Windswept (43 page)

“Good. Thank you. I love you, too,” she said in a sleep-laden voice, but she smiled.

He pulled himself back and propped up on an elbow, turned her over to face him. He slid his top leg between hers and put his hand on her breast. She opened her big blue eyes and gave him another smile.

“I need you to rescue me, from ex-wives, wastrel brothers, and crazy cousins,” he said.

“I need you to rescue me from unscrupulous historians, overprotective brothers, and my tendency to jump to conclusions,” she answered.

“I want you to be successful. I want you to be happy.”

“I want the same for you.”

“We’ll be together. I’ll open a Dallas office.”

“I’ll look for a position down here as soon as I can.”

“I trust you with my family’s secrets, I trust you with my heart. Marry me, Barrett.”

“I trust you with mine. Yes, I’ll marry you.”

“When?”

“Not right this minute.” She stretched her leg up over his and snuggled closer. His erection fit perfectly between her thighs. She pulled him down into a hug and whispered into his ear, “Right this minute, I have something else in mind.” She slid her dampening core along his thoroughly aroused sex.

The movement took his breath away. “What?” he managed to croak.

“Celebrating our engage--” was all she managed to get out before his lips found hers.

Epilogue I

Three Years Later

Saturday, July 1

Barrett sat by the pool on a typically sweltering summer afternoon, watching Davis swim laps as she drank some iced tea. Watching her husband. Three years of marriage and she still was thrilled when she spoke or thought the words, “her husband.” She reminded herself of Mary Maude in that regard, but she knew she would not come to the same ending.

It had been a momentous three years. They married as soon as her parents could return to Houston. After a short honeymoon, Barrett returned to the Windswept papers, but university classes began all too quickly. They spent the school year flying back and forth on the weekends, which worked out pretty well as she needed the records, especially the journals, for her articles.

In the fall, she presented a paper on Mary Maude, her journal, and her life--including Edgar’s demise--at a history conference.

A firestorm of media inquiry and public interest ensued, with everyone from the National Organization for Women to the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People putting in their two cents. She and Davis tried to be careful about granting interviews, but it was impossible to resist 60 Minutes. Several publishers announced interest in her planned book, and she quickly found an agent to handle the negotiations.

Somehow in all the hoopla, and as Grace predicted, Lloyd found himself much sought after in his businesses and his law practice. Grace kept a firm hand on him, however, and did not allow him to make any public statements. The rest of the family kept a low profile. Several African-American families claimed descent from Edgar’s children. Windswept Plantation itself became a favored destination for tourists, a reunion of descendants of former slaves from it and neighboring plantations took place on its grounds, and St. Gregoryville prospered as a result.

The second year of their marriage, Barrett wrote Mary Maude’s story and published it in the third to good academic and popular reviews--and excellent sales. Her university granted her tenure.

All the publicity, the book, and several articles resulted in the offer of a tenured position from a university in Houston whose history department wanted to build a woman’s studies program. Barrett accepted the offer, of course, and was ecstatic to be home with Davis again. The first thing she did after getting settled was redecorate the living and dining rooms and hang the seascape of the Texas coast, Davis’s wedding present to her, in their bedroom.

Barrett quit her reflections to admire her husband as he climbed out of the pool. The man had a great body, and it was all hers. He dropped down on the lounger beside her.

“Have you given any more thought to those movie or TV miniseries offers?” he asked, reaching for a towel.

“No, I still think it’s a Jamison decision as to whether they want their family name to become a household word, especially after the story is ‘Hollywoodized.’”

“Okay, I’ll call around and see what they think, but I have the feeling they’ll go for it, especially after they hear our plans to establish a scholarship fund with the proceeds.” He took a drink from her tea glass. “Did I mention, Bill called today?”

“No, you didn’t. How’s he doing?”

“I don’t know what you told him that rainy day, but he must have listened, because the fundraising for his charity is going great guns, and he loves it. He seems to be quite good at it.” He grinned in reminiscence.

“How much did you give him?” she asked.

“Nothing gets by you, does it?” He named a number. Then he looked at her closely. “Okay?”

“Fine.” She gave him a hug. “We have something else to discuss.” She tried to be serious, but she didn’t quite make it.

“I know. What to name our firstborn.” He grinned at her and kissed her quick.

“Davis! How did you know? I didn’t find out for sure until this morning.”

“You forget, I know your body too well not to have noticed changes over the past few weeks.” He cupped her ever so slightly swollen breasts, then took her tenderly in his arms. “Oh, honey, you’ve given me a great gift. I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Davis. . . . If it’s a girl, what if we name her Mary Maude?”

The End

But Not Quite

What follows is the second epilogue that my former publisher had me write for their “One More Moment” Web site section. The idea was for several authors to revisit our stories a few years after the story ended to see what had happened to the characters. This is the first time Epilogue II has appeared as part of the book. Please let me know what you think of it and Windswept itself at [email protected]. I hope you enjoy seeing Barrett, Davis, and all of the Jamison family again.

Epilogue II

Seven Years After the Close of Epilogue I

Houston, Texas

The Beginning of October

“You want us to do what? At the plantation?” Davis Jamison stared at his wife as she entered his home office after putting the boys to bed.

“I’m suggesting the whole family celebrate the 100th birthday of your grandfather, Edgar Preston Jamison, at Windswept Plantation, the third weekend in May. We can have a big party and combine it with a fundraiser for hurricane relief.” Barrett Browning Jamison’s smug smile showed through her “innocent” expression.

“A party and a fundraiser.” Davis thought hard, put together some observations and facts, and concluded, “About which you’ve talked to several people already. Let me guess. My brother Bill and his wife Teresa, the fundraisers extraordinaire. My sister Martha and her husband Tom. Anyone else?”

She grinned at him, her hair a riot of curls, her dark blue eyes twinkling mischievously. It was hard sometimes for him to realize they’d been married ten years. She’d only gotten prettier.

“Only cousins Taylor and Corinne in St. Gregoryville,” she answered. “Oh, and my brother Mark, who thought he could bring some of his football player friends.”

Outmaneuvered as usual. Although Barrett claimed not to be a military historian, she could work strategy and tactics like Stonewall Jackson. “Please tell me I won’t have to deal with Lloyd or dress up in a costume.”

“You don’t have to deal with cousin Lloyd or dress up in a costume, cross my heart.” She made an X over her chest. “Corinne’s going to work with Grace to keep Lloyd out of trouble.”

Davis sighed. “I’ll believe that when I see it. How much is this going to cost me?”

“I don’t know that yet. Bill and Teresa think they can get most things donated, especially with Taylor’s help.” Barrett came around the desk and gave him a kiss. “It will be fun, you’ll see.”

Davis watched his wife leave the room. He had to admit, the party probably would be fun. The plantation belonged to the state now and was a stellar tourist destination, not his grandparents’ home. He anticipated no problem in putting on such a party on its extensive grounds. And the cause was certainly worthy, what with the way hurricanes kept coming right up the Mississippi River. Thank God the property was high above the river.

Come to think of it, he and his family hadn’t visited Windswept itself in a while. Preston was seven now, and Clift was five. Maybe it was time to start teaching his sons about their heritage.

***

St. Gregoryville, Louisiana

Friday of the third weekend in May

A bright spring morning

As she climbed out of the car at the cemetery by the church, Barrett put aside all her thoughts about the party the next day. Now was her chance for the stop she and Davis made every time she came to St. Gregoryville. She took one of the flower arrangements from the back seat while Davis picked up the second.

They always visited two sets of graves: First, Davis’s grandfather and grandmother, Edgar P. and Elizabeth Jamison. “Granddaddy” had brought her and Davis together by agreeing to give her access to the plantation’s papers.

After paying their respects to the grandparents and leaving one bouquet in the newer part of the cemetery, they walked over to the older sections close to the red-brick church. Here wrought-iron fences with elaborate gates separated each family, and the Jamison plot held many descendants.

In the middle, side by side, lay the first Jamisons at Windswept, Edgar John and Mary Maude Jamison. Barrett thought it only fitting to pay homage to Mary Maude Davis Jamison, whose secret she had exposed and whose journal had made her career as a historian.

Barrett and Davis entered through the gate, which depicted a weeping willow, and placed the flowers on Mary Maude’s tomb. As usual, they stood for a couple of minutes, holding on to each other, as Davis read the inscription Mary Maude had ordered. “
Mary Maude Davis Jamison, 1811-1886, In Her Life, She Persevered. May God Have Mercy
.”

“Amen,” Barrett murmured.

“I wonder,” Davis said as he gazed at Edgar’s stone before turning his hazel gaze to her, “what would have happened to the family if Edgar had lived.”

“Mary Maude would have done what countless women have—held the family together, no matter what,” Barrett replied. “She persevered.”

When they returned to the plantation, they took a private tour of the house to see how it was holding up as a historical venue. It wasn’t a huge movie-like mansion but a comfortable “cottage,” as the style was known in the area. A gallery or porch extended across the front and around the side of the wooden, two-story structure.

As they entered the front parlor, Barrett recalled Mary Maude’s description of the house as being welcoming and decorated in warm colors. She particularly mentioned being able to feel the love and comradeship of the builders, Edgar’s uncle and aunt.

The house had been lived in since it was built, and many of the family’s antiques had remained when it became state property. None of the upholstered furniture or the draperies, however, still had their original coverings or hangings, and no attempt had yet been made to replace them with more period-accurate ones. The result was, Barrett thought, that visitors had the feeling of coming into a home, not a museum. Fresh flowers and scented candles further enhanced the ambiance.

“You know,” Davis said, as they stood in the dining room, “I still expect Granddaddy or Grandmama to come around the corner any minute.”

***

Windswept Plantation, St. Gregoryville, Louisiana

Saturday of the third weekend in May

A fine spring morning

When Davis, Barrett, and their two boys arrived at Windswept Saturday morning, the party was beginning. Accordion and fiddle music came from the direction of the small stage behind the dower house where Mary Maude had moved after Edgar, Jr., married. Next to the tents and tables set up yesterday, the food suppliers had started cooking, and those taking part in the gumbo cook-off were preparing their entries. A few local arts-and-craft vendors had set up shop in their designated area. In front of the house, docents organized for their tours.

The four walked around the grounds, the parents answering Preston and Clift’s questions and checking out the layout. Everything looked ready. They met Bill and Teresa by the ticket booth.

“How are ticket sales going?” Davis asked as he watched the visitors walk down the long avenue of huge oak trees toward the house.

“Just fine,” his brother answered. “I expect we’ll exceed our projected numbers for both days.”

“Who’s the bunch in the field? They look like they’re in uniforms.”

“A group of Civil War reenactors. They’re part of our plan—” Bill began but didn’t get to finish because a fellow in an immaculate Confederate uniform marched up.

“Ah, here you are,” Lloyd Walker boomed.

Davis groaned inwardly. Cousin Lloyd, the last man he wanted to see. They’d never gotten along, even as children. Especially as children. Now, although he and the family had stepped in ten years ago to save Lloyd’s butt from his own mismanagement, the man still acted as though he was leader of the pack.

“Lloyd,” Davis said to acknowledge his presence.

“When I’m in character, you should refer to me as General Walker.” Lloyd preened and readjusted his sword and belt.

“Are you a pirate?” Preston piped up. “You have a cool sword. Do you have a treasure?”

“No, I’m not a pirate,” Lloyd answered with a slight huff. “I’m an army general.”

“No treasure then?” Preston made a sad face.