I Know Who Hold Tomorrow

by Francis Ray

  The lavender dress in his hand had rows of lace and net. She grimaced. “No.”

  “What about this one?”

  Madison experienced a flare of irritation. Couldn—t he see she wanted to go home? Since the dress was as unsuitable as its predecessor, Madison finally looked up at him. His strong, patient face said it all. He wasn—t letting her run. She sighed softly. “What would you have done if I said I liked it?”

  “Bought it, put it in the back of the truck and let the wind do the rest,” he said without missing a beat.

  Her lips twitched. “You—re incorrigible.”

  Manda waved her hands as if in agreement.

  Zachary pulled a long face as if hurt. “You women always stick together.”

  “That—s right.” Madison lifted Manda into her arms and touched her cheek to the infant—s. “See that you remember that. Now, let—s find Manda a beautiful dress, then shoes.” Turning on her heels, she ignored Zachary—s tortured groan.

  SIXTEEN

  GORDON COULDN—T FIND MADISON. Tired of listening to the message on her answering machine, he—d driven over to her house. He felt somewhat better when he saw the morning paper still in its plastic bag on the lawn. At least she hadn—t read the underhanded piece.

  It was no secret that Helen wanted Madison—s position. To further that goal she—d used her boyfriend and Louis—s segment to her advantage. His annoyance escalating, he quickly went up the steps and rang the doorbell. He rang it again when there was no answer.

  Staring at the door, he finally decided Madison wasn—t home. She—d mentioned Zachary the other day, perhaps she was with him. Returning to his car, Gordon slammed the door and started the motor. He didn—t have time to look for Madison any longer. He had a speaking engagement in less than an hour.

  Camille Jacobs was probably on the phone to Helen now, trying to get an interview. Unlike the rest of the people at the station, Helen—s report wouldn—t be good, and Camille would use it against Madison. Muckraker!

  That woman got to him and it wasn—t just because she annoyed him. As much as he tried to tell himself differently, it wasn—t working. She was one of the most sensual women he—d ever had the misfortune to meet. She might appear uptight on the surface, but he sensed the passion beneath. Probably a deliberate act on her part. She probably liked confusing a man.

  He wasn—t going to give her that satisfaction. He—d put her out of his mind.

  He had every intention of doing just that until he walked into the monthly meeting of the National Council of Negro Women and saw the person he had been trying so hard to forget. Camille Jacobs.

  Had she conjured him up? Camille stared at Gordon Armstrong as he stared at her. From his frosty glare, she knew he wasn—t pleased to see her. Despite the unexpected pang of hurt she felt, she lifted her head. He wasn—t going to make her feel ashamed for doing her job, but how she wished she hadn—t let her mother talk her into attending one of her meetings to help with refreshments. Maybe it wasn—t too late to—

  “Camille, please come over here. I want you to meet our guest speaker for today, Mr. Armstrong, the producer for The Madison Reed Show.”

  Caught. Camille considered disregarding her mother—s request for all of two seconds, then started toward them. Julia Davis was diminutive in size, but was a terror to those who opposed her. Camille was already skating on thin ice with the formidable lady and she wasn—t about to crash through on something as inconsequential as Gordon Armstrong.

  “Hello, Mr. Armstrong,” she greeted as she stopped in front of him. He wore a sports coat and white shirt. He smelled good and looked better. She was caught between wanting to sniff and bite.

  Her mother—s gaze whipped between the two. “You know each other?”

  “Yes,” Camille supplied, leaving it at that. She could see the speculation in her mother—s eyes, but knew she was too well-mannered to ask. “I was about to check on the refreshments.”

  Julia grabbed her daughter—s forearm before she could make good her escape. “That can wait. Why don—t you introduce Mr. Armstrong around since you two know each other.” It was a command, not a question.

  “I—m sure Mr. Armstrong would prefer someone else.”

  “Oh, Camille,” Julia said, half embarrassed, half exasperated. “Please, tell me you didn—t.”

  “I can—t,” Camille said, glaring at Gordon.

  “I feel like a man who—s come in on the second act of the play,” he said with a slight frown.

  Julia—s smile was apologetic. “I—m sorry, Mr. Armstrong. Please forgive us.”

  Camille—s mouth firmed. “What she means is, forgive me.”

  “Camillc, I think I can speak ior myself,” Julia said, a hint of steel in her voice.

  Even at thirty-four, Camille heeded that tone in her mother—s voice. “Yes, Mother.”

  Satisfied, Julia casually curved her arm around her daughter—s trim waist. “As I said, since you two know each other, why don—t you get Mr. Armstrong some punch, then introduce him to the other members while I make sure everything is ready.” She turned to Gordon. “Thank you again for coming. The program should start shortly.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Davis,” he said. “Julia Davis is your mother?” he asked, once the older woman had walked away.

  “Yes.”

  “Why haven—t I ever seen you with your mother at any of the other functions?”

  “Would you like a glass of punch before we begin the introductions?”

  “I—d rather you answer a question,” he said.

  She sighed. Her mother was well known and respected in social circles. If something needed to be done, a project pushed through the city council or help with funding, they called Julia Davis. While not wealthy, she had the ear and, if needed, the deep pockets of those who were. “I seldom have time. And to answer your next question, I—m a social worker because there—s a need, because I care, and because I—m good at what I do.”

  He didn—t like being that predictable. “Why did it upset you mother that we knew each other?”

  “She worries about me doing home visits, but also about interviewing people she might socialize with.”

  “And her disapproval bothers you?”

  There was no sense denying it. “Yes. Punch?”

  “Then why do it?”

  “Because what I feel doesn—t compare to what a helpless child feels when it—s abused or abandoned.” She turned away. “I see City Council-woman Blair just arrived. Why don—t we go meet her?”

  He waited until she faced him. “Why is your last name different?”

  Her eyebrow lifted. “I don—t think—”

  “Why?”

  Feeling people watching them she said, “Jacobs is my married name.”

  “You—re married?” The question came out as an accusation.

  Heads turned. He asked more questioned than she did. “Divorced,” she explained in rising irritation. He was really beginning to get on her last nerve.

  “I—d like that drink now,” he said casually.

  She clenched her teeth. She—d like to pour the entire punch bowl over his head. If the answer hadn—t mattered, why had he asked? “Of course.”

  Gordon closed his hand around her upper arm as she started to walk away. Softness beneath silk. Her head whipped around, surprise and something else shimmering in the depths of her eyes. “Problem?” he asked casually.

  “No,” she said, but her voice was shaky, her heartbeat unsteady. She quickly looked away.

  Liar, he thought, but hadn—t he been lying to himself since he—d first met her? He—d done his best not to yield to the strange yearning he experienced each time he saw her. She had the power to hurt a good friend. What—s more, he was too old for her. He had recently passed his fifty-seventh birthday.

  He extended his hand to Councilwoman Blair, but his gaze kept going back to Camille. She was giving mixed signals again. The dress stopped at midcalf, but the hot-pink col
or drew him like a magnet. He—d like nothing better than to put his hands at the hem and slide the material up over her long leg and off her body while he feasted on every lush inch of her. Suddenly he realized age or nothing else mattered. He wanted her and there wasn—t a darn thing he could do to stop it.

  A woman could tell when a man was watching her.

  Even though she hadn—t caught him, Camille knew Gordon was watching her and she wished he—d quit. Her mother and a couple of her friends were giving her strange looks. The last thing she needed was for them to begin matchmaking.

  “We—ll finish here, Camille. I—m sure you have something else you—d like to do on a Saturday night,” her mother said, looking pointedly at Gordon.

  Camille could either protest or run. She kissed her mother on the cheek. “Thanks. I do have plans for tonight.”

  Julia frowned at her daughter and Camille barely kept from laughing. That would teach her to play matchmaker, not that Gordon wanted her. He was watching her because he didn—t like her. “I—ll call tomorrow.” Untying her apron, she picked up her purse and almost made it to the door.

  “Leaving?” Gordon asked, coming up beside her.

  “Yes.” Why had her voice become breathless?

  “I—ll walk you to your car,” he said, his hand slipping easily around her upper arm.

  Although her face was the picture of disinterest, her body began to heat. “That won—t be necessary.”

  “I think it is,” he said casually.

  Camille didn—t have to look over her shoulder to know her mother and her two closest friends, all of whom had despaired, plotted, and prayed that she—d get married again, were watching her. “Mr. Arm—”

  “Gordon.”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  He smiled into her disapproving face. “Come on, let—s go outside. If you tell me off in front of your mother, you—ll upset her and you don—t want to do that.” He steered her out the door and toward the parking lot.

  “What I don—t want is to go anyplace with you,” Camille said firmly.

  The smile slid from his face. “We both might wish that were the truth, but it isn—t.”

  “We don—t like each other.”

  “That doesn—t seem to stop us from wanting each other.”

  She waited until the butterfly in her stomach settled. “Do you act on all your impulses?” she countered.

  He hadn—t expected her to admit the attraction between them so readily. Women rarely surprised or intrigued him the way she did. The realization both annoyed and titillated him. “Impulses rarely grow and become sharper.”

  She glanced away. “Seeing each other on a personal level isn—t wise.”

  “Tell me something I don—t know.” He stared at her. “I don—t like it that you might hurt my friend.”

  “I understand. Then we end this before it begins.”

  His other hand came up to draw her closer to him. “I can—t do that.”

  Her breath hitched. “This is a mistake.”

  “I—ve made them before.” His eyes searched hers. “I want to see you tonight.”

  Camille felt her resistance slipping and tried again. “If I have to take Manda from Ms. Reed, you—re not going in like remembering we went tint.”

  He was gentleman enough not to tell her that he planned to do a lot more with her and to her than just take her out. “You aren—t going to do that.”

  Brown eyes went glacial. “You think a date can influence my report?”

  “I—ll let that insult pass,” he said easily. “Where do you live and what lime shall I pick you up?”

  “You must get tired of tripping over all that self-assurance,” she replied flippantly.

  Gordon was unfazed. “Scared?”

  Camille—s chin lifted. “I have plans for tonight,”

  “With whom?”

  “None of your business.” She fished her car keys out of her purse and opened the door. “Good-bye, Mr, Armstrong.”

  His hand closed over hers. “This isn—t over.”

  She felt the heat, the hardness of his body, and was tempted to give in. There was a deep yearning to press closer and see if he could back up the promise in his dark eyes. “It is, for me.” She glanced meaningfully at his hand.

  After a brief moment, he withdrew his hand and stepped back. Getting in her car, she stuck the key in the ignition with a hand that wasn—t quite steady. Looking straight ahead, she pulled off.

  Gordon Armstrong was a complication she couldn—t afford. He was like none of the men she had ever met. He refused to be put off. If he couldn—t get results one way, he tried another. He was tenacious and he made her mouth water. A bad combination for a woman who had finally stopped dreaming of finding the right man.

  Dreams meant hope, and when they shattered, you shattered right along with them.

  Scared, nothing. She was petrified.

  SEVENTEEN

  MANDA ENDED UP WITH seven dresses, three headbands, seven pair of socks, and three pair of shoes. Madison changed her into one of her new dresses in the truck. After putting the headband back on Manda—s head four times and having Manda pull it off just as quickly, Madison gave up. “All right. You win.” She glanced across the seat at Zachary. “Where do you want to go for lunch?”

  “Clint—s Barbecue?”

  Remembering the ice cream incident, Madison glanced down at Manda in her new yellow-and-white sundress with daisy appliques. “At least I won—t have to worry about you getting barbecue sauce all over your new dress.”

  “I wouldn—t be so sure.” Zachary smiled at Manda. “Remember, she likes to eat what you eat.”

  Reaching into the shopping bag, Madison pulled out Manda—s bodysuit she—d worn to the store and ignored Zachary—s laughter. “Better prepared than sorry.”

  After lunch, they went to the zoo. Instead of renting a stroller, they decided Manda would feel better if one or the other held her. They wandered through the bird and small-mammals preserve, but stayed clear of the large animals.

  When they left, Zachary drove them to a toy store for Manda—s swing set. He insisted on taking the deluxe swing set with him. On the way back, he called two of his employees and asked them to meet him at Madison—s house to help set it up. As soon as the last bolt was tightened, he insisted that Madison and Manda have the inaugural swing. Protest was useless.

  Madison sat with Manda in her arms in the two-seated swing as Za-chary gently put it into motion. Manda—s eyes widened, then she squealed with delight. Zachary and the two men watching laughed.

  “Thanks, guys. I owe you one,” he said to the two men gathering up the tools and folding the cardboard box the swing had come in.

  “You certainly helped me put together enough toys for my kids,” James said as he picked up the toolbox.

  “Same here,” Thomas agreed. “See you Monday.”

  “Good-bye, Mrs. Reed,” they said in unison.

  “Thank you, and good-bye,” Madison said as the men departed through the wooden gate on the side of the house.

  Madison stood Manda up. Faces inches apart from each other, the baby squealed with delight, then began to bounce up and down on her sturdy legs while waving her hands. Madison wore a wide smile on her face.

  “I wish I had a camera,” he said.

  “Don—t you dare,” Madison admonished, her eyes twinkling. “Manda—s hands and the wind have done a number on my hair.”

  “Just makes you look more beautiful.” Zachary told her. The words were barely out before he wished he could recall them, especially when Madison—s smile faded and she looked away without saying anything. He tried to think of a way to get the conversation started again and came up with nothing. Frustrated, he pushed the swing and cursed his own stupidity.

  “I—m sorry if I embarrassed you earlier,” Zachary said later when they were inside the house. Madison had been quiet since they—d come in a couple of hours ago. The only time she—d spoken was an hour earl
ier when Gordon called to check on her. She had assured him that the newspaper article hadn—t upset her. Zachary just wished he didn—t have the nagging feeling that his clumsy words had. “Madison?”

  Madison finally glanced up from the small washcloth she had been folding. “You didn—t embarrass me.” She sighed and laid the folded cloth on top of the other towels. “The way I look didn—t stop Wes from cheating on me, did it?”

  “Don—t do this to yourself, Madison,” Zachary told her.

  “Do you think I like doing this, thinking there was some flaw, some inadequacy in me?” With a lost look in her eyes, she made a motion as if to stand.

  He caught her wrist. “The Haw was in Wes, not in you.”

  “I can finish this. You should go home.”

  She was shutting him out again. There was no way he was going to let that happen. Moving the folded laundry to the other side, he gently placed his hands on her arms and turned her toward him.

  “Wes didn—t leave you an outlet for your anger. He—s not here for you to yell at, to tell him to pack his suitcase and get out of your life. Instead, he—s dead and you feel guilty that you—re angry at a dead man, a man who should have cherished you, loved you. Perhaps he did, hut he also had a child by another woman.”

  Her face filled with anguish, she tried to pull away. “Please go. I don—t want to listen to any more.”

  His hands tightened. “Then yell, hit, tell me off, stop holding it in.”

  “No,” she choked out. The words she was thinking were too horrible to say; she felt disgust with herself just for thinking them.

  “Maybe you—re not the woman I thought,” he told her bluntly, his face taut.

  Her head snapped up. Her eyes went from hurt to rage in a heartbeat. Zachary—s words were too close to the ones she had been thinking. She hadn—t been woman enough to keep her husband faithful.

  Zachary never saw the slap coming but if he had he wouldn—t have tried to avoid it.

  Horror washed across her face. Wrapping her arms around her waist, she rocked forward. “Please. Just go,”