Jennifer Greene - Wild in the Field

“Dadblamit, MacDougal! I’m not going to take any more insults from you!”

He blinked. “Actually, I just got here, so really, I’ve only had a chance to insult you once. And then, what can I say? You are wetter than the dog. Got more suds and mud on you than the dog twice over. But I don’t recall say anything else-”

“Well, you didn’t. Today. But you sure filled your boys’ ears last week!”

She shot past him so fast he didn’t have a chance to register more than a “Huh?” More interesting, since she’d neglected to forbid him inside the door, he trailed in after her.

Years ago, he’d seen the inside of the cottage. A great-grandmother had lived there for years, had still been around to hand out cookies and candy at Halloween when he’d been a kid. He remembered the place as being small, but full of color and light.

Now the whole fireplace wall was stacked to the ceiling with moving boxes-Pete assumed that Camille still hadn’t unpacked from Boston. The windows looked washed, but otherwise the level of dust rivaled his sons’ housekeeping. He saw boxes for fancy kitchen equipment, like the latest in coffeemakers and pasta makers and toast makers and all those other “makers”-yet none of that was unpacked. In fact, through the doorway of the old-fashioned kitchen, he could see a battered stainless coffeepot on the old stove that was too pitiful to be called an antique.

So she was still camping out. Still not actually living anywhere. At least emotionally.

Pete pushed a hand through his hair, waiting. Camille had disappeared into the bedroom-he could hear her muttering through the half-closed door. Eventually he saw a soggy lump of cloth hurled on the floor, followed by another.

When Cam finally reemerged, she was barefoot but at least dry, wearing worn jeans and a dry shirt. It was another one of those shirts that must have been her dad’s, because the old blue chambray looked soft as a baby’s butt, frayed and shapeless.

He hadn’t figured out yet whether she was trying to be as ugly as possible, or if she was unconsciously trying to cover herself with comforting things-like the clothes that had belonged to her father.

Pete could have told her that the ugly goal was completely unattainable and doomed to failure. Those dark eyes and pale skin and that soft, vulnerable mouth took his breath every time he saw her. But that she might be trying to cover herself with comforting things made him think about her father. Colin Campbell was a good guy. Pete had always thought of him as an honorary uncle, although he hadn’t seen him since the Campbells retired and moved south. Colin, though, had always been a strong, protective father with his daughters-so much so that Pete wondered if her dad even realized how much pain his baby daughter was in.

Of course, try to be nice to her and you could get your head bitten off. He knew better than that-so when she showed back up in the doorway, he said immediately, “What were you talking about, implying that I’d filled my boys’ ears about you? What did they tell you? That I’d put you down in some way?”

“Not exactly. Just forget it.” She didn’t flip him a finger, which Pete thought was progress. And she was carrying a brush, which also seemed to be progress, a sign that she cared what her wild thatch of thick, short hair looked like-except that she shook the brush at him en route to her kitchen. “I don’t want your sons helping me with the lavender.”

“You don’t like my boys?” Immediately he stiffened.

“I don’t like anyone, so don’t take it personally. Your boys are terrific. Although if I were you, I’d get the damn horse for Sean before he nags you into an early grave. And don’t be telling Simon any secrets, because he’ll tell anyone anything-”

“Yeah, in fact, I already heard from Simon that you’ve been feeding them delicacies they never get at home.”

“That’s a complete lie. I only brought them some sandwiches and stuff because they were working so hard,” she said defensively. “And because they’re boys. And being boys, they seem to be hungry all the time.”

Obviously she thought he’d accused her of being kind, because the teakettle got slammed in the sink. And once the kettle was filled, it got slammed on the stove. And then a mug got slammed on the counter. One mug. He couldn’t help but notice that she didn’t offer him any.

“I haven’t starved either kid. I swear. No matter what they told you,” he said deadpan.

She rolled her eyes. “The point is, that I don’t want them working on the farm. I mean it, Pete. It’s not right, unless I could pay them. And I positively can’t afford to pay them.”

“I’ve been paying them-”

“I know that. And it’s even more wrong. I don’t want your charity, and the whole lavender thing isn’t your problem.”

“Okay, I know how to settle this,” Pete said peaceably. “I’ll go ask your sister-”

As expected, she promptly paled in horror, and dropped a spoon. “Come on. Don’t sic Violet on me. That’s not fair.”

He scratched his chin. “Well, see, there we have a problem. Because I either have to talk to your sister or to you. There are some decisions that have to be made on all that lavender. I have to ask one of you before going ahead-”

“What in God’s name are you trying to interfere with now?” she asked, obviously exasperated. In fact, so exasperated that she seemed to blindly set down a second mug in front of him. And once the hot water bubbled, she even stirred in some instant coffee for him.

He took a sip of the sludge. Her coffee was almost-almost-as bad as his. “Well, there are three things we have to decide. The first is, your sis is going to have to invest in mulch, because you’ve got good drainage there, but not good enough for lavender. Then, assuming you actually want to make something of that mess, you need soil with a pH around six point five, which I haven’t tested for. But I suspect-knowing the nature of my land next to that acreage-that you’re going to need to side dress the plants with some lime.”

He watched her sink into the scarred chair across the table. Violet’s eyes would have crossed at the first mention of soil pH and lime. Not Camille’s. She not only knew land; she had a sense for it that neither of her sisters had. It was pretty obvious, though, that she hadn’t thought through the long-term dimensions of the lavender problem. Still, she responded swiftly. “I can do all that without help.”

“Yeah?” He figured she had the strength to mulch twenty acres like a cow could fly.

“I can, Pete.”

“Uh-huh.” At one time, the little kitchen had been a cheerful oasis. Now, the sink had rust stains; the paint was peeling and the floor needed to be redone.

“You think my dad raised a couch potato? Maybe it’s been a few years, but I know how to fertilize and mulch and all. I just didn’t…”

“You didn’t know the lavender was going to need it. And neither, apparently, did your sister. She’s not a couch potato either, but as far as I know she never steps into a field if she can help it. Which brings us to our main problem-”

“There is no our , MacDougal.” When he sipped his coffee and said nothing, she prodded him, “So? So? What is this big problem supposed to be?”

Pete raised a hand. This was a serious question, no teasing. “I have to know what she’s trying to do. Your sister. I mean, I read up on lavender, so I’d get an idea why anyone’d grow the darn stuff. But it’s not as if Violet planted a little flower garden here. Apparently she bred and crossbred all kinds of varieties. In France, now, lavender’s a major crop in the perfume industry-but it’s about the oil, not about the flower. Unless your sister planned to grow enough flowers for all the florists in the entire northern hemisphere, I have to assume she was hoping to harvest the oil. Only I don’t see any harvesting equipment to extract the oil. I don’t even know if she’s looked into potential markets. There’s only so much money you can pour into this if-”