Shameless (The Contemporary Collection)

by Blake, Jennifer

  These thoughts rambled across the surface of her mind as she lay in bed in the bright light of morning and watched Reid come toward her with a towel wrapped around his waist and a cup of coffee in each hand. Common sense should have told her to run from him like a rabbit.

  “Cream, no sugar, right?” he said, as he placed her cup on the bedside table. His expression was warm as his gaze rested on the soft skin exposed above the sheet, but his voice held nothing more than polite inquiry.

  He missed little. She had no doubt he was as aware of how uncomfortable she was with him as he was of her coffee habits. She nodded her agreement without quite meeting his eyes.

  He left the room again, returning moments later with a stack of buttered whole wheat toast on a plate. Setting the plate in the middle of the bed, he climbed in beside her and leaned back on the pillows. He crossed his long legs at the ankles and reached for a piece of toast, biting into it with obvious enjoyment.

  As her gaze rested on the contours of his arm with its coating of hair that glinted gold in the morning light, Cammie was reminded of how she had come to be in the bed. He had picked her up from the floor where she had lain half stunned when their loving was done. Placing her on the mattress, he had begun again. It was done without fanfare, without permission, with a kind of insistent beguilement that made protest impossible.

  It wasn't that he was insatiable, but rather that his need was more than surface deep. It was as if he had years of deprivation to make up for. Thinking of it now made her stomach muscles flutter in reaction.

  Was he as amazing as she thought, or had there been more wrong with her marriage than she had guessed? Her limited experience made it impossible to know.

  She reached for her coffee and sipped it. Perfect. She should have known.

  Her voice neutral, she said, “What do we do now?”

  “What would you like?” he asked, his eyes bright blue, the firm curves of his mouth tugging in a wickedly reminiscent grin.

  It was a question she had answered more than once during the night before. She gave him a look of scathing reproach, though she could not prevent the flush that highlighted her cheekbones.

  He tried to look thoughtful, but it wasn't easy with impudence lingering in his eyes. “We could have lunch and dinner in bed, with a snack or two — or something — in between.”

  “You know what I mean!”

  “Yes, but the only answers I have are the ones that interest me,” he said, sobering slightly.

  “We can't stay in bed forever.”

  “There's something radically wrong with the world then.”

  “You would be bored stiff,” she asserted, taking another swallow of her coffee.

  His grin returned. “Lord, I hope so.”

  She choked and coughed to clear her throat before she could speak. “You're impossible!”

  “A little unlikely, maybe, but not impossible.”

  She fell silent. She was trying to face the future, while he was denying it. She had no idea whether his evasion was from a momentary unwillingness to make the effort or because he knew there was nothing ahead for them.

  She hadn't expected promises. She preferred not to think of them.

  He released a long sigh, and tossed what was left of his piece of toast back on the plate. “I would like to take you back to the Fort with me and keep you there. At least you'd be safe.”

  Safety. No other consideration.

  She said, “I doubt Keith will try anything again. All he wanted was to nullify the divorce.” When Reid only watched her, making no comment, she added, “That is what you were talking about?”

  “I think you'll have to explain it to me,” he said, his voice deliberate.

  The whole thing would have been less embarrassing, she thought, if she could have claimed that Keith was inflamed by passion. She gave the simple facts and fell silent.

  “I should have killed him.” The words carried an undertone of suppressed violence.

  The news that Wen had given her, that Reid had beaten up Keith in his office at the mill, flitted through her mind. It must have been true; she had seen the signs the night before in the discoloration around her ex-husband's eye and the way he favored his ribs. She had also seen the ease with which Reid had dealt with him. And Keith's fear.

  “It's a great temptation,” she said with astringency, “but I don't much want it on my conscience.”

  “Then we go on exactly as before.”

  “Is that a suggestion or a question?”

  He gave her a direct look. “Think of it as an attempt to find out what you have in mind.”

  “Nothing,” she said in exasperation. What she had wanted, she well knew, was to know what he intended, what he expected from the future. Whether from caution or cunning, or some male instinct of self-protection, he was not giving that away.

  “Then,” he said with a faint smile, “nothing is what we'll do.”

  It wasn't quite that easy, of course. They read month-old news magazines and ancient National Geographics while shifting back and forth in the bed to use various parts of each other's anatomies for pillows. They listened to a Mozart collection on Cammie's portable CD player. They padded back and forth in the kitchen in their bare feet, getting in each other's way as they made tuna salad and boiled eggs and iced tea for a late lunch. And they made love slowly, then showered, took each other fast and hard, and showered again. Then had a light dinner — consisting of apple pie and ice cream — in bed, food not being a priority.

  It was only as morning came again that the awkwardness between them returned. They remembered they had to be back in town early; both had jobs and obligations. As they finished their breakfast and got dressed, the stilted awareness of their differences grew slowly to elephantine proportions. No amount of humor or common sense could make their association seem normal, much less lasting.

  Reid suggested that he see her back to Evergreen. She agreed, since it was easier. She had no desire to linger at the camp house. There had always been uncomfortable memories there. Now there were too many by far.

  Still, when they reached the big house on the hill, she didn't want him to go. Watching him drive away, she felt deserted and desolate. It was as if he took her security with him.

  The morning advanced. In an effort to distract her thoughts, she put in a call to Fred Mawley. He seemed to take it as a personal compliment and was inclined to chat. It was long moments before she could put the question on her mind to him. No, he hadn't gotten around to revamping her will just yet; he hadn't known she was in any particular hurry — she was a lot younger than most of his clients who troubled to make a formal division of their estates. She knew most women didn't bother, didn't she, especially in Louisiana, where bequests were fairly cut and dried? Yes, he had the joint will he'd drawn up for her and Keith somewhere there on his desk, along with the changes she wanted. He'd get right on it. And how about dinner on Saturday night? They could go to the Tower Club in Monroe. It was quiet, very exclusive. Since he had invested in membership, he needed to show up often to get his money's worth.

  She refused dinner, with all due appreciation. There was, thank goodness, another meeting of the group opposing the mill that night. They were to map out further plans for free publicity for the cause.

  Thinking about the upcoming meeting, Cammie realized she needed to get on with her plans for the day. She was behind on her personal effort to solidify the organization.

  She got out her address book and placed several calls to the state capital, to men and women who might have ideas to offer or an interest in helping. She was proud of the level of interest expressed by various people, from the well-known photographer of Louisiana wildlife to the widow of an oil man from Shreveport, who occupied her time with worthwhile causes. Cammie also got in touch with a longtime friend at the Wildlife and Fisheries Department, inviting him to come and speak to their group on the effects of timber harvesting on the watershed. It didn't take a lot of arm-twistin
g to get an agreement.

  She was less successful when she turned to making local calls to remind people about the meeting or to ask them to join the group. Women she had known for years were extremely rude; one even hung up on her. A man called her several uncomplimentary names, and told her she needed a houseful of kids to keep her busy so she wouldn't meddle where she didn't belong. The last person she spoke to, an elderly friend of Aunt Beck's, told her she was a disgrace to her parents and grandparents.

  Cammie sat for a long time after she replaced the receiver, staring into space with her hand still on the phone. She'd known that some in town were upset with her stand on the mill, but hadn't realized how high feelings were running. The thought of so much ill will directed against her made her feel sick. That friends and neighbors, people she'd known all her life, could turn against her so quickly left her stunned.

  It was hard for her to understand how little the average person cared about the land. They seemed to think nothing could or would change it. A part of that, she thought, was the character of the land itself in Louisiana. It was so rich, so fecund and endlessly replenishing.

  The rains filled the branches and creeks, the rivers and the swamps that were the catch basins for the overflow. Soil that wasn't held in place by terraces or trees and plant roots shifted and moved, but seldom went far since the terrain was too level for it to gain much speed or distance. Heat and rain caused rampant growth; just keeping the roadsides clear was a major headache each year, as saplings and shrubs and tall grasses leaped into view-distorting obstacles at the curves. Tree saplings that seeded in old flower beds around abandoned houses could shoot up almost overnight. If not cut back, they became trees that supported vines, sheltered briers, and gave shade for the fungi and lichen, mold and mildew that destroyed roofs, walls, and foundations. An abandoned house could, in a few short years, be literally pulled down by the weight of the vines, dead leaves, limbs, and the organisms that ate into it.

  The cycles of life and change were constant, and always had been. Most people seemed to think that a little destruction by way of control was a good thing, and a lot of it couldn't hurt much. They were wrong, of course, but there seemed no way to make them see it.

  The phone rang under Cammie's hand. She jumped as if she'd been slapped, then shook her head in irritation.

  “Cammie, is that you? I've been trying to get hold of you for ages. Are you all right?”

  The voice, with the querulous, die-away sound of a personality stunted by being constantly overborne, belonged to her aunt, Sara Taggart, her mother's sister. Cammie answered with as much easy pleasantness as she could manage.

  “Your uncle suggested I should call you, and really, I can't help thinking he's right this time,” her aunt said when the usual commonplaces had been exchanged. “I don't know what to make of it, truly I don't. But I couldn't see keeping it from you, not after everything that's happened.”

  “What is it, Aunt Sara?” Cammie asked. She tried to keep the impatience from her voice but wasn't sure how well she succeeded.

  “It's about this young woman who's turned up missing, the Baylor girl. One of the ladies in our congregation has a brother with cancer. He's been going over to St. Francis Hospital for his radiation treatments. His sister drives him, since his wife has to work—”

  “What about the girl, Aunt Sara?” Cammie said in stringent tones. Her hand, gripping the receiver, had a sudden cramp from the tightness of her hold.

  “I'm getting to it, Cammie. Seems the lady from church saw the young woman get out of her car and into another one driven by a man. She recognized her because she used to live by the family before Janet was married. She swears the vehicle was a Jeep, and the man driving it was Reid Sayers.”

  That someone in Greenley would witness whatever a person might be trying to hide did not surprise her. There was no place within a reasonable driving distance that was safe for any kind of clandestine activity, from making a shady deal to indulging in an afternoon's delight. People from the town were too mobile, too active, and too eternally interested in their friends and neighbors. Someone always saw. Someone always told. Word got around.

  What had Reid been doing? Cammie wondered. Putting the paralegal up at some motel in Monroe? Taking her to meet a bus? Had he driven her far enough away to rent a car to drive out of state? Had he sent her away with enough money to start a new life?

  Or just possibly, her body would turn up somewhere in a year or two in a shallow grave.

  No. Cammie couldn't believe it; she wouldn't think such things.

  “Cammie? You still there, dear? I didn't mean to upset you.”

  “What did you mean to do, then?” She heard the anger in her voice, but couldn't help it.

  “Jack felt you had to know the truth. It wouldn't do, he said, for you to be taken in by this man. I mean, you know what Reid Sayers is — the family he comes from. And he's been gone from here so long, has turned into such an outsider. You hear such odd tales — there's no way of knowing what he might do. You must not forget that.”

  “I doubt that's possible.” Even if she managed it, there would always be somebody to remind her.

  “Maybe I should send your uncle over to talk to you. You know, he's had disappointments and pain himself. His trial by fire in Vietnam, when the Good Lord tested him for the ministry, gave him a special understanding for the troubles that come to us all. He spends long hours, day and night sometimes, giving aid and comfort to people.”

  Cammie had heard about her uncle's call to the Church and his devotion to duty many times. “There's nothing to face, Aunt Sara. I appreciate the information, but you don't need to worry about me.”

  The tone of her voice signaled an end to the conversation. Her aunt accepted it without argument. “Well, then, I won't keep you. You let us hear from you, now, let us know you're all right. And come to see us.”

  Cammie agreed, issuing an invitation of her own that was as empty as the one she had received. Then she hung up.

  The sighting was a mistake, it had to be. Or else a vicious rumor circulated by someone with an overactive imagination. Janet Baylor may have met a man — nothing was more likely — but that didn't mean the man was Reid.

  Anyway, he'd told her point-blank he had nothing to do with Janet's disappearance. Hadn't he?

  She couldn't quite remember his exact words. It was possible he'd only led her to suppose he had no connection.

  No, it couldn't be. He wouldn't do something that underhanded.

  Or would he?

  What did she know about him, really? Going to bed with a man didn't guarantee insight into his character.

  And yet, where else was a person so completely himself. If you couldn't judge someone by the degree of thoughtfulness and tender concern displayed in the act of love, then how was it ever possible to know what he was like inside?

  She was so disturbed that she couldn't concentrate, couldn't settle in to any task. She needed to unpack her overnight bag, but couldn't bring herself to look at the clothes and nightgown she'd scarcely worn. Persephone had made a grocery list, but the last thing Cammie wanted was to go shopping. She thought of driving to the antique shop, but there seemed no point if she was going to be useless when she got there.

  Working among her flowers had a way of calming her. She picked up a pair of well-worn gardening gloves and a set of clippers on her way out of the house.

  She spent an hour or so in the yard, cutting bouquets of azaleas for the house while pruning them at the same time, fertilizing the camellias and pulling winter grass from the annual beds. The day was warm and pleasant. It was time to begin setting out summer bedding plants. She decided to see what the local garden center had available.

  Cammie went inside for her purse. Heading out again, she noticed Reid's robe, which she'd worn home from the Fort days ago. Persephone had laundered it and left it lying on a hall table, ready for her to return to its owner. She could drop it off as she went; it would only be a
little out of her way.

  Reid wasn't at home but should be back in a little while, the housekeeper said. Lizbeth offered coffee and cake, if Cammie cared to wait, but Cammie refused, explaining where she was headed as she passed the robe over.

  “I've been wondering where this thing got off to; it was Mr. Reid's favorite, rag that it is,” Lizbeth said. The tall, brown woman, her hair in a coronet of braids, smoothed the soft flannel with long, graceful fingers.

  “I didn't realize—”

  “Now don't you worry. He knew where to go looking for it, I expect, if he'd wanted it that bad.”

  Cammie could only agree, accepting in resignation that Lizbeth was fully aware of what was going on. She made her excuses and turned to go.

  “About this mill business, Mrs. Hutton…” The housekeeper's voice trailed away, as if she was uncertain of the wisdom of speaking.

  Cammie swung back, searching the other woman's face, which was creased concern. “Yes? What is it?”

  “I've been wishing I could talk to you about it. Mr. Reid is worrying and worrying, trying to do the right thing — which isn't always as easy as some folks make out. His daddy, you know, taught him early to look on all sides of a thing, and he's trying, but he's got this pain inside him, this worry about what's best for folk.”

  “Yes, I know,” Cammie said in encouragement as Lizbeth paused.

  “See, he knows my man Joseph and my oldest two boys depend on wood hauling for a living — they got two pulpwood trucks between them. My youngest, Ty, now, he's making his career in the Air Force, so he's all right. But the others got to cut wood while the sun shines, 'cause it's a real trick to get it out of the woods during the winter when it rains so. The way things stand now, the mill can't always take what they cut during the summer, so it cuts into their pay. Oh, they make enough to live, long as I do my part, but they can't build much of a nest egg to carry over the bad times. The only way they're ever gonna get ahead is if the mill gets bigger, so it uses more wood. They're proud not to be on the welfare; they feel like men. But it's sad not to see much future down the road.”