Firefly Nights. Cynthia Thomason

      “I’m not happy with your decision, Campbell. I had it all set up with Virgil for you to stay with him and Wanda.”

      “Much as that idea warms the cockles of my heart, Dad, I chose this option.”

      His father chuckled. “I know Wanda can be difficult...”

      “She’s a self-righteous harpy,” Campbell said.

      “But she knows how to make chicken soup,” his father pointed out.

      “I don’t like chicken soup.”

      There was a pause during which Campbell figured his dad was preparing a lecture about common sense in times of adversity.

      Thankfully Travis surprised him. “So, what arrangements have you made?” he asked. “Who’s looking in on you?”

      “Virgil found someone. I’ll be fine.”

      “Someone with medical experience?”

      Kitty Watley? Campbell wasn’t one to draw upon stereotypes when evaluating an individual, but in this case he would bet money on the fact that he knew more about nursing than this quirky, out-of-luck, out-of-options lady did. And his expertise was limited to the variety pack of bandages in the tin under his sink.

      “I assume so,” he said. “Virgil thinks she can handle the job. And besides, I have a home health person coming twice a week to clean the surgery incisions.”

      “That’s good. Can the woman Virgil hired fix your meals?”

      “He claims she’s a great cook.”

      “Okay, I guess that will suffice. How are you feeling?”

      Campbell pressed his hand over his chest. “Pretty good.” Lousy. Like I could spit hot nails. “Still some pain, but it’s not too bad.”

      “This is a mess, son. I can’t locate your mother in South America or I’d demand that she come to Sorrel Gap and take care of you.”

      Playing host to his mother had all the makings of a nightmare. Campbell knew Vivian Parnell Oakes didn’t respond well to demands. She and Travis had been forced to accept that fact three years after they married, and Vivian had run for the hills. At that time, the hills had been the Pyrenees, not the gentle rises of Sorrel Gap, North Carolina. It seemed Campbell and his father had both chose women who hated having their wings clipped.

      “Don’t worry about it, Dad,” Campbell said. “Mom’ll probably call me in the next few days, and I’ll tell her what happened. But I don’t need to ask for her help.”

      His father sighed. “You’re better off not to expect it, Camp. I wish I could have stayed longer.”

      “Hey, you were here after the accident. That’s enough. I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.”

      “I know you can, most of the time. Just keep this woman Virgil found on her toes. I know how you like things around your place—neat and orderly. Don’t let her slack off and take advantage of you.”

      Campbell smiled to himself. He’d grown up under the strict but fair supervision of Travis Oakes. Now they both believed in the same motto. No slackers allowed. “Would I do that?”

      “No, you wouldn’t. I’ve got to run. I’ll call you again in a couple of days. You know where you can reach me.”

      “I do, Dad.” The last thing on Campbell’s agenda was whining to his father. Besides, Fort Irwin, California, was a long way from the Saddle Top Motel. Campbell was on his own. And as bad as his situation was, he thought of Wanda and knew things could be worse.

      He set the phone back on its cradle and reached across the sofa for his book. He’d just found his place and resumed reading when he heard a tap at his door.

      “Hey, you in there?”

      He laid the book on the coffee table and stared at fingers wrapped around the partially open door. “I am,” he said. “Where else would I be?”

      The door swung open the rest of the way and banged against the wall, leaving a permanent mark on the new paint job. Adam Watley, his shorts reaching below his knees, sauntered inside. “Oh yeah, I guess you’re stuck here even more than we are. At least we can walk away.”

      Campbell acknowledged the obvious conclusion with a frown.

      “My mom sent me over to see if you have any soap larger than a bottle cap and maybe made in this century.” To illustrate, he unwrapped a pint-size bar of motel soap, held the paper by a corner and let the crumbling contents of Cashmere Bouquet fall to the floor.

      Campbell stared at the polished honey maple planks he’d recently refinished and imagined the kid pulverizing soap shavings into a gummy mess with his bulky sneakers. “In the bathroom,” he said, pointing over his shoulder to the door to his right. “Under the sink. And clean up the mess you just made before you walk in it.”

      Satisfied for the moment when Adam sidestepped the soap, Campbell picked up his book and tried to reacquaint himself with the hero’s dilemma. Trapped in a dank basement, his wrists handcuffed to a steam pipe and the bad guys just upstairs, the fictional cop’s problems were worse than his own, but only barely.

      The kid returned with a regular-sized bar of Dial and stood directly in front of the couch. Without waiting to be acknowledged, he blurted out, “Are you a neat freak?”

      Campbell dropped the book to his lap. “What?”

      “That cabinet in the bathroom. All the bottles are in a line, shortest to tallest. The towels are in rolls, for Pete’s sake. It’s like you’re expecting the queen of England to stop by.”

      Campbell reminded himself to give the kid the benefit of the doubt for now. Maybe nobody had ever taught him basic manners. “No. I’m not expecting anyone in here for any reason. Got the message?”

      Adam snorted through his nose. “Yeah, but it won’t work. Mom’s coming over to fix your lunch.” He bounced the bar of Dial in his palm. “She just wanted to wash her hands first. Our room is disgusting.”

      “I’ll tell housekeeping.”

      “Huh? We’ve actually got a maid?”

      Campbell rolled his eyes.

      “Oh. Funny.” When Campbell started reading again, Adam turned toward the door, but stopped when he spied the fifty-two-inch TV in the middle of an oak entertainment center. A baseball game was on the screen, the volume turned low. Adam squawked. Campbell looked up to see the kid’s jaw drop. He backed up a couple of steps and plopped onto the sofa. “You’ve got cable!”

      “No, I don’t,” Campbell said, wincing at the pain the kid’s uninvited and inconsiderate movement had caused in his chest. “There’s no cable out here. I’ve got a satellite dish.”

      “Even better!” His eyes lit up when he spotted the remote control on the table. “I want to be connected in our room!”

      Campbell scowled at him. “They don’t let juvenile offenders have luxuries like three hundred TV channels.”

      “Heck, if I was in prison I’d have a better TV in my cell than that crappy ol’—”

      “Adam!” Kitty Watley burst into the room like an avenging angel and swooped over her son. “I just told you not ten minutes ago to stop complaining.”

      He shrugged. “I forgot.”

      “Apologize to Mr. Oakes.”

      “For what?”

      “For expressing your opinions in such a vulgar way.”

      Campbell raised his eyebrows. “Actually I’ve been known to use worse language than that.” Like when I’m in a plane heading nose-down with fuel spraying in all directions.

      A