Squinting, she discovered a bitsy bottle of Kahlúa. She wrestled with the lid, finally successfully unscrewed it, guzzled in a gulp, swallowed, and then opened her mouth to let out the fumes.
Holy moly. Her eyes teared and her throat surely scarred over from the burn.
As hard as she was trying to destroy her life with liquor, it just wasnt working well. She set down the mini-bottle-she was going to finish it!-she only needed to take a few minutes to renew her determination.
She sank down in the creaky rocker again, closing her eyes. Maybe the drinking wasnt going so well, but other things were.
Several weeks ago, shed mistakenly believed that she wanted to die. Since then, shed realized that one part of her was alive-totally alive, consumingly alive.
The rage.
All around her was the evidence. Violet had tried to give her a phone, but shed trashed it. The cottage behind the barns had been built for a great grandmother whod wanted to live independently, so there was no totally destroying the charm. There was just a front room, bedroom and kitchen, but the casement windows bowed, and the bedroom had a slanted ceiling, and the living room had a huge limestone fireplace with a sit-down hearth. She hadnt fixed any of it. Hadnt looked at any of it either. Shed been sleeping on a hard mattress with a bald pillow and no bedding. Cobwebs filled the corners; the floors hadnt been swept, and the cupboards were empty.
She couldnt remember the last time she brushed her hair or changed clothes.
Eventually this had to stop. She realized that in an intellectual way, but emotionally, there only seemed one thing inside of her. All she wanted was to sit all day and seep with the rage, steep with it, sleep with it. Fester it. Ache with it. My God. It had been bad enough to lose Robert. Bad enough to wake up in a hospital bed with a face so battered she couldnt recognize herself, bruises and breaks that made her cry to touch, lips too swollen to talkand that was before shed been told Robert was dead.
Initially, the grief had ripped through her like a cyclone that wouldnt quit. It just wrenched and tore and never let up. But then came the trial. Shed been so positive that the trial would at least bring her the relief and satisfaction of justice. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the dark street, heard her laughing with Robert, complaining about walking in high heels from the party on the balmy fall night, and then there they were. The bastards, the drug-high bastards. There was no reason for them to start punching her, playing her, scaring her. Theyd have given them all their money in a blink. But it wasnt money they wanted. Robert-hed tried to protect her, tried to get in front of her. Thats why they were meaner to him. Why he ended up dead.
All three of them had looked clean-cut and young in court-because they were. They had cried their eyes out, which had impressed the judge, too. Theyd come from good families, had no records, werent even drug users-they just made one mistake, thought theyd experiment one time, and foolishly bought some mixed cocktail that caused psychotic behavior. It was a tragic accident, their attorney claimed. The boys werent hardened criminals, nothing like that. And the judge had given them the most lenient sentences possible.
Thats when the rage was born. Camille remembered the day in court, feeling the slow, huge, hot well of disbelief. A few years in jail and theyd be out. Easy for them. They hadnt lost their soul mate. They hadnt lost anything but a few years, where shed lost everything. Her life had been completely, irreversibly, hopelessly destroyed.
She stared blankly at the cracks in the stucco ceiling, hearing the drizzle of rain. Inside of her there was nothing but a hollow howl. It wasnt getting any better. She couldnt seem to think past the red-sick haze of rage. Shed tried curling up for days. Shed tried not eating. Shed tried hurling things and breaking things. Shed tried silence. Shed tried-and was still trying-drinking.
No matter what she tried, though, she couldnt seem to make it pass. She couldnt go under, around, through it. The rage was just there.
At some point, she got up and finished the shot of Kahlúa.
And at some point after that, she jerked out of the rocker and chased fast for the bathroom. The Kahlúa was as worthless as all the other darn liquors. It refused to stay down.
By the time she finished hurling, she was extra mean. She stood in the bathroom doorway, sweat beading on her brow, weakness aching in every muscle in her damn body. She wasnt sure she was strong enough to lift a dust ball. Her throat felt as it had been knifed open and her stomach as if shed swallowed hot steel wool.
With her luck, she was going to end up the first wanna-be alcoholic in history with an allergy to alcohol. Either that, or Kahlúa had joined the long list of liquors her body seemed to reject.
Thinking that possibly she could nap-and maybe even sleep this time-she turned toward the bedroomjust as she heard another knock on the door.
Aw, come on, Violet. Ill come up to the house for dinner. But right now, just leave me alone.
Its not Violet. Its me. Your neighbor. Pete MacDougal.
A charge volted through her pulse as if shed touched a volatile electric cord. Pete didnt have to identify himself for her to recognize his voice. There was a time that voice would have comforted her. Petes clipped tenor was part of her childhood, as familiar as the rail fence and the tree house in the big maple and the toboggan hill between the MacDougals and Campbells.
Shed never played with Pete because he was older, Violets age. But shed toddled after him for years with puppy eyes. When he was around, hed lift her over the fence so she wouldnt have to walk around, and hed pulled her sled back up the hill, and hed let her invade the sacred tree house when all the other kids said she was still a baby.
Pete was not just her childhood hero; hed been an extra zesty spice to her blood because the four year age difference made him forbidden. Further, he was ultracool, with his biker shoulders and thick dark hair and smoky eyes. He was the oldest of three brothers, where she was the youngest of three sisters, which shed always felt gave them a key connection. What that connection was, shed never pinned down exactly. Shed just wanted to have something in common with Pete MacDougal. Coming from three-children families and living in Vermont had seemed enough to be critical bonding factors when she was a kid.
Those memories were all sweet and a little embarrassing and definitely fun-but not now. Right now, she didnt want to see anyone shed once cared about, and Petes voice, specifically, hurt like a sting. He had one of those full-of-life, uniquely male voices-full of sex and testosterone and energy and virility.
It wasnt Roberts voice. In fact, it was nothing at all like Roberts sweet voice. But that bolt of vibrant masculine tenor reminded her of everything shed lost. And because she felt stung, she stung back.
Go the hell away.
He knocked again, as if he hadnt heard her. Could you just open the door for a minute?
NO.
He knocked again.
What did it take? A sledgehammer? Damn it, Pete. I dont want visitors. I dont need sympathy. I dont want help. I dont want to talk to anyone. I just want to be left alone. GO AWAY.
When he knocked the fourth time, she yanked open the door from sheer exasperation. If the only way to get rid of him was to punch him in the nose, then she was about to slug him good-and never mind that he was almost a foot taller than her.
Instantly she noticed that foot-taller. Noticed his black-and-white wool shirt, his oak height, the hint of wet mahogany in his damp hair, that his good-looking sharp-boned face still had smoky, sexy eyes. She also noticed that he wedged a size-thirteen boot in the door before she could slam it on him again.
In that same blast of a second, he looked her over, too-but he didnt make out as if he noticed that she was in days-old clothes, her hair unkempt, her face paler than a mimes. He didnt make out as if he noticed anything personal about her at all. He just said, I have to tell you something about your sister.
So tell me and get out.
Hey, Im trying. He didnt force his way in, just kept that big boot wedged in the doorway. He leaned his shoulder in the jamb, which insured he had a view of the inside. But if he saw the piles of boxes and packing debris in the dreary light, he made no comment. Its Violet. I dont know what on earths wrong with your sister. But something sure is.
Ive seen her very day. Shes perfectly fine.
Ditsy as always, Pete concurred. But after she came home after the divorce, she started playing in the greenhouse. By last spring, shed added another greenhouse and opened her herb business. Then last spring, she laid off Filbert Green-you know, the man your dad hired after he retired, to take care of the land-
Whats any of this to you, Pete? Rain hissed in the yard, splashed off the eaves. The chill was starting to seep in the cottage, but he didnt seem to care. He seemed intent on just blocking her doorway for an indefinite period of time.
Its nothing to me. But it is to you. Have you looked around the farm since you got home?
No. Why would I? Ive got nothing to do with the farm. Violet can do whatever she wants to. The darn man never moved his eyes, never showed the slightest reaction, but she kept having the sense he was taking in everything about her.
Camille-you remember how your mother always grew a patch of lavender? You Campbell women always loved the stuff-
For heavens sake, Pete. Get to the point.
Your sisters been breeding all kinds of lavender.
So what?
He sighed, rubbed his chin. You want me to get to the point, but it isnt that easy. Shes gone hog-wild in the greenhouses. Take a look out your window, walk around, youll see. She has to have better than twenty acres of lavender planted.
Thats ridiculous, Camille announced.
He didnt argue with her. He just said, I think the Herb Haven store is doing okay for her. Pulls in more kooks and New Agers than I can believe. But even if she didnt have her hands full with the retail and the greenhouses, Violet doesnt know about land, never did, never cared. And thats fine, but its one thing to let a field go wild, and another to let twenty acres of lavender get out of control-and Im talking completely out of control. Shes in trouble, Camille.