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.