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Scarlet Woman
Scarlet Woman
Gwynne Forster
To Brother Simba Sanna, formerly co-owner of Karivu Books, Hyatsville, Maryland, and an exemplary man of strong moral character. In my research for this book, Brother Simba shared with me his experiences as a volunteer teacher and counselor to African-American youths during their incarceration in Lorton Prison, in the Washington, D.C., area, and after their return to society. Brother Simba inaugurated a study group at Lorton (the African Development Organization), and he remains a mentor to those young men who accept his counsel. My thanks also to my husband, who supports and encourages me in everything that I undertake.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Prologue
Melinda looked out of the only window in her tiny one-room apartment and saw nothing. Not the children jumping rope and playing hopscotch, nor the single mothers who sat on the stone bench beneath a big white oak tree escaping the late-August, Maryland sun. Over and over, her mind replayed Prescott Rodgers’s proposal. Marry and live with him in his home and brighten his life by doing for him what he couldn’t do for himself. He wanted her to read to him the classic literature of the English language. Although he was a brilliant man, dyslexia had deprived him of the pleasures of reading and writing. He had contacted the high school at which she taught English, offering to pay a student to read to him. None found the idea attractive, and she eventually volunteered to do it one or two hours weekly at no charge. But his tales of his world travels, especially his wanderings through Italy, so intrigued her that the few weekly hours soon became a daily ritual, a treat to which she looked forward each day.
A self-made man, inventor of a film-developing process, a fluid for contact lenses, and a type of eyeglass lens, all of which yielded hefty royalties, Prescott Rodgers had amassed a fortune. He lived a reclusive life, fearing scorn because he could not learn to read.
“We’re both lonely,” Prescott had argued, “and we have much to give each other. I know the chemicals I’ve worked with all these years are shortening my life, and I’d like to spend what’s left of it in your company. Marrying me would still the tongues of those curious about your daily visits.”
“Well, I…I don’t know—”
“Will you accept a marriage of convenience? That’s selfish of me, I know, because you’re young, and I’m sixty-eight years old.”
As a married woman, she would escape much of her father’s intolerance and authoritarianism, and she would have a companion. Musing over her own life of loneliness—for which her father’s self-righteousness and his indictments of all who disagreed with him were largely responsible—she reasoned that at last she would have a niche. She would belong with someone. Melinda added up the advantages, shoved the doubts and disadvantages out of her mind, and agreed.
She married Prescott Rodgers in a private ceremony in the office of Blake Edmund Hunter, Prescott’s lawyer, with only Hunter and her parents as witnesses.
Prescott gave her a monthly allowance of $1,100 for her most personal needs, provided her with a housekeeper, and bore all other expenses. She read to him each morning, entertained for him, sparing though it was, and enjoyed the remaining four and a half years of his life as his wife.
Chapter 1
Melinda Rodgers sat in Blake Edmund Hunter’s law office on that damp, mid-May morning, dumbfounded, as he read aloud her late husband’s will. She was to set up a foundation for remedial reading and the acquiring of literacy that would meet the needs of both children and adults and have it fully operating within a year of his death. She must also marry within the year.
If she failed to fulfill either requirement, the house in which she lived and everything else—except for one million dollars to rehabilitate homeless people—would go to a charity of Blake’s choice.
“It doesn’t surprise me that he’d want that foundation,” Melinda said to those present—Blake, her parents, and her best friend “—but as much as he valued individual freedom, I can’t believe he’d attempt to force me to get married.”
“You just have to carry out his wishes,” her father, the Reverend Booker Jones, said. “You wouldn’t be foolish enough to throw away all this money. The church needs some repairs.”
“Now, dear,” Lurlane Jones said, in a voice soft and musical. “Our Melinda is in mourning. We mustn’t push her.”
Melinda watched Blake Hunter lean back in his desk chair and survey the group, his sharp, cool gaze telling them that he judged them all and found them wanting. She tried not to look at him, lest she betray her feelings.
“I really wouldn’t have thought it of Prescott,” she said, “but I guess you never truly know a person.”
She glanced toward Blake, and her heart turned over at the softness of his unguarded look. She told herself not to react, that she had to be mistaken. He had shown her respect but never liked her, and she doubted he had or ever would have any feelings for her, though Lord knows he lived in her heart and had since the minute she met him.
With his cool, impersonal gaze back in place, he immediately confirmed her thoughts. “Don’t think you can play at this, Mrs. Rodgers, and you’re not allowed to hire anyone to do it for you. You have to do it yourself and to my satisfaction.”
His sharp words and unsympathetic attitude surprised her, for he had always appeared gracious and considerate toward her during her husband’s lifetime. “As my husband’s close friend, I expected that you might give me some advice, if not help, but I see I’m on my own. I’ll be in tomorrow morning to talk this over with you.”
His left eyebrow shot up, and he nodded in what appeared to be grudging appreciation. “I’ll be here at nine.”
“Let’s go, Rachel,” Melinda said to the friend she’d asked to be with her when the will was read. But she noticed that the woman got up with reluctance, almost as if she didn’t want to leave.
“You do what that will says,” Booker Jones roared in the descending elevator. “We can’t afford to lose one brown cent of that money. We need it to do the Lord’s work.”
“Melinda will do what’s right. So stop fussing,” Lurlane said.
Melinda didn’t respond. Her father taught his parishioners that money was the root of all evil, but he never said no to it.
“Is he like that all the time?” Rachel asked Melinda as they walked down one of the main streets of Ellicott City, Maryland. “My father hardly ever raises his voice.”
“Your father isn’t a preacher,” Melinda reminded her. “If other pastors are like my father, they’re always right. He talks over everybody and across everybody, because when he opens his mouth the world is supposed to shut up and take heed.”
“Girl, you go ’way from here,” Rachel said. “He’s a good man. Last Sunday, he preached till he was plain hoarse and couldn’t say another word.”
“Yes, I know he’s good, and I bet he started whispering into the mike. Nothing shuts up my father.”
“He’s a righteous man.”
“You’re telling me? He’s the only one on earth. I wish he’d understand that he can’t mold people as he would clay figures just because he believes they’d be better off.”
“Now, Melinda. You don’t mean that.”
She did mean it. Her father believed in what he taught, but he was driven by a secular monster, the one that made you want praise and acceptance. Tired of the subject and uninterested in Rachel’s views of Booker Jones, Melinda stopped talking. Who knew a man better than his family?
“Rachel, why do you think Prescott put that clause in his will forcing me to remarry? I just can’t figure it out.”
“Me, neither, girl, and Blake Hunter is going to see that you do it or lose everything, including your house.”
Melinda shrugged. “I’m not worried about that, because I never intend to remarry.”
Rachel stopped walking. “Was Mr. Rodgers mean to you? I’d have thought an older man would be sweet as sugar to a woman less than half his age.”
Melinda smiled inwardly, aware that the comment reflected the local gossip about her and Prescott. “My husband treated me as if I were the most precious being on this earth. He…he was wonderful to me. Those four years were the happiest of my life.”
“Well, I’ll be! I guess there’s no telling about people. Maybe I’d better start looking for an older man. I’m thirty-two. With a fifty-or sixty-year-old man, that ought to stand for something.” Rachel didn’t say anything for half a block, and then she spoke with seeming reluctance. “How old do you think Blake Hunter is? And how come he’s not married?”
“Why would I know?”
“He was your husband’s close friend, wasn’t he?”
“They never discussed the man’s private affairs when I was around. I know practically nothing about him.”
“I’ll bet you know he’s a number ten.”
“A what?”
“A knockout. A good-looking virile man who makes you think things you couldn’t tell your mother.”
So she’d been right. Rachel hadn’t wanted to leave Blake’s office. The woman was after Blake. She told herself to forget about it. Nothing would ever happen between Blake Hunter and herself.
Melinda walked into the redbrick colonial she’d shared with Prescott and froze when she realized she’d been expecting to hear his usual, “That you, dear?” “Get a hold of yourself,” she said aloud, squared her shoulders, and headed for her bedroom, determined to meet the rest of her life head-on. The sound of Ruby vacuuming the hall carpet reminded her that the upkeep of the house was now her responsibility.
“We have to talk, Ruby,” she told the housekeeper. “I don’t understand it, but Mr. Rodgers didn’t provide for you in his will, and I can’t keep you on here. I’m afraid we’ll have to separate.”
“He paid my wages for the entire year after his death, Miz Melinda. And last year, he drawed up a real good pension plan for me. Only thing is, I has to work here for the next twelve months. He done good by me.”
Melinda swallowed several times and told herself it didn’t matter that Prescott had left his housekeeper better fixed than his wife.
“Is Blake Hunter in charge of your pension and wages?”
“Yes, ma’am. My pension starts thirteen months from now, and Mr. Blake will send me my salary every Friday, just like he always done.” She coughed a few times and patted the hair in the back of her head. “If I was twenty years younger, that man wouldn’t be single. No sirree. That is one sweet-looking man. A face the color of shelled walnuts.” She rolled her eyes toward the sky and wet her lips. “Them dreamy eyes and that bottom lip…Lord.” She patted her hair. “Honey, that is some man.”
Imagine that. “He’s a hard man,” Melinda said, thinking of how lacking in compassion for her he’d seemed when he read the terms of her late husband’s will. Harsh terms, and so unlike Prescott. “But if anybody could break through that wall he’s got around himself, Ruby, I expect you could.”
Ruby put the can of furniture polish on the table and shook out the chamois cloth she used for polishing. “Miz Melinda, that man just can’t help being hard. He done nothing but work from daylight to dark six days a week from the time he could walk till he finished high school. His daddy cracked that whip.”
She stared at Ruby. Surely the woman was mistaken. “He told you that?”
“No, ma’am. He sure didn’t, but I heard him telling Mr. Rodgers that and a whole lot more. That man been through somethin’.”
Melinda’s eyes widened, but she quickly replaced that with a bland facial expression. No point in letting Ruby know that anything about Blake interested her. She’d had two shocks in two minutes, and she had a hunch she’d get more of them. She leaned against the wall and waited for Ruby’s next shot. Her impression of Blake had been of a privileged youth from an upper middle-class family. How had he become so polished? Ruby’s high-pitched voice interrupted Melinda’s musings.
“Working a boy like Mr. Blake’s daddy done made him work would amount to child abuse these days,” Ruby said, warming up to the subject. “He said his folks was poor as Job’s turkey.”
“Well, he certainly overcame it,” Melinda replied and walked rapidly up the wide stairs, richly carpeted in Royal Bokhara. However, realizing that she’d practically run from the talk about Blake because she didn’t want to think of him, she slowed her steps. As executor of Prescott’s estate, the man would be a fixture in her life for the next twelve months, and she’d better learn to handle the consequences.
Blake Edmund Hunter looked from one woman to the other as Melinda stood to leave his office and Rachel Perkins remained in her chair gazing at him. Another one of nature’s stupid tricks! Rachel wanted him so badly she was practically salivating, and Melinda Rodgers didn’t know he was alive. His gaze followed Melinda’s svelte physique, straight, almost arrogant carriage and sweetly rounded buttocks as she strolled out of his office. He wanted her and had from the minute he first saw her, but he was Prescott’s friend, so he hadn’t let himself give in to it when Prescott was alive. He was damned if he’d succumb to it now.
If anything turned his stomach, it was a gold-digging woman, an unfaithful wife, or a treacherous friend. She hadn’t given him reason to believe that she would be unfaithful to Prescott, and he was grateful for that, because she’d been temptation without trying and he wouldn’t have considered disloyalty to Prescott.
Yet, as much as he desired her, he had reservations about her. For instance, that virginal innocence she wrapped around herself didn’t fool him. She was less than half Prescott’s age, and nobody could make him believe a young, gorgeous woman like her had married an old, solitary recluse for love. She’d married Prescott Rodgers for his money, and Blake would see that she carried out the terms of that will, or else. That clause Prescott had inserted requiring Melinda to marry within a year or lose her inheritance…He squeezed his eyes shut and told himself the lump in his throat had nothing to do with that.
He answered the phone, grateful that its ringing had derailed his thoughts. Dangerous thoughts.
“Yes, Lacy. Look, I’m sorry, but I have to deal with this will.”
“But you can leave it long enough to have lunch with me.”
He glanced at his watch and banged his left fist on his desk. Softly. Reaffirming his intention to stay away from her. “I’m having lunch at my desk today, and for goodness’ sake, Lacy, please don’t pout. It’s so childish.” He could imagine her lower lip protruding in what she considered a sexy come-on.
“You’re busy every time I call.”
Leaning back in the chair and closing his eyes, he told himself not to show annoyance. “Lacy, I told you I’m not ready for a relationship, and I haven’t said or done anything that would make you think otherwise. I’m sorry.”
In his mind’s eye, he could see her lighting a cigarette and taking a long drag, a habit he hated. “Maybe this weekend?” She had the tenacity of Muhammad Ali smelling victory, but he refused to be roped in.
“I’m longing to see you,” she whispered.
He wished she wouldn’t beg. Three dates didn’t amount to a commitment. “Yeah, right! I’ll…uh. Look, Lacy, I wish you well. I’ll see you around.”
He hung up, but he doubted that ended it. Any other woman would know that he’d just broken ties with her, such as they were, but not Lacy Morgan. He’d never seen a human being with thicker skin.
He walked over to the window and looked down at the flowering trees, but they didn’t engage his thoughts. What would happen to Melinda if she couldn’t do as Prescott’s will required? His long, tapered fingers rubbed his jaw, and he shook his head as if to clear it. The Rodgers account was but one in his portfolio, and several others required his attention. He pushed the intercom button.
“Irene, could you come in and take a letter to Folson?”
“Yes, sir.”
Now here was a woman he admired: always professional, and she expected him to be the same. So he wasn’t prepared for her comment.
“Blake, I don’t see how Melinda is going to set up that foundation. People here don’t think highly of her since she married Mr. Rodgers. And to make things worse, she never once went anyplace with him from the time they married till he died. Some say they weren’t really married, that she just lived with the old man.”
His jaw twitched, and he knew he grimaced, for her blood reddened her light skin and she lowered her eyelids. So much for her unfailing professionalism. He looked over a few notes and dictated the letter.
“Anything else, sir?”
With his elbows propped on the desk, he made a pyramid of his ten fingers and looked her in the eye. “Yes. There is. I was Prescott Rodgers’s witness when he married Melinda Jones in this office in the presence of her parents. That’s all.”
He didn’t care for character assassins any more than he liked gold diggers, and he hated feeling protective toward Melinda, but he did. Feeling a flush of guilt, he tapped his Mont Blanc pen on his desk. If she couldn’t establish that foundation, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to live with himself. He’d insisted that Prescott include that provision in the will and had worded it himself. If she ever found out…
Melinda dressed carefully that morning, choosing a white linen suit—she wasn’t going to mourn in black; Prescott had made her promise she wouldn’t—a blue-and-white striped linen blouse and navy accessories. She wanted to look great, but she didn’t want Blake to think he’d ever entered her mind.
“Come in, Melinda, and have a seat,” Irene said, when she opened the door. “He’ll be with you in a second.”
Looking around the reception room, she marveled at its decorations, carpets, paintings, and live green plants—elegance without ostentation.
“Good morning, Melinda. Nothing pleases me like promptness.”
She stood, accepted his extended hand and wished she hadn’t, as her heart lurched, and fiery ripples spiraled up her arms. His gaze seemed more piercing than ever, or had he noticed what that physical contact with him had done to her?
“Hello, Blake. I’ve thought this over and figured that I can either try to comply with this strange bequest or walk away from the entire thing.” At his quick frown, she added, “Neither one of those provisions is easy to comply with, but I’ve made up my mind to do all I can to get that foundation up and operating. Reading is what brought Prescott and me together, and I know how dear this project would be to him.”
His frown deepened. “What do you mean by that?”
So Prescott hadn’t confided that problem! She lifted her left shoulder in a dismissive shrug. “Long story. Let’s get started on this.” Something flickered in his gaze, but she discounted it as being impossible. Blake Hunter had no feelings for her.
She made notes as he talked, suggesting names of people she should contact, and providing her with tips about their personalities and attitudes. Once, when she glanced up at him and saw the softness in his fawnlike, brown eyes, she had to stifle a gasp and quickly turned her attention to the tablet in her lap.
“Your father wants to be on the board,” he said. “I can’t advise you about that, but I’m sure you’ll want board members who can get along with each other.”
Laughter flowed out of her at the thought of her father cooperating with any group of eleven people anywhere in the world. She looked at Blake. “Do you know anybody in this town who can swear to having had a gratifying conversation with my father?” She’d often thought the problem with her father was his longing for acceptance, but she would never allow herself to say that.
What was certainly mischief gleamed in his eyes. “I didn’t know you knew that. What he’s like, I mean.”
“Blake, I lived in the house with him until I went away to college.”
His big body settled itself in his desk chair, relaxed, and he twirled a pencil, the only playful thing she’d ever seen him do. “I’ll bet you thanked God for college.”
She leaned toward him, enjoying this unfamiliar side of him. “Did I ever! I put on some lipstick before the train left the station.”
A smile played around his lips, mesmerizing her. “What about your soul? Weren’t you afraid you’d burn in hell for that worldly deed?”
“Tell you the truth, it didn’t cross my mind. Do you think a bird worries about the cage after it flies out? Not for a second. I thought, ‘Free at last!’”
Suddenly, his demeanor changed, and she supposed he’d only temporarily forgotten himself, that it was back to business.
“I’ll ask Irene to type out this list of prospective board members along with their street and e-mail addresses and their phone numbers. This will take time, so the sooner you get on it, the better.”
“Yes, sir!”
His eyebrow went up sharply, but she didn’t care if he recognized her insolence. He couldn’t change faces with her like a chameleon and expect her to accept it.
“You’re not as easygoing as you appear to be, are you?”
She put the tablet in her pocketbook and stood, preparing to leave. “I didn’t know anybody thought me easygoing. That is a surprise.”
“Real little tiger, eh?” he said, walking with her to the door.
She whirled around and he towered over her, inches from her body. Get a grip on it, girl. “Tiger, lion, or leopard. Cross me, and I claw. But unless you step out of line, you’ll never get so much as a hint of my feline side.”
She wanted to back away from him, but the door trapped her. She didn’t like the feeling that pervaded her body, a strange hunger that she suspected had nothing to do with food. He didn’t move, and she didn’t want him to know what his nearness did to her. Then his pupils seemed to dilate, and his nostrils flared. Oh, Lord, please let me get away from here without making a fool of myself.
Summoning all the strength she could muster, she whispered, “Would you please open the door?”
He reached around her in what felt like a half caress, though she knew it wasn’t, and turned the knob. She stepped backward and nearly lost her footing, but he grabbed her and pulled her toward him.
“What…?”
She glanced over her shoulder as Judd Folson walked in for his eleven o’clock appointment. And from the man’s knowing expression, she didn’t doubt that he assumed he’d caught her in Blake Hunter’s arms a week after she buried her husband.
She raised herself to her full height—nearly six feet if you took into account her three-inch heels—and looked him straight in the eye. “Good morning, Mr. Folson. Lovely day, isn’t it?”
The man nodded in reply, gaping as he did so, and she realized that Blake’s arm remained around her waist. She stepped away, stood against the doorjamb, and made herself smile.
“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.”
