Wild in the Field

Eight

The only reason Camille went up to dinner was because she knew Violet would raise hell if she didn’t. Still, she went to the trouble of unearthing some blush and lipstick-not for vanity-but hoping some face paint would hide her real mood from her sister.

As she crossed the yard to the farmhouse, though, her heart felt heavier than mud. Man. She thought she’d shaken the worst of the dark funks in the past couple weeks, but the dragon had come back to bite her in the butt since arguing with Pete that morning.

It seemed as if every direction she turned, she was doing something wrong. Darn it, she was still living like a kid on a campout. She still couldn’t seem to imagine a regular job, and couldn’t dredge any interest in ever going back to the marketing work she’d once loved. She’d gotten herself involved with a man who’d been hurt by a woman before, and so had his boys. And if she didn’t get her head on straighter, she risked hurting them, too. And she wanted and needed to help her sister do something-the problems with the lavender field being an obvious way Vi needed help-only Camille couldn’t cope with that alone, either.

“Uh-oh,” Violet said the minute she walked in the door. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing! I’m totally fine. Let’s talk about you.”

But Violet had always been her most annoying sister. Once Vi got it in her head there was a problem, the fussing never let up. No matter what she said, Violet tuned into a pep-up channel. “You’re not useless. Don’t be ridiculous. Everybody goes through hard things. You have to give yourself time to let yourself heal. Would you go through a surgical operation and expect to be back at work the next day?”

“Violet, you don’t have to be so nice to me. It’s driving me crazy to be such a burden.”

“You’re not a burden. What you need is strength. And I made just the foods to help you!”

Violet laid out a feast. Lentil-rice patties. Some kind of fish with a spinach sauce. Lavender-buttered turnips and a lemon-lavender loaf. Peachy sweet potatoes.

Camille exchanged glances with Killer, who took one good sniff and then flopped on the floor with his eyes closed.

“And I made you a tonic for those headaches you get,” Violet said brightly.

“Thanks so much.”

“The sweet potatoes are especially important. They have a natural estrogen. And the spinach and lentils-you have to build up some iron, some strength-so I want you to have double servings.”

She glanced desperately at Killer again, but he shot her a look as if to say: Don’t look at me. She’s your family, not mine.

By the time dinner was over, Camille was hungry enough to chew rope. Not only was the menu inedible, but Violet followed up with a whole bubbly program of ideas-like wanting to give her a massage and relaxation exercises and force her into a warm bath with lavender bath salts. The instant dishes were done, Camille fled with the dog.

She was almost desperate enough to drive into town for some doughnuts and Oreos and other serious staples, but once she got back to the cottage, she changed her mind. Still strewn through the living room were all the packing boxes and cases that she still hadn’t tackled. They seemed glaring symbols of how long she’d wallowed in being miserable. She simply had to get on the other side of this tragedy. Kick it up. Move on.

So she opened the first box…and immediately found a box of CDs. Robert’s CDs. Like the songs he’d played the first time he’d made love to her…and the music he always picked when they were dressing up for a night on the town…and the music he’d played the day they’d painted the kitchen. Her hands jumped back as if burned. She tried to realistically remind herself that she’d never even liked Robert’s music-any more than he’d liked hers. But that wasn’t the problem. The problem was the singe of memories.

She pushed that box aside and determined, cracked open a giant-sized crate. This one held kitchen supplies-only not the usual array of practical pots and pans-but wedding gifts. Sterling silver cake plates and fondue pots and butter warmers and waffle makers-still as new as the day she’d opened them and warmly promised the gift givers that she’d cherish and use their gift every day of their married lives.

Okay. So that was another throat-tightening box, but stubbornly she reached for a different one. This carton should have been memory-safe, because it held nothing but clothes-winter sweaters, hers, nothing that belonged to Robert. Except that the first item on top was the green sweater he’d bought for her last birthday. She remembered opening it, remembered saying, “Oh, I love it, you darling!” but she also remembered having the traitorous thought that Robert couldn’t possibly really know her, because she’d never be able to wear that vomit-green color in a thousand years.

Camille slammed down that box, too, making Killer jump. “We’re going to throw all these things out tomorrow,” she told the dog. And when Killer didn’t look particularly believing, she said, “Come on! I’m not being a coward. It’s not like that. For heaven’s sake, it’s almost eight o’clock and we’ve been running all day. It’s ridiculous to start anything this huge this late at night.” But when Killer still looked skeptical, she said a four-letter word and knuckled under.

She couldn’t just throw out boxes without looking at the contents, because there were serious belongings in some of them-things she’d need once she got around to putting her life back together. So she sorted, then put box after box in the trunk of her car, then carted two entire trunk loads to the dump. That was all she could possibly handle, though. When she drove back home after the second trek, the sky was midnight-black; the wind had a scissor-sharp chill to it, and she was so whipped that her head was pounding.

She pushed her shoes off at the door, peeled off clothes as she walked, and then simply threw herself into bed. There was no doubt in her mind she’d sleep like the dead.

Or that was the plan.

It didn’t seem to quite work out that way.

The dream started with memory flashes from her wedding. Her mom, Margaux, was fluffing her hair, fixing her dress, looking at her with serious-mom eyes. It was her mom who’d waited until they were alone to give her a private present of some lethally sexy French satin lingerie. And her mom who’d said, “You’re the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen. But if you’re not sure, we’ll stop this right now, darling.”

And then her dad was suddenly in the dream, Colin with his far-seeing blue eyes and the pipe he sneaked away from his wife. To her dad, she’d never been able to do wrong, yet it was her dad who wrapped her in a burly hug and said gruffly, “I never thought a city boy’d make you happy, Cam, not you, but if he’s what you want, I’ll love him. Just so you know that I’ll shoot him if he isn’t good to you.”

She kept tossing and turning in the dream, because she wanted her dad so badly. She wanted her mom. Just once she wanted to be young again, a girl, safe in her parents’ secure arms, Margaux with her wildly emotional nature, and her dad who’d tromp the woods with her, rain or shine. Daisy was suddenly there- Daisy, who was always so exotic and sexy and striking compared to her and Vi. “Don’t go to Boston,” Daisy said. “He’s nice, sweets, but there’s just no way he’ll hold you for long. Pick a man who opens your world. Don’t go to Boston, don’t go to Boston.”

The dream turned dark so fast. The wedding suddenly became a wild thunderstorm, and the beautiful white dress somehow turned into a devil-black cloud that choked her, pressing tight, smothering he. Suddenly there was an explosion of pain, when a fist slammed into her face. She heard Robert’s helpless cry of pain, heard the judge’s voice say, “First offense, first offense. Let’s not compound this by making more of a tragedy than it already is.” She woke up in the hospital, knowing he was dead, knowing her life was over. She heard the scrape of her broken ribs when she tried to move, the fear, the sickening fear of those men in the dark; she could still hear their drug-crazed laughter…

“No, no, no. Cut that out. You’re not alone.”

Even though it was a dream, she recognized Pete faster than a snap and thought thank God, thank God. Like a miracle, he was just suddenly there right when she needed him. Like magic, she could rope her arms around him and be held, as fiercely as she wanted, as strongly as she needed. “I’m so tired of having this stupid damned nightmare,” she said.

“Well, you’re not going to have it anymore. I’m right here. We’re going to chase it away.”

A swoosh of a kiss made her head fall back into the pillows. That kiss…it seemed so real. She could taste Pete, smell his night-cool skin, feel the flannel of his shirt, the weight of him in the bed next to her. Somewhere, a window seemed to let in the drift of cool air-real air. Somewhere, Killer grumbled at the intrusion and jumped off the bed-as if the dog had really been snoozing at her feet.

It was amazing, how real some dreams were. Even better, though, was knowing that she could do things, say things, in a dream that she obviously could never do in real life.

“I’m afraid, Pete,” she whispered.

“Of course you’ve been afraid.”

“And I just can’t seem to stop feeling…guilty. That he died and I didn’t. That he tried to fight them off for me, and I couldn’t fight them off for him.”

“We’re not going to talk about him,” Pete said, and kissed her again.

Naturally she’d had erotic dreams before-who hadn’t? But nothing like this. There was another mysterious dream kiss, than another-each hotter than passion, wetter than a river, kisses that flowed and waved and ebbed all around her. His flannel shirt disappeared faster than a poof, just like magic. She heard some vague shuffling sounds-like his boots dropping-then felt the whoosh of cold night air when the sheets were skimmed off her bare body.

For an instant, she was disorientingly aware that maybe this wasn’t a dream, because she really was cold. But then, so swiftly, so easily, she wasn’t. Pete’s long, strong body covered hers, wrapped her up in his long limbs and warm torso. He showered her with more kisses-kisses like presents, each wrapped differently, each packaged like a surprise. Some were pretty and tender, some soft and bright, some so erotic and exotic they took her breath away.

Some skimmed down her body with his tongue, taking in everything, breast, tummy, navel, thigh, one lick at a time. A night beard teased her tender skin, inflamed her senses. He kept whispering, whispering, “Forget everything, Cam. Just think about this. Just be. Just let me love you.”

Something was suspicious.

Mighty suspicious.

Still, she was almost positive the only thing intruding on this extraordinary dream was her conscience. It was terribly disturbing to realize that she’d never felt this way with Robert. This wicked. This thrilled. As if she could soar, just from the lush sensations of wanting and being wanted, loving and being loved.

Damn it, she’d loved Robert, with everything she had, with everything she was. And she was tired to bits of living with that conscience hounding, hounding, hounding her all the time…and tonight, she didn’t care what was suspicious or not. Tomorrow she’d try harder to be mean and ornery again, to push people away, to protect herself. But tonight…

Tonight she desperately wanted this dream. She wanted…

Pete.

No one and nothing but him. The lush, wicked sensations of being taken over, taken under. His mouth, teasing hers, taking hers. His hands, moving her to madness, coaxing her to want, to need, to hunger, to feel, to sense, to touch back. To feel alive.

In the velvet shadows, he climbed over her. She felt his thighs, tight, hard, when he coaxed her legs around his waist. He tested her for readiness, found her hot, wet, impatiently more than ready for him, before he plunged in, taking her or maybe her taking him by then-who could possibly tell the difference? They were part of each other, inseparable. Each strained for the next height, climbing together, both furiously wanting by then, not having fun, not anymore. Ecstasy was a serious business. Joy took intense concentration, intense giving.

“Pete, Pete…” She wasn’t sure if she said his name aloud. It seemed as if her heart called him, wooing him, wanting him.

And then they both tipped off the sky, spilled into the universe of each other. One sweet, fierce release followed the next, until she sank into the pillows, into his arms, still panting hard, too spent to talk…but not so tired that she lost the energy to hold and be held. She smiled at him in the darkness, tenderly touched his lips with her finger.

“I didn’t know,” she whispered. She didn’t finish the thought. She wasn’t sure there was a finish. It seemed as if everything inside her was a tender beginning, created by Pete, possible because of Pete. She smiled again, nuzzling her lips into his neck, and fell asleep heavier than a brick.

The next thing she knew, sunlight was streaming through the bedroom blinds in ribbons. She felt the warmth on her skin, the sensation of well-being and sleepy security, and lazily opened her eyes. There was Killer, his snout on her sheet, eyes staring hopefully at hers from mere inches away.

“I take it you want to go outside,” she murmured.

The dog woofed.

“Exactly when did you start sleeping in my bedroom? The last thing I knew, you worthless mutt, you were sleeping outside.”

The dog laved her hand lovingly.

“I’m not keeping you, remember? You don’t belong to me. Nothing belongs to me, Killer. So don’t get attached.”

The dog woofed again, and then reached over to lovingly wash her face. The feel of that long, wet tongue got her out of bed bouncing-fast.

She let the dog outside, then stumbled back into the bedroom and sank on the bed’s edge, just for a few moments, struggling to get her emotional bearings. Last night simply had to have been a dream. Really, there wasn’t even a question in her mind about that. In real life, she’d never have done those things, felt those things. It was unfair to make herself feel guilty for a dream. It was just disconcerting because everything about their lovemaking had seemed so exquisitely real. The sex was part of that, but the invasive memories that shook her far more were her feelings for Pete, the feelings he’d shown her, how they were together, all the love and tenderness and sensitive caring he’d given her so freely. Obviously, it had been fantasy. A superb fantasy, but nothing she had to worry was conceivably true…

From the corner of her eye, she spotted the sock on the floor. It wasn’t remotely unusual to see socks on the floor, of course, and the cottage was an extra disaster this morning because of all her unpacking and box-hauling the night before.

But this particular sock wasn’t hers.

This particular sock was as big as a football.

Practically as big as a boat.

Only one person she knew had feet that big-and he was no fantasy.

Suddenly there was no more pretending-especially to herself. Her breath caught, and suddenly Camille couldn’t swallow.

She finished an entire row of lavender in record time-and had record blisters to prove it. When she stopped to yank off her gloves, two of the darn blisters broke, and stung like fire.

She hung a swearword on the wind, and then took a long, slow look at the field.

The lavender was barely recognizable from the knobby, weed patch it’d been weeks ago. It wasn’t perfect. There was no way to make it perfect in a single year. But the mulch had prettied up the rows, cuddled under the plants, and each trimmed lavender plant now looked evenly rounded, its fronds green and soft. There was no sign of purple yet, but there was a promise of that color, and a hint of the scent in the new growth.

There were still a couple more rows to finish. That was all, but they were long rows. Camille sighed. Truth to tell, she’d made two days of headway just this afternoon alone. One advantage to being miserably upset was that she’d worked double fast. The disadvantage was the blisters, the backache and the weak left ankle. She shook her hand, as if wind could somehow chase away the fiery hurt, and then spotted Laurel and Hardy loping over the knoll, in their baggy pants and high-class clippers.

“Hey, Camille.” Sean and Simon spoke with one voice and a matched pair of frowns.

“I don’t need help today,” she said.

“Yeah, well, that’s what you always say.” Simon ignored her. “Don’t start with us. We had a bad day.”

She didn’t ask. It wasn’t her problem, why the boys were grumpy. It was her problem, trying to figure out why the boys’ father had climbed in her bedroom window and made love to her until she couldn’t see straight.

She had no answer for either question-only four hours worth of blisters to testify that she’d tried her best to figure it out.

Killer, the traitor, hustled from boy to boy to be petted and cosseted, as if the damn dog thought it was loved and desired. Sean always spent some time stroking the dog, but invariably it was Simon who baby-talked and really fussed. Today, though, neither spent much time on Killer. They both worked down a row clip-clip-clipping as if they were both suffering from the same sore tooth.

Camille started on the last row, but without bandages on her blisters, even the smallest clip made her wince.

Sean easily caught up with her, from his side of the far row. “Dad’s going to let me get a horse.”

“I thought he’d said absolutely no.”

“Yeah, well. He changed his mind.”

Camille didn’t care, but damnation. The last she knew, a horse was the kid’s most ardent desire, worth fire and brimstone at the very least. Yet now, Sean couldn’t seem to come through with a smile to save his life. “So that’s soon?”

“I’m having a little trouble pinning him down. I know I can’t even start looking until school’s out. But then, I guess. Anyway, she called last night.”

The last sentence was tacked on as if it logically followed. Camille sensed that the most intelligent thing she could do was shut up and not invite trouble, but somehow she had to poke out one more question. “Who called?”

“Mom.” The tone was disgusted, furious, the head bent way down. “I don’t know why Dad didn’t pick up the phone. Probably because he doesn’t hear it when he buries himself in the study real late. And Gramps-when he’s in his room, he can’t hear any of the phones anymore.”

“No?”

Sean glanced over to where Simon was working. “He talked to her, too. Like we wanted to hear from her, you know? After all this time.”

He clipped and pruned, dropping the dead branches in baskets as he went, head still bent as if hiding from a storm.

“It was unbelievable. She leaves us, you know? Because we don’t matter enough to her to stay. She doesn’t care about us. But now she calls, wanting it to be okay. Like sure.”

Camille quit pretending to work.

“She says, like, she needed space. She says how she felt smothered. She says she was afraid she’d have a complete breakdown if she lived in the country another minute, so that was why she left, because she didn’t want us exposed to her going crazy. She didn’t want to hurt us. You ever heard such bullshit?”

Simon, who was supposed to be clipping down at the far end of the row, had mysteriously scooched up to the other side of Sean’s row. “Don’t say bullshit in front of Camille, stupid.”

“Why? She doesn’t mind. She’s like us.”

“I don’t mind,” Camille agreed.

“See. She’s no girl type. She’s like us.” Clip-clip. Clip-clip. “You know what I told my mom?”

“No. What?”

“It’s like she wanted us to tell her it was okay. That she just took off on us. Well, it’s not okay.” Sean lifted his face, just for an instant, his eyes aching with fury.

“So we told her just what she’d told us.” Simon tucked his head down now. “We told her we needed some space. Like how we felt smothered living with a mother all the time. So she could just have a real great time with her boyfriend, because we didn’t need her. And Dad doesn’t need her either, or any other woman, too.”

Everybody clipped. A cloud chased across the sun, than bared it. Sean said, “We were gonna wake Dad and tell him about the call, but we figured he was either working or sleeping, because we didn’t hear him behind either door. So we told him this morning.”

“He was pretty mad,” Simon said.

“Mad at you two?”

Sean and Simon both shrugged. “He said we should have been nicer. He said, no matter what she did, she’s still our mother. He said, that the fact of her calling meant that she was at least trying to say she was sorry. I said that was totally stupid.”

“I said it was totally stupid, too,” Simon affirmed.

“Then he got madder. You think that was fair?”

Camille gulped. “Hey, what are you asking me for? This is between you two and your dad. My opinion isn’t worth anything.”

“It is to us,” Sean said. “We think Dad should have been on our side. And we don’t see one single reason why we should have been nicer. Like what kind of excuse is that about needing space?”

“It’s no excuse at all,” Camille agreed.

“You don’t leave people you love when it’s tough. That’s when you stay and stick it out. That’s always what Dad said before. Mom just left because she wanted to. Period. She didn’t care about us. That’s the way it is.”

“So why are we supposed to be nice?” Sean demanded.

Both of them looked at her, waiting. Camille threw up her hands. “Look, you guys. I’m the last person in the world you should be asking. I don’t claim to have any answers for anyone.”

“But that’s exactly why we’re asking you. You’re the only one who isn’t always telling us what to do. All we’re asking is what you think, for Pete’s sake. Sheesh.”

Sean sounded so disgusted with her that she felt compelled to at least say something. “Well…what I think…is that it’s about time your mom called and started to try to make amends. And personally, I don’t see any problem with you being honest with her. You guys have every reason to feel angry. And you have every right to let her know how you feel. It’s up to her to figure out what she wants to do about that.”

“See,” Simon muttered to Sean. “I told you Camille’d take our side.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute. Don’t be thinking your dad isn’t on your side. He just wants you two to take the higher ground. You don’t want to do the same thing your mother did, now do you? Run away because something was hard?”

“Hey, we’re not running from anything,” Simon protested.

“It’s not like we’re afraid to talk to her or anything like that,” Sean agreed.

“Well, good,” Camille said. “Because I think that’s probably what your dad’s trying to get you to see-that nobody’s winning the way it is. Your mom made a big mistake. Nothing she says or does is going to erase that. So maybe you can’t forgive her, and maybe you can’t accept what she’s done, at least right now. But if you can’t talk to her-at all-how can it ever get better?”

“What’s to get better? We don’t need her.”

“We don’t need women ever again.” Simon said. “Except you. We didn’t mean to include you with the creeps, Cam,” he said warmly.

“Yeah, Cam.” Sean slapped her companionably on the back, hard enough to make her rock forward. “You’re one of us. We’d never lump you with the women. We know we can trust you.”

Her heart froze. She’d seen this coming. Pete’s boys liking her, their wanting to depend on her. They needed to depend on someone-a woman-exactly because of what their mother had done to them. But if she couldn’t get her own life together, what kind of role model could she possibly be for them?

And if she couldn’t be the kind of role model that they really could trust, she simply had no business embroiling her life any closer with Pete and his family.