chapter
one
Under the Milky Way–The Church
Fall, 1995
CAMPBELL
By the timeCampbell True roared across the South Carolina state line, doing eighty in a fifty-five, his stepmother had been dead for a week. He shot a glance at a gorgeous field of wildflowers, figuring he had to give Celia Ryland True one thing.
She knew how to make a stunning exit.
Her lover’s yacht moored off the coast of St. Lucia, she decided to take a midnight swim wearing nothing but a thong and a two-day cocaine high. According to the constable’s report faxed to Campbell’s photo shoot in Nepal, Celia died from blunt trauma before she hit the shallow waters of the Caribbean.
All because she hadn’t dived far enough to miss the side of theboat.
Last-minute flight reservations had Campbell skidding into town a day after the hastily planned memorial service, leaving Kit, his eleven-year-old half-brother, to face the mess without him. Of course, their grandfather was there. In a dozen frantic phone calls before boarding the plane, Campbell made sure of that.
A mother’s death was a horrendous thing to endure, even if the mother in questionhadbeen dreadful. Campbell found it a complete nightmare at fourteen, despite being prepared for years.
Shoving haunting remembrances aside, he punched the gas, and the convertible darted forward. He’d kept his main studio in Atlanta, confident Celia would one day drop the gauntlet, marry some piteous bastard, move into an opulent penthouse in New York or Paris, and grant him custody. She was still beautiful enough to hook a wealthy old fool, like his father. She’d been a widow long enough to marry without anyone thinking twice about it.
No luck, however. Her last letter had been as vicious as the ones before. In defiant slashes of pink ink, she promised to make Kit’s life a living hell if Campbell returned.
Unless he returned underherconditions.
He downshifted across the decrepit bridge spanning Jensen Creek, the rattle of loose boards and rusted bolts echoing as cotton fields loomed on both sides—spatters of white on a withered russet canvas. His fingertips tingled, remembering the roughness of a boll as he wrenched it from the branch, brushing stink bugs off his arms and drinking in the dense aroma of turned soil and sunlight.
Close to home, Campbell realized, releasing a shaky breath.
Defenses rotting as surely as that ancient goddamn bridge, suppressed memories stormed inside. His ninth birthday partyand the sound of a violent argument in the next room; helping his inebriated mother to bed the night before she accidentally ended her life by swallowing a handful of pills; waiting in the emergency room for his father to, for once, show up. Even as understanding, chilling but real, circled viciously through his mind:I get it, Mom.
Promise, he thought with a choked laugh. Could there be a worse name for a town that had done nothing but fling the True boys out like rocks from a slingshot, landing them anywhere but home? Practically the day after graduation, they’d run as fast and far as they could, without looking back.
And in the process, they’d lost each other.
For Campbell, it had been about survival: escape or let the anger sizzling beneath his skin explode, leveling emotional shrapnel at everyone he loved.
He’d had to create a new life outside the blast radius.
A gust of wind tossed his hair into his face, and he tossed it back. Remembering was pointless. The loss of contact with his cousins after they’d scattered like shards of a vase smashed against marble—a done deal. His depressing childhood? A done deal.
Now, nothing mattered except making sure Kit’s life turned out better than his had.
Campbell finally had the chance to make that happen.
Nearly missing the turn due to the distressing thoughts crowding his mind, he jerked the wheel, tires screeching in protest as he swung onto Main.Slow down, Camp, slow the fuck down.
But the images kept coming, strikes as hard as a fist.
The red brick courthouse emerged from a copse of sugar maples shedding crimson and gold, the curtains on his father’s office window thrown wide, something they’d never been while Nathaniel True sat behind his imposing desk. Wrought-iron benches circled the fountain his grandfather had constructed in the ‘60s, hoping to enticeSouthern Livingto do a story on Promise.
Even with the small town regulars—drugstore, diner, bar, hardware store—holding court, the town appeared slightly revitalized, as his cousin Justin had promised. Colorful storefronts, hanging baskets attached to lampposts, more of those damn benches. Wisteria vines and magnolias, reminders of how far south you were. Rustic charm,Southern Livinghad declared last year, thirty years too late in his grandfather’s opinion.
On the corner, Justin’s gallery, True Art, filtered into view, a photograph Campbell had taken of the Pantheon crowding the front window.
He didn’t know how he felt about his photos stepping back into Promise when he couldn’t.
