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Cameron murmured the correct response. “Scarecrow. The Wizard of Oz.”
“You look washed out,” Brandon said, staring at his wine glass from the other end of the couch. “I’ve kept you up. For two nights.”
“It’s fine.”
Brandon winced. “What’s the matter?”
Cameron shook his head. “Just thinking about a few things.”
“Like what?”
“Like love.”
“What about it?”
Cameron stared at the moon-streaked ceiling. How would Brandon react? His voice trembled. “I read a book.”
“You always read books.”
“A special one. After I read it, Henry sent me an essay on it by a man called John Gilgun. Thoughts on the values within the book that shaped his life.”
“He wrote about love?”
“He wrote a particular line that spoke to me. ‘Vocation is a matter of soul just as love is.’”
He let Brandon soak it in, felt him nodding appreciatively. “You’re right. Isabella can’t destroy everything. I have Ask Austen Studios.”
“It’s your baby.”
“You got that right.”
Cameron admired Brandon’s smile and the sense of satisfaction in his next exhale.
“I want to write scripts, Brandon. I don’t want to be executive producer.”
Brandon whipped his head toward him. “Has Dad said something? I told him—”
“Dad’s said a lot of things. This isn’t coming from him. I’ve done a good job handling this position, but I don’t love it. I don’t even like it.”
“How long have you felt like this?”
“Months. A year.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“I didn’t know how.”
Cameron: Sorry, Henry. Won’t make it back tonight, either.
* * *
Henry: You’re a good brother.
* * *
Cameron: He’s just dozed off.
* * *
Cameron: How was your day?
* * *
Henry: Spent it in the library.
* * *
Cameron: Reading Oz?
* * *
Henry: Thinking.
* * *
Henry: Have to head back to camp tomorrow. Two days.
* * *
Cameron: I’ll write you a letter.
* * *
Cameron: It won’t arrive before you leave camp.
* * *
Cameron: I’ll send it home.
* * *
Cameron: Henry?
* * *
Henry: Yes. Just needed a moment.
* * *
Cameron: You okay?
* * *
Henry: Better than okay.
When Cameron arrived back at the manse after a relentless day putting out fires at work, he sighed in relief. The warmth of the library closed around him.
Georgie and Alicia were there, giggling at the window, and Cameron smiled tiredly at them and collapsed into his chair. “Let’s see if Cameron wants to join us,” Georgie whispered.
“I should suspect not,” Alicia answered.
Cameron was tired, to the bone—he’d had fewer than three hours of sleep—but he stirred at her statement.
Truth was, a big green part of him didn’t like the idea at all, but he felt the ghost of Henry’s touch on his knee, those eyes holding his . . .
He pushed toward them. “Are you playing a game?”
Georgie shook her head. “Ordering a couple of pizzas and a garlic loaf.”
Alicia raised a brow. “Want to break bread together?”
Cameron blinked at her. She was clever, and he could see why Henry liked her. He didn’t particularly want to eat a greasy pizza. But, maybe. Maybe this time, he wouldn’t mind.
“Can we get some broccoli on one?” he asked. “I can pretend I’m being healthy.”
Alicia laughed, and it sounded a lot like relief.
For a moment, the stained glass behind her brightened, and she clapped her hands and smiled.
“Henry is right about you.”
After pizza, he showered and glided to bed, feet snug in the comfort of Henry’s socks. He should be crashing with exhaustion, but Alicia’s anecdotes had energized him. Her descriptions of Henry at teachers college had been so detailed they’d transported him into each memory.
Cameron noticed his old moleskin on Henry’s side table. He ran a finger along the golden ink doodle on the spine, pulse ticking faster.
He leaped out of bed again and scrounged around Henry’s desk until he found lined paper and a pen.
Dear Henry,
* * *
“In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire
* * *
Dear Henry,
* * *
“To be fond of dancing [is] a certain step towards falling in
* * *
Dear Henry,
* * *
“Friendship is certainly the finest
This was harder than he thought. How could Austen fail him in his moment of need?
He screwed up another attempt, and it joined the others on the floor. He tried author after author after author, desperately searching for perfect words to express . . .
He wrapped Henry’s blanket around him, taking deep breaths as he put pen to paper once more.
There. Small words and big feelings.
He’d send the letter in the morning. Maybe he’d be lucky and get to watch Henry read it.
He pressed the carefully folded letter to his lips, the edge fanning against his glasses.
The door groaned, and for a terribly wonderful second, Cameron thought Henry had come home early.
It was probably Georgie.
Except . . . the silence that loomed after the whoosh of air felt wrong.
He drew the letter off his face and stared at the carpet of scrunched paper, a sea of mistakes toward a tidal wave.
