Shameless (The Contemporary Collection)

by Blake, Jennifer

  Abandoning that touchy subject for another, she said, “Why did you come tonight? I mean really.”

  He looked at the glass of bourbon and soda in his hand as if he had just discovered it. “It seemed as good a way as any to spend a weekend.”

  “I still don't understand how you managed an invitation.”

  “Contacts.”

  That much seemed to be true. She had seen him nodding across the room to one of the female liaison officers from the French embassy, another acquaintance, no doubt, from his Washington days. And Senator Grafton from their district, an influential man on Capitol Hill, had waylaid Reid when he went to freshen their drinks, keeping him in close conversation for a good fifteen minutes.

  The implication that he had shown up in New Orleans to be with her was flattering, of course. It also made her nervous. Did he expect to continue with the arrangement of the night before? Did she want it herself, after all?

  “I don't think you said where you're staying.” She hadn't thought to ask, either. She had been so astounded by the way he had turned up, and that he had known where to find her, that she'd gone with him to the party as docilely as a lamb to the slaughter.

  “Windsor Court,” he answered with quiet humor in his eyes. “I didn't, you see, take my welcome for granted.”

  Her smile in return was perfunctory. Sex without strings, without expectations, between two virtual strangers. That was what she had offered, and what he had accepted.

  There was a deep-down eroticism in the idea, especially when the man was as attractive as Reid Sayers. She had never in her life been so aware of herself as a woman. The heat of his gaze, now and then, when he forgot to guard it, was like a caress. She had seen him inhale deeply as he stood near her, then smile as if he enjoyed the fragrance of her gardenia perfume, and her. She could feel her body tightening in places, softening in others under the silk of her dress when he brushed against her. It was, in its way, frightening. But exciting, also. And tempting.

  Still, she was not sure a relationship would work beyond their one stupendous night. There were too many pitfalls, too many unknowns, too many differences between them. There were too many people involved, and not enough privacy.

  She had no doubt whatever the news of the two of them spending the weekend in New Orleans was already circulating back in Greenley. She could just hear the telephones ringing, see the carts pushed close together at the grocery store. The rich imaginations of those who were dependent on prime-time television for excitement had few bounds. The gossips probably had them naked in bed in some hotel suite at that instant, sipping champagne and doing wicked and lascivious things with what was left in the bottle.

  “What are you thinking about?” Reid asked, sounding intrigued as he surveyed her flushed face.

  She turned a wide, considering gaze on him. Her voice husky, she said, “Human nature.”

  The evening advanced. Cammie's feet, in black silk shoes that matched her dress, began to protest against so much standing. Her smile felt strained. The female liaison officer, ultrachic in a YSL dress of yellow silk cut several inches above her shapely knees, had taken Reid away to introduce him to friends. The two of them had wound up in a corner talking and laughing in such quiet voices that Reid apparently had to bend his head within inches of the woman's lips to hear her.

  The Frenchwoman wasn't the only female in the room who had noticed him. There was a pair of young schoolteachers who had paraded past him with over-bright smiles at least three times. A woman in red with a cloud of hair dyed an unlikely shade of midnight-black was eyeing him with hunger in her face. And a red-haired female in a dress covered with glittering aqua beads was sending him sultry signals over the shoulder of her balding husband.

  It was funny, in its way. It might have been more entertaining to Cammie had she not been certain that Reid missed nothing of what was happening. It was possible that there was such a thing as being too alert.

  It was time to go.

  There were couples she had seen, most of them long married, who could communicate with a glance across a room, letting each other know infallibly when they had had enough. Such a convenient method was unlikely to suffice with her and Reid, but she was willing to give it a try. She turned her gaze in his direction.

  Reid looked up, glancing toward her with a smile and an almost imperceptible nod. She felt a small catch in her breathing.

  At the moment, there was a light touch on her elbow. “Mrs. Hutton, I've been anxious to have a word with you all evening, but you've been surrounded every time I looked your way. Could I persuade you to give me a moment now?”

  Cammie swung to see Senator Grafton beside her. Tall and a little stooped, he had the long face, the lank hair, and melancholy air shown in the later portraits of Jefferson Davis. He was, in fact, distantly related to the former Confederate president, a fact he downplayed with considerable skill, since he was a Democrat dependent on the black vote. She gave him her hand and a pleasant greeting, then stood waiting to discover what he wanted of her. It wasn't long in coming.

  “As a prominent member of the younger set in Greenley, I'm well-aware of the influence you have there,” the senator began with a somber smile. “I wanted to ask your support in pushing through this arrangement with the paper mill. The Swedish conglomerate is anxious to get into the American market, but they don't want a lot of trouble. I know the old guard in town is fairly nonprogressive and may move to try to prevent the sale, but I'm sure you'll agree that the prospect of two thousand new jobs outweighs tradition by a considerable margin.”

  Cammie stared at him. “You mean — are you saying there's a Swedish company negotiating to buy the mill?”

  “You didn't know? I assumed, since you were with Sayers—” The senator hesitated, plainly uneasy with his mistake.

  “No, I didn't,” Cammie said candidly, “and I'm not sure I like the idea, not if there's going to be an expansion of any size.”

  “The benefits for the area will be enormous. I'm speaking of the financial aspect, of course.”

  Cammie's father had been a conservationist of sorts. She was no stranger to discussion about industrial land use versus ecological needs. Her own affection for the woodlands around Evergreen had sharpened her interest in the problems. She tilted her head, her hazel eyes sober, as she said, “But the mill, running at its present capacity, maintains a good balance with the surrounding timberland and watershed. What will happen if the capacity is increased?”

  Senator Grafton touched the knot of his tie, an expression of acute discomfort on his thin face. “I'm afraid that's not my department, but I feel sure every effort will be made to satisfy regulations.”

  “Regulations are fine, but they don't always control the quality of the water people drink and the air they breathe. Then there's the wildlife. Two thousand new jobs would, I think, mean almost double the present production. That will call for twice the number of trees being cut, twice the wildlife habitat being cleared. Have there been any plans drawn up to show the effects of that kind of harvesting?”

  “I'm sure I couldn't say. My part, as you must know, is to persuade industry, foreign or domestic, to move into the state of Louisiana to increase revenues and improve the quality of life for people.” The senator, catching sight of Reid moving to join them, saw his way out. In sonorous tones he finished, “People, that's my concern, first and always. For the rest of it, I suggest you talk to Sayers here. As the man who holds the major interest in the mill, he's the one who will have to make the final decision.”

  The senator divided a stiff nod between the two of them, then moved off toward an aide who waited for him. Reid watched him with a considering look in his eyes before he turned back to Cammie.

  “I suppose you can guess what that was about,” she said.

  “I'm afraid so.”

  Her voice low, yet shaded with anger, she said, “Why didn't you tell me?”

  It was a long moment before Reid answered. “I had other
things on my mind. Besides, there isn't a lot to tell at this point. I'll be glad to go into it as much as you like, but not here. Maybe over dinner?”

  A restaurant, she thought, would be neutral ground, and as such, much better than her borrowed apartment. To be alone with him did not seem like a good idea at the moment. She said simply, “Where?”

  He pushed back his sleeve to glance at the flat gold watch on his wrist. “We have reservations at Louis Sixteen, just about now.”

  The Louis XVI, somber and elegant in red and gold, was one of the city's many bastions of French Continental cuisine. Their waiter belonged to that professional, definitely nonservile, tradition found in only two places on the North American continent, New York and New Orleans. Cammie appreciated the thought Reid had obviously given to the evening. She also enjoyed, in a distracted fashion, the various courses of the superb meal as it was put before them. Regardless, her greatest concern was the paper mill.

  What Reid had said was apparently the simple truth: nothing had been finalized about the sale. Representatives from the Swedish conglomerate had toured the mill as observers and had driven through the countryside looking at the reserves of timber acreage that were owned outright by Sayers-Hutton Bag and Paper, plus the vastly greater holdings held on ninety-nine-year leases. They had made arrangements for an independent accounting firm to check the financial operation, and a date had been set for that in two weeks. However, no formal offer had been tendered and no firm commitment made by either side.

  Cammie listened to Reid's version of the events, concentrating not just on what he said, but the sound of his voice as he spoke. When he was finished, she sat back in her chair. Quietly she said, “This is why you came home, isn't it? To sell the mill.”

  “I came home because my dad called and asked me to come, period. He had his massive heart attack the same night, and I have to wonder if worry about the sale didn't contribute to it. I won't say that the prospect isn't appealing, however, because it is. You must know that.”

  Yes, she knew. She also knew that he could have mentioned the possibility of the sale when they had spoken about his taking over active management of the mill. He hadn't. Why? Was it because he wanted to keep it quiet until the business was completed, so that there could be no opposition? Or was it only that he had considered the sale his private business?

  To be perfectly fair, the whole thing was none of her concern. Other than the interest controlled by Keith and his brother Gordon, the mill belonged to Reid. He could dispose of it as he saw fit. He had no real obligation to discuss it with her even as much as he had this evening. Regardless, there were larger issues at stake, other lives and livelihoods involved.

  Placing her fingers on her wineglass, twisting it and watching the candle on their table make golden gleams in its depths, she said, “Have you thought at all about how this will effect Greenley and the rest of the parish?”

  “I've thought of little else,” he answered at once. “Greenley is a dying town — or haven't you noticed? Half the shops along main street have closed. Two out of three of the local car dealerships have folded. There used to be three movie houses, seven or eight cafés, three or four barbershops. Now there are none. Where have they all gone?”

  Cammie made a small shrugging movement of her shoulders. “A lot of places closed after Wal-Mart opened — the five-and-dime, the dollar store, some of the department stores — but Wal-Mart hires twice as many people as the combined payrolls of the stores that went out of business. The cafés closed when the fast food places came in, the barbershops turned into hairdressers catering to both sexes. Other than that, the problem seems to be that people are more mobile these days, they go out of town to the bigger cities where there's more choice to buy cars and clothes and to eat out. It isn't just a case of people leaving.”

  “But they are going,” Reid insisted. “With the best will in the world to save jobs, the mill has had to automate to stay competitive in the paper business. That means fewer jobs than there were ten years ago.”

  “There are also fewer children being born,” Cammie pointed out.

  “True, but it isn't a factor, except that there's more money to go around, more to spend on college. Kids graduate with degrees, and they see there's nothing for them in Greenley. They go to New Orleans and Baton Rouge, to Atlanta and L.A. It doesn't have to be that way.”

  “Maybe. What we need is different industry, not more of the same kind. Greenley has been a one-horse town, a paper mill town, for too long.”

  “I agree,” Reid said seriously, “but it isn't going to happen until we have better access to national markets, which means a four-lane highway down the center of North Louisiana. That won't come about until there's more money in the state treasury. The treasury can't be helped a lot until the economy turns around and there's more money coming in. We're talking years. The Swedish takeover is now.”

  Cammie's lips tightened as she leaned toward him. “They'll take out too much timber, even if they don't clear-cut it, which they easily could. Without the tree roots to hold the soil, the runoff from the rains will fill the creeks and branches, the bayous and rivers and lakes with silt. A lot of these waterways are just now recovering from the pollution of the forties and fifties; they won't be able to take on a new threat. The parish will lose as much from recreational spending as it will gain from expanded jobs.”

  “The forestry service monitors the waterways,” Reid said with a trace of impatience. “Conditions would never be allowed to deteriorate that far.”

  “Possibly not, but they never seem to mind losing a little stream or two here and there. It adds up.”

  “In the meantime, two thousand jobs will be created. That's two thousand families that will stay put or move in, several thousand people with a better standard of living.”

  “There's another thing,” Cammie persisted. “The only place this expansion can take place is behind the present mill. That land is virgin timber, some of the last tracts left in the state. There's never been development or improvement back in there, nothing cut except to open it for hiking trails and a few picnic and camping areas.”

  Reid's mouth thinned. “I'm well aware of that, since my dad, and his granddad before him, went to great lengths to save it as a wilderness park.”

  “Are you also aware it's one of the most important nesting areas for the red-cockaded woodpecker in the northern part of the state? Did you know that the red-cockaded woodpecker is an endangered species?”

  “It isn't the only site.”

  Cammie heard the defensiveness in his tone. Her voice was firm as she said, “No, but it's the best one. All woodpeckers need old timber that's allowed to decay naturally, but especially the big red-cockades. They can't make the size nests they need in young, strong-growing trees like those in the stands planted by the forestry service, nor can they find high-density insect populations there. They also require hardwood trees, not the endless forests of pulpwood pine that we have now — certainly not the expanded pine tree farms that will spring up if old forests are cut and the land put to timber use.”

  “Since when,” he said irritably, “did you get to be an expert on woodpecker habitat?”

  “I've watched them all my life. My dad was an amateur bird watcher. He used to call the big red-cockades Indian head woodpeckers.”

  “So did mine,” he said. “And I have every sympathy for the woodpeckers, and every intention of protecting them where it's possible. But I have to tell you that people are more important to me than birds.”

  “You're quoting the senator,” she said in exasperated disparagement. “You might at least be original.”

  He gave her a level look. “You might consider whether the senator could have been quoting me.”

  She stared at him for a long, considering moment. Her hands were shaking with her anger and distress, and she clasped them beneath the edge of the table. “It doesn't matter who said it first,” she said on an uneven breath. “It's still an excuse
to do what's best for you — and let what's right go hang.”

  “Right in this case, it seems to me,” Reid said evenly, “is a matter of opinion.”

  “Oh, very good. That should make it easy to satisfy your conscience while you take the money and run.”

  Anger leaped like blue fire in his eyes. “There's nothing easy about it!”

  “No, there certainly isn't going to be,” she said bitterly, “because I'm going to see to it. I'll form committees, organize petitions, call on the press. I'll create so much noise and opposition that you'll have to listen. You just may wish you had never heard of Sweden, much less a Swedish buy-out of your mill.”

  He pushed his plate out of the way, sitting forward in his chair. He reached out as if to touch her, then drew back as she flinched from him. “Listen to me, Cammie,” he said earnestly, “if you're doing this because of what happened between us last night—”

  “It has nothing to do with that!”

  “Doesn't it?” he shot back at her. “I think you're scared. I think you've decided you want me out of your life, and this is as good an excuse as any.”

  She sat with her back straight and her nails digging into her clasped hands. Her voice tight, she said, “If I wanted to be rid of you, I wouldn't need an excuse!”

  “You might find it harder than you imagine. But there's no problem; I'm gone.”

  “I told you—”

  “So you did,” he interrupted. “I just don't happen to believe that anybody likes woodpeckers that much!”

  The waiter, approaching from behind Reid, was unfortunate enough to choose that moment to ask if he could bring them anything else.

  “Yes, the check,” Reid said, the words so deadly quiet and his eyes so opaque that they could only be shields for impulses too violent for civilized company.

  His face whiter than the napkin draped over his arm, the waiter skimmed away to do what he could to speed them out of the restaurant.

  Reid took Cammie back to the apartment, but he did not come in. He was not invited, though Cammie wasn't sure a gilt, deckle-edged invitation would have tempted him. She was glad, she told herself with fierce emphasis. She was not the kind of woman who was sexually aroused by anger. On top of that, she had no use for a man who cared more for money than for the natural beauty around him. She had been married to one of those.