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&B, he reasoned, sprinting up the narrow drive, pebbles shifting beneath Chuck Taylors completely unsuited to running but all he’d packed in his haste. Thick columns supported a breezy second-story veranda, rows of shuttered windows reaching to the floor, a design feature not seen in houses for over a hundred years. Six bedrooms and four and a half baths. A perfectly adequate darkroom on the third floor, unless Celia had torn it to shit. He’d been afraid, with emotions running wild and free, to look. Spacious kitchen, although it now resembled something a demented sorceress had vomited up.
With a few repairs, it would do justice to anyone’s idea of a dream locale—more than a farm with fields prime for planting soybeans, cotton, corn, collards.TheSouthern fantasy that lived in movies and books.
“Still running, I see,” John Nelson said as Campbell haltedat the foot of the steps. “‘Bouttrim enough, don’t you think?” A wood shaving dropped between his grandfather’s feet, his hands working with practiced proficiency.
“John Nelson.” Campbell propped his hands on his knees, hung his head, and gasped for air. “How are you?”
“Good for a man whose eldest grandson refuses to call him anything butJohn Nelson.”
Campbell straightened with a sigh.
“Don’t ask”—brown eyes dulled by age met his—“if you don’t want to know.”
A loose shutter slapped against the side of the house, drawing Campbell’s attention away from the man regarding him far too astutely for comfort.Oh, yeah, it wasthelook all right. “I thought Jules McGraw was maintaining the place. I sign the checks,” he said, tugging at his damp shirt as he fought for breath. “Some job he’s done. Weeds poking through cracks in the cement, shrubs so overgrown they’re blocking the windows. It’s a goddamned jungle out here.”
“Guess”—John Nelson spat on the wood and rubbed it in, a trick he swore helped him dig the blade in deeper—“when you sell the place, it’ll get the care and attention it deserves. Like your mother’s studio is getting.”
“Why don’t we hire Miss Quinn to do the yard work, then?” Her incredible garden, eclipsed only by her incredible sapphire eyes, flashed through his mind. “Mowing lawns is her profession, isn’t it?”
“Skinny-ass didn’t want another woman—especiallya prettier one—hanging around. Fine to let another woman raise her son, though.”
Campbell backhanded sweat from his brow. “Yeah, well, Celia’s not a problem anymore.”
John Nelson’s chalky-white brow arched, the blade poised above the wood. “Never a problem for anyone but you.”
“Oh, Jesus, let’s not get intothatagain.”
“Your pa was wrong. Dead wrong. Can’t a person be wrong now and again?”
Campbell scrubbed his hand over his mouth, laughing roughly behind it. “I guess I can’t blame a man for accepting the word of a young, adoring wife over one of a rebellious, disdainful son. In terms of solace, Celia possessed more arsenal.”
John Nelson frowned, creased skin creasing further. “Boy, you ain’t learned anything yet. Don’t you remember the lessons I taught you, sitting right here on my knee? Look deeper.”
“I remember hiding the single passion of my life from my father, because I didn’t want to follow in dear ol’ Dad’s political footsteps. I remember the scene he made when he realized what I intended to do withmyfuture. It’s as clear as a smooth kick of scotch against the back of my throat. Which reminds me.” Taking the steps two at a time, he flung the screen door back on its hinges. He was down the hallway, glass in hand and an open decanter on the desk in front of him, by the time his grandfather made it to the den.
The strength of John Nelson’s grip surprised him; 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. “Sorryto 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, Ihavelearned. 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.”
