Page 8

chapter

four

CAMPBELL

His exile was coming to a fast and furious end.

Resigned to his fate, Campbell slowed to a trot, the Rise’s peaked roof emerging from a tangle of muscadine and pine, a bruised sky casting a somber silhouette behind it. On the front stoop, John Nelson sat hunched over a piece of unfinished wood, his knife carving in slow, deliberate strokes.

Campbell kicked a stray limb aside and exhaled, his pulse hammering in his ears. The same scene— a thousand times over —flipped through his mind like cards spewing from a casino’s shuffle machine. His grandfather waiting for him while trying to appear like he wasn’t, advice on his mind.

And the look. Ah, fuck . Campbell could cook that one up without trying. Compassionate. Pitying. Apologetic. Like a needle prick—furtive, but surprisingly painful.

Home .

Needing to hear it, he whispered the word, noting the lazy ease with which it rolled off his tongue.

If only his feelings were as weightless, as tractable.

He tipped his head, the branches above snapping in the breeze, the starkness of the morning tempting him to run from the weight of unsettling memories.

The burden of knowing exactly what he’d find waiting on a two-hundred-year-old veranda.

Forging ahead, because of course John Nelson had spotted him, he jogged past moss and pine, mundane and familiar, through chasms of shadow and light. He had traveled this trail in his boyhood, plunged his fingers in deep, and anticipated a future linked, immovably , to it.

Christ , how often had he dreamed of returning?

Now he had—with hopes of selling his family history for three hundred dollars an acre—his great-grandfather’s dreams for three hundred thousand more. The buyers wanted to turn the house into a bed-and-breakfast.

Did Campbell imagine the whisper of dissension in the rustling branches?

The Rise would make a fine B the sound of crystal slamming against the desk so hard he feared it would crack did not. “Getting drunk at ten in the morning isn’t going to help anyone, Campbell Loman. Even if it’s the smooth stuff. I should know.”

Slowly, Campbell turned to face his grandfather, his mother’s favorite Persian carpet bunching beneath his feet. “You really think you can tell me how to live my life?”

John Nelson dropped into the nearest chair, perched his ankle on his knee, and steepled his fingers over his protruding stomach, settling into his role as advisor. “Today, I’m actually quite lucid, so you’d be smart to pay attention. Partake of my sound wisdom regarding your current dilemma.”

Campbell paced the length of the room and back. “Sorry to break it to you, but Fontana Quinn got there first. Spanked me hard enough to last a lifetime.”

“She did, did she? Maybe you should go jogging on over in those sliced-off britches and let her kiss it better.”

“Cutoffs.” Sighing, he eyed the scotch bottle with longing.

“These are cutoffs. And in response to your earlier statement, I have learned. Not to face the bite of dangerously sharp teeth twice.” He’d landed on his bottom last night—imagine telling her about his photographs—and hadn’t realized she’d pushed him until he hit the ground.

“Stop pacing, will ya? Making me feel woozy.” John Nelson nibbled on a yellowed thumbnail, his fingers trembling against his chin. “What’d she say?”

“Nothing you wouldn’t like to.”

“ Ah .” He spat a nail sliver into his lap. “Can’t blame her if she lit a fire beneath you. She’s watched over Christopher Ryland practically since she got here. Tough cookie with a heart, that one.”

“Spiteful hits closer to home.” Campbell kicked a tasseled ottoman aside, his gaze sweeping the den, lingering on the familiar furnishings: his mother’s vase, his father’s ashtray, each one tugging at his heart in a way he wished they wouldn’t.

“She lured me into a floral paradise smack dab in the middle of your weed-choked pasture. I simply did what I’ve been doing for twenty years and reached for a camera.

Unfortunately, instead of snapping a few shots, I opened my mouth and let feelings pour out.

Even during sex I enjoy, I don’t—” Skidding to a halt, he turned to find his grandfather’s eager gaze fixed on him.

Man, if this didn’t prove he was too used to living alone and talking to the walls .

“Go on, go on.” John Nelson settled back in his chair with a toothy grin. “Not often I hear smut talk. The fellas down at the barbershop don’t even remember what spooning is. ”

Campbell groaned, yanking his damp sweatshirt over his head. His mind was the only place he’d ever truly had to himself, and he meant to protect it. “Christ’s sake, use your imagination.”

“Ah, heck. That gets boring.”

Working the stiffness from his shoulders, he heard a creak from the second floor. His brother would be rolling out of bed any minute, expecting breakfast. “Is it too early to wake Kit? What does he like to eat? Do they still make Cocoa Pebbles?”

“Actually, he?—”

“What the hell do I know about raising a kid?” Campbell strode to the desk, slapping his sweatshirt against his thigh. He picked up his father’s pen and twirled it in his hand, wondering why this house seemed packed with relics. Perhaps because it was a relic. “The prep school in Atlanta?—”

“Hold on, son.” John Nelson coughed into a closed fist and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees.

“The boy likes Pop-Tarts right well. Strawberry with the sugary frosting on top.

Mary Francis keeps a decent stock of ‘em, so you could heat one up for him if he was here. Drinks two-percent milk, too. Gallons of it.”

Heading toward the kitchen, Camp turned, his gut clenching. “ Wait . He’s not here?”

John Nelson slid a folded square from his shirt pocket, fingers slipping over the smooth edges. After digging for a moment in his trouser pocket, he perched a pair of dark-rimmed glasses on his nose and began to read.

Mr. True,

Kit had early practice. Baseball finals. We couldn’t locate you, so he called me for a ride.

10 a.m. Howard Field. Magnolia and Senate. Show up if you can .

F. Quinn.

A slow burn crawled up Campbell’s neck. “Jogging. I was jogging for forty-five lousy minutes.”