Pete had always had a soft spot for her. All right, he admitted it-more than a soft spot. Hed had a dug-in, could-never-shake pull for her. But those feelings had made him feel forbidden and guilty, initially because shed been too young, and then later because a good man just didnt think about the bride of another guy that way. Still, when hed heard about the couple getting attacked by thugs last year, he remembered feeling profound relief she hadnt been the one killed.
The neighbors all said she was finally recovered, he pressed Violet again.
And that was a miracle in itself. The physical recovery took months as it was. She was in the hospital for ages. Her beautiful face-she was so battered up, her face, her ribs, the broken leg-
But thats the point. Everyone said she was finally on her feet again-so what happened? Has there been some kind of setback? What? God, getting Violet to the point was like motivating a mule to win a horse race.
Violet threw up her hands, did more of that fluttering thing. Its complicated. Camille always calls home a couple of times a week. Only suddenly she quit calling. And when I tried to track her down, I found out that her phones been disconnected. So then I got in touch with her apartment neighbor. Twilla something. This Twilla says Camille lost her job, hasnt been out of the apartment in two weeks or more. Mails piled up, newspapers, trash. She says she knocked on Camilles door, thinking she had to be sick or something, but Cam was in there and nearly snapped her head off.
Say what? Camille had always been one of those joyful, happy-go-lucky people. No temper, no temperament. Shed never had a moody bone in her entire body.
Violet hugged her arms. I dont know what to think. But Twilla said shes turned totally mean.
Thats ridiculous. Camille couldnt be mean in a million years. Its not in her.
It didnt used to be. I think its about the trial, Pete. The trial of those three thugs.
Pete frowned. You mean, the guys who robbed her? The boys and I were gone for spring break when the trial ended, but I thought they were all found guilty.
They were. Only the guilty verdict wasnt worth much. The one who actually killed Robert only got seven years-and he can get out after three for good behavior. The other two got even lighter sentences. They could be back on the streets in less than two years.
WHAT? They kill whozits and almost beat Camille to death, and a few years in prison is the only penalty they got?
Violets eyes welled again. Thats all. The judge seemed to think there were extenuating circumstances. Theyd had no record before, and even though theyd all chosen to get high, they had no way to know the drug had been laced with some extra chemicals. They were all in this induced psychotic state, according to the testimony. So the judge didnt seem to think they were totally to blame. Anyway, apparently the sentence came down about a month ago. It was a long trial, and God knows Id been following it-so was everyone in the family. And Camille called when the sentence came down, but that was it. She was upset, we knew that. But that was the last time she contacted anyone, as far as I know. Violet grabbed her gloves, obviously too agitated to stand still and talk any longer.
Bring her home, damn it, Pete said.
Thats what Im going to do. Drive there, pack up her stuff, bring her home.
If she wont come, you call me. Ill drive there and help.
According to her neighbor, Ill be lucky if she lets me in. But I figure I can always ask Daisy if I really need help.
Pete didnt follow. Isnt your other sister still living in France?
Yeah, but shed fly over in two seconds if I called. She flew home when Camille was first attacked and in the hospital. So did Mom and Dad, of course. But for this problem-I just want to see whats what for myself before I call in the cavalry. Violet opened the front door. More fistfuls of snow howled in, but she turned back to him, appearing not to notice. Daisy is kind of like the calvary. Shes just a take-charge, bossy kind of person-
Pete knew Daisy. He also knew that once Violet got chatty, she was hard to shut down, so he tried to get her back on track. She gave him keys to the house and greenhouse, then proceeded to flibber and flabber on about security and temperatures and the fragility of her lavender strains and the cat and the trickiness of the furnace if the temperature dropped below zero and how the back door stuck.
Pete knew Daisy. He also knew that once Violet got chatty, she was hard to shut down, so he tried to get her back on track. She gave him keys to the house and greenhouse, then proceeded to flibber and flabber on about security and temperatures and the fragility of her lavender strains and the cat and the trickiness of the furnace if the temperature dropped below zero and how the back door stuck.
By the time she left, an inch of snow had accumulated in the front hall. He closed the door and watched out the side window as Violet backed her flower-decaled van out of the driveway, bouncing through snowdrifts, not looking in either direction. He wasnt sure if either the driveway or the mailbox was going to survive her driving-but truthfully, his mind wasnt really on the middle Campbell sister, but the baby in the family.
He scraped a hand through his hair, wishing hed asked Violet a dozen more questionsyet knowing he couldnt. Just because hed always had a private hard case for Camille didnt mean he had any right to know-or right to interfere either. Further, his skill and effectiveness with women was measured by his ex-wife-whod effectively ripped him off for everything but the kitchen sinkand his sons.
God knew, his sons were full time-sometimes a full-time nightmare and sometimes a full-time job. But either way, he had no time to dwell on the worrisome picture Violet had painted in his mind. Camille couldnt be his problem. It was just upsetting, that was all. To picture anyone as joyful and full of spirit as Cam, brought down by so much tragedy so young. Camille always had a heart bigger than Vermont, more love than an ocean, more laughter than could fill a whole sky.
It made him sick to think about her hurting.
Pssst. Dad. The daredevil hanging over the second story railing was, of course, risking life and limb. Ms. Campbell-is she gone? Is it safe to come down?
Yeah, shes gone.
In another moment, his sons spitting image hung over the railing, too. Are you sick or something? Whats the matter with you, Dad? Youre not yelling at us.
I will, Pete promised them absently, but when he didnt immediately come through with a good, solid respectable bellow, the boys seemed to panic.
Were not cleaning, Sean announced.
Yeah, were going on strike, Simon said. Gramps is going on strike with us. So its three against one.
Maybe hed failed a wife, but hed never fail his boys. Since they were expecting him to scream and yell, he forced his mind off Camille and thumped up the stairs to deliver the lecture they wanted.
Two
When Camille heard the knock on the door, her heart slammed in instant panic-but that was just a stupid, knee-jerk response from the attack. Shed been home and forcefully installed in the cottage by Violet for three weeks now. She was safe. She knew she was safe. But somehow, even all these months after the attack, sudden noises and shadows still made her stomach jump clear to her throat.
Someone knocked on the door again-which she purposefully ignored. She just as easily ignored the pounding after that. But then came her sisters insistent voice calling, Yoo-hoo! Camille? CAMILLE?
Camille didnt budge from old, horsehair rocker in the far corner of the living room, but hearing Vi whining her name reminded her of how much shed always disliked it. Mom had named all three daughters after flowers, so she could have gotten Violet or Daisy, but no, she had to get Camille. Practically by definition people seemed to assume that a Camille was a dark-haired, dark-eyed, sultry romantic. The dark hair and dark eyes were true, but the rest of the image was completely off.
These last months, shed turned mean. Not just a little mean, but horned-toad mean. Porcupine-mean. Curmudgeon-rude and didnt-give-a-damn-about-anyone mean.
All right, Cam, honey. When no one answered, Violets voice turned so patient that Camille wanted to open the door just to smack her one. Ill leave lunch on the table at noon, but I want you up at the house for dinner. You dont have to talk. You dont have to do anything. But unless youre up there at six-and I actually see you eat something-Im calling Mom and Daisy both.
Camilles eyes creaked open in the dim room. Something stirred in her stomach. A touch of an ordinary emotionlike worry. Not that she gave a hoot-about anything or anyone. But the threat of having both her mother and oldest sister sicced on her made Cam break out in a cold sweat. The Campbell women, allied together, could probably make a stone sweat. She just wasnt up to battling with them.
With a resigned sigh, she pushed herself out of the old, horsehair rocker to search for a drink.
Rain drooled down the dirty windows, making it hard to see without a light, but she didnt turn one on. The past weeks had passed in a blur. She remembered Violet barging into the apartment in Boston, finding her curled up in bed, shaking her, scolding her, packing her up. She remembered driving to Vermont in a blizzard. She remembered refusing to live in the warm, sturdy farmhouse where theyd grown up, fighting with Violet over whether the old cottage on the place was even livable.
It wasnt. But then Camille wasnt livable either, so the place had worked for her fine.
She stumbled around now, stalking around suitcases and boxes. She hadnt unpacked anything from Boston. No reason to. She didnt want anything. But eventually she located the flat briefcase on the scarred oak bureau. She clicked the locks, pulled it open. Once upon a time, the briefcase had been filled with colorful files and advertising projects and marketing studies. Now it held a complete array of airline-sized liquor bottles.
Quite a few were missing, although not as many as shed planned. She hadnt given up her goal of becoming an alcoholic, but the ambition was a lot tougher to realize than she ever expected. Frowning, she filched and fingered through the collection. Crème de cocoa was out of the question-she was never trying that ghastly stuff again. Ditto for the vodka. And the scotch. And the gin.