Firefly Nights. Cynthia Thomason
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“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