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CHAPTER FOUR
“A VITALLY IMPORTANT part of creative writing,” Camilla told her senior class, “is the ability to give your reader a sense of place. This is accomplished by means of descriptive passages, but they have to be used sparingly or they’ll overpower the narrative.”
“Like garlic salt,” one of the students suggested, and Camilla smiled.
“Like garlic salt,” she agreed. “A little bit is delicious, but too much will spoil the dish. As you work your way through the reading list, I think you’ll find that all of the great writers are masters at description. Now, for your next assignment, I want you to take some time this weekend and do a couple of pages describing the most beautiful place you’ve ever seen.”
Hands shot up all over the room. “Can it be an imaginary place? What if it’s something that’s only beautiful to me, but nobody else? How many words should the essay be?”
She moved around the room to answer their questions, conscious of Jon Campbell watching her steadily from his seat at the back.
This was the fifth session of this class, and she was becoming accustomed to having him nearby. But it was still disturbing to see him lounge in his desk as he watched her with that thoughtful blue gaze.
By now, though, Camilla was convinced that the man really didn’t remember. Maybe the incident had meant so little to him that he’d forgotten it as soon as it happened.
Or maybe, like her, he’d repressed the past, buried all of those memories in some deep place where they were never disturbed.
She still had hopes that he might be intimidated enough by the major assignment he’d been given to drop the course altogether. But even this faint hope was beginning to fade. Jon Campbell didn’t appear to be a man who was easily intimidated, and his written work showed a surprising degree of skill.
The main problem for Camilla was that her own dark vault of memory seemed to be opening, slowly but relentlessly.
For instance, the nightmares were creeping back, although it had been years since they’d last haunted her. She found herself waking abruptly at three in the morning, drenched with perspiration, shaking in terror.
And there were other disturbing flashes of memory that leaped at her from unexpected places, things so much at odds with the carefully controlled life she’d made for herself that she could hardly bear the pain….
“That’s all for today,” she told the class with a glance at her watch. “I’ll be in my office this afternoon if any of you want help related to your major research papers. Thank you, and have a nice weekend.”
She went to the desk and began to gather her papers, conscious of Jon Campbell’s approach. Her senses seemed to be so finely attuned to this man that her body had some mysterious way of knowing when he was nearby. The fine hairs on her forearms actually lifted, and her pulse quickened.
“I’ve seen a lot of beautiful things in my life,” he said quietly. “It’s hard to choose just one.”
What did he mean by that?
She forced herself to look up him, but his eyes were mild and steady, not at all threatening.
Camilla hefted an armload of books and started for the door. “Why don’t you describe something at your home?”
“My home is a ranch on the dry prairie.” Jon fell into step beside her. “A lot of people wouldn’t think there was anything beautiful about it.”
His sleeve brushed against her arm, and she could smell the pleasant masculine scent of clean skin and shaving lotion. She closed her eyes briefly, struggling to maintain her composure. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Mr. Campbell.”
“It sure is.” She could feel him looking down at her, but she was afraid to meet his eyes again. “I understand you’ve met my kids,” he added.
“Yes, I have. All three of them.” She paused by the door. “The twins are helping me with some research I’m doing into the development of reading ability. And Steven is in my freshman English class.”
“Actually, I have four kids,” he said with a smile. “The only one you haven’t met is Vanessa. She’s sixteen, in twelfth grade.”
“Is she as bright as Steven and the twins?”
“I think so.” His smile faded. “I wasn’t aware Steve was in your English class. He doesn’t seem to tell me things anymore.”
Camilla was urgently tempted to ask the man some questions. She wanted to know a lot more about that handsome, unhappy boy who looked so much like his father. And the shy, brilliant twins, and their mysteriously absent mother…
Enrique Valeros passed them with a timid nod, stumbling a little as he went into the hallway. He carried a huge pile of library books, and his face was pale with fatigue. Camilla and Jon watched in silence as the dark-haired boy moved down the corridor with an unsteady gait.
“That poor kid always looks like he’s dead on his feet,” Jon observed. “His hands were shaking again today. I wonder if he’s sick, or taking drugs or something.”
Camilla frowned. “No, I don’t think it’s drugs,” she said at last. “His written work is beautiful, very concise and disciplined. It’s particularly impressive for somebody for whom English is a second language. The students who abuse drugs tend to be rambling and disconnected, although,” she added dryly, “they always believe that their work is wonderfully eloquent.”
“Then why do you think Enrique’s so tired all the time?”
“I don’t know.”
She felt a treacherous urge to move closer to Jon Campbell, to nestle against the man and feel his arms around her. It was surprisingly pleasant to stand here with him like this, talking and hearing his voice in reply.
Abruptly the years fell away and she was seventeen again, overcome with a stormy passion she’d never expected to feel….
“Goodbye, Mr. Campbell,” she said hastily, starting down the hallway toward the administrative wing. “Have a pleasant weekend.”
“HI, GRETCHEN.” Camilla stopped at the bursar’s office and dropped her books onto the counter with a sigh. “I wonder if you can tell me something about one of my students.”
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