Читать книгу Firefly Nights - Cynthia Thomason, Cynthia Thomason - Страница 12

CHAPTER FOUR

THE RINGING PHONE irritated Campbell, but not just because he didn’t want to talk to anyone. He couldn’t reach the dang receiver. The phone mocked him from an end table at the far end of the couch, ten feet at least from where he had parked himself in the recliner.

He gripped the arms of the chair and pushed himself up. Swearing under his breath seemed to give him enough strength to hobble to the sofa and sprawl across the three cushions. He’d answer the darn thing now, but he reminded himself to keep the receiver nearby from now on. And then he reminded himself never to crash his plane again. He read the caller ID, Travis Oakes, and punched the connect button. “Dad?”

“Oh, good,” came the calm, authoritative voice of the decorated Army Lieutenant Colonel. “You’re out of the hospital.”

Campbell painfully hoisted himself into a sitting position. “Yeah. They released me about an hour ago. I’ve only been at the motel a few minutes.”

“I’m not happy with your decision, Campbell. I had it all set up with Virgil for you to stay with him and Wanda.”

“Much as that idea warms the cockles of my heart, Dad, I chose this option.”

His father chuckled. “I know Wanda can be difficult...”

“She’s a self-righteous harpy,” Campbell said.

“But she knows how to make chicken soup,” his father pointed out.

“I don’t like chicken soup.”

There was a pause during which Campbell figured his dad was preparing a lecture about common sense in times of adversity.

Thankfully Travis surprised him. “So, what arrangements have you made?” he asked. “Who’s looking in on you?”

“Virgil found someone. I’ll be fine.”

“Someone with medical experience?”

Kitty Watley? Campbell wasn’t one to draw upon stereotypes when evaluating an individual, but in this case he would bet money on the fact that he knew more about nursing than this quirky, out-of-luck, out-of-options lady did. And his expertise was limited to the variety pack of bandages in the tin under his sink.

“I assume so,” he said. “Virgil thinks she can handle the job. And besides, I have a home health person coming twice a week to clean the surgery incisions.”

“That’s good. Can the woman Virgil hired fix your meals?”

“He claims she’s a great cook.”

“Okay, I guess that will suffice. How are you feeling?”

Campbell pressed his hand over his chest. “Pretty good.” Lousy. Like I could spit hot nails. “Still some pain, but it’s not too bad.”

“This is a mess, son. I can’t locate your mother in South America or I’d demand that she come to Sorrel Gap and take care of you.”

Playing host to his mother had all the makings of a nightmare. Campbell knew Vivian Parnell Oakes didn’t respond well to demands. She and Travis had been forced to accept that fact three years after they married, and Vivian had run for the hills. At that time, the hills had been the Pyrenees, not the gentle rises of Sorrel Gap, North Carolina. It seemed Campbell and his father had both chose women who hated having their wings clipped.

“Don’t worry about it, Dad,” Campbell said. “Mom’ll probably call me in the next few days, and I’ll tell her what happened. But I don’t need to ask for her help.”

His father sighed. “You’re better off not to expect it, Camp. I wish I could have stayed longer.”

“Hey, you were here after the accident. That’s enough. I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can, most of the time. Just keep this woman Virgil found on her toes. I know how you like things around your place—neat and orderly. Don’t let her slack off and take advantage of you.”

Campbell smiled to himself. He’d grown up under the strict but fair supervision of Travis Oakes. Now they both believed in the same motto. No slackers allowed. “Would I do that?”

“No, you wouldn’t. I’ve got to run. I’ll call you again in a couple of days. You know where you can reach me.”

“I do, Dad.” The last thing on Campbell’s agenda was whining to his father. Besides, Fort Irwin, California, was a long way from the Saddle Top Motel. Campbell was on his own. And as bad as his situation was, he thought of Wanda and knew things could be worse.

He set the phone back on its cradle and reached across the sofa for his book. He’d just found his place and resumed reading when he heard a tap at his door.

“Hey, you in there?”

He laid the book on the coffee table and stared at fingers wrapped around the partially open door. “I am,” he said. “Where else would I be?”

The door swung open the rest of the way and banged against the wall, leaving a permanent mark on the new paint job. Adam Watley, his shorts reaching below his knees, sauntered inside. “Oh yeah, I guess you’re stuck here even more than we are. At least we can walk away.”

Campbell acknowledged the obvious conclusion with a frown.

“My mom sent me over to see if you have any soap larger than a bottle cap and maybe made in this century.” To illustrate, he unwrapped a pint-size bar of motel soap, held the paper by a corner and let the crumbling contents of Cashmere Bouquet fall to the floor.

Campbell stared at the polished honey maple planks he’d recently refinished and imagined the kid pulverizing soap shavings into a gummy mess with his bulky sneakers. “In the bathroom,” he said, pointing over his shoulder to the door to his right. “Under the sink. And clean up the mess you just made before you walk in it.”

Satisfied for the moment when Adam sidestepped the soap, Campbell picked up his book and tried to reacquaint himself with the hero’s dilemma. Trapped in a dank basement, his wrists handcuffed to a steam pipe and the bad guys just upstairs, the fictional cop’s problems were worse than his own, but only barely.

The kid returned with a regular-sized bar of Dial and stood directly in front of the couch. Without waiting to be acknowledged, he blurted out, “Are you a neat freak?”

Campbell dropped the book to his lap. “What?”

“That cabinet in the bathroom. All the bottles are in a line, shortest to tallest. The towels are in rolls, for Pete’s sake. It’s like you’re expecting the queen of England to stop by.”

Campbell reminded himself to give the kid the benefit of the doubt for now. Maybe nobody had ever taught him basic manners. “No. I’m not expecting anyone in here for any reason. Got the message?”

Adam snorted through his nose. “Yeah, but it won’t work. Mom’s coming over to fix your lunch.” He bounced the bar of Dial in his palm. “She just wanted to wash her hands first. Our room is disgusting.”

“I’ll tell housekeeping.”

“Huh? We’ve actually got a maid?”

Campbell rolled his eyes.

“Oh. Funny.” When Campbell started reading again, Adam turned toward the door, but stopped when he spied the fifty-two-inch TV in the middle of an oak entertainment center. A baseball game was on the screen, the volume turned low. Adam squawked. Campbell looked up to see the kid’s jaw drop. He backed up a couple of steps and plopped onto the sofa. “You’ve got cable!”

“No, I don’t,” Campbell said, wincing at the pain the kid’s uninvited and inconsiderate movement had caused in his chest. “There’s no cable out here. I’ve got a satellite dish.”

“Even better!” His eyes lit up when he spotted the remote control on the table. “I want to be connected in our room!”

Campbell scowled at him. “They don’t let juvenile offenders have luxuries like three hundred TV channels.”

“Heck, if I was in prison I’d have a better TV in my cell than that crappy ol’—”

“Adam!” Kitty Watley burst into the room like an avenging angel and swooped over her son. “I just told you not ten minutes ago to stop complaining.”

He shrugged. “I forgot.”

“Apologize to Mr. Oakes.”

“For what?”

“For expressing your opinions in such a vulgar way.”

Campbell raised his eyebrows. “Actually I’ve been known to use worse language than that.” Like when I’m in a plane heading nose-down with fuel spraying in all directions.

A full thirty seconds passed before Adam responded to a nudge by his mother and mumbled, “Sorry.”

“While you’re being so humble,” Campbell said, “get the dustpan and a whisk broom out of the closet and sweep up those soap crumbs. Maybe the next time you want to make a point you won’t use visual effects.”

Adam shuffled to the closet, and his mother took his place on the sofa. At least when she sat, she didn’t send shock waves into Campbell’s cracked ribs. But she did wiggle, and for some reason, that bothered Campbell more than the kid’s unceremonious plopping. She placed her hand flat against her bare chest above the top of a tank-type shirt. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Oakes. Adam is high-spirited. He doesn’t mean any harm, but...”

“Do you always apologize for your son?” Campbell said. “If so, it must take up a lot of your time.”

“Well, there are days. Unfortunately Adam has had some bad influences on his life.”

Typical cop-out for lack of discipline. “So you’re using the wrong-crowd theory as a defense for the boy’s behavior?”

Kitty’s clear, disturbingly blue eyes locked on to his. “It’s more the wrong role model. But Adam won’t cause you any trouble, I promise.” She stood up and headed toward the kitchen. “I’ll get your lunch now.”

“You don’t have to. I’m not hungry after all.”

She stopped, turned and placed her hands on the waistband of her low-slung pants. “You’ve got to eat. Otherwise you won’t get your strength back.”

He turned a page in his book. “That, Miss Kitty, is up to a power much greater than the meager benefits of a bologna sandwich.”

Confusion veiled her eyes for an instant. But then her foot started tapping in its ridiculously impractical sandal. “I told your uncle I would take care of you, and I intend to keep my word.”

“Yeah, you’ve got to keep the hoodlum out of jail...”

Her eyes narrowed. She took in a sharp breath that seemed to raise her up a couple of inches. “However...” She drew the word out for several seconds. “I can only put food in front of you. I can’t give you the good sense to eat it.” She lifted her chin in a defiant gesture. “I guess either you were born with that or you weren’t.”

He stared at her, waiting for her to look away. She didn’t, so he hitched one shoulder in what he knew was childish insolence. “Suit yourself.”

As he watched her walk to the refrigerator, he pondered the information she’d given him. What role model had the kid had in his life? Was Kitty talking about the boy’s father? Was she married? If so, where was the man who should be taking care of this desperate pair? Was he going to show up at the Saddle Top Motel someday?

That was all he’d need. Campbell felt the first manifestation of unease coil like a spring in his gut. He didn’t want to be in the middle of a domestic dispute, forced to defend this duo, not in the condition he was in. Then he remembered Virgil had referred to Kitty as “Miss Watley.” That eliminated the husband possibility, if Virgil was right. But it didn’t eliminate an ex-boyfriend one.

After she took a can from the cupboard and a package of lunch meat from the refrigerator, Kitty looked over her shoulder at him. It was the first time he realized he was still staring at her and that he probably shouldn’t be.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Oakes?” she asked.

Truly he was gawking at her as if he’d been trapped in a mine shaft for a week and she was the sun. “Nothing’s wrong,” he barked at her. She lifted her eyebrows, waiting for a logical explanation. He certainly couldn’t tell her that he’d been memorizing every curve under that shirt, so he improvised. “It’s those clothes you’re wearing. They’re, uh, interesting to say the least.”

That was a stupid thing to say. What did he know about women’s clothes? Only that the hip-hugging pants and top that Kitty wore had to be the most unforgiving garments he’d ever seen on a female. If she’d had a blemish anywhere on her torso, he’d have seen the outline through that fabric. But the more he looked, the more he concluded that she was awfully pretty.

She grinned bashfully and turned her attention to heating something on the stove. “Thanks, Mr. Oakes. These clothes certainly aren’t fashion statements, but they’re comfortable.”

Kitty Watley was strange. He’d expected her to blast him for what some women would have interpreted as a snide comment about her appearance. That’s exactly what Diana would have done if, heaven forbid, there had ever been a reason for him to question her impeccable taste. And yet Kitty had taken it like a compliment.

Once again he found himself searching for the right words. “I wish you’d stop calling me ‘Mr. Oakes,’” he finally said. “It makes me feel old, as well as lame.”

She slathered something on two pieces of bread. “Okay. You’re certainly not old, Campbell. And once your leg heals, you won’t be lame, either.”

If only the doctors were as confident, he thought. “When you’ve got that food ready, you can leave it on the end table. Then you and the kid can take yours and go.”

A few minutes later Kitty quietly set a tray on the table without disturbing his reading as her oblivious son had done. But this time it wouldn’t have mattered, since Campbell hadn’t done anything but stare at the pages as if they were blank. She brought him a glass of water and his pain pills and then took her own food and left with Adam, who had spent the past minutes zipping through the channels on his remote.

Almost as if he owed Kitty some consideration, Campbell forced himself to eat the cheese and bologna sandwich and, of all things, chicken soup.

When he finished eating, Campbell took his pills and watched a few minutes of the baseball game before shutting off the TV. He picked up his book, slammed it closed and set it down again. He glared at the useless leg, which prevented him from going outside in the cleansing mountain air and walking off the restlessness.

And then he opened the end table drawer and took out the half dozen postcards from Diana that for some stupid reason he’d saved over the past few months. He flipped through them, staring at the typical tourist photos again. The Piazza San Marco in Venice. The Place Royale in Bordeaux. The Grote Markt in Antwerp. Beautiful places that, at one time, he could have imagined visiting with Diana.

Once he finished reading, Campbell ripped the cards into shreds before realizing he’d have to pick up all the pieces from the floor.

He blamed Kitty Watley for this infuriating and completely uncharacteristic emotional outburst. Before this darn accident, when work occupied his days, he’d convinced himself that he was finally over Diana Matheson. Cool, sophisticated, boarding school–bred Diana, who’d knocked him for a loop the first time he saw her. He had adored her since the night she showed up at her father’s estate, home from her European trip.

The day she agreed to become his wife had been the happiest of his life. He’d given her a ring and urged her to set a date. He was anxious to settle down with her, have a family. She kept putting him off, and she did it so cleverly he hardly noticed. Or maybe he just wasn’t smart enough to read the signs.

Eventually Campbell realized that Diana would never be his. She’d never commit to a simple ex-military type like him, who worked for her father. To preserve what was left of his dignity, he told Diana goodbye. And then, weeks later, the postcards started to arrive, and Campbell resented the heck out of the fact that Diana didn’t want him but wouldn’t let him go.

It wasn’t Kitty’s fault that her very femaleness sent Campbell spiraling down to that dark period after he’d packed his bags and left the Matheson estate. When he settled back in Sorrel Gap, he gave himself time and permission to think of Diana. He missed what he’d hoped they would have together with a deep ache that stole peace from his daylight hours and sleep from his nights. But he didn’t regret his decision, any more than he regretted tearing up those postcards today. In Sorrel Gap he’d hoped to start over. But he wasn’t doing such a bang-up job of it so far.

Kitty and Diana were nothing alike except that they were both women. Diana had everything she’d ever wanted. Kitty obviously survived on the barest essentials. Campbell had sworn off all women for now, but especially rich, spoiled ones who would choose money and possessions over everything else.

The phone rang again, jolting Campbell from his pathetic self-pity. He picked it up. “Hello.”

“It’s Virgil. Just wanted you to know I got the phone turned on in unit six so you can reach Kitty when you need her. Here’s the number...”

Campbell scribbled it down on a pad, though he wasn’t likely to use it. He was a long way from admitting that he needed anyone.