Jamison on line two,” Gonzales announced.

“Thank you,” Davis replied. “I’ll take it.” With an inward groan, he punched the button. “Hello, Aunt Phyllis. I guess you’ve heard the news from Taylor.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

At dinner, Barrett picked at her food while Davis related the account of his phone calls. Jamison family reactions ranged from a vehement “Destroy those journals!” to a wailing “How could Mary Maude shame the family so?” to a know-it-all “I always thought there was something wrong with the way Edgar died,” to a celebrity-hungry “Do you think the story will make the tabloids? Will we be on television?”

She didn’t really care what his relatives thought. The most important Jamison, the one with the power, was sitting beside her. Davis, however, gave no hint of his probable decision. She was determined not to ask. If this were a true negotiation, she could not put herself in the vulnerable position of beggar.

Bwuck, bwuck, bwuck
. She couldn’t even delude herself. The truth was, she didn’t want to hear or have to deal with a negative answer. He’d been right when he’d asked her if she were chicken.

“Could you do that?” Davis asked.

Barrett dragged her mind back to the table. “What? Oh, make copies of her journal entries to send to everyone? Certainly. I’ll do it tonight.”

“Thanks. Even though they’ll try, Lloyd and Aunt Cecilia can’t refute her own words.”

He had the grim hawkish look about him again. Whatever he was about to say next, if it was about the murder, she didn’t want to hear it, so she started talking about Windswept’s trials and tribulations during the war. Davis seemed relieved to change the subject and contributed some family tales about Yankee visits to the plantation.

After dinner, while she copied Mary Maude’s journal, she could hear him in his office on the speaker phone cajoling, soothing, joking, explaining, arguing, repeating, repeating, repeating--whatever was required according to the demeanor of the person on the other end of the line.

While he reiterated over and over the decision to publish was his alone, he still didn’t state what his decision would be. Instead, he talked about the need for a united front and the strength of the family. Most of his relatives seemed to go along with what he was saying, but a few lambasted him for even considering the idea of letting the truth out. The latter worried Barrett the most, especially the thoughtful ones who never raised their voices. She had no idea how much influence they carried with him. She snuck a glance in while he was talking to one of them, and the bleak look on his face didn’t encourage her about the outcome of the situation.

As she collated the copies, she took a deep breath and slowly let it out. She felt like she’d been trampled over by a whole troop of Yankee cavalry. It was time to go to bed.

Bed.

But whose?

After all the events today, with all the inconclusiveness of the situation, with all her fears of mistrust on his part, how could she share his bed? She wasn’t angry so much any longer, so she wouldn’t pretend it was spite keeping her away. Was she trying to teach him a lesson? Or, worse, blackmail him? No journal, no sex? No booky, no nooky? She shook her head. Damn, now her mind was going.

No, she just needed some distance, some separation to keep her own mind clear if he denied her. Above all, to keep her poor, downtrodden heart guarded.

Bwuck, bwuck, bwuck
said the idiot piece of poultry in her head. “Oh, shut up,” she told it and carried the copies into his office. As she laid them on the coffee table, he hung up the phone.

He leaned back and stretched, and she had to force her eyes off his long body as her own reacted to the sight and to the memories of being in his arms. She cleared her suddenly scratchy throat and said, “Here are the copies.”

“Good, we’ll mail them in the morning. Barrett . . .” The phone rang again, he picked it up, listened, and asked the caller to hang on. He covered the mouthpiece and turned to her.

Before he could speak, she said quickly, “I’m going to bed.” She needed to get this out while she had the strength.

“I don’t know when I’ll be up.” With a grimace, he waved the phone in his hand.

“I think I’d better sleep in my room tonight,” she said. “I’m really tired.”

His face went blank, then hardened, and he stared at her for a long moment. “That’s up to you,” he said with a soft, low, expressionless tone.

“Good night.”

He nodded and spoke into the phone. “Hello, Aunt Faye. I suppose you’ve heard the news.” He turned his chair toward the windows.

She fled upstairs. An air of disconsolate exhaustion hung about the room as she prepared for bed. Once between the sheets, she concentrated on relaxing her muscles as she tried to entice sleep, but when she thought about Davis, she moved restlessly across the mattress. She finally decided she must be searching for him.

Oh, God. Nine days--or rather, nights--and she’d become so used to having him next to her that she missed him when he wasn’t there. She turned resolutely on her side “away from him” and recited the names of the presidents of the United States until she fell asleep.

***

Davis finished his phone calls about ten-thirty and set the answering machine to pick up immediately. He didn’t want any more phone calls tonight from Louisiana or anywhere else. He laid the list of names and addresses for the journal copies on top of the stack and turned out the lights. Stretching as he walked, he left the offices and climbed the stairs. At the top, he stopped, looked toward the front of the house. Nothing moved in the silent darkness.

Anger didn’t hit him until he walked into his bedroom. His
empty
bedroom. Barrett hadn’t changed her mind. Had he been hoping she would?

Damn right he had. Damn right she should be right there, all curled up, smelling good, waiting for him to spoon himself around her.

What was she doing? Telling him in no uncertain terms she wouldn’t share his bed unless he agreed to publishing Mary Maude’s story?

What was the matter with her? Couldn’t she let him inform the family and make a decision--a decision he realized he’d actually made about the time Lloyd was yelling at him. Look at the trouble the tale was already causing. The truth had to come out in public. What was the old adage: Two people can keep a secret if one of them is dead?

Concealing the facts was impossible. Too many people knew the story now. In fact, he’d bet the phone lines in Louisiana were already humming with the news. Trying to cover up Mary Maude’s act would only lead to more family arguments and destroy the famous Jamison solidarity.

Besides, the tale was good history. If he had learned anything from Dr. Barrett Browning, it was that.

So, why wasn’t she where she was supposed to be? Didn’t she trust him? Fuming, he went to bed.

Two hours later, he was still awake. When he turned over to see what time it was, he couldn’t see the clock until he sat up. He was on her side of the bed.

Damn.

Grumbling about stubborn women under his breath, he got up, stalked out of his bedroom, down the hall, and into hers. The security landscape lighting illuminated the room only faintly through the curtains, but he could make out the bed and the lump under the sheet.

He walked around to his side, lifted the sheet and slid in beside her.

When he touched her, she mumbled, “What? Davis?”

“Hush,” he ordered and pulled her into his arms. “I just need to get some sleep.”

She didn’t say anything, but her body went rigid for a moment. Then she sighed and relaxed.

He inhaled deeply her unique spice-and-female scent and felt all the tension flow out of his muscles. This was the way it was supposed to be.

***

Lloyd looked at the clock on his desk. One in the morning. Damn Davis! And damn that professor of his! What was he going to do now?

He looked at the spreadsheet displayed on his computer. Glanced again at his notes with several versions of columns of numbers adding and subtracting and all coming to the same conclusion. He was in deep shit.

And his cousin had just dealt him a death blow. Not only was he going broke and would be forced to sell all his properties, maybe even the house, but, after the news about Mary Maude came out, he’d be shunned in the community. No longer would people look up to him, ask him to be on charitable committees, speak of him for a position on city council--his long-held secret ambition.

Grace, the only good thing in his entire life and whom he didn’t deserve, would leave him. How could she stay with such a pitiful man, with a descendent of a murderess?

He ought to get some sleep. God knew, he’d had precious little of it lately as his financial worries kept him awake half the night. Despite his efforts to hide his insomnia, Grace had noticed and suggested he go to the doctor for a physical. He’d muttered, “Yeah, yeah,” but hadn’t told her the real reason, of course. He wasn’t the kind of man to burden his wife with such problems.

No, instead he was just like his father who had run the finances single-handedly until the day he died. His mother had been more than willing to let him do so. Even today, she looked to her son to take his father’s place in financial decisions. Thank God he had never used any of the money she had offered in his businesses. No matter what happened to him, she would be all right.

She’d practically fainted when he told her about Mary Maude. Then she’d pitched a fit about how he had to do something, make Davis understand, stop any gossip or publication.

What a contrast his mother was with Grace, who’d simply given him a hug and said, “If Mary Maude could live through a philandering husband and the Yankees, the present generations of Jamisons can handle a little publicity. Don’t worry so much, dear, everything will be all right. Davis is a good man. He’ll take care of the family.”

Hellfire and damnation. Even Grace now thought more of his “perfect” cousin than she did of her husband. She’d leave him for sure.