He wore sleek pants and a pale blue dress shirt opened at the throat one button. His gray-blond hair had been slicked back with comb tracks. He was likely in his late sixties, which didn’t diminish the vitality and magnetism flowing from him. His resemblance to Jeremiah was evident in their firm jaws, straight noses, fit bodies, and the rare shade of their pale green eyes.
The newcomer bent down to clasp Jeremiah in a swift hug.
Jeremiah didn’t push the stranger away nor did he reach up to return the hug.
The older man straightened. “How are you, son?”
“I’d say I’ve been better, but I don’t remember if I have.”
Jeremiah’s father stretched out his hand to Remy. “I’m Felix Camden.”
So Jeremiah does belong to the most notorious branch of the Camden family.She was beginning to relate to a boxer trying to absorb punch after punch. “Remy Reed.” They shook hands.
“A pleasure to meet you.” His eye contact was direct. His confidence towering.
“How did you know I was here?” Jeremiah asked. “The hospital told me they’d notify Fiona and Jude.”
“Your mother called me as soon as they called her and, by the looks of it, I got here first. I have,” he said dryly, “a very fast car. I hear you have no memory and a lung infection.”
“That’s correct.”
“I’m not familiar to you?”
“No.”
Felix Camden probably rarely-to-never came into contact with anyone who wasn’t familiar with him. The least famous thing about Felix Camden was his iconic last name. The most famous thing about him—his career as an NFL quarterback.
Remy had grown up in Dallas, Texas. Her parents had watched Cowboys games on TV and occasionally seen the team play live when gifted a ticket by a friend or business associate. Remy was no football expert, but she didn’t have to be to know the name Felix Camden. He’d become a part of the culture. Like Terry Bradshaw or Joe Montana.
“I’m glad you’re safe,” Felix said to Jeremiah. “We’ve been worried.”
“Have you?” Jeremiah asked evenly. “Remy and I have been searching for missing-person reports and no one posted one about me.”
“You left ten days ago for a week of vacation on your boat. You’d told us you were going off the grid. You’d have your phone with you but shut off and stowed away only to use in case of emergency. For the first week, we had no cause for concern. Then you didn’t return to port as scheduled three days ago and none of us could reach you. That’s when we got worried. Had we announced publicly that you were missing, it would have created a firestorm. Instead, I hired two private detectives. They, and the rest of us, have been making inquiries the last few days.”
Jeremiah regarded the older man the way people at galleries regarded art they were trying to understand.
Just then a woman sailed in.
She looked to be around Felix’s age with defined cheekbones, a sharp jaw, and perfectly placed eyes. Her clothing communicated wealth. Her skin was as smooth and glowing as Botox and facials could make it. She'd twisted her ash-blond hair into an updo in the back. In the front, curtain bangs framed her face.
“Sweetheart,” she said to Jeremiah.
“This is your mother,” Felix said. “Fiona.”
This time, Jeremiah returned her hug.
When they parted, Felix motioned to Remy. “Fiona, I’d like to introduce you to Remy Reed.”
Fiona glanced across at her vaguely, as if she’d only just registered her presence. “Hello.”
“Hi.”
“She’s been taking care of Jeremiah for us.”
“Oh, how kind.Thank you.” As her focus returned to her son, her brows twitched toward each other. “What happened to you? I’ve hardly slept the last couple of nights. The only thing that kept me going was the possibility that you’d decided to extend your vacation without notifying anyone.”
“That’s not what happened.” Without emotion, Jeremiah recounted how and where Remy had discovered him and the days since.
