Scarlet Woman
“Thanks for your help, Mr. Hunter. I hope Irene can get that list to me in a day or two and I can get started.” Nervous words, and she knew it.
But he didn’t answer, only stared at her with those piercing eyes and nodded his head before turning to Judd Folson.
“Have a seat, Judd,” Blake said to his visitor, though his thoughts remained with the woman who’d just left. “I just looked over your suit.”
“Man, if you could work with that nice little tidbit hanging on to you, I take off my hat to you.”
In the process of sitting down, Blake stopped seconds before touching the chair. “What tidbit are you talking about?” Folson was a good client, but that didn’t mean he could make a rude statement about another one of his clients. About to slap his right fist into the palm of his left hand, he caught himself and sat down.
Folson shifted uneasily in his chair, and Blake didn’t have to be told that the man noticed his testiness. “Well, I thought you and she were…not that I blame you. She’s just about the best-looking…uh…woman around here, and after four or five years as Mrs. Rodgers, she must be—”
Blake interrupted him, because he knew that if he heard him say it, he’d pick him up out of that chair and…He told himself to calm down.
“Mr. Folson,” he began, though he normally addressed the man by his first name. “I was opening the door for Mrs. Rodgers who stood with her back to it, and when you almost knocked her down, I grabbed her to prevent an accident. I assume you would have done the same.”
“Well, sure. I…I just thought. Never mind. What do you have for me?”
Blake opened the file and outlined for Folson his options in respect to property he wanted to sell. “You’ll get top price for it now, but it’s impossible to predict its future value. Depends on property changes in the neighborhood and whether we get aggressive growth in another part of town. My advice is to sell now, take your three hundred percent profit, and consider yourself lucky.”
“All right, let it go. I need to get rid of some holdings anyway.”
“I’ll keep you informed.”
He wanted the man to get out of there. He bowled and played soccer and basketball at the same club as Folson and sometimes with him, though he wouldn’t call him a friend, but right that minute, he wanted the man out of his sight. He stood, signaling the end of the appointment.
Folson shook hands and went on his way, but Blake walked back and forth in his office until he forced himself to sit down. He let out a sharp whistle as the truth exploded in his brain. Melinda Rodgers’s behavior as she walked toward that door was solid evidence that she reciprocated what he felt, and she’d lie if she disowned it. Now, how the devil was he supposed to handle that?
He answered the intercom buzzer. “Yes, Irene.”
“Melinda Rodgers on two.”
“Hello, Melinda. What can I do for you?”
“Hello, Blake. I have some questions that occurred to me since I left your office. First, is that clause stipulating that I have to marry within a year legal?”
What was she getting at? “It’s legal. Why do you ask? You thinking about contesting it?”
“Contest it? Why should I do that? He was entitled to specify his wish. I just don’t understand it.”
Angry now at himself for his softness toward her and for having reprimanded Folson in her defense, he spoke sharply to her. “It shouldn’t be difficult for a woman like you to find a husband. If it’s known that you’re looking for one, you can have your pick. So, that certainly won’t be an obstacle to your inheriting Prescott’s estate. Your problem is setting up that foundation.”
Her lengthy silence was as much a reprimand as any words could have been. Finally, she said, “And the foundation. Are you sure someone else can’t set that up and I approve it?”
“Trust me, you’ll do as the will states. That, or nothing. If you want that inheritance, get busy.”
He thought she’d put the telephone receiver down and left it, until he heard her say, “Is there a provision in that will that allows me to replace you as its executor?” Her tone, sharp and cold, was meant to remind him that he was her husband’s employee, a fact that he never forgot.
He looked down at his tapered and polished fingernails. Perfect. You could even say he had elegant hands. But at that moment, he wanted to send one of them crashing through the wall. Replace him, indeed!
“For whatever reason you’d like to have my head, Melinda, don’t even think it. You and I will work together until this is settled.”
“I don’t suppose you’re offering to help me fulfill that second clause in the will.”
She let it hang, loaded with meaning and the possibility of misinterpretation. Thank God for the distance between them; if he’d been near her, he didn’t know whether he’d have paddled her or…or kissed her until she begged him to take her. He told her good-bye at the first opportunity and hung up, shocked at himself. Prescott was dead, but even so, he didn’t covet his friend’s wife. Melinda had pushed his buttons, but the next time, he’d push hers. And she could count on it.
If she wasn’t mistaken, something had happened between Blake and herself while they stood at his office door. For a few seconds, her whole body had anticipated invasion by the wild, primitive being within hand’s reach, and she’d been ready to open herself to him. Men who stood six feet four inches tall and had a strong, masculine personality weren’t all that uncommon. But add those warm fawnlike eyes that electrified you when he smiled and…She grabbed her chest. Oh, Lord…. If she could only avoid him.
Melinda dreaded going to church that next Sunday. Custom allowed her to stay away the first Sunday after becoming a widow, but not longer. After the service, she went to her father’s office on the first floor of the church, not so much to visit with him as to avoid the condolences of her father’s parishioners who huddled in groups at the entrance to the church and on its grounds. She knew what they thought of her, that they believed only wicked women wore high heels, perfume, and makeup and that she had married Prescott for money. For all their righteousness, only one of them had come to sit with her during her husband’s final illness.
“You seem tired, Papa,” she said. “Maybe you need a vacation.”
“Can’t afford it. You get busy and set up that foundation, otherwise you’ll lose that money.”
He wasn’t going to inveigle her into putting him on that board; once the word was out, no one else would sit on it.
“I’ll get started on it, but I wish everybody would remember that Prescott hasn’t been gone three weeks. I need time to adjust.”
“Didn’t mean to rush you, but you have to make hay while the sun’s shining, and people will be more likely to help you now while your grief is fresh.”
Melinda hadn’t associated her father with greed. Maybe he really did need money for the church. Best not to comment on that. “Yes, sir. I’d better be going. See you soon.”
She patted his shoulder and jerked back her hand, remembering that he didn’t like being touched. She’d like to know what would happen if he unlocked his emotions, but she wouldn’t want to be there. The thought brought Blake Hunter to mind. Now, there was a man who probably controlled the blinking of his eyelids.
After parking her four-year-old Mercury Sable in front of her parents’ house, she went in to see her mother. “Why weren’t you in church this morning, Mama? You aren’t sick, are you?”
“No, honey. Your father had a miniconvention yesterday, and after cooking and serving that gang, I was too tired to get out of bed this morning.”
“Papa ought to get you some help. You’re practically a slave to those preachers and the members of that church.”
Lurlane Jones rolled her eyes and looked toward the ceiling. “Bring me Aladdin and his magic lamp—I’ll get some help a lot quicker that way. Your father does what he can.”
Her mother had the looks and bearing of a woman of sixty, though she’d just turned fifty, and her father looked as if he hadn’t lived a day longer than forty-five years though he’d recently passed his sixtieth birthday.”
“It’s sapping your life, Mama. The hardest work Papa ever does is preach his sermons, and since my brothers and I are no longer here to help you, you’re slaving here all day and half of some nights. You won’t catch me doing that for any man. Never!”
Lurlane tightened the belt of her robe and began brushing her long hair in a soothing, rhythmic fashion, as if expressing pleasure with her life and all around her. “We’re of different generations, Melinda. When you find a man you love the way I love your father, you’ll understand.”
Melinda’s head came up sharply. “Are you suggesting that I didn’t love Prescott?” It hadn’t occurred to her to wonder what her parents thought of that marriage, and they hadn’t let on.
“You loved him as a friend, a pleasant companion, and only that. You’re still an unbroken colt, as your grandfather would say, but that’ll change before long.”
“My life, the part I held to myself, wasn’t secret after all,” she said to herself, walking rapidly out of the dining room to escape the sound of the ticking clock—a source of irritation for as far back as she could remember—knowing that her mother would follow. She wrapped her arms around Lurlane, kissed her, and left.
Driving home with her mind on her options, she was glad she’d invested in blue chip stocks most of her teacher’s salary and every penny of the allowance that Prescott gave her each month. The payoff was having enough money to support herself while she studied for a Ph.D., and enjoying the choice of remaining among the gossipmongers of Ellicott City or leaving the town. But she could not dishonor Prescott’s wishes that she set up that foundation, so school would have to wait one more year.
As she entered the house, she heard Ruby say, “She’s not back yet, Mr. Blake. Maybe she stopped by Reverend Jones’s house. She does that some Sundays.”
Melinda rushed to the phone that rested on a marble-top table in the hallway. “Hello,” but he’d already hung up. She looked down at the receiver she held, while disappointment weighed on her like a load of bricks.
Every molecule in her body shouted, “Call him back,” but he would want to discuss business, while she…She went into her room, threw her hat and pocketbook on her bed, and looked around. Blake Hunter had aggravated her nerves and irritated her libido for almost five years, and it hadn’t gotten the better of her. She wasn’t going to let him mess up her mind now.
She ignored the telephone’s insistent ringing. “Yes, sir, she just walked in. Yoohoo! Miz Melinda, it’s Mr. Blake.”
“Hello, Blake.” Did that cool, modulated voice belong to her?
“Hi.” A pause ensued, and she wondered why, as her heartbeat accelerated.
“What is it, Blake?”
“I hope you didn’t decide to put Reverend Jones on the foundation’s board of trustees.”
She stared down at the phone. “I thought we had an understanding about that.”
“Yeah. Well, I wanted to be sure.”
“Not…to worry.” The words came out slowly as she realized he’d changed his mind about something, and that her father’s membership on the board was not the reason he’d called. She sat on the edge of the bed, perplexed.
“Why are you calling me, Blake?”
“Didn’t I just tell you—”
“No, you didn’t,” she said, interrupting him. “But if that’s the way you want it, fine with me.” Angry at herself for seeming to beg the question, she added in a voice that carried a forced breeziness, “Y’all have a nice day.”
“You bet,” he said and hung up.
Pressing him hadn’t gained her a thing; she might even have lost a few points with him.
Chapter 2
The biggest error he’d ever made. What the devil had come over him? He’d feasted his eyes on her, eaten at her table, wanted her for nearly five years and kept it to himself. Not once had he done anything as stupid as making that phone call. He’d swear that, until yesterday, she hadn’t had an inkling as to how he felt about her. The thing to do was get his mind on something and somebody else. To make himself useful. He put on a pair of jeans, a T-shirt, stuck a baseball cap on his head, got into his Mercury Cougar, and headed for Metropolitan Transition Center in Baltimore, a state facility for short-term prison inmates.
As he entered the institution, he met a priest he’d often seen there. “Got three new ones today,” the priest said. “Tough kids. I expect you can do more for them right now than I can.”
Blake didn’t like the sound of that. “Where are they?”
“Up on 9XX3. Jack will send them down.”
“Thanks. As soon as one leaves here, two or three replace him.”
The priest shook his head. “And they’re so young.”
Blake sat on the uncomfortable sofa, drabness facing him from every angle, and waited for the young men. Why would a person risk going back there once he regained his freedom? Yet the prison held dozens of repeat offenders. Finally, the boys arrived, none of them over eighteen.
“I’m Blake. A lot of the guys here take my course in criminal law. Would you like to join?”
“School? Juku, man,” the oldest one said. “Man, that’s like an overdose of Nytol.”
Blake shrugged and pulled his cap farther down on his forehead. “I make it cool, man. One of the brothers learned enough law to get his case reopened. I wouldn’t think he’s any smarter than you.”
“I gotta keep my lines open, man. Otherwise, while I’m in here, my territory’ll go up for grabs.”
The youngest of the three looked at Blake, attentive, but unwilling to cross the leader.
“How long are you in for?” Blake asked the older, talkative one whom he’d sized up as the leader.
“Eighteen months. Why you take up your time coming out here?”
“We brothers have to hang together,” Blake said. “The street’s mean. It can suck every one of us in like quicksand.”
“Man, I ain’t fooled by your jeans and sneakers,” the older one said. “You don’t know nothing ’bout the street, man. It’s a pisser out there.”
Blake had been waiting for that. It always came down to are you really one of us? He rested his left ankle on his right knee, stuck his hands in the front pockets of his jeans, and leaned back.
“I hustled the streets of Atlanta till I owned them. You name it, I did it—running errands on my bike, shining shoes, selling shoestrings, peddling books, peanuts, even the Holy Bible. I delivered packages, did whatever I could to make a living and keep myself in school.” He had their attention now, and he’d keep it. “Every cop knew me, and I knew every junkie on the street, but I wasn’t their customer.”
“Did you rat on them?”
Blake raised an eyebrow and pasted a look of incredulity on his face. “I’m sitting here talking to you. Right?”
“Cool, man. My name’s Lobo.” The older one held out his hand, palm upward. “Put it right there, man. You’re mega.”
He supposed that was a compliment, so he thanked Lobo.
The others introduced themselves as Phil, who hadn’t said anything previously, and Johnny, who was the youngest of the three. Two potential gang members if he’d ever seen any.
“I’ll be here next Saturday at three o’clock when I teach criminal law. Hope to see you brothers in the class.” He picked up the bag he’d rested on the floor. “Meanwhile, I brought along a few things you might like to share—some chocolates, writing pads and pens, deodorant, soap, aftershave, things like that. See you Saturday.” Rule number one, never overstay your visit.
Lobo extended his hand, and Phil and Johnny did the same. “Chill out, brother,” Lobo said. “You da man.”
Blake let himself grin. Getting their confidence was the first step. Later, he’d try what the correction institution didn’t bother to do—work at correcting them.
When he got outside, it surprised him to see the priest sitting against the hood of his Cougar. “How’d you make out?” the priest asked him.
“I made a dent, but not a very deep one. They’ve been there less than a week and already they’re a little gang.”
“Not very encouraging,” the priest said. “How’d you get into this?”
Blake walked around to the driver’s side of his car. “I’m going to Ellicott City. If you’re headed that way, I’ll give you a lift.”
“I’m going to Baltimore.”
“A couple of years back,” Blake said, as he headed into Baltimore proper, “I had a client, a young Moslem man, who told me he’d managed to turn some of the brothers around, giving up one day each week to teach in the Lawton Prison Program. He impressed me, and I decided to do something similar.”
“I wish I knew how he did it.”
“He had his successes as well as some failures, you know.” He slowed down to avoid colliding with one of Maryland’s road hogs. “By the time we get to these criminals, most are too far gone for help, but I decided to try with the young ones.” He paused for a minute. “I’m not being disrespectful, Father, but it might help if you learned the language of the street and took off that collar. They don’t want to be corrected, so you have to be subtle.”
“Thanks. You don’t play golf by any chance, do you?” the priest asked him.
“You bet. I’m no Tiger Woods, but I occasionally shoot around par.”
“Then maybe we could go out together some Saturdays after your class. My name is Mario Biotti.”
“Blake Hunter. It’ll be a pleasure.”
He dropped the priest off in Baltimore, and headed home. He loved junk food but didn’t allow himself to have it often. Today, however, he pulled into Kentucky Fried Chicken and ordered a bucket of Southern-fried buffalo wings, French fries, buttermilk biscuits, and coleslaw. Walking out with his treasure, he patted his washboard belly, assuring himself that he could occasionally indulge in junk food and keep the trim physique in which he took pride. As he opened the door of his car, he heard his name.
“Mr. Hunter. Well, this is a pleasant surprise.”
Rachel Perkins. Just what he needed. “Hello, Miss Perkins,” he said, remembered his baseball cap, and went through the motion of tipping his hat. “Great day we’re having,” he added, getting into his car as quickly as he could and igniting the engine.
Her obvious disappointment told him he’d escaped an invitation that he wouldn’t have wanted to accept, and a grin crawled over his face as he waved at her and drove out of the parking lot. He’d always enjoyed outfoxing people, and Rachel Perkins was outdone.
At home, he put the food on the kitchen counter, washed his hands, and was preparing to eat when the telephone rang.
“Hi, Callie. What’s up? I was going to call you as soon as I ate.”
“Nothing much. Mama said Papa’s still poorly, but I haven’t been down there since we last talked. He keeps driving himself just as he always did, even though we send him money and he doesn’t have to do it.”
“He’s a hard man, and that extends to himself. Thank God I got out of there when I did.”
“Tell me about it. I have to thank you for insisting I get my General Education Diploma and for sending me to college. No telling what I’d be doing now if you hadn’t.”
“Water under the bridge, Callie. You only needed a chance. Why don’t you come up here for part of your vacation? You haven’t seen my house yet.”
“Maybe I’ll do that. Don’t forget to call Mama.”
“I won’t. Hang in there.”
He hung up and walked back into the kitchen with heavy steps. He dreaded going to Six Mile, Alabama, but no matter what his father’s shortcomings, his mother needed his support, and he’d have to get down there soon. He sat against the kitchen counter, propped his left foot on the bottom rung of a step stool, and bit into a piece of chicken. Somehow, it failed to satisfy him as it usually did on those rare occasions when he ate it. He put the food in the refrigerator and went out on his patio. What the devil was wrong with him? He was hungry, but had neither a desire nor a taste for food, and that didn’t make sense: he loved to eat. Maybe he needed a check-up.
The phone rang again, and he raced to answer it. “Hello. Hello?”
The caller had the wrong number. He slammed his left foot against a leather puff that he’d bought in Morocco and considered himself fortunate to have chosen that rather than the wall as a means of relieving his frustration. Damn her, anyway.
Melinda looked over the list of people Blake suggested for membership on the board of the Prescott Rodgers Foundation, as she’d decided to call it, and ran a line through the name of Andrew Carnegie Jackson. The man’s parents named him Joseph, but he changed it, claiming that Joseph reminded him of the song “Old Black Joe.” A man with money, he’d said, ought to have a name to go with it. Hardly a social event took place in Ellicott City that someone didn’t make a joke of it.
She stared at the name Will Lamont, and grabbed the phone with such recklessness that she jerked it off the table and the receiver fell on the floor.
“What are you trying to do to me?” she asked, her voice sharp and cutting, when Blake answered the phone. “Will Lamont is head trustee at my father’s church. I can’t put him on this board unless I appoint my father, too.”
“Then scratch off his name.”
“That’s exactly what I did. How could you—”
“If he’s off the list, what’s the problem? I gave you a bunch of names. Do what you please with them.”
Her fingernails dug into the flesh of her palm. “Thanks so much. You’re supposed to be helping me, but it’s clear you’re waiting for me to blow the whole thing.” She held the phone in her left hand and pounded softly and rhythmically on the desk with her right fist.
“So you think I’m an ogre? Fine. I like that—it means I don’t have anything to live up to.”
She wanted to…What did she want? She’d better rope in her thoughts. “Prescott talked about you as if you could change the direction of the wind. I wish you’d show me some of your virtues. So far, you’re batting pretty low.”
“Well, I’ll be doggoned. You want to see some of my virtues. Why didn’t you say so? I’ll be happy to oblige you.”
She looked down at the print of her little fingernail in her right fist and shook her body, symbolically shedding the goose pimples that his words brought to her arms. Suggestive words that embedded in her brain images of his beautiful fingers stroking her flesh.
Angered that he seduced her so easily, she said, her voice crusted with ice, “What are you talking about?”
“Me? Same thing you’re talking about. Why?” The words came out almost on a laugh. Mocking. Yes, and accusing. “Did I say something wrong?”
She escaped to the safety of talk about the foundation and the list before her. “Who drew up this list, you or Irene?”
“I gave her the names. She did the rest. She’s extremely efficient.”
She didn’t give two hoots about Irene’s efficiency, and she was sure he knew it. “Did you put these booby traps in here intentionally, or did you have temporary lapses of political savvy?”
“I don’t have such lapses. If you see a name on that list, it’s because I intended for it to be there. I don’t mix foolishness with business.”
“I see.” She couldn’t help needling him, even though she knew that was a substitute for something far more intimate. “One of your virtues. Right?”
She heard the wind swoosh out of him and prepared herself for biting words, but the expectation didn’t materialize.
“Think over this conversation, Melinda, and let me know what you make of it. Any disinterested person would think you’re after more than you’re receiving. Think about what you want before you get in too deep.”
She had to let that stab go by, because he’d changed from teasing to baiting, and she refused to bite. “Since I’m not a disinterested party, I won’t be able to judge. Right?” She began walking back and forth from her desk to her bed. “The will says you’re to help me. If you don’t, I’ll do it without you.”