Windswept (12 page)

“Look,” Greg put in. “We know you’re an adult. But we worry about you. That guy, Wendell What’s-his-name, we know he hurt you. We just don’t want you to get mixed up with someone who will do the same again.”

Barrett sighed once more. She wasn’t about to rehash Wendell Truman. She was long over him, and considering the speed with which Wendell’s importance faded from her life, she had never felt very deeply about him to begin with. Her brothers just exaggerated all her relationships. Best to let them have their say and then they could all go back to enjoying themselves. “All right. Lay it on me.”

“First,” Phil said, assuming a stance like he was before a jury, “Jamison went through a very nasty divorce about five years back. I don’t know who was cheating on who, but I heard lots of rumors at the court house. The settlement was all hushed up, but there were tales of a killer prenup--in his favor. Ex-wife took off for Dallas with a banker shortly after.”

“Since then,” Greg took up the tale, his cop face clearly on, “he’s been playing the field, big time. Shows up at all the big social events with a different woman each time.”

“So? The man is single and dates.” Barrett put in. “Does he do drugs? Brawl at bars?”

“Not that I’ve heard of,” Greg answered. “His police record is clean.”

“Thank you, Sergeant Browning,” Barrett sneered. “Did your HPD files come up with anything at all?”

When Greg shook his head, she turned to Mark. “What about you, little brother? Does Davis hang out with you football players around the Houston team? Get it on with the groupies?”

“Barrett, I’m on your side, like always,” Mark said. “I told these bozos to leave you alone.” He straightened to his full six-foot-five height and grinned at the shorter Greg and Phil. “Do you want me to make the point more forcefully?”

“No, it’s not necessary,” she said, waving her hand wearily. “He’s divorced, and he dates women. Whoopee.” She skewered the two older brothers in turn with one of her teacher looks, designed for students who came up with the most implausible excuses for not having their papers done. “Let me say this once and once only. I am staying at Davis Jamison’s house to do a job, a job for which I am being handsomely paid. A job giving me the research I need to make my mark in my field. He has no interest in me other than my ability to catalog his family’s collection. I have no interest in him other than as the owner of the papers. Now, unless the man is about to abscond to Brazil with his investors’ money, would you three please
butt out
.”

“But . . .” Phil said.

“But . . .” Greg said.

Mark just grinned at her.

“Enough,” Beth said to the men in the voice she used when her two children were squabbling. “Change the subject. Now.”

Phil glanced at his wife, then exchanged a look with Greg. Both men shrugged. “So, tell us about these plantation papers and how you’re going to win a Pulitzer in history from this research,” Phil said to Barrett.

Barrett hid a smile. It did her heart so much good to see her big macho brothers do what their wives told them. She described the treasures she had found and how she hoped to use them. Everyone was appropriately enthusiastic for her prospects, and to lighten the mood even more, she asked Mark about the team’s chances for the next season. Soon it was time to leave with hugs and kisses all around.

She thought again over her brothers’ remarks on the drive to Davis’s. They, as usual, were worried about nothing. At least they were supportive of her career goals; she wouldn’t have expected any less of her family. They might all compete, but they stood by each other when needed.

Growing up, she had always thought success came more easily to her brothers than to her. They seemed to excel naturally in both schoolwork and sports. She had to study like a fiend, especially in math and science, to turn in comparable grades. In addition to wanting to keep up the family standard, she wasn’t about to open herself up to brotherly taunts. “What’s the matter, little girl. Can’t you cut it?” still rang in her ears.

She’d almost despaired because she had never had the clear cut vision of her brothers about what she wanted to do with her life. Then she’d discovered history, real history, in college, and she’d known she’d found her calling.

Now to be as firm a success in her world as her brothers were in theirs.

Fortunately for them, the male members of the family had chosen careers where the rungs to be climbed on the career ladder were much clearer and judged more objectively than the slippery, foggy steps of academia. Every career had its politics, but deciding the worth of historical research could not be quantified like cases won, criminals caught, or yardage gained.

No matter, she thought as she made the last turn off Memorial Drive. She’d produce such articles and books that no one, not even Horace, could deny her right to tenure.

She grinned. Not a bad pep talk for herself. She halted the car in the driveway and looked at Davis’s house for a moment. Inside was all she could hope for--Windswept and the keys for happiness.

After putting her Honda in the four-car garage in between the Gonzales’s Chevy and Davis’s Lexus, she let herself into the house through the kitchen door and made her way to the stairs by way of the dining room. The house was quiet, and sconces on the stairs and down the hall toward the offices shed a dim illumination. She could see a light burning in Davis’s office also.

At first she wondered if Davis was still working--he was turning out to be a true workaholic, worse even than she was. She couldn’t imagine him kicked back with a beer watching sports or an old movie on Saturday night. She took a step toward the office wing when a flash at the corner of her eye drew her gaze to the patio where only the pool and security lights were on. She moved closer to the glass and looked out.

Davis was churning up the water, swimming laps. She watched him make a smooth turn and with powerful strokes head back toward the far end. The man has power to burn, she thought and felt her body tense at the sight of him, cutting through the water with a minimum of wasted motion as the pool lights gleaming off the water drops emphasized the muscularity of his arms.

Her brothers’ warnings came back to her. Was the man a womanizer, a cavalier “love ’em and leave ’em” sort? If so, she’d seen no evidence. Her research into gossip columns had mentioned his name in conjunction with several women, but never with a hint of notoriety--or of any long-term relationships. If her brothers couldn’t find one iota of suspicion against the man, and they’d surely tried, then she had nothing to worry about.

More evidence against their warnings was right in front of her: Here it was Saturday night, and Davis didn’t have a date. She sighed. Her brothers meant well. They didn’t know Davis wasn’t interested in her and the attraction was all on her part.

Willing her body to relax, she watched him for a few moments longer. She’d have to be careful about her reactions around him. She didn’t have as much control over herself as she thought.

Should she report her return?

No . . . better not tempt fate, she decided. She’d managed to convince her brothers of her disinterest. Now if she could only convince herself.

Shaking her head, she turned and went up the stairs to her own bedroom.

In the near end of the pool, Davis glided to a stop and rested against the side. A movement inside the house caught his attention. Barrett had returned. He watched her climb the stairs and disappear.

Damn! She was home earlier than he had expected. He had hoped to begin his campaign tonight, had planned to be reading in his office, to offer her a good-night drink, have a friendly conversation. The empty evening had been long, and unable to concentrate on work, a magazine, or a TV show, he had opted for a long swim to relax. Look where it had gotten him.

He threw himself back into the pool in frustration and floated for a while. Earlier he’d almost asked her how late she expected to be, but the question smacked too much of the notion he’d be sitting up waiting for her, like an over-anxious parent, or worse, a jealous man. He was certainly not the former and didn’t have the right to be the latter.

He wondered about her three brothers. She must have been a handful for them.
A handful
. He’d like her to be a different kind of handful for him.

The thought stirred his blood, so he flipped over and swam another lap, then climbed out. He dried himself off and walked into his office through its sliding glass door. Before turning off his laptop, he checked his calendar. Tomorrow and Monday, the Memorial Day Holiday, he had engagements for golf and dinners with some potential investors. Damn again!

Then the absurdity of his disgruntlement hit him and he had to laugh. Patience, he told himself. Remember, you have time. What did he tell his staff when they wanted to rush into a deal? Take it easy. Reconnoiter the terrain before planning your moves. Find out what the other side wants. And, as was brought home to him tonight, don’t assume the other party will act the way you want them to.

Now if he could only take his own advice. Shaking his head, he turned out the lights and climbed the stairs to his own bedroom.

Chapter Eight

Monday afternoon Barrett hefted yet another box off the stack and carted it into the office. She was up to the 1840s now, but it was slow going. The number of boxes was double that of the 1830s. As Edgar had proclaimed, the Jamison family were truly pack rats, saving every item from business letters to newspaper clippings, fabric samples to a packet of cotton seeds.

She stretched after putting the carton on the floor. It had been a productive Sunday and she had a good idea for her first article. With the Gonzaleses on their day off, she’d been able to eat--or not--when she felt like it. Thank goodness Davis was busy with clients and investors yesterday and today. She had accomplished so much more--two whole boxes--without his presence as a distraction.

She lifted the lid and sneezed. More dusty file folders and brown envelopes.

And, by the way, where were those journals Edgar had shown her? Particularly the first Edgar’s book? She wished she’d paid more attention to their containers when he had pulled them out for her.

She was about to sit down on the floor when the phone rang. She leaned over the desk to look at it. Davis had multiple phone lines and an office-style system; the phone only rang in certain rooms, such as the kitchen and Davis’s office. One of the Gonzales answered the phone when Davis wasn’t home. Two buttons were blinking--one of them the intercom. She lifted the handset and pushed the button. “Yes?”

“There’s a Horace Glover on line one for you,
maestra
,” Gonzales said.

“Horace? Oh, ugh!”

“Would you like me to tell him you can’t be disturbed?”

She sighed. “No, I’d better take the call.
Gracias, don Jesus.
”

“De nada.”

Barrett scowled at the phone, but she punched the button and managed to speak in a pleasant tone. “Hello, Horace, how are you?”

“Just thought I’d see how you were doing down there. I do take an interest in your work, you know. You’re one of the up-and-comers in the department, you know,” he boomed in the cordial tone he adopted when he wanted something.

“Thank you,” Barrett answered as she rolled her eyes. She decided to use a Davis tactic and keep her mouth shut. Volunteer nothing and maybe he’d come to the point.

After a few seconds of silence, Horace spoke again. He must not recognize the ploy, she thought.

“Let me get to the crux of the matter. Have you found any papers for a Edgar John Jamison, Jr., during the war? Correspondence, or the like?”

“Horace, I’m not at liberty to discuss the contents of the collection,” she answered as she mentally thanked Davis for his conditions on her access.

“Why not?”

“Part of Mr. Jamison’s parameters include my sole access until I have cataloged the entire collection.” That wasn’t absolutely true, she knew, because Davis had said she could bring in experts if needed, but she hadn’t found anything to warrant the need yet. And the last person she’d bring in would be Horace.

“The old man didn’t have any such limits when I talked to him.”

“What old man?”

“I spoke with Edgar Jamison about the collection about a year before his death. Told him what I was looking for, and he said he’d get back to me, but he never did.”

Dumbfounded, Barrett took a breath and closed her eyes for a moment. Edgar had never said one word about having talked to Horace. No, wait. Edgar had made one reference to “damn fool professors” who bothered him. Was one of them Horace?

“I’m sorry, but he never mentioned your request to me.”

“How about if I come down and take a little look for myself? Just between us colleagues. Maybe get in a ‘nice’ visit for the two of us?”

He sounded like a smarmy snake-oil salesman, and it gave her more pleasure than she wanted to admit to be able to answer, “I’m sorry, Horace, but I can’t let you see them. It’s against the agreement Davis Jamison and I made. You wouldn’t want me to lose the grant, would you?” Hurrying on before he could answer the question, she tried to sound sympathetic to his request. “Please don’t make a trip all this way for nothing. Now, you’ll have to excuse me. I really have a lot of work to do.”

“All right, but I’ll give you a call later--just to see how you’re doing, of course.”

His voice insinuated his certainty she’d give in to his request later, but Barrett ignored the tone and said only, “Thank you for calling. Good-bye.”

She hung up the phone and slumped down onto the floor besides the just opened box. “Yuck! A ‘nice’ visit. What a crock.” She scrubbed her hands on the carpet. They felt dirty just from holding the phone during the conversation.

What was she to make of the news Horace had talked to Edgar? Horace evidently knew more about the papers than he let on. But what did it mean for her?

Whose correspondence had Horace been looking for? Edgar John Jamison, Jr., the first Edgar’s son, born 1835. “Her” Edgar had talked about Junior being a hero in the battles along the Mississippi and Red Rivers after distinguishing himself in Virginia. Horace must be looking for some of his military records. Thank goodness Davis had placed those limits on her work. The last help she needed was from Horace.