Free When Venus Fell by Deborah Smith Page B

Gib’s folded driving directions in a pocket of my skirt. “I need directions from here to Cameron Hall, please. I was told to stop at the store here and ask. And I understand you have some cabins to rent nearby. We’re going to need a cabin for tonight if you have one available. I’m Ann Nelson and this is my sister, Jane. We’re visiting—”
    “We got cabins so darned modern the plumbing’s inside.” He waved his hands dramatically. “Why, you should see the way the outhouse works!”
    Either he was practicing to audition for a remake of
The Beverly Hillbillies
, or he was making fun of us. “We’ll take the nonsmoking and nonbuzzard cabin, please.”
    He roared. “You don’t know whether to grin or skedaddle, do you? I own this store, and I’m just a bored old man who enjoys pulling your leg!”
    Ella gushed, “You must be Colonel Cameron,” blowing all hopes I’d had of quietly assessing these people before they learned who we were. “In his directions Gib said you were his cousin and that you run this store.”
    “Yes, ma’am! I’m Gib’s father’s first cousin’s oldest son. Retired Air Force. Colonel Cameron. You can call me Hoss.”
    “Oh, sir, we are so
glad
to meet you. I’m Ella Arinelli and this is my sister, Venus. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She reverted to southernness with an ease I’d never expected, introducing us as naturally as a bird sings to identify other birds.
    The old man’s eyes widened. A grin slowly spread the folds of his jowls. “You’re a day early!” He gazed at me in awe. “Venus! No need to be shy about it!” He bowled around the end of the counter, narrowly missing a small table and chairs set up for a chess game. He grinned and waved his arms and bore down on us like an old freight train. I began to back up but Ella laughed and held out her hands. He grabbed her hands then turned and bellowed, “Sophia! Sophia, the Arinelli girls are here a day early!
And they are a sight!”
    “What?” a woman shrieked from a back room. We heard thumping and rustling sounds. A big-haired grandmotherly woman dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, her fingers glittering with diamond rings, hurried on short, plump legs through the narrow aisles of food and hardware and fishing tackle, spreading her Rubenesque arms to us. “Bless your hearts, little Arinellis,” she said, with a heavy Italian accent. “My mother was a Campacho from Milan!
Sono molto lieto di fare la sua conoscenza!”
    Ella cried, “It’s very nice to meet you, too!
Grazie!
You must be Sophia!” That was all the bonding ritual required to win over Sophia Campacho Cameron, of Tennessee by way of Italy. She grabbed me and Hoss grabbed Ella as if we were long-lost kin.
    We were hugged and hugged again, patted on the backs, praised for our good looks, glowed at, offered wine, told we were godsends. It was like water falling on parched ground, to be welcomed that way by people who knew our family history. But they were ecstatic to see us. Or so they said.
    “We prayed Gib would find the Arinelli sisters,” Sophia sighed. “And that you would understand and come here. Now there is reason to celebrate.”
    “Understand what?” I asked warily.
    “You’re here for the thirty-year anniversary! We’re all convinced this means Gib will take his brother’s place and open the Hall again. You’re a sign that the past has brought the Hall a future!”
    I took a step back. I wasn’t going to be sucked into this sentimental nonsense. I didn’t like being an icon of Cameron hospitality. I was there to collect an inheritance and leave as soon as Gib deigned to hand it over, and I wanted to say so, flat out. But Ella’s eyes were glazed with appreciation and acceptance. “I can’t wait to see where our parents were married,” she crooned. She radiated joy like a polished charm.
    “Oh, but y’all can’t go to the Hall, yet,” Hoss announced. “Everybody’s gone to Knoxville for the day.”
    “We