Bayou Born(29)

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?”

“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.”