Jennifer Greene - Wild in the Field

As she drove back home, her heart seemed to be beating harder than a shaky drum, yet she told herself nothing had gone that badly. She hadn’t seen Pete directly, but there was no immediate help for that. She’d set some things in motion that had to be. And there was one other good thing, because Simon had been totally disgusted with how she looked. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? And if Simon thought she looked bad, Sean would think she looked worse. So that was extra heartening.

Back at the cottage, she put up with Killer and Miss Priss whining about her absence, but after petting them, she immediately headed for the house. Thankfully Violet was knee-deep in customers in the Herb Haven, so there was nothing stopping her from raiding the house. She carted two armloads of goodies back to the cottage. In the kitchen, she started a simmering French stew with a dash of lavender, baby carrots, sauterne and pearl onions. It was a little too early to make a fresh salad, but she put together a chocolate dip with fresh strawberries.

The clock seemed to be ticking so fast. She dragged the table outside, where it’d be cool and shady in the early evening. She whisked on a blue-and-white tablecloth, then two settings of her mother’s silverware and her grandmother’s silver candlesticks. Last, she added white lilacs, setting them in jars in the kitchen and living room and on the table.

She checked on the food, glanced at the clock, then ran for the bath. Both animals seemed to think she wanted company in the bathroom. They supervised her entire bath, from the face mask to the shaving legs routine. They fled a safe distance during the pedicure and manicure, but homed back in while she was choosing clothes from her shopping expedition. Last came makeup-and there was a time she’d been pretty darn good with face paints.

By then Miss Priss had leaped up on the sink to insure she didn’t miss any of the exciting action, whereas Killer had dropped down to all fours and was snoring from boredom.

“He may not come,” she told the cat.

Miss Priss batted at the mascara, tipping it off onto the floor.

She picked it up. “I don’t know if he’ll understand the message, about the dog. She was like me. Grieving so hard that she stopped living, stopped wanting to live. It’s Pete who shook me out of that, you know. Not all the people who were so kind. Pete. Who wasn’t kind.”

Miss Priss found the lip liner, and jumped down from the sink with her prize between her teeth-at least until Camille caught up with her. “No,” she said.

Unimpressed, the cat zoomed back on the sink and searched for more things of interest. Such as the blush brush.

“I wasn’t coping,” she told the cat. “Pete didn’t cope for me. He didn’t do anything for me. Instead, he pushed me into doing things. And by pushing me, he forced me to see that I was capable of doing things. I get all that now. But you know what I didn’t realize?”

Looking straight at her, the cat batted the brush on the floor.

Camille picked it up. “I didn’t realize that he was grieving, too. He’s hardheaded, just like me. Too stubborn to realize that getting over the hurt his ex-wife dealt him was terribly hard to do. Moving past any hurt that big is hard. But there comes a point where you have to make a choice.”

The cat deserted her. Which left Camille completely alone-except for her reflection in the mirror. The woman staring back at her looked almost-almost-like a Camille. Her legs were bare, shown off by the sassy red sundress. Her lips were glossed with a scarlet shine, her dark hair pulled back with two jet pins. She was slim. Way slimmer than she used to be, but her figure was starting to come back, and the dress accented what she had. Its fabric draped over her body perfectly. It made a woman feel like a woman, look like a woman, move like a woman.

The old Camille wasn’t back. She’d never again be the young Camille that she used to be.

She’d grown up since then.

This Camille, though, had more depth. More potential. And more, of course, to risk losing.

Her eyes looked sultry with the hint of shadow and mascara, her lashes as soft as velvet against her cheeks. But there was fear in those eyes. Not fear of losing. Fear that she’d already failed to love Pete the way he needed to be loved. And now it was too late.

When Pete finally pulled in the drive, Sean was huddled in the passenger seat of the truck, silent as a stone. His son reminded him of himself in a sulk. He had the same moody eyes, the screw-you posture, the slouchy scowl.

“Come on, Sean. I don’t think I’m being unreasonable. I’d rather you worked on the land with me and your brother. You know how much we have to do this summer. But you can work there with the horses for a month. And if you still feel after six weeks that you want a horse, I’ll do it.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“You’re giving me all this attitude and I don’t know why. Give me a break. You know how expensive that horse is going to be.”

“I know.”

“You’ve loved every animal that was ever born. But neither of us is familiar with horses. A horse presents a different range of problems.”

“I know that, too.”

“So don’t you think it’s a fair compromise? Work with the horses, be around them. Get a chance to see if you really like the animal and what it’ll take to keep one. Before jumping in.”

“Dad, for cripes sake. Sometimes I get so sick of your being reasonable. Yeah, that’s all fair. Yeah, I want to work with them. But I wanted a horse right now, you know? Why can’t you just let me sulk in peace for a while?” Simon hurled out of the truck and slammed the door.

Pete stared after him, shaking his head. Teenagers.

Both boys had been pistols for a week now-and their grandfather had been just as huffy. Pete pocketed the truck key and strode toward the house, knowing full well the reason for their testiness. The family had assumed he’d blown it with Camille. All three of them had actually believed he and Cam were going to tie the knot.

He’d told them it was never going to happen. He’d told them from the start; he’d told them last week; he’d told them this week. His dad had adored Camille from the day she was born, and the boys were crazy about her-so they’d only heard what they wanted to hear.

Pete could hardly confess the personal details, but he knew the truth. A man couldn’t hold a woman through family or land or money or any other peripherals. There had to be something inside him that made her want to stay. Made her want to love. Made her want to commit. And Pete had already discovered the hard way, when Debbie left, that he’d never had that mysterious something .

“Hey, Dad!” Simon suddenly barged out the back door, leaping down the two porch steps, his eyes bright with excitement. Sean, who’d walked into the house with an old man’s despair, bounded out right after his brother with the same exuberance.

“What’s going on?” Pete asked suspiciously.

“We got something to show you. Hurry up, hurry up-it’s in the kitchen.”

He followed, expecting anything-God knows the boys had put him through “anything” in the form of surprises before. Still, he could hardly be prepared for the heap taking up a vast amount of space on his kitchen floor.

The dog looked something like a loose puddle of caramel-colored wrinkles-tons of wrinkles. Pete hunkered down, pulled up an eyelid, and then the other. The eyes looked healthy, and the dog blinked, proving it wasn’t dead. Beyond a hopeless moan, though, she appeared comatose.

“Who would do this to us?” Pete asked.

Simon chose to answer the questions he wanted to answer. “Her name is Hortense. And she’s depressed, because she belonged to a cop and now he died, and so she’s grieving. Grieving bad. She needs love, Dad. She needs us. She needs you.”