He scraped a hand through his hair, wishing he’d asked Violet a dozen more questions…yet knowing he couldn’t. Just because he’d always had a private hard case for Camille didn’t mean he had any right to know-or right to interfere either. Further, his skill and effectiveness with women was measured by his ex-wife-who’d effectively ripped him off for everything but the kitchen sink…and his sons.

God knew, his sons were full time-sometimes a full-time nightmare and sometimes a full-time job. But either way, he had no time to dwell on the worrisome picture Violet had painted in his mind. Camille couldn’t be his problem. It was just upsetting, that was all. To picture anyone as joyful and full of spirit as Cam, brought down by so much tragedy so young. Camille always had a heart bigger than Vermont, more love than an ocean, more laughter than could fill a whole sky.

It made him sick to think about her hurting.

“Pssst. Dad.” The daredevil hanging over the second story railing was, of course, risking life and limb. “Ms. Campbell-is she gone? Is it safe to come down?”

“Yeah, she’s gone.”

In another moment, his son’s spitting image hung over the railing, too. “Are you sick or something? What’s the matter with you, Dad? You’re not yelling at us.”

“I will,” Pete promised them absently, but when he didn’t immediately come through with a good, solid respectable bellow, the boys seemed to panic.

“We’re not cleaning,” Sean announced.

“Yeah, we’re going on strike,” Simon said. “Gramps is going on strike with us. So it’s three against one.”