“Of course,” he answered her. “Stay as long as she needs you.”
“Thank you, Killian. Give my love to Sawyer and Campbell.”
“I will.”
Campbell arrived home Sunday night—by helicopter. It landed in the middle of the front lawn with rotors beating so loudly that the sound brought everyone in the house to the side porch.
As they watched, Campbell leaped to the grass, ran clear of the rotors, then waved as the ’copter pulled up again and sailed off into the sky, causing a wind storm in the fruit trees and the poplars.
“He didn’t get arrested again, did he?” Winfield asked. He held a large free weight in one hand, obviously interrupted in the middle of his evening workout.
“He didn’t call us for bail,” Killian replied. “And that wasn’t a police helicopter.”
Kezia used the wooden spoon in her hand to point in the direction the helicopter had taken. “That’s his friend Billie Sandusky. She flew him to his interview.”
Killian and Winfield both turned to her in interest.
She shrugged. “No, I don’t know if they’re romantic,” she said, apparently eager to fend off their questions. “But I hope not. She drinks straight shots, and I don’t like to see that in a woman.”
Daniel, standing at the bottom of the stairs with a greasy rag in his hands, warned her with a quiet, “Kezia.” He didn’t wear a uniform and his manner was easy and friendly, but he was always careful never to overstep his position as an employee in the Abbott household—something that was difficult to do in a relationship as long-standing as theirs.
Kezia, on the other hand, often offered her opinion, and seldom with any deference. But the whole family loved her anyway.
Killian frowned at her. “And how do you know what Billie drinks?”
“I play bridge with her mother’s housekeeper. The girl’s out of control, and with Campbell’s confusion about who he is and where he belongs, he doesn’t need that.” Then she seemed to realize that was crossing the line, even for her. She cleared her throat. “Not that that’s any of my business. I’ll just go back to my cake.”
“Hey, Daniel!” Campbell slapped Daniel on the shoulder as he loped past him and up the steps.
“Mr. Campbell.” Daniel shrugged an apology at Killian for his wife’s candor and went back to the garage.
Campbell grinned at Killian and Winfield. “Gentlemen.” He transferred his grip on his overnight bag to shake hands. “Winfield. Killer. Nice of you to meet my helicopter. Did you miss me, or is this an attempt to prevent my return?”
Winfield clapped his shoulder. “Nice to see you back safe and sound, Mr. Campbell.” Then he took off toward the basement stairs and the gym.
Campbell was dark-featured like Chloe, a few inches shorter than Killian and more slender, though his work on the estate had given him well-developed shoulders and upper arms. Chloe was always telling him that his job was to oversee the temporary help harvesting the apples, but he’d never been one to stand by and watch.
Killian remembered trying to teach him to bat a baseball as children. The lesson had resulted in Campbell’s taking the bat from him and swinging until he was exhausted. His father had told Killian that determination was sometimes more important than skill in achieving success.
“Depends,” Killian teased in response to Campbell’s question, even as he gave him a fraternal shove into the front hall. “Did you take the job?”
“It hasn’t been offered to me yet,” Campbell replied. “They have six other applicants.”
“Do you want it?”
“It’s Florida.”
Killian shrugged. “Sunshine every day. Funny-tasting tropical fruit. Big deal.”
“Women in string bikinis,” Campbell countered with a longing look, “all day, every day, all year long. Going to the beach on your coffee break in February, baseball spring-training camps.”
“You’re only yards from the beach here.” That was a flimsy argument and Killian knew it. But there were issues unresolved between the brothers, and he didn’t want him hundreds of miles away until they’d fixed them.
Campbell put his bag down near the hall table. “If you went to the beach here in February, you’d be the ice sculpture at Mom’s next party.” Suddenly he seemed to notice her absence. “She gone already? She left a message on my voice mail saying she was off to Paris with the Mitchells.”
“Right. Winfield had fits, but she went anyway. Need a coffee nudge? I’ve got a pot going in the library.”
Campbell studied him suspiciously. “You’re not planning some big heavy conversation about the family, are you?”
The kid had a good brain. “No,” Killian lied. “My offer was just an effort to help you relax after your flight.”
“Aha!” Campbell pointed a finger at him. “You want to know about Billie!”
Killian shook his head. “I know about Billie. She drinks straight shots and she’s out of control. I was just interested in your weekend.”
Campbell followed him as he led the way to the library. The room was paneled in warm oak and had floor-to-ceiling bookshelves protected by doors with wire mesh. A ladder on runners provided access to top shelves. Killian and his brothers had terrorized many a nanny on it when they were children. Deep blue upholstered sofas and chairs with an even darker blue stripe were arranged near the fireplace, which now held a pot of flowers.
A granite counter ran along one side of the room as a sort of study area, and Killian, who’d adopted this room as a home office, had installed a bar at one end of it. The aroma of a simple French roast filled that side of the room.
At the far end, Palladian French doors opened out onto the side porch and garden.
Killian poured Kahlúa and brandy in a glass pedestal mug, added coffee, then picked up the drink he’d left there when he’d heard the helicopter. He took them to the sofa where Campbell had settled, handed him his drink, then sat in the chair opposite.
“So, you had time to sightsee?” he asked as Campbell angled one knee over the other and leaned back.
“No,” Campbell replied, “but the sights I described are everywhere you look. Definitely one of the perks.”
Silence fell. Campbell was waiting for him to ask more questions, and sure his brother would hate that, Killian waited for him to volunteer information.
Campbell sipped his drink, rested the glass on his knee and finally said in a defensive tone, “You know, I wouldn’t be abandoning the family if I left here.”
Killian nodded calmly. There were only six years between them, but since their father died when Campbell was only seventeen, Killian had taken charge to keep him in school when he’d been offered a job with a software company, to chase him down when he’d run off, to bail him out of jail when he was picked up in a bar brawl in Southhampton. So they had what amounted to father-son issues, though they were brothers and not that far apart in age.
“I know that,” Killian said. “And no one’s suggesting it.”
“Mom is.”
“Well, you’re her favorite. She’d—”
“No!” Campbell interrupted, grabbing his cup and lowering his foot to the floor in a gesture of impatience. “See! There it is again! That’s not true. I’m not her favorite.”
Killian raised an eyebrow. “There’s what?”