Chapter Ten: Camden

CHAPTER TENCamden

It’s unreal how quickly I slide back into place here.

A decade of not thinking about Ashby House or the McTavishes, a decade of building a whole new life for myself, and within three days, it’s like I’ve never left.

I’m eating Cecilia’s cooking, avoiding Nelle, walking the woods surrounding the house, driving into town for groceries …

It’s like there was always a Camden-shaped hole here, just waiting for me to slip back into.

Jules loves it.

I can see it in her face every day, the way she grins when she gets out of bed, how eager she is to curl up in that one chair on the veranda she likes so much and watch the world wake up around her. She’s content to do that for hours, to just take in the views, or wander the rooms.

I’d been worried about letting her go off with Ben, remembering other hikes through the woods with him, my feet skidding on pebbles, his laugh in my ear.

But Jules had come back with rosy cheeks and a bright smile, proclaiming the hike “exactly what I needed.”

If anything, Ben had been the one looking a little spooked, and I’d reminded myself yet again that I had an invaluable ally in my wife.

Today when I go looking for her, I find her in what used to be Ruby’s office, sitting on the floor and going through an old photo album.

“I’m snooping,” she says, unrepentant, not even looking up, and I laugh, crouching down next to her.

“Well, I hope you’re enjoying a tour of Dead White People because I’m pretty sure that’s all that’s in these albums.”

“Au contraire,” she objects, flipping to a page near the back. “One very alive Camden McTavish, aged fifteen!”

And there I am, standing next to Ruby in the den. It’s Christmas, clearly, the tree stretching up behind us, too tall to fit into the picture. Stockings and tinsel, a crystal glass of eggnog in Ruby’s hand, and I look …

Happy.

No tight smile, no faking it for the camera. It’s a real, goofy smile as I look lovingly at Ruby—I’d grown taller than her by then, and my arm is slung around her shoulders, her head just reaching my collarbone.

I don’t remember that picture. Don’t remember taking it––hell, I don’t even remember being that kid. But there I am, and there’s Ruby’s neat handwriting on the little card next to the photo with my name and age, just like Jules said.

“I bet Christmas here is something else,” she says, her voice gone slightly dreamy.

She’s picturing it, no doubt. That same huge tree, the twinkling lights. The snow that falls gently outside, locking the house into its own winter wonderland.

And in that moment, I want so badly to give her the fairy tale. I want to take back every horrible thing that happened here, take back what I did, just so she can have that.

Which is why I almost tell her the truth.

If she knew—if she understood—the real reason why I left, then she would see that it was impossible for us to stay. That there was no Christmas at Ashby House in our future, and that was for the best.

The words are right there, so close I can almost hear myself saying them.

But in the end, I just cuff a hand around the back of her neck, pulling her in to kiss her temple before rising to my feet and saying, “I’ll leave you to it. But hey. Any embarrassing pictures of me in there, it’s your wifely duty to burn them.”

“Gonna blow ’em up life-size and hang them all over our room,” she singsongs, still flipping through albums, and I laugh as I close the door behind me.

And walk almost straight into Nelle.

She’s dressed in green today, another tartan skirt and sweater set, and for the briefest second, I see her expression soften, the hint of a smile turning up her lips.

“Oh,” she says, and that near-smile becomes a scowl. “It’s you.”

She must’ve thought I was Ben. That had happened when I was a kid, too, and I’d get a glimpse of the Nelle who was actually human. But once she realized I wasn’t her own flesh and blood, the persona of the devoted grandmother would promptly disappear.

“It’s me,” I confirm, and go to step around her, but she plants herself in my path.

“We need to talk about your wife,” she says, and I glance over my shoulder at the door I just closed.

“I don’t think that we do,” I reply, keeping my voice light, though I know she hears the warning underneath, that she sees it in my eyes.

But Nelle is a McTavish, and she doesn’t back down. “She’s been in every room of this house other than my bedroom, and honestly, I think she’d go in there if she thought she could get away with it. I’m not sure what it is she’s looking for, but kindly remind her that she is a guest in this house.”

Anger sparks, my pulse picking up, and I shove my hands into my pockets. “I own this house, Nelle,” I remind her. “Which means that it’s Jules’s house, too. She’s allowed in any room, in any closet, in any tiny corner of this place she wants.”

I wait for Nelle to draw herself up so tightly she squeaks, but instead, she actually smiles a little. Not the warm, indulgent smile she’d let slip when she thought I was Ben, but an ugly, sardonic one. “You sound like my sister,” she says, and my anger fades, replaced with a wariness that has me stepping back.

“When she died, I thought I’d never actually be rid of her because I’d always have to deal with you, her little … project. The child she molded into her own image. But then you left, too, and finally, I was free. Finally, this house was my own.”

Nelle steps closer, her feet silent on the thick carpet. Howell’s email may have said she wasn’t doing well, health-wise, but there’s no sign of that in this moment. Right now, Nelle looks like she’s made of solid steel.

“I thought you might come back when Howell died, and I was so relieved when you didn’t. Bad enough that I’d lost my only son. The last thing I needed was Ruby’s ghost swanning around the place again.” She pauses, her face hardening even further. “You should have stayed away, Camden. I think you’ll be sorry that you didn’t.”

As she walks away, I give a long, shaky exhale. “Your threats are improving, Nelle, I’ll give you that,” I call after her. “Bonus points for being cryptic.”

But Nelle continues shuffling down the hallway, ignoring me, and I try to shake off her words as I make my way to the stairs. She was always saying shit like that, glaring darkly across the dining-room table, catching me alone to remind me that I was nothing but trash, an “experiment” of Ruby’s. I’d learned to tune it out over the years, but something about this most recent exchange slides between my ribs like a knife, lodging there.

I reach the landing, and without thinking, I lift my eyes to Ruby’s portrait.

They’re going to hate you. I won’t sugarcoat that.Her voice sweet as syrup, that old-fashioned drawl that you’d think people have only in bad movies softening and rounding every vowel. I was sixteen, and we were sitting in the parlor upstairs, the one with the striped sofa, and she had a folder open on her lap, filled with printouts, so many numbers on the pages.

So many zeros.

I don’t want it.

She thought I meant the money, and I did, but I also meant that hatred. The McTavishes hadn’t tried to hide their belief that I wasn’t one of them. But this would make it far worse. This made me a weapon Ruby had decided to wield against them, and there was nothing they could do about it.

Well,I want you to have it, Ruby had replied, picking an invisible piece of lint off my shirt. And that’s all that matters.

And that’s how it had been.

Ruby’s sly smile follows me all the way to the kitchen.

Libby is mixing up some viscous green liquid in one of those little blenders made for that kind of thing, and when she glances over her shoulder at me, I bite back a groan.

This house is something like twenty thousand square feet, how in the fuck does everyone in it always end up on top of each other? I should be able to go days without seeing anyone else, but no, just like it was all those years ago, it’s as if the house keeps forcing us together, making us bump up against each other until we snap.

“Ben said to get started without him today,” Libby calls out over the noise of the blender.

I swing my leg over a stool at the kitchen island, sitting down and pulling out my phone. “Where is he?”

Libby shakes her head, her long hair in loose curls halfway down her back. No polka dots today, but those same white jeans, this time with a white top and a navy sweater, rows of necklaces around her neck, rattling as she turns around.

“He had to drive into town to meet with some lawyer buddy of his. Don’t ask me what for,” she adds, holding up one hand even though I had not even started to ask. “I could not give a shit.”

Again, a distant kind of alarm bell ringing, a queasy sensation that something isn’t right. But is it real, or is this place just making me paranoid? It can do that to a person. Even Ruby thought so.

I look back at my phone, scrolling through emails, looking for anything I might have missed from Nathan, my lawyer.

Just in case.

Libby moves around the kitchen, pouring her noxious juice into a pink cup emblazoned with a cursive L, before leaning back against the counter, watching me.

I ignore her, my eyes on my phone, hoping she’ll go away now, refusing to cede the space, but Libby can’t pass up the opportunity to catch me alone.

“So. Your wife.”

I don’t reply, my fingers tightening around my phone.

“She’s pretty,” Libby goes on. “Like, prettier than I thought you could land, if I’m honest.”

“Can’t disagree with that,” I say, still refusing to meet her gaze. I’d been surprised myself at how Jules, with her blond hair and big eyes and gorgeous smile, had wanted me, a skinny, sullen kid pouring beers at a cheap wing place. I’m not as skinny now, and I finally figured out how to style my hair so that I don’t look like I’m in the Vienna Boys’ Choir, but there’s no doubt I’m punching above my weight.

“I guess I thought maybe you didn’t like girls or something. But maybe you just like blondes.”

I look up sharply and our eyes meet. She’s tapping the pink straw of her cup against her lower lip, studying me.

“Does she know––” she starts, and I cut her off.

“Don’t.”

Maybe it’s my voice, low and dangerous even to my ears, or something in the way I’m glaring at her, because Libby shoots me a dirty look, dumping the blender, base and all, into the sink with a clatter, remnants of green juice splattering on Cecilia’s clean counters.

“Don’t act like it’s some big shameful secret, Camden,” she says, turning and bracing her hands on the sink behind her. “Because, honestly, if you hadn’t been so weird about it, everything would’ve worked out a hell of a lot better than it has.”

My gut twists even as I give a shocked laugh because, Jesus, she really believes that.

“What do you think would have happened?” I hear myself say. “We would’ve gotten married? Lived happily ever after here at Ashby?”

It’s such a perverse thought—me and Libby, married, shacked up together in this house—that I can hardly picture it, but Libby must not have that hang-up because she’s suddenly crossing the kitchen, she’s suddenly standing there in front of me.

“It would’ve solved everything,” she replies, her voice almost cracking, and for the first time, I realize that that night—that fucked-up, deeply wrong night—might have meant something different to her than it did to me.

“We were kids,” I tell her, trying to be gentle, even as my mind fights to push down every memory, every detail. The soft breeze coming through my window, the green-apple scent of her shampoo, the way her hands slid over my skin.

How long I’d let her kiss me, let her touch me, before shoving her away. Seconds, but they lasted an eternity.

“No one’s ever said no to me, Camden,” Libby says now, her hand resting lightly on my chest, and I can’t help but laugh as I cover her fingers with mine.

“I don’t doubt that,” I tell her. “But … fuck’s sake, Libby, you’re my cousin.”

“Not by blood,” she says, too quickly, and there’s a sudden sour taste in the back of my throat.

“Maybe not, but in every way that matters,” I reply firmly. “And besides, you didn’t want me anyway.”

That part I remember maybe too clearly. Pushing her away, even as every cell in my stupid teenage body had wanted to pull her closer, my voice raspy as I’d said, Your dad will kill me.

And Libby, gorgeous and naked and all of seventeen, shooting me a look far too old, far too knowing, and saying, Who do you think sent me in here?

If Howell wasn’t already dead, I’d kill him myself just for that. For deciding that if he couldn’t change Ruby’s mind about her will, he’d do whatever it took to make sure his family wouldn’t be cut out of it. Including sending his teenage daughter into my room to seduce me.

That was the night I knew I couldn’t stay here. That I couldn’t be a part of this so-called family any longer.

Libby is still standing in front of me, one shell-pink nail resting on the middle button of my shirt, and as I look in her green eyes, I see something there. Something real.

Something that turns my stomach and breaks my heart all at the same time.

“Who says I didn’t want you?” she asks, her voice low. “I mean, you were weird, and you always looked at me like you were afraid I was going to bite you or something, but you were cute even back then. And smart.”

She steps closer, so close that I can smell her perfume, feel her breath on my face.

“And you’re still cute and smart now,” Libby goes on. “And tall. I always forget that you’re tall.”

Reaching up, she rests her hands on my shoulders, squeezing slightly as I hold myself very still.

“It’s just … Cam, think how much easier it would’ve been.” Her voice breaks, her eyes searching mine. “You and me? It would’ve made Daddy happy, it would’ve made Nana Nelle happy…”

“Would it have made you happy?” I ask, and she smiles a little, giving that uniquely Libby shrug.

“It would’ve made me rich,” she says. “And that would’ve made me happy.”

I suck in a deep breath through my nose, and I see Libby’s smile start to curve up at the corners as she leans in even closer, her lips almost touching mine.

Stepping back so fast that I nearly overturn one of the barstools, I jerk my chin up and away from her mouth. My heart is pounding and there’s an acrid taste at the back of my throat as I picture Jules walking in, seeing us, seeing me. I’ve never looked at another woman since the night Jules walked into that shitty bar, and even though nothing about Libby in this moment is tempting, that familiar oily slick of guilt is slithering through me again.

“I’m not the answer, Libby,” I say now. “I never was. Find something better.”

My words take on a slightly desperate edge as I reach out to take her hands in mine. “You deserve better. Fuck this house, fuck this family, fuck the money. Just … be you. Whatever that is.”

I squeeze her fingers, smiling a little, hoping she hears me, and for a minute, I think she might. Her beautiful face softens, her fingers press into mine.

And then a smirk twists those symmetrical features, her lips pinching together in a way that brings Nelle to mind. “Oh, Camden,” she purrs. “That’s beautiful! Maybe save it for someone who needs a fucking Hallmark card, hmm?”

She pivots away sharply, her sandals smacking on the tile.

“Libby,” I call after her, but she just throws one hand up, dismissing me.

“You had your chance, Camden,” she calls out as she heads through the massive arch leading into the hallway. “Remember that.”

Her footsteps echo, then fade, and eventually, I hear the front door open and slam shut.

Sighing, I go over to the sink, picking up the base of the blender and setting it on the counter before turning on the hot water to wash the container.

There are other dishes in the sink, and I wash them methodically. My hands are moving, but my brain is far away.

I don’t know how long I stand there, the water running, steam curling around me.

I should’ve left that night and never returned. I probably could’ve saved myself then. I wasn’t a teenager anymore, old enough to live on my own. If only I hadn’t let Ruby call me back that last time …

My cell phone rings, pulling me out of my daze, and I shut off the water, drying my hands on the back of my jeans before picking up the phone, glancing at the name on the display.

Nathan.

My lawyer.

I’d left a message with him earlier about making an appointment to go over some paperwork, so it’s probably just that, I tell myself, answering the call.

But there’s a heaviness in my gut that tells me it’s something else.

And my gut, it turns out, was right.

OOH LA-LA LIBBY!

It’s easy to forget Elizabeth Eleanor “Libby” McTavish is North Carolina royalty when you step into her boutique in Tavistock, North Carolina. The unassuming heiress is wearing jeans with a vintage T-shirt showcasing the cover of Lara Larchmont’sAestasalbum, and her feet are charmingly bare save a bright coral polish on her toenails and a silver ring winking from her pinkie toe.

But spend a few minutes in the magnetic twenty-seven-year-old’s company, and you quickly realize she is breathing rarified air.

“I found this in Indonesia, isn’t itdivine?” she’ll say, holding up a gorgeous batik blanket, and that will lead into a thirty-minute conversation about her second honeymoon in Bali.

While the marriage didn’t last long, Libby is not one for dwelling on disappointments. “I really think you have to make your own way in the world, and that means you’ll sometimes make mistakes. I’m just thankful my family gave me that grace.”

Her family is, of course, the legendary McTavishes of Tavistock, her notorious great-aunt Ruby the much-married “Mrs. Kill-more” of tabloid legend, but Libby doesn’t like to focus on scandal.

“Aunt Ruby was a Girl Boss before we knew what that was,” she tells me. “People forget that it wasn’t just her dad’s money, or her husbands’. She wassuper smart. She made her own way. And I think, in my own little way, I’m trying to do the same. Honestly, if she were still alive, I think she’d be really proud of me.”

No doubt she would, although unfortunately, no members of Ms. McTavish’s family were available for comment by the time this interview went to press.

––Southern Living,February 2022