Wild in the Field. Jennifer Greene
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blocking her doorway for an indefinite period of time.
“It’s nothing to me. But it is to you. Have you looked around the farm since you got home?”
“No. Why would I? I’ve got nothing to do with the farm. Violet can do whatever she wants to.” The darn man never moved his eyes, never showed the slightest reaction, but she kept having the sense he was taking in everything about her.
“Camille—you remember how your mother always grew a patch of lavender? You Campbell women always loved the stuff—”
“For heaven’s sake, Pete. Get to the point.”
“Your sister’s been breeding all kinds of lavender.”
“So what?”
He sighed, rubbed his chin. “You want me to get to the point, but it isn’t that easy. She’s gone hog-wild in the greenhouses. Take a look out your window, walk around, you’ll see. She has to have better than twenty acres of lavender planted.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Camille announced.
He didn’t argue with her. He just said, “I think the Herb Haven store is doing okay for her. Pulls in more kooks and New Agers than I can believe. But even if she didn’t have her hands full with the retail and the greenhouses, Violet doesn’t know about land, never did, never cared. And that’s fine, but it’s one thing to let a field go wild, and another to let twenty acres of lavender get out of control—and I’m talking completely out of control. She’s in trouble, Camille.”
“My sister is not in trouble with anything,” Camille told him firmly.
“Okay. I didn’t come to argue. In fact, I told you everything I came to say.” He not only stepped back, but closed the door for her, firmly and quietly. She heard the thud of his boot step on the porch, then nothing as he strode toward his white pickup.
She watched him from the grimy window—even though she didn’t mean to look. Neither Pete MacDougal nor his opinions were any of her business. God knew what that visit was all about, but it didn’t matter.
Violet wasn’t in trouble. Cam had seen her every damn day. Vi was dressing like a model for a gypsy catalog with all the sweeping scarves and flowing blond hair and all—but Violet had always been a girly-girl. She never had a tomboy bone in her body, probably came out of the womb asking Mom for a credit card and directions to the mall. The point being, she might be going a little overboard with the froufrou thing, but Violet was still Violet.
Camille stood in the doorway a moment longer, and then with a sinking feeling of defeat and exhaustion, padded toward the bedroom.
When it came down to it, even if Violet were in trouble—which she wasn’t—Camille likely couldn’t muster enough energy to help her anyway. Right now she couldn’t even help herself. For a brief moment, Pete had sparked something vibrant and unexpected…but that was just a fluke.
There was just nothing in her anymore. Nothing.
It was still raining four days later. The theory about April showers bringing May flowers was all well and good, but these April rains were bleakly chill and relentless—which was why Camille spent two hours hiking outside. The weather suited her mood perfectly.
She didn’t care what Pete MacDougal had told her—in any way. She hadn’t given him another thought—in any way.
The fresh rain stung her cheeks, but still she tromped the fields until her legs ached and she was cold and damp from the inside out. By the time she clomped into her sister’s kitchen, it was just after six. In the back hall, she shed field boots, her father’s thrown-out barn jacket and an old cap. They had given her little protection against the weather. Her dark hair was straggling-wet at the edges, her jeans hemmed with ice-cold mud, and she couldn’t stop shivering.
Naturally, her sister caught her before she had time to run some hot water on her hands.
“Sheesh, Camille. You’re going to catch your death. Come in and get yourself warm, you goose.” Violet had always been a bully. She hustled her into the kitchen, where warm yellow light pooled on the old glass cabinets and potbellied stove and round oak table. Pots simmered on the stove. Counters were crowded with dishes. Smells choked the air.
Dinner was going to be another petrifying meal, Camille sensed.
It was. She pried open lids and covers. The main course appeared to be cod stuffed with spinach. The salad looked to be a bunch of pungent herbs that smelled as if they could not only get a body’s system moving—but moving permanently. The drink was some herbal concoction in a pitcher. Violet hadn’t served normal food since Camille could remember.
“We’re going to start with some Fish Soup Normandy tonight. We’ve got to build you up, Cam. You’re not just skinnier than a rail, those jeans are about to fall off. For Pete’s sake, I’m not sure you could find your butt with a magnifying glass. I’m not sure you even have one anymore.”
Camille cut to more important issues. “What’s in the Normandy soup?”
“Oh, this and that. Celery, onions, carrot, lemon. Herbs and seasonings. And fish heads, of course—”
Camille muttered a swearword. The bad one. Violet just smiled as she scurried around the kitchen. Tonight she was wearing a paisley blouse of some flowing material, her pale blond hair braided with a scarf. “I’ve been working up a storm in the greenhouses. I know it’s hard to believe, but it’s going to be warm in just a couple more weeks….” She glanced up and said carefully, “I saw you out walking.”
Camille scooped up silverware and plates to set the table.
“That’s the first I’ve seen you come out of the cottage—except for coming up here for meals, obviously. You were starting to scare me, Cam.”
“Nothing to be scared about.” She took a breath. “And I’m not going to mooch off you forever. I know I’m not bringing in any money. I don’t want to be a burden. I just—”
“You’re no burden and you’re not mooching, you dimwit. The farm’s yours no different than it’s mine and Daisy’s. You can live here forever, if you want. In fact, there’s tons of space here at the house, you know that—”
“No.” There was no way she could stay here. Her Campbell ancestors had sailed here from Scotland, homesteaded here, put down the first layer of brick and stone. Although generations had added on, it remained a sturdy, serious house with white trim and a shake roof. Inside, the plank floors were polished to a shine. There was still a cane rocker and rag rug by the kitchen potbellied stove. Violet had added the chintz upholstery, the frilly curtains, the Live Well-Love Much-Laugh Often type of homey slogans. Cats nested on most surfaces. The kitchen that had been blue and white, was now red and white, with pots of herbs clustered in the sink window.
And just like when they were growing up, Violet was still incessantly chattering. “Mom and Dad called…”
Camille immediately tensed.
“But I told them you were doing fine.”
There. She relaxed again.
“But then Daisy called. I told her the same thing, that you were doing fine. But you know Daisy. She started talking in that new French accent of hers, bristled up, and said if you don’t call her within the next few days, she’s flying home. I think she actually might, Cam. She needs to hear from you herself.”
“Well, she’s not going to.” Violet might boss her around at times, but she was pretty much a live-and-let-live kind of sister. Daisy was a nightmare. “Just keep telling her I’m fine.”
“Okay.”
Camille stuck a fork in the cod, pushed it around her plate. “Behind the barn, all those acres on the east slope, where everything used to freeze out for Dad…what are you doing there, Vi? With all that lavender?”
Violet brightened.