by Linda Joyce
With anger simmering below the surface, frustration overflowing, her eyes watered. She sniffed deeply, then doubled her resolve. Annoyed was the only reaction she’d allow to his interference. At some point, her continued rejection of him would penetrate his ego, right? Then he would pursue someone else. Someone not in her family. Hopefully, that would happen sooner than later.
“Enjoy the flowers, Sadie. I’m off to my first class. It’s going to be a great day.” Turning from the two doubting faces, she stepped toward her office for her tote bag. The door clicked locked when she pulled it closed. “James, my offer for lunch is still open. Let me know.”
Pushing open the glass office door, she crossed the threshold and strode down the hall. Her short-heeled sandals tip-tapped, tip-tapped as she strode purposefully down the hall. Meandering students cleared a path. She ignored the bashful glances and the occasional stares.
“If Steven thinks he can needle his way back into my life, he needs medication. The strong stuff,” she muttered as she trekked. “Who does he think he is?”
But she knew. Steven Sterling was everyone’s darling in Mississippi. He came from a family with old money and an antebellum home, plus all the bucks in the world to keep the place as a private residence. Unlike Fleur de Lis which, though still a private home, offered access to the public as a way to offset upkeep expenses. Strangers often roamed the property. They liked to escape from the tours. Once she found someone in the restroom upstairs, an area marked off-limits with a sign and velvet rope.
But not so at Steven’s family’s home. First rate antiques and accessories her family would never own. The Sterlings kept three housekeepers on staff. Not to mention the gardeners and a cook.
Steven’s parents and grandparents had spoiled him. He was too charming for his own good. He had a respected legal practice. As far as she knew, he conducted his business ethically. But that ego of his—as wide as the endless horizon of the Gulf of Mexico. Steven once bragged there were two types of attorneys. Ones who got ulcers from trying to do the right thing. The second kind, like him, were tigers with the killing instinct and went into law to stay out of jail.
Well, there was no law that prevented a man from sleeping with other women while engaged, however, his cheating certainly killed their engagement. She’d never ever trust him again. There were many reasons she’d remained silent about his misdeed, including her inability to withstand “poor Branna” sympathy everyone would heap on her. Better for everyone to think she broke the engagement because of cold feet. She didn’t want her family on the pity train—the truth of Steven and Camilla’s fling would energize the gossip loops for months.
However, she was done with hiding, trying to make nice, and trying to protect everyone else. Steven’s long-arm-of-the-law created a problem that required a head-on approach. Months of avoiding him, then moving several states away hadn’t guaranteed a private life. Still he insisted on inserting himself into her world. But why?
With Sadie’s affinity for gossip, she expected news about her and Steven would spread like sand in a windstorm across campus.
She also expected Sadie to judge, but James? His scornful look hurt. She couldn’t deny that, but she’d done nothing wrong. She wouldn’t defend herself when no crime had been committed. If James Newbern thought he would have another pigeonhole to stick her in, he was flat wrong. She absolutely was not the type to lie about relationships. She didn’t lie. Period.
Fully charged with determination, she reached the classroom and a cacophony of chatter. She flipped on the overhead florescent lights, marched to her desk, and dumped her tote. Grabbing a black marker, she scrawled her name in big letters on the white board along with the name of the course. She drew in a quick breath, then blew it out before turning to face her class.
Mingling students migrated to their seats. Chatter quieted. Her heartbeat thudded double time to the clicks from the second hand on clock hanging on the back wall.
“Welcome to Interpersonal Communications. I’m Miss Lind.” She scanned the room. Chairs were set up eight across and five deep, yet she only had twenty-five students. The front row was bare, though she spotted a few eager beavers in the second row, textbooks and notebooks open, with pens in hands ready to begin.
“Good morning. Welcome. Education is the best way for you to invest in yourselves. You pay to sit here, so you can sit where you want. If you want to get the most for your money, move down front and participate.” A handful of brave souls rose from their seats and parked themselves in the front row.
“I’m making a seating chart. For the next two weeks, please sit in that same seat. After that, you can test me. If I’ve got your names down cold, feel free to move about the cabin. Going across the front row, give me your name. Let’s start with you.”
“Me?” The young man in the AC/DC t-shirt looked behind him.
Branna nodded and tapped the end of her pen against the paper to urge him along.
“Chuck Lyons.”
“Thank you, Chuck. Next.”
She completed the seating chart, then handed out the syllabus. She kept the banter light as she moved into lecture mode. Noting items of importance from the textbook, she watched students take the hint. Her first lecture as a fulltime college instructor filled her with a new sense of confidence.
Before the class ended, she went to the board and wrote “pan” in large letters. “Class, we use words to communicate, but words can cause communication failures. By a show of hands, how many think this word means something you put butter on in the morning after you’ve toasted it?” She counted the three raised hands. “Okay, a few. Now, how many of you might do this to find gold in Alaska?” More hands shot up.
“Most of you. Now for your homework for Wednesday—” Groans rose from the class and harmonized. She hid her grin.
“The three that think ‘pan’ is for toasting, stand up and count off.”
Once the task was completed, the three students glanced at one another and shrugged.
“You three are group leaders.” She pointed to each one. “The rest of you count off 1-2-3. Then, get together in your respective groups. Communicate, so that all of you are clear about the different definitions of p-a-n. Then, come up with ten other words that have different meanings—using ‘pan’ as an example. And, read chapter one for tomorrow.”
Pride in a job well done brought a smile to her lips. Solid communication had to be the cornerstone of any relationship, including hers with her students. Giddy didn’t begin to describe the joy running through her.
As she gathered her things and followed the last student out of the room, she reached to turn off the lights. James waited in the hall. Arms crossed on his chest, he leaned back with one knee bent and his foot braced against the wall. His expression had changed from the one he’d had earlier, now he wore a humbled grin. A misbehaving lock of dark hair fell over his forehead. She stopped herself from touching it, him. He made her heart beat quicker.
“Miss Lind, I apologize for jumping to conclusions earlier. If the offer’s still open, I’ll meet you back at the office at noon for lunch.”
An apology? James couldn’t be more different from Steven. “Sure, I’ll see you at lunch.”
She could understand how James might be curious about her version of the facts differing from what Sadie offered. Lunch would provide an opportunity to work on her own interpersonal communication skills. Besides, she wanted to know about the phone call that morning that appeared to cause him so much pain. And why did he keep a silver rattle on his desk?
Chapter 20
James grabbed the phone on the first ring. “Hello.”
“JD, I need your help. You available to make a run with me on Friday? Keith’s gone again. Chasing some tail or drink’n himself to hell.”
James listened to Bobby Parker, his friend since forever, plead his case. Bobby was the only person he allowed to use his childhood nickname.
“What do you have in mind?”
&
nbsp; “It’s a straight run down and back.”
“What do I get out this?”
“Man, I helped you drag that four-hundred pound safe into your house yesterday, when you couldn’t find anyone else strong enough to lift it.”
He imagined Bobby, on the other end of the phone, flexing his muscles to prove his point.
“Your prize—you get my company for almost twenty hours,” Bobby said.
“Not good enough.”
“I can’t pay you until the end of the summer.”
“Yeah, well, last time you cheated me out of my pay. I’ve got a different proposition for you.”
“Shit, Professor, when you use them big words, I know I’m gonna be had.”
“Yeah, right.” He chuckled.
Bobby liked the world to think he was a poor Florida Cracker with barely two nickels to rub together. In truth, he had graduated with honors with a degree in agriculture from Florida’s Land-Grant College. He owned several hundred acres and leased even more for growing hay.
He and his father ran a small crew to harvest crops, however, hay required cutting, fluffing, and bailing every six weeks from spring to late fall. Bobby rotated his stockpile and trucked dry hay once a month to the Florida Keys, where a feed store on stilts that had survived every hurricane since 1900 bought all the Parkers’ hay.
“How about a trade?”
“Trade what?” Bobby’s voice carried suspicion. “Last time you twisted my arm, you had me planting impatiens and sea grass for half a mile at your Momma’s.”
So Bobby hadn’t forgotten their agreement from last fall. He imagined wheels turning in Bobby’s head, trying to figure any angle to get out of the deal.
“I prepared you for what comes next. The outside painting is done, as is the landscaping. You never showed up to help. Now, I need a barbeque pit.”
“Shit, JD. I’m not a cook. I am a Cracker. Or have you forgotten that since you moved up in the world? My idea of a barbeque pit is a hole in the ground lined with rocks.”
“Your elbow grease works fine in the city.”
“You mean slave labor, don’t ya?”
“Do we have a deal or not? I can meet you at the interstate rest stop at five a.m.” He waited. He’d give Bobby’s a few minutes of silence to do his thinking. Let him stew and make up his mind, then Bobby couldn’t claim coercion. Or if he did, it wouldn’t matter. “Call me back if you need more time to decide.”
“Naw. I’ll do it. Some friend you are, never invite me over to your new mansion unless you need a favor.”
“Stop whining. We’ll go south on Friday. No partying this time. Then you spend Sunday indentured to me.”
“Okay, but Charlene wants us to go out next Saturday night. You been nice to any ladies lately? One that might wanna go dancing with you?”
“You tell your bride that I’ll call her. If I don’t have a date of my choosing a few days in advance, I’ll let her set me up. Again. God help me.”
After the last disaster, he swore he’d never ever agree to another blind date. Charlene meant well, but she didn’t understand that when he said he wanted to discuss books with a woman, he hadn’t meant cookbooks. He hoped Branna would not demur.
“You outta thank my wife for caring enough about your sorry ass to try to find you a girlfriend.”
“I appreciate her efforts. I’ll buy her flowers or something.”
Charlene had always set him up with good-looking women. And she tried for substance to go along with the outer package, but he’d decided that the women Charlene knew fell into only two types. The obvious ones on the troll for marriage, or the secretly manipulative ones hoping to hook a husband. Either way, those women reminded him too much of Caroline.
“See you this Friday before dawn.”
He hung up the phone. Would Branna have an interest in experiencing more local color Saturday night? She and Charlene might not have much in common, but Charlene had never met a stranger. She made friends like bunnies reproduced. And she was the most loyal, faithful woman he’d ever known.
But maybe Bobby hadn’t snagged the last good one.
Maybe.
Chapter 21
Pine-bark mulch crunched beneath Branna’s shoes as she picked her way beside James. They headed to the Eatery in the Student Union. Her sandals were not a good choice for walking on the uneven surface.
“Let’s slow down,” James said.
“No need. I can keep up.” She stepped carefully, looking down to watch where she placed her feet. The last thing she needed was to fall face first. With her luck, if she fell, some student would capture it on video with their phone, and she’d make a splash on evening news. Or even worse, on YouTube. The only alternate way to the Union was the long continuous sidewalk connecting each building on campus, however, that would make the trip longer. By then she’d be completely melted from the rising humidity. She refocused her attention on the information James was dispensing.
“The student’s Halloween Ball is our most popular and well-attended event. We banned cellophane as a costume a few years ago. Students from the golf course program—big city, south Florida types rather than local ones—had the idea to use cellophane as a costume.”
“Cellophane?” He had to be kidding, right? She patted the moisture on her forehead. Though pine branches shaded the path and protected her from the hot noontime sun, the humidity made her wish for an old-fashioned lace hankie. That would look far more feminine than wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. Air conditioning couldn’t be reached fast enough. The thought of cellophane against her body made her shudder. Was she sweating more?
“Hard to believe.” James held the door open to the Student Union for her. A blast of cool air brought her temperature down a notch.
“In this swamp? At least in Bayou Petite, evening breezes coming up from the Gulf cool things down.”
They stepped to the end of the food line and waited their turn to order. The aromas of fried chicken, sizzling burgers and hot grease made her stomach rumble.
In front of them, a female student turned to James. “Dr. Newbern, I heard you’re going to take over as faculty consultant to the student newspaper.”
“Not exactly. I’ve volunteered to assist Ms. Moore with production—layout and design—if she needs it. Reporting assignments will remain between her and the new student Editor.”
“I’m thinking about joining the staff in the fall. I was hoping I would be able to—” the girl flashed a coy grin, “learn from you.”
“Working on the paper is a great experience-building opportunity. I’m sure Ms. Moore would love to have an interested and dedicated student like you, Beth. Have you met Ms. Lind? She’s teaching Interpersonal Communications this summer.”
Beth’s composure shift from demure to annoyed as she adjusted her books in her arms.
“Hi, Ms. Lind. I took that class last semester. I have only one more semester after the summer and I’m done.” The young blonde looked more like a junior high girl with her plaid shorts and pink polo shirt than a young woman headed for her junior year in college.
“It’s nice to meet you, Beth.” Student-teacher relations were a serious matter, and she watched the changing expressions on Beth’s face with curiosity. The young woman’s behavior bordered on inappropriate as she tried flirting with Dr. Newbern. It was painful to watch.
“What are your plans after graduation?” Branna asked. She hoped her insertion would distract the student.
“Next!” the counter help barked at Beth.
Beth gave a weak shoulder shrug, then turned to face the counter and give her order. Afterwards she said, “See ya later, Dr. Newbern.”
Branna grabbed a tray and handed it to James before pulling one from the pile for herself. She gave her order to the woman behind the counter before the woman barked, “next” to avoid the annoyance.
“Adoring co-eds must be an ego boost. Benefit of a small town campus?” she muttered, fully expecting J
ames to hear.
“I heard that. I’m not that type. Nor is anyone on this faculty that I know of. There are rules, and then there are laws. This institution upholds both. “
“Have you seen someone for your affliction?”
“What affliction?”
“Typing.”
“Like on a keyboard?”
She counted to ten. “Is everyone a type to you? Is each person you meet stuffed into a cubbyhole with a label for future reference? You just described yourself as not being ‘that type.’ For the record, I’m more than a type. More than some label you want to pin on me.”
The food-service worker gave her a curious glance when handing over her plate. Branna set it on the tray next to her drink, shrugged, then paid the cashier and headed for the dining area already crowded with students and other faculty members.
In the far corner, she spied an empty table. She made her way through the maze and sat. When James arrived, a table of co-eds erupted into giggles. They whispered and cast glances in his direction.
“You asked me to join you for lunch, not psychoanalysis, Branna. I’m not willing to discuss your theory here. Let’s find something else to talk about for now.”
“Like the giggling co-eds eyeing you?” She smiled brightly at the girls sneaking glances.
“No.”
“Like the silver baby rattle on your desk?”
He straightened in his chair. Had she hit a nerve?
“No.”
“Then, what would you like to talk about?”
“Do you want to meet some friends of mine for a beer next Saturday night?”
“Is it a date?”
“Just a night out with friends.”
“Not a date? Then exactly what type of evening are you talking about?”
He clearly ignored her dig. His eyes twinkled, though he tried to hide a grin. “I guess you’ll just have to come along and find out.”
Chapter 22
Branna jerked back the shower curtain and yanked a bath towel off the shelf. Last night, she’d fallen asleep before setting the alarm. She hated being late for anything; it was a sign of disrespect.