Windswept (6 page)

Against the wall opposite the windows sat an entertainment center with television, radio, and sound system. Round and square pillows and a knitted afghan in vibrant blues, greens, and reds decorated the navy couch. On the paneled wall behind his desk hung a small abstract painting and a couple of diplomas. His mahogany desk, like the one in his downtown office, was neat, its furnishings and files marching in straight lines up the side and across the top of the glassy surface.

He sat on a chair across the coffee table from her and picked up a folder lying on the table. She recognized it as the file she had given him and mentally crossed her fingers. She still couldn’t tell if he had decided in her favor.

“I read your correspondence. You and my grandfather clearly enjoyed the research and each other,” Davis said and watched her curls bounce as she nodded in reply. He thumbed through the file and put it back on the table. “Then I came home and here were all those boxes. Like you, I hadn’t realized there were so many. As I poked around in them a little, it struck me rather forcibly that I do not want to turn over family records to just anybody and certainly not without knowing what’s in them first.”

In fact, he’d been surprised--no, astounded--at the depth of emotion he’d felt reading letters written by his great-great-great grandfather in the first box he had opened. The correspondence and ledgers had talked of mundane business and family matters, but they had spoken directly to him as well. The writers had the daily problems of providing food, making a living, and dealing with their relations and dependents. They were concerned with larger issues of the economy and the government as well as small matters of gossip and the latest fashions.

Looking at the signatures, at the familiar family names, it had come home to him: these letter writers and ledger keepers were his ancestors. His very blood came from them. Without them, he wouldn’t exist. He suddenly understood Edgar’s desire to preserve the papers, the only remaining manifestations--indeed the embodiments--of the thoughts and lives of long-ago Jamisons. They would reveal his family to him in ways he may not yet comprehend, but he knew were important just the same. Oh, yes, he’d protect both the papers and his family.

Again, he experienced the enthusiasm, the rush of going into a good business deal. With the added plus of giving Lloyd a kick in the butt. But no need to tell the good professor any of this, especially not about Lloyd, so he went on with his explanation.

“I thought of what you said yesterday morning about being of mutual assistance to each other and concluded I agree with you. I propose the following: You spend the summer here with two tasks in mind. First, create a detailed inventory of the records. Organize them, when necessary, for easier comprehension or use. Second, at the end of the inventory, give me an evaluation of their contents and recommend the best repository for them. While you are doing this, you will be free to identify, copy, and begin your research on whatever records, journals, letters, you wish to use for your articles.”

She’d never make a good negotiator, he decided as he watched her eyes widen and a smile start to form. She gave too much away.

“I find I share my grandfather’s possessiveness about the records,” he continued. “Like him, I don’t want to let them out of my sight. Therefore, during the course of your inventory, you will stay here at the house, just as you planned to live at Windswept. There are several guest bedrooms upstairs.”

He leaned forward to tick off his points on his fingers, consciously mimicking her previous actions. “Staying here offers you several benefits. By living with the records, you will have unlimited access whenever you want to work. You will also have minimal expenses, in addition to which I’ll pay you fifteen thousand dollars for your inventory and assessment.”

She had frozen at the mention of the money, so he added, “If this were a matter of twenty boxes, or even the fifty you had originally seen, I wouldn’t be making such a proposal. But getting through the mountain in the conference room is going to be real work, and I believe in paying for that.

“I’m traveling off and on these days and usually work out of my downtown office when I’m in town, so you would have few interruptions. Gonzales and his wife take care of the house, cooking and cleaning, and it would be no burden on them to do the same for you, no matter where I am. I’ll be home in the evenings if you have any questions about your discoveries.” He didn’t voice his other purpose: to keep an eye on her and what she found.

“That’s my proposition. What do you say?” He sat back and waited for her answer.

Barrett was absolutely stunned. She could do nothing but sit there and stare at him for a long minute.

“Dr. Browning? Barrett?”

His question broke the spell, but she couldn’t sit still. She had to move or the excitement would burst her brain. She leaped off the sofa and began to pace in front of his desk. “Wait a minute. Let me get this straight.”

She ran her fingers through her hair as she moved and felt the curls bounce. It was a wonder her hair wasn’t sticking straight up from the shock of his proposal.
Be professional, woman,
she told herself, but, omigod, how his offer astounded her. She’d been hoping for partial access at best and would have been satisfied with only four hours a day. Well, not “satisfied,” but accepting. She hadn’t even considered where she might stay while compiling the inventory. To be actually living with the records, to be able to work on them whenever she wanted, for as long as she wanted, was her dream come true. She forced herself to collect her thoughts.

“You are offering me money to live here, in your house, catalog all the papers, use whatever records I want, my choice with no strings, for my research, and walk away from here with copies of any or all of it, and fifteen thousand dollars besides?” Hand to her chest, she stopped to take a deep breath. “I’m sorry, I seem to be babbling.”

“Yes, you understand correctly.” She heard a sly note in his softly drawled words. He had her and he knew it. “Is it acceptable?”

God, was it ever. Barrett stopped pacing as a thought struck her, and she voiced it before she analyzed it. “What’s the downside?”

“I want
only you
to work on the records. I want one historian’s view of the totality, not the piecemeal ideas of a clerk or grad student who’s only been through a few of the boxes. If you think someone else can shed light on the meaning of a document or needs to appraise the worth of an item, fine, but only after you have studied it first. I particularly don’t want a horde of people wandering around my house, even if they are historians.”

“I have no quarrel with you about the idea,” she said. “But what happens if I can’t, simply physically can’t, get through all those boxes by the time I have to report back to the university in the fall? I only have about two months free. As you pointed out, there’s a whole mountain range of containers.”

“Then you’ll have to come back here on holidays and during the summers until you finish. If it takes another summer or longer, I’ll renew the grant. I want a thorough appraisal, not a rush job.”

She nodded. His request was reasonable and meant she wouldn’t have to rush through the records. It would leave her time to write her articles also. The thought led to one of her most important concerns. “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.”

He considered her stipulation. “Agreed.”

“You’re sure? I’ve seen projects come apart because a family member or someone with a vested interest wanted their slant on interpretation, not the historian’s. For my part, I’ll bring as unbiased a view as I can.”

“You don’t have to worry about the family,” he said with a small smile that for some reason gave her a tiny sense of foreboding until his next words clarified the situation. “Edgar left the papers solely and expressly to me to do with as I wish. I’m sure you’ll do a fine job.”

Barrett gave a sigh of relief. She felt like she could trust him. After all, he was well known in the business community for keeping his word. She had no basis for worrying. Edgar had never hinted at any controversy among family members in regard to the papers. She banished any residual anxiety from her mind.

But then he added, “I would prefer discretion about the records’ extent or availability. I don’t want to be bombarded by institutions pounding on my door in the hopes I’ll give the papers to them. I don’t want other scholars camped on the front lawn hoping for a look. I don’t want feature articles about romantic plantation life in the
Houston Chronicle
or anywhere else. I’m not doing this for the publicity.”

“Your grandfather did not put such a restriction on my access, and I should mention I’ve already told my department chair and several colleagues about the papers and about my plans to study them all summer. I didn’t describe them in any detail, but I know my enthusiasm came through and the fact of their existence did generate a little ‘buzz’ in the department. I don’t know if word has circulated through the grapevine or made it off my campus yet, but it may have. I also don’t know whom Mr. Jamison may have told. Once I submit an article to a journal or give a paper at a conference, news will definitely be out. Is any of this a deal breaker?”

He didn’t say anything for a moment, just stared and ran a finger over his mustache. Despite his stone-faced taciturnity she knew her news was not welcome, but she wasn’t sure what difference it would make if others knew about the collection. He probably simply didn’t want to be bothered. He was a busy man, after all.

“No,” he finally said, “I don’t know whom Edgar told either, although the existence of our family papers is common knowledge in St. Gregoryville. We’ll have to live with it. If any ‘grovelers,’ as you called them, show up, I’ll just have to run them off.” He spoke with a bland tone, but he smiled with a predator’s teeth.

It was time to get down to details, Barrett decided, so she asked, “Would I work in the conference room? I’ll need access to e-mail and the Internet at some point if I need to communicate with anyone.”

“It doesn’t matter to me if you work there or in the outer office. The computer on the desk has the latest version of word-processing and spreadsheet programs with a broadband line for Internet access. You’ll have access also to the company network and can save your inventory there for safety’s sake. In fact, I prefer the primary and complete files be kept there.”

“That would work.” She was almost talking to herself as she started pacing again. “Bring my laptop, too. Shut down the townhouse for the summer, forward my mail, drive down right after I hand in final grades, and I could be here by . . . May twenty-first.” She looked at Davis. “When would you want me to start?”

“Whenever you like. May twenty-first would be fine. Let Peggy Murphy know when you’ll get here and she’ll obtain anything else you need. I believe you met my executive assistant?”

“Yes, I did.” Barrett sat down and studied the man across the table. She would be living in the same house with him all summer. Just the two of them, if you didn’t count the Gonzaleses. A prickle of apprehension raced up and down her backbone and she frowned.

“Problem?” he asked mildly, but his gaze was intent.

“No,” Barrett answered hesitantly, then more firmly, “Not at all.” His concentrated attention made her again abruptly aware of him as a man, a downright attractive man, a man in whose house she would be living. What would the History Department think of the arrangement? Who cared? What about her overprotective brothers? She was a big girl now; they could just butt out. She dismissed any lingering apprehension. She had a job to do. Where she was staying was nobody’s business. She’d be professional if it killed her.

Besides, she didn’t have time for a man. The last few years, she had concentrated on her career plan with all the energy in her, and now with tenure almost in her grasp, nothing would swerve her from her goal, especially a man.

And furthermore, who was she kidding? Herself? She had no proof the man in front of her was interested or even might be interested in her as anything except a historian. She was simply a means to an end--a cataloguing of his collection. He had looked at her intently, with the same intent expression on his face, since she walked into his office yesterday. It was probably his method of dealing with everyone.

Davis Jamison was offering her the keys to the tenure kingdom. She didn’t have time for any nonsense. And if he turned out to be other than the businessman and gentleman of his reputation, well, her three very large brothers would take care of him--if there were even a greasy smudge left after she was finished.

She couldn’t think of any other problems. She could live with the restrictions and understood his desire to maintain his privacy. “I’m just trying to take it all in,” she told him. She took a deep breath. No guts, no glory. “You have a deal, Mr. Jamison.” She rose and held out her hand.

Davis rose and shook hers, pleased she had agreed so readily and completely to his plan. “We have a deal, Dr. Browning,” he replied, giving into the urge to hold on to her small hand a little longer than the polite norm. “I’ll put the paperwork into motion immediately so everything will be spelled out in writing before you start. Will that be satisfactory?”

She nodded energetically, and the curls bounced again. Davis thought she looked just like a kid who spotted the Christmas tree with the presents and they were all for her. Well, not quite. The more he saw of her, the more intrigued with her he became. Maybe she was his present. It remained to be seen what she would be like when he unwrapped her.

Chapter Four

On the following Wednesday, Barrett stopped in the department offices to check her mail box after giving a final to her “Women in the Nineteenth Century” class. A number of envelopes awaited her, one a fat overnight delivery from Jamison Investments. She had verbal approval from Davis through Peggy Murphy for the department to announce the grant. This must be the written confirmation and some of the formal grant documents. She was considering opening it when she felt a presence behind her.