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“Very kind of you, Camille, but I, too, will trust your judgment. I gave you my opinion on what I don’t want the house to look like. Dad guarantees that you like simplicity in design. I’ll leave the redecorating to the two of you and let the outcome be a surprise to me.”
He was certainly in an amiable mood. She had expected him to be sarcastic and rude, especially after the scene in her room this morning. This Zack was more like the charmer who had first wooed her in Snow Bird. He was even more dangerous this way. She needed to be on her guard.
Over dinner, Rayburn urged his son to tell Camille about their plantation. She was impressed with the facts she finally coaxed out of a reticent Zack. He seemed almost embarrassed by the amount of property he owned and controlled and the amount of revenue it made him each year. Their main crop, of course, was cotton, but they also grew smaller quantities of other crops and even bred a few horses, an occupation that Zack wanted to develop more.
“Natchez has such a colorful history,” Camille commented at a pause in the conversation. “I’ve always enjoyed reading books about it.”
“It’s interesting that most of the founding fathers chose to live on the high bluffs overlooking the Mississippi River and have their plantations on the other side in Louisiana. I guess they might have been the first Americans to commute to work.” Zack smiled and his whole face lit up, the candles on the table reflected in the azure depths of his eyes. Camille was happy and at ease for the first time since her arrival.
“Some day soon, before the weather prevents an outing, I want you to take Camille over to the plantation and give her the deluxe tour,” Rayburn said.
Camille met Zack’s eyes across the table and her heart lurched at the idea of spending a day alone with him. His eyes dared her to look away from him as he held his stare, which carried a world of meaning for them. “I’d like to do that,” he agreed as he pushed away from the table. “Right now, however, you’ll have to excuse me. I have a date tonight.”
His offhand, casual announcement hit Camille like a thunderbolt and she was immediately angry with herself for her reaction. So what if he was meeting a woman for the evening? It didn’t matter to her in the least. Why then did the light mood of just moments ago fade as he said good night first to his father and then to her and with quick, light steps leave the room? His final glance at her had been mocking and arrogant, and her self-directed anger was transferred to him. She would show him that she couldn’t care less if he had a dozen dates a night!
She agreed to a bridge game. Rayburn acted as her partner playing opposite the team of Simon and Dearly. She bantered with them and, on the outside, gave every impression of enjoying herself. On the inside, she was miserable, wondering who held Zack’s attention for the long evening.
* * *
The days passed swiftly. Rayburn and Camille, after about a week of decision making, had chosen all the decorating materials that needed to be ordered. Camille made the telephone call to her assistant in Atlanta and meticulously went over the order with her employee, who would do the actual ordering. Camille urged her to call if anything wasn’t available or if there was any trouble at all over the order, then asked to speak to her mother. They talked a short while, Camille assuring her only parent that she was well and that the Prescotts were charming. The older one anyway, she added under her breath.
She rarely saw Zack during the daytime. He left for the plantation early and returned just before dinner. Many nights he was absent from the evening meal and Rayburn would comment that he had made other plans. His absence was sorely felt, for as much as Camille hated to admit it, he was the center of her thoughts these days, and she enjoyed having him across the table from her in the evenings. Even though he sometimes spoke in suggestive, reminiscent double entendres that only she understood, she liked his company. His arrogance and sarcasm hurt her deeply, but she favored suffering them over not seeing him at all.
He never mentioned the woman he dated, and Camille would never have learned about her except for Rayburn’s referring to “the widow Hazelett.” Camille tried to continue her dinner calmly when he made his first reference to Zack’s female interest on a night when Zack was out.
“The widow Hazelett?” asked Camille with affected disinterest.
“Yes. Zack sees her often, though I heartily disapprove of the woman. She’s… artificial, phony. Every time she’s around Zack she watches over him like a mother bear with her cub, almost daring anyone else to come near him. She has newfangled ideas about raising children, too. She has two of her own. They’re cute kids, polite and smart. But she hustles them off to boarding school every fall and then fills their summers with camp and trips to their grandparents. I hope Zack has more sense than to link up with the likes of her.”
Camille smiled to herself although she kept a straight face for Rayburn’s benefit. At least she had some idea of the company Zack was keeping, and his father didn’t approve of the woman. That was one thing in Camille’s favor.
Suddenly she drew herself upright. What did she care abut Zack’s love life? She didn’t want him, that was for sure! What kind of man would seduce an innocent girl and then feel no guilt or remorse for having stolen from her what didn’t belong to him unless he was her husband? No! She didn’t want a man like Zachary Prescott.
She almost convinced herself.
* * *
With the help of the local Yellow Pages, Camille began consulting with carpenters, painters, paperhangers, furniture upholsterers and refinishers, and seamstresses. The name Prescott was well known, as was Bridal Wreath. She was glad to learn that she would have no trouble finding artisans to help with the restoration of the house.
The days fell into a comfortable unhurried routine. Camille began to notice that the fall season was upon them. The seasonal flowers on the terrace had ceased their profuse blooming except for the chrysanthemums, which provided Bridal Wreath with a rainbow of autumn colors.
One morning the low clouds that had shrouded the landscape for several days opened up, and it began to rain. Simon called Camille’s room to tell her that Rayburn wouldn’t be down for breakfast and that she was to take the day off. He told her that the old gentleman had decided to spend the day in his room going over the plantation’s accounting books. Camille knew that Zack handled all of the business for their farm, but she was warmed by the fact that he still made his father feel important enough to have access to the ledgers.
She decide
d, as she dressed in a pair of comfortable jeans and a dark gingham shirt, that she would spend this rainy day going through the attic. She had wanted to investigate what treasures it might hold ever since Rayburn mentioned it to her.
As she stared out across the torrential rainfall making a lake out of the terrace, she realized with dismay that she didn’t have an umbrella. She went into the bathroom and draped a thick terry towel over her head. She had pulled her hair back into a ponytail and secured it with a large barrette.
She stepped hesitantly onto the covered porch of the dowager house, took a long breath, ducked her head, and ran pell-mell across the slippery terrace.
She collided with a tall, broad barrier of muscle and recognized Zack’s low, deep laugh as his arm went around her waist.
“Hey, watch out or you’ll fall down. Under here.” She peered at him from under the towel and saw that he was holding a huge umbrella over them both. With his arm still supporting her, they maneuvered their way around rapidly forming puddles to the back door of the house.
When they entered, Zack shook out the umbrella and leaned it against the wall, running his fingers through dampened sun-streaked hair. “Boy, what a downpour. Simon realized that you had no umbrella, so I was on my way to fetch you. You should have waited for me.” His smile was bright and Camille’s heart hadn’t stopped pounding from the close contact she had just had with his vibrant body. His jeans were old, comfortable-looking, and tight, hugging his hips as he swaggered through the doorway leading into the kitchen.
“Come on. The biscuits are in the oven. How do you like your eggs?”
