East of Midnight: The Chalmers Trilogy

By Karen Humeniuk

His father had kept his word. He had not attended any part of Cameron's graduation. Afterward, every discussion between Cameron and his father had turned into an argument-not explosive ones, but the seething writhing kind that slowly blistered the relationship. Such had been the argument about Wyoming. Though Uncle Nathan's offer had likely been

• Language: English
• Publisher: WorkBook Press
• Release date: Oct 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781953839619

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East of

Midnight

The Chalmers Trilogy

BOOK 1

Copyright @2022 by (Karen S. Humeniuk)

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.

This publication contains the opinions and ideas of its author. It is intended to provide helpful and informative material on the subjects addressed in the publication. The author and publisher specifically disclaim all responsibility for any liability, loss or risk, personal or otherwise, which is incurred as a consequence, directly or indirectly, of the use and application of any of the contents of this book.

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REV. DATE: 08/30/2022

East of

Midnight

The Chalmers Trilogy

BOOK 1

Karen Humeniuk

Endorsements

I just loved East of Midnight! One thing is for sure, it isn’t a book to be quickly scanned, in my opinion; you really have to know the characters and see Ms. Humeniuk’s wit exude from those words! That’s a good thing for me because I want to get lost in the words and her imagery. There’s so much going on in our lives right now that it was nice to get away and get within. Bonny Burbank Shuptrine, gallery owner, Lookout Mountain, Tennessee.

East of Midnight, the story of two young people finding love amid the chaos of contemporary college life, is both heartwarming and soul-searching. The theme of living with the consequences of our mistakes prompts the reader to reflect on his or her own salvation. Cameron and Lydia must learn to rely on God before they are able to love each other.

This uplifting story of two families connected by past tragedy and hope for a better future offers a potentially life-changing gift of faith. The author has a keen eye for detail and, combined with well-developed characters, makes for a book well worth reading. Nancy Dykes, Greenville, South Carolina

The story reminds me that Christians try to do what’s right but become overbearing rather than letting the Spirit do the heavy lifting—which isn’t good. Thankfully, God is patient, as the author’s cast of characters discover. The story and the characters drew me in, leaving me wanting to know what comes next. Debbie Nichols, Clemson, South Carolina

The Chalmers Trilogy, Book 1,

East of Midnight

Introduction

"When I was a child, I spoke like a child,

I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child."

When I became a man, I gave up childish ways.

For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face.

I Corinthians 13:11-12a (ESV)

Although American English and American culture often imitate the hook-side of two Velcro strips—collecting everything it touches, this propensity dilutes the value of several important words, among them, love, trust, and tolerance. Thus, though we swim in a vast vocabulary that enables us to say the same thing in numerous ways, we misunderstand each other and fail to communicate crucial feelings such as love, acceptance, and forgiveness. Instead, we wrangle over idiosyncratic differences and emotionally charged didactics while neglecting the hard work of honesty and repentance. More than two millennia ago, Hellenistic Greeks solved this dilemma by creating different words for the root emotions embodied in the word love. They assigned nine words to describe the emotional journey from childhood to maturity.

Scripture focuses on four Greek words: Eros (self-love), Storge (family), Philia (friendship), and finally, Agape (selfless, Godly love). East of Midnight, Book 1 of the Chalmers Trilogy, explores the difficulties young couples face as they learn to give up of childish ways. Choices & Secrets, Book 2 recognizes that, though maturity grows in fit and spurts, the latter-day question, what is the measure of a man, and by extension, of a woman is determined, not by us, by those who know us best. The Propitious Calumet, Book 3, chronicles emotional maturation through the metric credited to Samuel Johnson (1709-1784), The true measure of a man is how he treats someone who can do him absolutely no good.

Although our understanding of God is childlike and shrouded in mystery, we have a Father who loves us, an advocate and Savior in Jesus, and a guide in the Holy Spirit who accompanies and comforts us. Thus, each book is bound to the others through Paul’s tender encouragement in 1 Corinthians 13:12b-13 (ESV) Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known. 13 So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.

Dedicated

To my ever-patient husband,

John Humeniuk, M.D.

And in memory of my parents,

Louis and Geraldine Swanson,

who walked humbly with their God. Micah 6:8

Primary Characters

(listed at the back of the book)

1

Cameron likened his talent for putting people at ease to the pleasure of making a long or difficult putt—for a birdie. Cheers and loud applause rewarded even a poorly executed swing if the ball dropped into the hole. When the ball stopped an inch short of the hole, the cheers turned to an audible sigh—aw. Everyone, including Cameron, enjoyed the almost-joyous moment with the expectation that a tap would drop the ball into the hole.

Lydia, who refused to pick up a club, disagreed. Using a play on the word charm, she had called his people-pleasing knack a kind of quark that patches theoretical holes and, thus, a patch job for quirks in his personality. In response, Cameron had teased her for attending his golf tournaments and later claiming to have been elsewhere. Despite her indignant protests, he often glimpsed her cheering from far behind the rope line, supposedly hidden from view. When he laughed, challenging her version of the truth, she stiffened her resolve and found other friendly taunts.

Similar friendly banter had been the hallmark of their friendship and evidence that behind her smile lurked a herculean heart, which Lydia kept from him with the ferocity of a mother grizzly protecting her cubs. Long ago, Grandpa warned Cameron not to make errant assumptions like those he associated with Lydia. Yet, he did. Now, those blithe impressions and misconceptions blistered his vanity and ripped holes in his heart. Indeed! And while Grandpa’s warnings had proved to be accurate, his assurance that mistakes often light the path that leads people home had not.

Cameron pushed against the back of the mesh office chair. The time had passed for pleading with Lydia, begging for forgiveness; the damage had been too great. Tipping the chair back, he stared up at the ceiling of the makeshift bar, which masqueraded as Alex’s bedroom when not called to its present higher use during his annual New Year’s Eve party. Cameron had planted himself in the room for two hours since arriving at the party, claiming to act as a bartender even though Alex had arranged the table for self-service. His strictly gratuitous offer hid the fact that, for him, the room served as a redoubt, preventing him from doing other stupid things and saying more stupid stuff.

Instead, as the minutes ticked away, the bastion of his conceit had crumbled. Pummeled by a maelstrom of denials and repudiations of how much Lydia meant to him. Stone by stone, his idiocy had dismantled the walls of his pride and revealed the ugly truth: Years earlier, he had conned himself into believing Lydia was safe because she was only a friend.

But Lydia wasn’t safe. She was intelligent, fun, and dangerously beautiful. Sitting two rooms away, she wore a sweater the color of her hazel eyes, silver drop earrings that sparkled like her smile, and slim mahogany-colored pants—the same hue as the soft curls that hung about her shoulders. And worst of all—at the height of his folly, though she had arrived with Cameron, he left her to spend the evening talking to Paul, Cameron’s best friend and Alex’s younger brother, while he opened beers cans for Alex’s guests who wandered down to the makeshift bar.

Fluttering wings caught his attention as four sleek crows appeared among the ruins. One marked Trust perched atop one of several craft beer bottles he had set on the white, molded-plastic, portable table behind which he sat. Another crow marked Kindness landed on one of two mismatched pillows that decorated the room’s lone twin bed. Using its talons, it picked at the flattened cushions. Patience nested on the bed’s serviceable duvet while Generosity strutted across the top of an overpriced chest of draws. As they squawked and pecked at Cameron’s ego, they repeated their insistent declaration: Accept that you will never be closer to Lydia or to becoming your better self than you are now.

A shadow crossing the floor drew Cameron’s attention to the silhouette of a woman standing in the doorway, backlit by the bright hall light. She stood with one hand holding a bottle at her side and the other resting on the doorframe. For a moment, she lingered, then sauntered over and placed one hip on the tabletop. With most of her weight on one leg, she draped her other luxuriant leg over the edge. Of the many women who entered the makeshift bar and asked for a beer, none had been as striking. The simplicity of her jewelry and the folds of the blouse she wore beneath a lavender pinstripe jacket and tucked neatly into the waist of her tight, knee-length business skirt complemented her aura of unassuming grace.

Disarmed by her smile and gracious gray eyes that lit the room with kindness, Cameron momentarily forgot his manners but now jumped to his feet. Behind him, the office chair spun ever so slightly, which she noted.

I didn’t mean to startle you. The lilting accent of old Charleston adorned her voice.

Not at all. If her elegance had interrupted his thoughts, the scent of her perfume now piqued his interest. What is your pleasure? His hand indicated the assortment of craft beers.

I wonder, she mused, where your thoughts wandered the moment before I disturbed you.

Her fingers played with the neck of the already-opened brown bottle, an unabashed statement that she had visited the other makeshift bar before walking farther down the hall to this room. She wants to make a point. But what point?

A faint smile pulled at one corner of her lipsticked mouth. Do you play poker?

Sometimes. And she likes games. Cameron sat down in the office chair and rocked back. Stretching out his six-foot frame, he waited for her to play a card.

She, too, waited, then blinked. With a demure nod, she laid down a card. I noticed that many of the young women, even some with companions, found their way to this room, choosing to pass the other room where they could easily grab a beer and go. Her brows danced above her smile. "Which raises the question: Why are you here? But don’t answer just yet. Let me guess. You’re in college, a junior, I assume, and like Paul, quite bright, seeing that you two are good friends. She leaned toward him and took a deep quaff of air. And you’re sober. How disgusting." She tilted her head to one side with another hint of a smile.

Life’s tough. Cameron shrugged but offered no further explanation.

Hmmm. Maybe. One eyebrow arched upward. The attractive young woman who arrived with you has spent the evening talking to Paul, but what’s in an impression? Oh, the possibilities. Clearly, a decidedly sexy laugh joined her soft smile, if you knew what a woman wants, you wouldn’t be here. Her long, manicured fingers tapped the table. "I’m not talking about a giggling girl but what a woman wants. I don’t think it’s a stretch to assume that you’re quite experienced with girls but perplexed by a woman. Am I right?" Crossing her arms, she propped her chin on a crooked finger, fixed her eyes on him, and waited.

Cameron’s smile faded. Previously, only Grandpa could make him feel both worthy and clueless at once. She stood, stepped back from the table, and faced him. When you discover the difference, she extended an elegant arm open-handed to indicate the drab room, you’ll find your way out of this, she twirled her hand in a circle, little hellhole. And perhaps you’ll find your tongue. She again arched a brow and smiled. Because you’ll know what a woman wants.

She was disgustingly right. If Cameron’s call to Lydia, inviting her to Alex’s party, had taught him anything, it proved that he knew nothing about women. In particular, he knew nothing about Lydia.

The woman turned toward the door. Have a nice evening. I’m sure several other girls would be happy to make sure you do. When she reached the doorway, she again turned toward him. With her face hidden in shadow, she spoke kindly and sweetly. You are adorable. And much too hard on yourself. Try these words: ‘I’m sorry.’ They may taste bitter, but they’ll be honey on the ears of your audience. Not that I know what you have to be sorry for, other than hiding in here.

Then with a lift of her square shoulders, she turned and left. In her wake, the air fluttered as a fifth crow furrowed its wings. It strutted to the middle of the table and stared at Cameron. This one wore a sign marked Humility. It would not easily be assuaged.

A moment later, the silhouette of a younger woman appeared in the doorway, then walked to the table. Ever the gentleman, Cameron stood and asked with polite Southern hospitality, What can I get? Coors? Bud Lite?

I’m not sure. What do you suggest?

Beer.

The woman, dressed in jeans, a loose gray jacket, and a lemon-colored shirt, laughed heartily. That’s funny! She seemed like the other girls in many ways, but she wasn’t. Her curious smile reinforced his observation. She extended her hand. I’m Sydney. We shared a public speaking class last year, spring semester. It was one of those electives designed to justify a department’s existence by requiring people with serious degrees to vacate their subjective cloisters and convert to glorious objectivity. I just wanted a few tips that might help after I graduate.

And did you find some? Tips that is.

Yes. One in particular. Sarcasm dusted her slightly crooked smile as her hand pushed down on the edge of the mattress. It sagged noticeably, but not enough to keep her from leaning her slender frame against it. Cameron returned to the mesh chair as she continued, The instructor, an in-your-face women’s studies guru, thought nice is for suckers.

Cameron bit his lip to keep a grin from escaping.

After pausing to let him compose himself, she continued, She seemed to believe that bullying works. Sadly, she was too incompetent to see it in herself because she even bullied me.

Cameron bit off another grin, for Sydney was another woman with whom no one should trifle.

Well, she continued, one day toward the end of the semester, she picked on a cute guy who’d said almost nothing during the class. At her peril, having misjudged him, she treated him like prime sirloin because he wore ‘I’m a UNC frat boy and damned proud of it,’ from the top of his curly blond head to the well-worn Sperrys on his feet. Fool that she was, she went after him with a verbal cleaver. But not so! He eviscerated her. Gone! He didn’t attack her. Instead, he shredded her argument with charm and an ‘I’ve got your number’ smile on his face. I was like, if this guy goes into law, I want him on my side. By then, Sydney could barely control her glee. I bet you remember that day—not that I think being a frat boy is bad. I know plenty of bad boys who aren’t in frats and good guys who are.

Cameron’s brow twitched. Thanks for the vote of confidence. Sadly, though, he didn’t remember Sydney. He rocked the chair onto its rear wheels and smiled. What was I to do? She sent out so many invitations; someone was bound to RSVP. So, I did. And he had enjoyed doing so. Immensely.

What’s a Ph.D. good for if not to be lectured about the fine art of sarcasm? Sydney’s eyes twinkled.

Cameron laughed, but his smile faded as he remembered several occasions when the instructor singled out intelligent, pleasant women who didn’t share her political views. Sydney must have been one of them. I guess she thought bullying was cool. I don’t like bullies. Never have. It’s my loss that I didn’t remember you.

That’s okay. Sydney raised the bottle in a toast. Here’s to you from the rest of the class, many of whom silently cheered you on. A curious frown wrinkled her forehead. Don’t feel bad.

What makes you say that?

Your eyes. They’re sad as if something bittersweet whispered to you. I hope it wasn’t something I said. The last thing I want is to make you sad. Her eyes studied him, then softened. She pointed the top of the brown bottle toward the noise beyond the room’s walls. You’ve been quite the talk out there. They’re hoping you’ll give away something other than beer. She wiggled her eyebrows. Me? I thought you’d enjoy a little company.

And he did. For a while, they talked, and he felt better, but he wasn’t surprised when the conversation waned. Sydney rose to her feet. I hope you feel a little better. Sydney smiled, waited, then smiled again, but her eyes read his heart. I’ll see you around.

Cameron rose from the chair and extended his hand. Yes, and when we do, Sydney, I promise I will remember you.

When the room was again empty, an old grinding ache gripped his chest. Since early middle school, his life had been, at times, covered with pluff mud—that dank silt lining the Carolina salt marshes that clung like tar to his legs and sucked the flip-flops from his feet. He imagined that, millions of years in the future, an archeologist would unearth strata of mudstone littered with petrified roots and flip-flops.

Sydney, though, had made Cameron feel like marsh grass, swaying in the flood of new saltwater at high tide, washing away dreadful memories. In their place, he remembered Lydia walking across a dais, set on a football field, to accept her high school diploma. As she took the booklet, she had smiled at the gathered parents, friends, family, and unknowingly, Cameron. What he saw had stunned him. In the past, he had not realized that she was as beautiful on the outside as he had known her to be on the inside.

Misery washed over him, carrying away the refreshing balm with the ebbing tide. He remembered the retort Paul made after hearing that Cameron had invited Lydia to Alex’s party. Paul knew Cameron had not spoken to her since his graduation two and a half years earlier. Paul called Cameron’s decision masterfully shortsighted, but his exact words had sounded more like, What were you thinking? Cameron’s invitation, though, had not been impulsive. It grew from roots planted every Monday night, beginning the summer before Cameron’s sophomore year of high school. Grandpa had died in August. Afterward, Cameron’s mother dragged him to a soup kitchen called the Park Street Café, saying it would be good for him. Then Lydia joined her mother, who also volunteered at the Café. Each night, as they worked side by side, Lydia had been his, sharing an uncomplicated, undemanding, deeply satisfying friendship that filled the void Grandpa left behind. Like Grandpa, Lydia had read Cameron’s soul.

Grandpa had been a wise man. He had warned Cameron not to think too highly of himself. Otherwise, like Tantalus of Greek mythology, he might find himself standing, bound shoulder to toe, surrounded by water, and unable to quench his thirst or attain the very basis of bodily and spiritual happiness. The warning had been for naught. For now, Cameron stood bound in chest-deep water, with happiness forever beyond his reach. And with no hope of ever escaping.

A woman came through the doorway, dressed in a light blue boat-neckline sweater and jeans, with a face as lovely as Botticelli’s Venus. Without hesitating, she dropped onto the bed, stretched out across it, and faced him. She propped her head on the heel of her hand and watched him through chocolate-brown eyes. Cameron leaned back in the mesh chair, hooking his thumbs in his belt loops, and rocked forward and back as the staring contest lingered.

In the end, Tindal blinked. She pursed her lips in a pout that melted into a light smile. "Mom asked about you. She’s Scottish and asked if you are, too. Or is Cameron merely a name?"

Cameron laughed heartily. "Wow. I’m honored. Maybe. I’m named after my grandfather—Benjamin Cameron Asher. He was Ben. I got his middle name. And yes, he was Clan Cameron. A grin slipped out. They’ve been around central North Carolina since the mid-eighteenth century. Or so I’ve been told."

Oh-h-h. Can I ever imagine you in a kilt. She stifled a smirk. If you’d worn one tonight … just imagine what all those girls out there would have done, her eyes gleamed. We’d say over your grave, ‘If only for a pair of pants, he’d be with us today.’

Cameron laughed as a ray of sunshine pierced his miserable pit.

Tindal sat up and snuggled against a pillow. Her fingers stretched several red curls into a soft wave. Don’t tell Seth, but this is also Italian. He thinks I’m an Irish rose. I’d like to leave him to his fine fantasy. Her laughter ceased. Which reminds me of the reason I’m here. She fluffed the less mangy of the two pillows, then leaned against it. Seth sent me—so count yourself lucky. A sardonic smile skipped across her face. He can’t believe you’re here and your date is out there, talking to Paul. He was ready to come down and yank your. Well. He used a different word, but you get my point?

I do. Thank you. Cameron smiled as he rocked the mesh chair.

I cleaned up his actual words.

I can imagine what he said.

If I remember correctly, and I do, you volunteered to bartend at a party earlier this month. If Tindal expected him to flinch or look away, she was sadly mistaken. Still, she leaned close enough to smell his breath. You’re sober!

And that’s a problem?

I’m not sure, but that night a most remarkable girl wanted your attention in the worst way, but you ignored her. Tindal’s eyes narrowed. And you also broke the cardinal rule of bartending—don’t imbibe! She settled back onto the bed, legs crossed under her. Big-time.

A tall, burly guy and an Asian girl entered the room and asked for three craft beers from brewers that, they claimed, were no longer available in the other room. Tindal watched Cameron fill the request. As they left, she turned to him. How do you do it?

Do what?

Flirt like that?

I didn’t flirt. I’d never flirt with a girl who’s with a guy that size!

Well, her eyes said otherwise.

Cameron threw his arms out and gaped in self-defense. I didn’t do anything! He clamped his mouth shut. I swear! His hands dropped into his lap. Okay. No more excuses. You’re right. The time for honesty had come. Yes, I had too much to drink. Even if Tindal didn’t need to hear the whole truth, then at least he’d be truthful with himself. But it led me to do something I’ve needed to do for three years. Yes, he had called Lydia, hoping to get her out of his head. But it didn’t work out the way I thought it would.

And that’s why you’re here and not out there? She pointed toward the main room.

A mirthless laugh escaped his lips. Yes. Yes, he’d slithered into this hole, and it was time to walk out of it. He stood, bent his elbow, and offered it to Tindal. May I escort you back to Seth’s care?

This was too easy.

Not really. Taking her hand, he guided her off the bed and wrapped her hand around his elbow. With a faint nod, he escorted her to the hall, where he released her arm, letting her walk before him. Since most of the guests had merrily congregated on the open-air pass-through landing of the three-story walk-up unit, only a few sat on the main room’s sofa and chairs, talking.

Paul and Lydia sat at the dining table, laughing and happy. But then Lydia looked up. Seeing Cameron, her smile faded, and his stomach sank. She didn’t even glare when another girl. No. When every other girl would have thrown knives at him.

Hey, stranger, Paul said, injecting levity into the dreadful silence, have a seat.

Cameron pulled out the chair next to his friend and across from Lydia as Paul continued, We were talking about her engineering classes. I’d forgotten that you two used to compete for math awards.

Yeah, we did. Cameron smiled, and Lydia blushed. Gone, though, was the happy smile that had greeted him earlier in the evening, the smile that crumpled his knees. Gone, too, was everything that once watered his dry, parched heart.

Paul stood. "We were talking about basketball—a nonstarter for me at Princeton. But Lydia’s at Duke, and you’re at UNC. You should be able to find something to talk about." With a bow, he excused himself, leaving Cameron and Lydia staring at each other.

Cameron offered a few feeble comments. Lydia responded, but her clasped hands and stiff back spoke volumes. He checked the time. Ten. A momentary thought of sharing a kiss at midnight tingled his lips, but reality sank in. I guess you’d like to go home.

She shrugged. I guess so. Her stiff lips sent shame coursing through every vein and artery, scalding the lining of Cameron’s heart. During the drive to her parents’ house, a few banal comments broke the suffocating silence even as inextinguishable joy tingled his chest. The delight of sitting so close to her rained down on him, but nothing wet his tongue enough to put words in his mouth. Instead, they walked to the front door of her parents’ house beneath a soot-blackened sky that earlier had been awash in stars.

Lydia put the key in the lock. Then she turned with a faint Thank you. It was good to see you again.

I …. Nothing, not her refreshing voice, her usually bright eyes, or the luscious curls crowning her head, pulled words from his mouth. Still, a few leaked out. "I am glad you came. Cold regret drenched him. I’m sorry."

For a second, her brow knit, and her head tipped sideways as if startled upon seeing a shadow lost in a fog. The frown vanished just as quickly. She opened the door, repeating, Thank you, went inside, and pushed it shut.

As the bolt clicked home, Cameron’s knees went limp beneath him. He braced one hand on the door frame and buried his face in the other.

2

Cameron opened the door to his silver Ford Escape and glanced at the darkened windows of Lydia’s parents’ house. She was gone. He put the SUV in gear and drove to the next block, where he stopped. He left the engine running while considering whether he should return to Alex’s party. However, that meant facing Paul, Seth, and Tindal, the first being the hardest. Instead, Cameron drove to the Montebello section of Chalmers and stopped in front of a stately Georgian house. Only Justin would open the Sloane family’s ornate beveled-glass door on New Year’s Eve.

Well, look who the cat dragged in. Justin’s predictable sneer sat easily on his oval face with its thick brow and deep-set eyes. Looking for a party? I heard you were at Alex’s. And that Paul stole your date. Is that why you left early? The furrow between his eyes deepened.

I had my reasons.

Yeah. I’m sure you did. Justin shrugged and stepped back. Come on in. He turned and walked down the hall, speaking to the polished antiques and ancient paintings rather than Cameron. When’d you hook up with Lydia?

She’s not a hookup.

Are you so sure? No, wait! A smile slithered across Justin’s face. You’re right. A cruel furrow joined the others in his thick brow. We’re talking about the Arctic Princess. Wouldn’t you like to board that cruise line? So-o-o warm.

Cameron glared at him, ready to smack him. But he didn’t. Instead, he followed Justin down the carpeted steps to the basement recreation room. The mahogany-paneled room, overlooking the home’s terraced lawn, gardens, pool, and tennis court, had been their playground when he and Justin, who was nearly a year older, were children and young teens. During middle school, they had parted ways. Cameron had thrown himself into golf and schoolwork while Justin did whatever suited him at any given moment. As children, Justin had seemed imposing and charismatic, but no longer.

After graduation, Cameron had hoped to distance himself from Justin, but Justin pledged the same fraternity in September. How? Cameron didn’t know or care. But it threw them together again, if only for a year. At the moment, however, Mr. Sloane’s well-appointed game room and the well-supplied bar he never locked had been reason enough to keep the friendship going, particularly since Justin’s parents never bothered him when friends stopped by. They were unlikely to develop a new habit.

So, what about Lydia? Justin pulled a beer from the refrigerator. I thought you dropped her years ago. Cold turkey!

Cameron’s hand clenched, but he released it and joined Justin at the ornate pool table where a former classmate and a stranger stood, each with a cue stick in hand. Cameron nodded to each, then occupied himself with the liquor cabinet. After scanning the labels, he drew a bottle of Glenmorangie single-malt Scotch from the shelf behind the bar. He held it up to read the label: Aged in bourbon casks. The good stuff but not too expensive. He filled an old-fashioned glass about half full. With the glass in hand, he dropped into an overstuffed armchair. He rolled the glass, watching the amber liquid coat its sides as he envisioned Lydia—the lilt in her step, her crisp Midwestern accent. A smile twitched his cheek, but other images pushed and shoved their way into his thoughts, demanding his attention.

He gulped half the remaining Scotch, wincing as it seared his mouth and throat. The sound of her key locking the front door of her parents’ house rang in his ears. He drained the glass and half-filled it again. He contemplated disputing Justin’s despicable assessment of Lydia’s reputation. Why argue with a bigger fool than himself? Besides, his problems were not Justin’s business. Dissatisfied with the effect, Cameron returned to the bar and refilled his glass with Maker’s Mark. He downed the liquid, paying scant attention to the burning sensation and even less to the taste.

He watched the others, none of whom played well, though some played better, aided by several beers. Beyond their shouts and taunts, a trophy fish caught his eye. Posed as forever leaping from some forgotten stream, it hooked Cameron’s sympathy. He, too, was gasping for air while frozen in time. He scanned the other trophies and stuffed animal heads that lined the walls. He tapped his thumb against his forefinger. Disappointed that neither was numb, he returned to the bar, grabbed the bourbon, and refilled his glass. He dropped into the overstuffed chair and studied Justin and the others who stumbled around the pool table. Finally, Cameron reached his goal as the light touch of oblivion settled over him.

Someone jostled his shoulder. He vaguely recognized Justin’s voice talking to Paul and Alex.

It’s not my fault, Justin protested. He poured every drink all on his own. And no, I wasn’t in the mood to stop him.

Good. For once, Justin’s apathy had worked in Cameron’s favor.

His mom asked me to bring him home, Paul answered.

Aren’t you the saint?

Yeah, he is. Cameron’s head spun too wildly for his mouth to form words. Since the ninth grade, he and Paul had shared the best of times. Several hands reached under his arms.

Come on, Cam. Paul lifted Cameron’s shoulder. Help me out. Stand up.

Cameron relaxed, hoping to appear heavy. I don’t want to go home.

Why not? Alex asked.

That’s okay. Paul lifted Cameron to his feet. Cam, would you rather go to your uncle’s house?

Yeah. Assured that his uncle would lecture him but do little else, Cameron attempted to stand but pitched sideways. Thankfully, Paul grabbed his arm, leading Cameron, who forced his eyes to stay open until he reached Paul’s car. Once settled, Cameron leaned his head against the side window.

The next thing he recognized was his uncle’s kind but strong voice. Cameron, give me your hand. Uncle Nathan, tall and lanky, leaned toward him with his hand extended. The respected architect had long reminded Cameron of an I-beam wrapped in foam. Though seemingly rigid, Uncle Nathan was dependably comforting, which was why Cameron ran to him after making truly stupid decisions.

Cameron wrapped his arm around his uncle’s neck and stood. Though teetering, he stepped forward. As the driveway’s gravel crunched beneath his shoes, he remembered Lydia’s eyes as she closed the door. If starting over was possible, he would. Hi. I’m Cameron, he’d say. I’m not the jerk you think I am.

He stumbled, almost missing a step, then heard the comforting thud of shoes crossing the wooden porch of the hundred-plus-year-old farmhouse. Inside, his aunt waited. He pushed his cheeks into a smile. Hi, Aunt Becky.

Is he okay? she asked. Hi, Paul. Thank you for picking him up.

Paul heaved Cameron into the house. I’ll do it again if need be.

Cameron glanced in his aunt’s direction, uncertain that he saw her.

He’ll be fine in the morning. Uncle Nathan’s voice rose above the echo of Cameron’s leaden feet. The walls sounded close. Oh, a hall. Here you go. Uncle Nathan loosened his grip, and Cameron dropped onto a bed. His head fell onto a pillow, and everything vanished.

He awoke to sunlight streaming through white cotton shades. He covered his eyes against the brilliant light as memories from the previous evening raced through his head. Ugh. He pulled the pillow over his head. What a jerk he’d been.

Sometime later, he awoke. His mouth tasted worse than soggy cereal, but the smell of coffee had roused his stomach. He sat up and dropped his legs over the side of the bed. Next to the bed sat a pair of slippers and robe that Aunt Becky had set out for him, but he wasn’t a guest. He’d imposed himself on her and wasn’t worthy of her kind gesture. Instead, he ran his fingers through his mussed hair, then wandered down to the kitchen wearing the shirt and jeans he had worn the night before.

Good morning, Cameron. The pleasant but set expression on Aunt Becky’s long, handsome face was no match for the elegant smile that usually greeted him. He owed her an apology because lying had never cut it with her. Would you like some grits and coffee?

Yes, please. Cameron sat down at the small breakfast table. His aunt set a steaming cup of coffee next to a plate of hot grits and scrambled eggs. He salted the grits and stirred in a butter pat. After a few swirls, he put the fork down. Not even his favorite breakfast looked appealing. Uncle Nathan sat across the table from him, reading the morning paper. A cup of coffee sat next to him.

You do know, his uncle didn’t bother to look up, what you did last night was neither smart nor legal.

Cameron studied the grits and melted butter. Well, at least he hadn’t tried to drive.

His uncle picked up his cup and met Cameron’s gaze. I don’t mind that you asked Paul to bring you out here, but you should think twice before getting wasted. He took a sip while keeping his eyes fixed on Cameron, a sure sign that he was ticked. Paul brought your car over this morning, and your mother is waiting for you at home. Anytime you’re ready, I suggest you head back so she’ll stop worrying. With that, he returned to his breakfast.

Obviously, Uncle Nathan was unaware that Cameron’s universe had blown apart, destroying every possibility of happiness. Thankfully, his uncle wasn’t in the habit of prying.

Shortly after eleven, Cameron returned home. A rich aroma filled the kitchen, where he found his mother pulling a pan of cornbread from the oven. She smiled for him. Hi, sweetie. Her cheerful greeting didn’t hide her disappointment.

He pushed his hangover aside and smiled just for her. He draped an arm over her shoulder and kissed her cheek, a flagrantly manipulative effort to ingratiate himself that had worked for years. Contrition oozed from every pore as Cameron whispered, I’m sorry I didn’t call. Meanwhile, his free hand lifted the lid of a large pot, releasing delicate tendrils of steam laced with the scent of olive oil, garlic, ham, and mushrooms. Who is this for?

I’m taking dinner to Sally Ritter. Her husband passed away last week. I volunteered for New Year’s Day. She’s originally from Iowa, so I’m making everything but black-eyed peas, she wiggled her eyebrows, and collards.

No black-eyed peas?

No black-eyed peas or collards. I substituted split-pea soup and a wilted spinach salad. Remember, it’s for Mrs. Ritter. There’re enough things for good luck: ham, cornbread, greens, and peas—of a sort, she added with a smile.

If Cameron’s mother was anything, she was resourceful. Unfortunately, she was also curious and thus brimming with questions he did not want to answer. Hence, overstaying his welcome was not an option. I am sorry about last night. I should have called. He kissed her cheek and excused himself. I need a shower.

How is Lydia? his mother asked as he turned to leave.

Fine. She had a good time, Cameron said over his shoulder. Yes, Lydia had enjoyed talking to Paul, which was truthful. And Cameron’s fault!

What’s her major? his mother asked.

Lydia’s major? He hadn’t asked, but Paul had said something before he excused himself. Engineering.

Is she enjoying Duke?

I suppose. Cameron should never have told his mother that he had asked Lydia out. I’m going upstairs. He strode through the breakfast room where his father sat, reading the morning paper. Cameron hoped his mother understood that going to Uncle Nathan’s rather than coming home had nothing to do with her and everything to do with avoiding his father. Doing so, though, had wounded his mother, making Cameron hate his father more.

As Cameron showered and dressed, memories from the previous night lingered, taunting him even as his mind wandered to a happier time, any random Monday evening during high school. Once again, he stood next to Lydia, serving food and doing chores as needed at the Park Street Diner, a soup kitchen that served Chalmers’s homeless population. Cameron fell back on the bed and closed his eyes as the weight of disappointment lifted from his chest. Again, he and Lydia filled glasses with ice, sweet tea, unsweetened tea, and sometimes water. Again, he heard her laughter as she chatted with people who came through the line seeking a hearty meal and whatever kindness they and the other volunteers offered. Mrs. Dempsey, he imagined hearing Lydia speak to a hunched, toothless young woman with dirty hair, I love how you fixed your hair today. It brightens your eyes.

Like Grandpa, Lydia liked gnarly people with drooping lids, crooked gap-toothed smiles, and strange odors. Each passing week increased his appreciation for Lydia’s intelligence and the pleasant conversations they shared. Only after Justin Sloane embarrassed Lydia at a party on the Friday night before Cameron graduated from high school did he realize how much he’d come to enjoy her reliably uncomplicated friendship. He had planned to apologize to her the following Monday. Then, without Cameron’s permission or knowledge, Justin took Cameron’s truck on a fatal joyride in the early hours of Sunday morning. In doing so, he destroyed Lydia’s trust in Cameron and their friendship.

Moments earlier, Officer Hammett had cleared Cameron of any connection to the accident that filled the intersection of Cornwall Street and NC-340 in Chalmers, even though his truck had been one of the two vehicles involved in the accident. An hour earlier, Officer Hammett and her partner had banged on the door of Cameron’s parents’ house, awakening him. After the second officer snarled at Cameron, nearly accusing him of complicity in the auto wreck, his answers satisfied Officer Hammett, who drove him to the scene to claim his truck.

When they arrived, the sights and smells had glued Cameron to the officer’s patrol car seat. He watched Officer Hammett and others talk while continuing to survey the street. Finally, Cameron swallowed hard and climbed into the eerie predawn light. A sickeningly sweet stench assaulted his nose. Antifreeze. Overhead, the traffic signal changed, but nothing moved. No car awaited its permission to continue. Cameron’s truck stood to one side with its hood up and front smashed in.

Officer Hammett approached him, You can get what you need from your vehicle, sir.

Thank you, he answered without taking his eyes off the second auto that stood several yards away. Its mangled driver’s door hung on a single hinge, revealing an empty and bloody driver’s seat. Both vehicles looked totaled.

The sweet smell intensified. Nausea rose into Cameron’s throat as a woman from his father’s insurance company approached. With her attention monopolized by her cell phone and emails, she seemed rude and indifferent even as she handed him a piece of paper. This is for your father. I have everything. We’ll file for you. No hint of compassion or empathy softened her clipped voice or lit her vacant eyes. I’ve called a tow truck, so you’re good to go.

Just leave? How? Cameron’s head spun, and his stomach convulsed. He turned away and grabbed his knees as his stomach heaved its contents. As he steadied himself, someone handed him a paper towel and a water bottle. It was Officer Hammett. Behind her, bright blue flashes lit the wet pavement, pieces of metal, and the car belonging to Mrs. Duncan, Cameron’s father’s cousin and the mother of Cameron’s close friend, Aimee. For a moment, as the paramedics lifted Aimee’s mother into the ambulance, Cameron’s eyes had met Aimee’s. He’d never seen such pain and fear. He wanted to comfort her, but how?

The blue light flashed on and off, on and off. If Cameron had hidden his keys, this wouldn’t have happened.

As distant cousins but close in age,