mayhem.
"Surprise!"
"Surprise!"
"Surprise!"
The cacophony of the Kennedy clan and Dorothy's assorted relations reverberated against the pounding rush of the panic that threatened to engulf her. Dorothy was the first in line, embracing her with the smell of freshly baked bread, brisket, pecan pie, and... home.
"Cammie, sweetheart. Happy adoption day." She dabbed at her eyes and kissed Cammie on either cheek. "Are you surprised? We decided to invite everyone this year, instead of just the immediate family. It really took some doing to park the cars out of sight, though I Imagine you heard the ruckus clear to Austin. Oh, and Aunt Frieda sends her love. She was the only one who couldn't make it. Poor dear, she broke her hip last week. But she sent you a big jar of her blue-ribbon picante sauce!"
"Aunt Frieda's picante sauce," Cammie managed to exclaim enthusiastically. "Now that's a real treat. And here I thought I had to wait till Christmas." While she spoke, her eyes darted around for a glimpse of Grant. She didn't see him, and strangely her heart sank at the same time she breathed a sigh of relief.
"Looking for Grant, honey?" Cammie's gaze shot back to Dorothy, who was already being nudged aside by Aunt Mabel, her presence announced by her trademark scent—a too generous splash of White Shoulders. "He's in the other room with Audrey," Dorothy went on. "He wanted me to tell you to come keep them company if you waded through here before dinnertime. And, oh my, it must be too warm in here. Your cheeks are so flushed, sweetheart."
"Just the excitement, Mom," she quickly hedged, praying anxiety and misery and guilt weren't written all over her face. "You and Dad really surprised me this time."
For the next hour she endured hefty bosom hugs, teary eyes, too many kisses to count, too many ailment recountings to list, and enough pats on the back to last a lifetime. In the past, it would have been a high point of the year, an assurance that she was indeed loved and accepted. But now, she felt claustrophobic, all but smothered by the family reunion held in her honor.
After the eternity of greetings subsided, she excused herself to the bathroom. Once in the white-tiled haven of antiquated fixtures, she locked the door and slumped against it. Drawing several deep breaths, she commanded herself to relax, to quit shaking, and for heavens sake not to have a panic attack.
She was splashing cold water over her face when a soft knock sounded at the door. Cammie tensed. Was it Grant hunting her down?
"Yes?" she called breathlessly.
"It's me, Trish. Can I come in?"
Cammie stared at the mirror and was distressed to see her facade had disappeared, revealing the true rawness of her emotional state. Quickly trying to readjust her features into a suitable mask, she turned off the water and opened the door.
Trish slipped quickly in, then locked the door behind her.
"Too much, huh?" she asked sympathetically.
Cammie let the mask slip a notch. "Too much," she confirmed.
"Mind if I smoke?"
"What? You smoke? When did you pick up that nasty habit?"
"Not long after Mark died. Stupid. I know. But I do it anyway." She opened the window, then fished a lighter and pack of cigarettes out of a side pocket on her dress. "Mom and Dad don't know, of course." She turned and smiled conspiratorially. "You won't tell on me, will you?"
"Of course not. We always had a pact to cover for each other if it looked like trouble. Remember?"
"I remember. I just wanted to make sure you did." Lighting up, Trish carefully directed the smoke out the window before turning a knowing gaze on Cammie. "What's wrong, Sis?"
Cammie looked away. Damn, she thought. Why was everything she'd counted a blessing turning out to be a curse? Trish never missed a trick, and they had always confided their darkest secrets to each other.
But none this dark.
"There is something wrong," she admitted slowly. "But it's something I've got to work out myself, Trish. I—I just can't
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