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Camille shrank from the fierce blue gaze he fixed on her and looked toward the dining room. What was he referring to? She noted that the contract painters were almost finished with one wall of the room.
“They’re painting the wall,” she answered simply. “We decided not to use wallpaper. It was stripped off weeks—”
“I know what they’re doing. I’m well aware of the fact that the wallpaper has been stripped off.” His tone was measured, extremely polite and condescending, much like one would use to speak to an incurable, helpless imbecile. “I’m talking about that ungodly color they’re smearing on my walls!”
Camille had selected the deep, forest green after picking out that color in the dining room’s area rug. The priceless Aubusson rug was an original piece in the house and still retained its beauty. She wanted to keep it in the room but add a touch of modernity to
the decor. The seat cushions of the dining room chairs were being covered with a fabric that blended the dark green with shades of beige and peach. It was a contemporary color scheme, but would harmonize beautifully with the colonial architecture of the house.
She faced Zack and said with as much aplomb as she could muster under his withering stare, “It’s called hunter—”
“I don’t give a damn what it’s called. I hate it. I’ll feel like I’m eating in a bayou. I’ve seen swamp water a prettier shade of green than this!” As he gestured wildly with his hand, he accidentally let go of his hat. It sailed across the room and plopped into an open can of the green paint. He blasted the walls with an expletive that would have made a sailor blush. Camille would have loved to laugh as she watched his hat slowly sink into the paint can, but the furious face he turned back to her froze any humor in her throat before it had a chance to escape.
She swallowed and tried to keep her voice from trembling as she explained. “Zack, it won’t look so dark when the woodwork is painted white. There won’t be any heavy drapes. I’m having a cornice made in the same fabric that will cover the chair seats. Only white shutters will cover the windows. It will be beautiful, I assure you. The green is a very popular, contemporary color.”
“For Christmas Day it’s great. What do we do with it the other three hundred and sixty-four days of the year?”
His sarcasm stung and she realized that by now the painters had put down their brushes and were listening with avid interest to the argument. Simon and Dearly had come out of the kitchen and were standing in the hall, Dearly twisting her hands anxiously. The lady who had been hired to make drapes for the parlor had ceased her measuring and was witnessing the scene. If Zack’s intention was to humiliate her in front of everyone and get it spread all over Natchez that his decorator had appalling taste and didn’t know her own field, he was accomplishing just that. She tried one more time to be reasonable.
“There are any number of ways to decorate around it. In the spring you use bouquets of pastel flowers, in the winter, use white, in the fall, gold and copper mums would be—”
“That is all very interesting, but the bottom line is that I don’t like it. Change it.” With that rude interruption, he turned on the heels of his boots and stalked down the hall.
“I will not!”
The words were out before Camille had time to weigh her angry response. She had tried to be calm, reasonable, and prevent a scene, but he chose to continue with his stubborn dominance. She straightened her spine, and golden sparks flashed out of the eyes that faced Zack defiantly as he turned and looked at her.
His hands clenched at his sides. His jaw worked for several seconds before he said levelly, “May I remind you, Miss Jameson, that I am footing the bills for this restoration. I certainly think that entitles me to an opinion. And, in case you have forgotten, this is my house.”
“That is true, Mr. Prescott, but may I remind you that it was your father, not you, who hired me. It was with his consultation that I chose this color, and, unless he sees fit to change it, it remains the way it is.”
“When hell freezes over, Miss Jameson.”
“So be it, Mr. Prescott.” He took a few striding steps toward her, and she held up her hands as if to halt him. “In deference to your obvious dislike of our choice and your lack of confidence in my abilities and judgment, I’ll concede this: If, after the room is completed and your father agrees with your opinion, then I will change it any way you wish—at my expense.” A heavy expectant silence hung in the air. Zack didn’t speak but only stared at her in a terrifying way. Finally she looked pointedly toward her hired workers, and they immediately scurried back to work. Simon and Dearly wisely retreated.
As she brushed past Zack on her way down the hall, he reached out and grabbed her arm. “You also owe me a new hat,” he growled.
“Go to hell,” she replied sweetly, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She extricated her arm from his grasp and sauntered down the hall.
* * *
It came as a surprise when one day at lunch he asked her to go to the hospital with him that afternoon. Almost two weeks had gone by since the night she had confronted him in Rayburn’s room, two weeks since their argument about Snow Bird and his wounding insults. It was only a few days since they had had their altercation over the dining room. They had not spoken to each other after that, but managed to stay out of the other’s way.
Her face must have registered her surprise for he said quickly, “It wasn’t my idea. Dad asked that you and I come together this afternoon. I’ve no idea why.”
That was all he said as they ate Dearly’s delicious chicken salad in the small breakfast room off the kitchen. When he got up from the table, he asked, “How soon can you be ready?”
“Give me half an hour.”
“Fine,” he replied and left the room.
Tears of frustration and hurt prickled her eyelids, and she brushed them away impatiently before Dearly, who was clearing the table of dishes, could see them. In only a few more weeks the house would be completed, and she would be free to leave Zack forever. She would no longer be subjected to his ridicule and humiliating taunts. Why wasn’t she relieved by that thought? Why, for some reason, did it plunge her into deeper despair?
“When are you leaving for the hospital, Camille?”
Dearly’s question startled Camille out of her reverie. “What? Oh. In about half an hour, I think,” she answered absently.
“Then you’ll be getting there about two o’clock?” Dearly persisted.
