“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 letfeelingspour out. Even during sex Ienjoy,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 becauseitwas 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.”
“No need to get angry.” John Nelson relaxed in the chair, tucking the note into his pocket. “She knew about the finals, and you didn’t. Simple crossing of paths. Heck, you just got here.”
“Show up if you can.Oh, I’ll show up, because I’m back in Kit’s life, whether F. Quinn thinks it’s a good thing or not. And I’ll make it a good thing or die trying.” Campbell yanked his sweatshirt back on as he crossed the hallway, figuring he could be at the field in fifteen minutes, tops. As if he needed directions tothatgoddamn place.
“Course you will, son,” John Nelson called.
Of course, it had to bebaseball,he thought, taking the veranda steps at a run. He hadn’t set foot on Howard Field since the day he broke two bones in his right hand, bashing his Louisville Slugger against the side of the towering oak behind the third base line, his father and a dozen college recruiters looking on in shocked silence.
Campbell threw his car into gear and roared down the oak-lined drive without a backward glance. Truly, he might lose it if he looked back and saw John Nelson standing there, grinning like Campbell had taken the bait and his advice in one gulp.
His grandfather, he could handle.
But Fontana Quinn?
Campbell’s hands clenched around the wheel. After their last encounter, he wasn’t about to be blindsided this time. He could overlook those sleek legs of hers. Those troubling—and slightly troubled—cobalt eyes. This was business.Familybusiness. His and his alone to deal with.
Somewhat comforted to have a plan in place, he jabbed the volume button until the speakers blared Nirvana at ear-splitting levels. He’d save Billie Holiday for the return trip, because every boy needed an introduction to Lady Day. The earlier, the better.
The shattered pieces of his life were coming together, and he’d be damned if he let another woman stand in his way. For the first time in a long time, inforever, Campbell had something worth fighting for.
FONTANA
“He’s going to cause all kinds of trouble, Jame.” Fontana wrung her hands, then shook them loose, pressing her palm flat against her stomach to still the tremors. “He plans to sell the cottage—mygarden. Move Kit and John Nelson to Atlanta. And there’s not a thing I can do to stop him.”
Jaime Holworth, her best friend and fellow misfit—and, to Campbell True’s thinking, her fiancé—propped his checkered Vans on the empty bleacher seat in front of them. He had a way of smoothing her sharp edges with his easy drawl and tender advice. “You get more flies with honey than vinegar, darling.”
