Taboo (9 page)

Shamefully, she had to admit she had been craving the newfound sensations he created as well. Even a touch of his hand or a secret message in his eyes would be heaven.

She cursed when the car's chrome door handle slipped in her grip, her hands were sweating so bad. No sooner had her feet touched the ground than Trish rushed out the front door.

"Cammie! My favorite sister!"

Cammie found herself wrapped in Trish's usual enthusiastic greeting. Her vivacious personality was reflected in her bright purple, red, and yellow sundress. She wore it with more a model's ease than that of a young widow who taught home ec. With her long dark hair and wholesome good looks, Trish could have passed for Grant's twin instead of his older sister. But since she and Cammie shared the same birthday, the family always said
they
were the twins—just long lost, since Cammie was delivered late.

"What do you mean, your
favorite
sister?" Cammie said. "I'm your
only
sister!" Hard as it was, she managed the lighthearted comeback she always gave in their little ritual.

"Let me look at you," Trish said, holding Cammie at arm's length. Looking her up and down, Trish shook her head with a small look of disapproval. "What in tarnation has happened to make you lose so much weight? You look ten pounds lighter than the last time I saw you. Ten pounds in two months? Must be man trouble."

Oh, Lord! Cammie thought. If she only knew.

"Make it more like six pounds," she said. "But at least I can fit back into that skirt that was getting too tight." She didn't add it had only taken one week to lose the weight. "And it's more like work trouble than man trouble." Liar, liar, pants on fire, her conscience taunted.

"Problems on the job?" Trish asked.

"Not exactly. Just a lot of stress and long hours. Goes with the position."

"Hmmm." Trish gave her an "if you say so" look. "We'll talk later, after you've had a chance to be mobbed by the natives."

"Where's Audrey?" Cammie asked, not willing to commit to a heart-to-heart. "Usually she's the first one out the door to tackle me."

"She's with Grant. He finished that project he's been working on. You know, Audrey's Fine Line. At least, that's what he's dubbed it. He promised Audrey that if he sold the design, he'd make sure it was part of the deal that her name was on the packaging. That man..."

Trish's doe-brown eyes sparkled with pride and deep affection. "I don't know what we'd do without him. Ever since I lost Mark, he's been the closest thing to a father figure Audrey could have. I tell you, whoever lands him is going to be one lucky lady. Too bad he's our brother, huh, Cammie?"

"Umm... yeah. Too bad."

Cammie shifted uncomfortably. Her answer had come out strained and unintentionally abrupt. She hadn't even gone into the house yet, and she already felt like Chinese water torture would be a pleasure compared to this.

"Guess we'd better go in," Cammie said brightly. Her insides twisted as Trish's brow wrinkled in puzzlement at her odd behavior. "Otherwise, they'll come looking for us."

She hooked her arm through Trish's and headed them toward the house, filling the strange gap in their conversation with some overly animated chatter. Cammie could hear the higher pitch of her own voice, the nervous agitation goading her on when she would have given anything to run back to her car and escape to the blessed silence of her home.

"Look what the cat dragged in, everybody!" Trish shouted as soon as they neared the kitchen, where the bustle of activity and delicious smells mingled in familiar welcome.

Cammie's heart was running so fast and her lungs were squeezing so tight, she prayed she didn't pass out before she could paste on a fake smile and an equally fake attitude of exuberance.

"The Guest of Honor has officially arrived," Edward's voice boomed above the 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 talk about it." She gave her a weak smile. "But thanks for asking anyway. You're not just a good sister, you're an even better friend."

Trish considered her as she took another puff. "That bad, Cammie?"

"That bad."

"Well, you know I'm always on your side. No matter what."

"Same here. And Trish, if I talked to anyone about... the problem, it would be you."

"Not Grant?"

Trish eyed her shrewdly, waiting while she fanned the smoke outside.

Cammie took a deep breath, hoping her usually transparent face didn't betray her.

"Guess we'd better get back before they send a search party." Some answer, she thought, but it was the best she could do. Lying wasn't her forte, and that last question she wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole.

"Good idea." Trish smiled in a very strange, pleased sort of way, as though she'd gotten the answer she was looking for. "Let me get rid of the evidence first. Can't have Mom and Dad thinking we're less than perfect."

"Trish!" Cammie gasped in genuine astonishment. "It's not like you to say something like that."

"No," she agreed, dumping the smoldering cigarette butt into the commode, along with the ashes she'd flicked into her hand. "But I think it a lot. Sometimes I get tired of living up to the image— you know, the perfect, all-American family. Mom and Dad and apple pie. If they weren't so great, it'd be a lot easier on us. I mean, then we wouldn't have to always worry about letting them down or hurting their feelings."

"I, well, actually, I never thought about it that way, Trish. They've done so much for me, I only know I'd hate myself if I ever brought them grief."

"Yeah, me too. Guess that's why I'm a thirty-one-year-old woman sneaking cigarettes in the bathroom and swishing mouthwash so they don't smell it on my breath."

Trish gargled for emphasis, then spat the mouthwash into the sink.

Cammie laughed for the first time in what seemed ages. What Trish had said made her feel better. Whether Trish suspected the truth about Grant, she didn't know for certain, but at least she was reassured that Trish would understand the ordeal she was going through.

Cammie reached for the doorknob, her flagging spirits buoyed. With a giggle reminiscent of days gone by, she turned to Trish.

"I wonder how many bottles of White Shoulders Aunt Mabel goes through a year?"

Trish wrinkled her nose and fanned the air. "I don't know, but at least enough to compete with Aunt Frieda's basementful of blue-ribbon picante sauce."

They rolled their eyes and groaned in unison, before dissolving into a much-needed fit of laughter.

When they caught their breath, Cammie impulsively reached for Trish's hand and squeezed it.

"That was good, Trish. I needed it more than you could know."

"I needed it too. Hey, tell you what, Cammie. Since you covered for me stealing a smoke, why don't I return the favor?"

"You'll be the Guest of Honor?"

Trish snickered. "Don't push it. But I will do my best to get the ritual sing-along going, so you can disappear for a while without too much fuss. Uncle Harold's been after me to play the piano all morning so he can do his rendition of 'The Yellow Rose of Texas.'"

"If only he weren't so hard-of-hearing, maybe he'd know how off-key he is."

Trish reached into her pocket and pulled out a pair of earplugs. "I came prepared this year. It's murder trying not to laugh. Now scram before you miss your chance."

"I owe you, Trish. Thanks for buying me some time."

"Sure." They stepped out into the hall, and Trish cocked her head in the direction of the "study room" where they used to do their homework. "Grant's in there."

Before Cammie could manage more than an unintelligible stutter, Trish was already in the overcrowded living room and announcing that the sing-along was about to begin.

Did she know? Cammie wondered. Surely Grant hadn't told her. So why... how?

The heavy steps behind her sounded suspiciously like they belonged to Aunt Mabel. Quickly ducking into the foyer leading to the study room, Cammie didn't give herself time to weigh the wisdom of her decision.

She would just steal a glance, she told herself. What could it hurt to look at him, if that was all she did? The longing had been building since the minute he'd left her home a week ago, and now she was starved for just the sight of him, the feel of him, the magic of his touch—No. She
had
to stop thinking like that. The only way she could allow herself to look was if she vowed not to give in to the forbidden.

Slowly twisting the knob, she quietly pushed the door inward. He was talking to Audrey, and his voice washed over her, evoking a fresh wave of longing, of all the indecent memories she had basked in, despite her stern resolve not to.

She slipped into the room unnoticed, then pressed the door shut and simply watched.

It was a cozy, cluttered room, a little dark without windows, illuminated only by the fluorescent light shining into the fifty-gallon aquarium along the far wall.

Grant had his back to her, but she could see Audrey perched on his knees, chattering on excitedly about the "fishy" she had just caught.

Cammie's gaze roved over him hungrily. She remembered all too well how it felt to sit on his lap. She remembered the feel of his muscles as she had held onto the shoulders she craved to run her hands over now.