by Sandra Brown
He wiped a few beads of perspiration from his upper lip and sighed. “Well, I’m glad about that. I wouldn’t want to make anyone mad at me.” He laughed nervously then socked her playfully on the chin. “I’ll see you around seven. Okay?”
She agreed and he left.
* * *
At their early dinner, Zack was sullen and uncommunicative, which was what Camille had expected, but Rayburn seemed bent on having a good time. He told Camille stories about his growing up. His adventures on the Mississippi River sounded every bit as colorful as those of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. In spite of her annoyance over Zack’s brooding mood, she laughed at the tall tales Rayburn was spinning. She noticed that the more she laughed, the more surly Zack became. Well, let him sulk, she thought defiantly, and laughed even harder.
When the meal was finished, Rayburn leaned back in his chair expansively and wiped the tears of mirth from his eyes. “Yes, that summer of ’12 was one to remember.” He paused a moment before asking, “What time is Rick picking you up, Camille? Don’t let us keep you. She’s going to the football game with him tonight,” he added in way of explanation to Zack. Camille glanced at him quickly, but he only shrugged indifferently and took a drink of his iced tea.
“About seven,” she answered Rayburn, stung by Zack’s apathy to his father’s announcement.
“Well then, you’d better go get ready—not that you don’t look beautiful now.” He pushed his chair back and said, almost as an afterthought, “Zack, why don’t you take Camille to the plantation tomorrow? She’s worked hard this week, and I’d like for her to take the entire weekend off.”
“I don’t know—” she started, but Zack interrupted her.
“Okay. I didn’t have anything else to do.” He pushed back from the table. “I’ll see you in the morning. Dress casually.” Without another word, he stomped out of the dining room.
Of all the nerve! Camille screamed silently. She faced Rayburn and noticed that his white eyebrows were raised almost to his hairline in a nonverbal query as he studied the doorway recently vacated by his son.
Camille excused herself soon after that and went to the dowager house to dress for her date with Rick. More than ever she was determined to have a good time tonight. But she was torn between anticipation and dread for the next day.
* * *
Rick’s effervescence was infectious, and a short time after he picked her up, Camille had almost forgotten Zack’s brooding and his less-than-enthusiastic response to Rayburn’s suggestion that they visit the plantation the following morning.
The evening was cool and clear and perfect for a football game. After parking his car in the stadium parking lot, Rick took Camille’s arm and they walked for what seemed like miles over rocky, dusty ground toward the brightly lit, gaily decorated field. The bands representing each school vied for supremacy in volume, and they laughed together as they kept step first with the cadence, of one, then another until they were weak with the effort.
Camille wore a plaid wool kilt and matching sweater, but soon wished she had left her suede pumps at home and worn some lower-heeled, more comfortable walking shoes.
They located their seats just moments before the kick-off, and amidst the shouting and cheering, Rick introduced her to the other couples nearby. She didn’t catch all of the names, but that didn’t seem to be important. Everyone was soon caught up in the spirit of the game.
Rick, with exaggerated lasciviousness, ogled the jiggling cheerleaders cavorting in front of the stands. Camille and her date clapped their hands and stomped their feet, laughing like two teenagers. She felt more relaxed than she had for weeks and was enjoying herself immensely.
Then she saw Zack. He was climbing the steep stadium steps, his arm draped around the shoulders of a tall, slender woman with shining blond hair. Spectators in the stands shouted greetings to the handsome couple as they made their way to their seats, stopping nearly every other row to chat with someone. Zack’s eyes, though he was joking and talking animatedly, scanned the crowd until they fell on Camille and Rick. Rick had been distracted by a man on his other side, so he didn’t see when Zack’s blue eyes lighted on Camille and gave her a mocking, insolent smile. She turned her head away quickly and tried to ignore him and his gorgeous date, the hard pounding of her heart, and the sudden streak of jealousy that coursed through her.
She was further discomfited when Zack and the woman finally sat down only two rows from her and Rick. Why? Now her whole evening would be ruined! It was frustrating to have to admit that, but she knew it to be true. For as much as she wanted to enjoy the football game and the laughing, affable Rick, she couldn’t concentrate on anything but the back of Zack’s head and the other one that moved too close to his far too often, trailing blond tresses across his shoulders. Was this the Hazelett woman that Rayburn had mentioned with such dislike?
At halftime, Rick plied her with tepid hot chocolate and stale popcorn. The fervor of the fans intensified during the exciting second half of the game. The score favored first one team, then the next. When, during the final minute of the game, the home team scored a touchdown, the fans went crazy. Everyone was on their feet, shouting, whistling, clapping their hands in rhythm to the fight song being blared out by the band. In his excitement, Rick hugged Camille tightly, lifting her off her feet and kissing her soundly on the mouth. She was laughing at his jostling enthusiasm when, over his broad shoulders, she locked gazes with Zack, who was staring at them over the frantic crowd. He stood perfectly still. All his mocking smiles were gone. His face was set and grim, carved out of granite. Only his eyes were alive. They flashed blue fire. He turned away from her scornfully. The spirit in the stadium reached obsessive proportions, and Camille was thankful that no one noticed her lack of exuberance.
Rick took her out for pizza before driving her back to Bridal Wreath. At the door of the dowager house, she thanked him for the good time and submitted when he took her upper arms in his hands and drew her to him for a dispassionate good-night kiss. As he pulled back, she recognized that sadness which she had noticed before on his strong, kind face. He stroked her cheek gently before wishing her good night and walking away. Was there a slump to his shoulders and a lethargy to his usually bouncing walk? We all suffer our private torments, don’t we? she thought philosophically as she went into her room.
* * *
The morning’s weather was a repetition of the evening before, crackling with the briskness of fall. Camille pulled on a pair of designer jeans that flattered her slender legs and hips. She wore a long-sleeved, beige shirt and tied the sleeves of a navy cardigan around her neck. She stepped into a pair of comfortable boots that had seen too many seasons, but were too comfortable to consider throwing away.
It was still early, but she crossed the terrace, walked through the screened back porch, and entered the kitchen, where Dearly was making biscuits and had already brewed a pot of coffee.
“Good morning, Camille. Did you sleep well? I hear you’re going out for the day with Zack. Better watch yourself. He has the reputation of being a lady’s man.” She laughed merrily as she put the biscuits in the oven. Camille blanched as she remembered the blonde that clung so possessively to Zack at the football game. She turned quickly to pour herself a cup of coffee. “Yes, sir, he’s a lady’s man all right,” Dearly continued. “With those blue eyes, what could you expect? I would get so aggravated when he was in high school. The girls would call here giggling and asking for Zack. Incessantly that telephone was ringing. And he liked the girls okay, but was much more interested in sports and cars then. While he was in college… well, I don’t know too much about that because he was gone, but when he came back here to live, he had to fight off every debutante and her mother for miles around. There were several woman that he dated off and on for years, but one by one they gave up on him and married someone else. He never seemed upset to lose one of those women to another man.”
Camille didn’t interrupt this revealing monologu
e and began setting the table while Dearly deftly sliced and sectioned grapefruits. “Then about two years ago, he went through a black period. Whew! He was so moody and cross all the time. He just withdrew into himself and wouldn’t talk to anyone. He was constantly muttering deprecations about women in general, and we finally figured out that he had fallen for someone and she had done him dirty. Probably got tired of his stalling and up and married someone else. Of course, he never told us anything about it. We never knew who she was, but she hurt him.”
Two years ago. So he was in Utah to get over an affair that had gone awry. He was out to prove his masculinity and reestablish his self-esteem, and Camille had been his guinea pig. Mr. Zachary Prescott should have felt very good about himself after she had fallen like a ripe plum into his hands and put up next to no resistance when he had seduced her.
Dearly commanded her attention again. “He went for months without seeing any woman, then he started dating this Erica Hazelett, and, if you ask me, she isn’t right for our Zack. Any woman that sends her kids off for months at a time so they won’t interfere with her social calendar is no proper mother. And since Zack never had a mother, much less brothers and sisters, he’s always said he wanted several children… if he ever got married.” She sighed. “We’ve just about given up hope of there ever being babies in this house.”
Camille absently buttered one of the biscuits, which by now were out of the oven and in a basket on the table. She sipped her coffee and sighed. Whoever she was who hurt Zack had wounded him deeply. Camille should know better than anyone how bitter his attitude toward the female sex was and how shamelessly he used them for his own selfish gratification. Did his contemptuous attitude stem from a desire for revenge on the whole sex for the deeds of one whom he had obviously loved?
The object of her musings sauntered into the kitchen dressed in a pair of jeans and a matching jacket pulled on over a lightweight, white turtleneck sweater.
“Good morning, ladies,” he said cheerfully and gave Dearly a smacking kiss on the cheek. Camille had expected him to be as sulky as he had been the night before at dinner. She was not prepared for this lighthearted, debonair man who crossed to the coffeemaker and poured himself a cup while humming “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning” under his breath. Her last impression of him had been the angry, cold statue staring at her scornfully while Rick held her in his strong arms. Didn’t Zack even remember that disdainful way he had looked at her when he saw Rick kissing her?
“Ready to go?” he asked as he slid into the chair and grabbed a hot biscuit, juggling it between his hands until he dropped it onto his plate.
“Yes,” she replied, too shocked by the metamorphosis of his personality to say anything else.
“Good. I’ve got a full schedule of activities planned for us. Hurry up and eat your breakfast.”
“Yes, sir!” Camille said briskly and saluted him. The sparkle in his bright eyes made Camille’s heart jump erratically. If only…
Zack helped her into the cab of a pickup that had seen many years and endless miles of country roads. The blue paint was faded and chipped, and one window had been broken but remained intact.
“If we were going on a real date, I would drive my car, but this is much more suited to a tour of the plantation. Do you mind too much?”
“No, not at all,” Camille replied evenly, though her pulse was racing after that brief contact with him when his strong fingers had closed around her upper arm as he handed her into the truck. Would she never be immune to his touch?
Zack turned left out of Bridal Wreath’s driveway and drove the short distance to the intersection with Highway 65. They headed west toward the river. Just before they drove onto the suspension bridge spanning it, Zack pointed to a house perched on a high bluff to their left. “That’s The Briars. It offers a lovely view of the river and boasts that Jefferson Davis married Varina Howell in the parlor. The house was built around 1812.”
Camille caught only a fleeting glimpse of the beautiful home and grounds as they drove past. She had leaned toward Zack to look out his side of the truck, and her breast accidentally brushed against his arm. A thrilling current shot through her body. She withdrew quickly and scooted to the far side of the cab, hoping that he had not been aware of the effect his touch had on her.
She feigned absorbing interest as they crossed the Mississippi River, but, indeed, it was a thrilling sight. Several barges that she knew were immense looked like toy boats on the vastness of the river. Camille sighted Natchez-Under-the-Hill, a historic part of the old city. Just as she was about to comment on it, Zack said, “One night we’ll go to Under-the-Hill and have dinner. Cock of the Walk has the best fried catfish anywhere. Please don’t tell Dearly I said so.” His eyes locked with hers and they smiled at each other, his teeth white and gleaming. Why was he so devilishly handsome?
They reached the Louisiana side of the river in a matter of minutes and drove through the small community of Vidalia before continuing west. A few miles farther, Zack turned north into a road spanned by a metal arch. The words “Prescott Plantation” were spelled out with curving metal letters.
For Camille the rest of the morning passed in a kaleidoscope of impressions. Zack drove her over acres of fields, explaining the crops grown in each one, how they rotated them, when they knew to let one lie fallow, the specialized service performed by one piece of equipment or another. As they encountered employees working in various capacities, Zack slowed the pickup down to call out a greeting. He knew everyone by name, which was no small accomplishment. Camille was amazed to see how many workers it took to manage the multifaceted plantation.
Zack’s pet interest was the stud farm he was trying to establish. He showed her his stables and the few horses he already owned. Some of them were ponies only a few months old that had been born in the spring. She commented on how attractive and healthy they appeared, though she knew virtually nothing about horseflesh. Zack admitted that it was a new field for him, too, but he was determined to learn about this lucrative enterprise.
Camille studied him as he spoke about his future plans for this and every aspect of the plantation. His voice became excited and eager. His face shone with anticipation at the goals he had set for himself, and Camille realized that Zack would always have a new horizon. He was not a man to reach a plateau in his life and stop there. He would look for another challenge. She had gained a new insight into his character.
It came to her quietly then that she loved him.
It was a bittersweet awakening. She longed to reach out and touch him, to share her discovery with him, but of course she couldn’t. Didn’t he feel the power of her love? Didn’t he realize the tumult that was raging inside her? Zack, I love you, she cried silently.
He had taken off his felt cowboy hat, which had replaced the straw one in deference to the season, and his sun-burnished curls stirred in the cool autumn breeze. He was leaning against a fence, one booted foot on the bottom rail, his hands dangling casually over the top one. He was the essence of masculinity. From the first time she had seen him in Utah, Camille had recognized his virility and been intimidated by it. She confessed to herself now that it was Zack’s encompassing appeal that had frightened her. When she ran from him… from his bed… had she realized then that this was a man whom she could love with an all-consuming passion? Had she fled, convincing herself that it was from shame and self-loathing, when actually it had been out of a fear of rejection? She remembered experiencing a rushing feeling of love as he had held her in the stillness of the night. Love? she had asked herself. No! It doesn’t happen this way. But it had. She admitted it now. She had loved him from the first.
Zack turned his head and caught her intense perusal of him. Color flooded her cheeks. Could he read her mind? Did he know how much she loved him?
He brushed a stray curl from her forehead; his fingers seemed to brand her flesh. “I think your plantation is wonderful, Zack. I mean that.”
“I know you do,” he
said seriously. Then in a lighter tone he asked if she were hungry.
“Yes!” she declared. “I’m starved.”
He laughed. “Good, because I’m taking you to a very special place for lunch.”
He ushered her back toward the truck, and, when they left the plantation property, they headed east toward Natchez.
* * *
As they drove through the city, Zack pointed out historic sites to Camille, who tried vainly to absorb them all. He was apparently well acquainted with the history of his hometown for he quoted facts like a professor. There were over two hundred antebellum buildings in Natchez, and each one had its own claim to fame. Such illustrious guests as Henry Clay, Aaron Burr, Lafayette, Andrew and Rachel Jackson, Mark Twain, and Stephen Foster were reputed to have visited with Natchez families and spent time in some of the lovely homes.
The restaurant Zack had chosen for lunch was the Post House in the old King’s Tavern. Zack explained that it was the oldest building in Natchez, built before 1798. Indian runners delivered the first United States mail to the King’s Tavern after the city came under United States jurisdiction that year. The site marked the end of the legendary Natchez Trace, which was a well-marked trail through the wilderness to Nashville, Tennessee. As they went through the doorway of the building, Zack pointed out the bullet holes still in the walls, remnants of an early Indian attack.
The restaurant was low-ceilinged and used pioneer memorabilia for is decor. Camille was enchanted. Not only was she here in this historic spot that had been the site of so many colorful events, but she was sharing it with Zachary Prescott; and if he had been a backwoodsman who had just traversed the treacherous Natchez Trace, he couldn’t have been more intriguing to her.
With her permission he ordered for them. They had steaming bowls of seafood gumbo, baked chicken with cornbread dressing, and a variety of vegetables and relishes.
