Claire might as well use her hard-won experience to keep Holly away from the traps she’d fallen into. Her naïveté had allowed Milo to abscond with all of her paintings except the Castillo, and the only reason he hadn’t taken that was because he thought it was junk. She hoped he was kicking himself now that it was worth more than all the others put together.
Claire persuaded Holly to let a neighbor pick up Brianna and Kayleigh at school and have them sleep over. Then she and Holly combed through all the papers in the family file cabinet. As they sorted through the bills, Holly was shocked by how much Frank spent.
“He always said we were saving as much money as we could, while he was buying iPods and netbooks and fancy cell phones I never saw,” she said. “Did you notice this charge for clothes at Macy’s in Detroit? No wonder he always looked so sharp. If I spent that kind of money on my clothes, I’d look a hell of a lot better too.”
Claire kept quiet about her suspicion that not all of the items had been for Frank’s personal use.
After they gathered as much information as they could, Claire refilled their wine glasses until they’d polished off the bottle.
Holly gulped down the last of the chardonnay and put her glass down on the kitchen table. When she spoke, her voice was so soft Claire had to lean in to hear her. “I’m sorry I never talked to you about it.”
“About what?”
“Your divorce. When it was happening. I’m sorry.”
“It wouldn’t have changed anything.” That was true, but she would have welcomed Holly’s emotional support.
“Frank and I, well, we were having some problems even back then.” She turned the glass around and around on its base without looking at Claire. “I felt guilty asking you about your marriage when I couldn’t admit to what was happening in mine.”
So Holly hadn’t been uncaring; she had just had troubles of her own, troubles she wasn’t prepared to share. Claire felt as though several tons of misery slid off her shoulders and splintered into tiny fragments at her feet.
She put her hand over Holly’s to still the turning of the glass. “Don’t worry about it, sweetie. I understand.”
“Thank you,” Holly said with a hiccupping sob. “Thank you for staying. Now I think I need to go to sleep.”
A ripple of disappointment ran through Claire. She wanted to keep talking until all the constraints and barriers between them had been battered down. She sighed and stood up, bracing her sister when she staggered under the combination of emotional trauma, Lyme disease, and wine.
Tucking a nearly comatose Holly under the comforter, Claire’s heart ached. She wished she could spare her sister the pain of having her world shattered by the divorce, but all she could do was help her through it. She smoothed the hair back from Holly’s forehead as tears trickled down her cheeks. Her sister looked so small curled up all alone in the middle of the king-sized bed.
“SO, SPROCKET, WHY hasn’t she answered my voice mail?” Tim took a beer out of the sleek stainless steel refrigerator.
The miniature Doberman pinscher raced in circles around his feet, barking with excitement.
Tim looked down and shook his head. “A man of my size should have a Newfoundland or a Saint Bernard, not a crazed little ball of energy like you. It’s not dignified.”
When the injured Sprocket had been brought into the veterinary hospital by a distraught woman whose car had hit him when he ran in front of it, inquiries had brought forth no owner to claim him. Since the dog wore no collar and was undernourished, Tim assumed he had been abandoned. By the time Sprocket had healed enough to be adopted, he had become deeply attached to Tim.
He reached down and scooped up the little creature, letting him lick his face as he strolled to the newly delivered sofa in his freshly painted living room. The only other habitable rooms were the kitchen and the master suite. The rest of the house was still a construction site.
“She probably didn’t play my message yet. She’s a busy career woman, after all.” Tim sat down and stretched his long legs out with a sigh of pleasure, while Sprocket curled up against his hip.
The sofa was positioned so he could gaze out the wall-sized picture window at the soft undulations of mountains rolling away into the distance, their hazy blue-greens darkening rapidly as the sun slid down the sky. These ancient mountains, their once sharp contours softened by eons of wind and water, helped him put his life into perspective.
He took a swig of beer and skimmed his hand over Sprocket’s sleek skull as he considered how right it felt to be back here.
He had lived in New York for Anais, who had to be there for her stage career. He, on the other hand, could do his research almost anywhere. He had the financial resources to build and equip his own laboratory right here among the hills of West Virginia, if he wanted to.
Not that he had done any research since he’d come here. The veterinary hospital kept him busy. Which had been the point. It gave him less time to remember.
The surprise was how much he enjoyed the hands-on work of dealing with whatever creature, large or small, needed his help. Not to mention soothing their owners. Slowly but surely, he was being drawn back into the fabric of his hometown.
Now his carefully constructed refuge was being jarred by Claire’s presence. She reminded him of the things he might miss about his old life in the city, like having someone recognize the names of the artists whose work he collected, all of which was in storage right now. He’d had fun surprising her with those, but it only worked because she understood what he was talking about.
Yet for all her big-city sophistication, she believed she could tell her troubles to a horse. Not just any horse, but a broken-down Thoroughbred she couldn’t even ride. Tim finished the beer in one long swallow.
Maybe it would have helped Anais to have a whisper horse.
The next morning, Claire woke up with the sense that something needed her attention. As she lay on the sofa bed in Holly’s living room, she heard a tiny ping emanating from the handbag she’d tossed on the kitchen counter when she’d raced in the door the day before. She had a voice mail.
With a groan, she hauled herself up and retrieved the phone before collapsing back on the bed with it held to her ear. The thin mattress didn’t quite cushion the wire coils, so she felt stiff and a little bruised.
Tim Arbuckle’s deep voice thrummed through the receiver as his message played.
“The Aerie!” Claire said out loud, forgetting her aches. “He must really want my painting.”
The Aerie was the most expensive restaurant in the area, the brainchild of a chef from Washington, DC, who fell in love with Sanctuary on a visit five years before. It was situated halfway up Two Creek Mountain and had its own helipad for the convenience of the ultrarich clientele who flew in from all over the country.
The town residents had resigned themselves to the constant buzz of chopper blades at mealtimes, mostly because the fly-in diners shopped in the local stores often enough to boost the economy. Claire had sold paintings to several of them herself.
She had never been to the Aerie and had always heard it was impossible to get reservations less than two months ahead of time.
She groaned again. She couldn’t leave Holly alone while she went off and enjoyed a fabulous gourmet meal at a fancy restaurant. Every bite of food would taste of guilt.
Yet how could she cancel when Tim had somehow managed to do the impossible and get a table on such short notice? Had he spent money to bribe the maître d’?
As she tried to figure out how she could cancel the date without betraying Holly’s secret, she replayed the message. Maybe it was because she was wiped out by the emotional wringer of her sister’s disintegrating marriage, but Tim’s voice was like his physical presence; it made her want to wrap herself in it, to ward off the troubles of the world.
She played the message a third time with her eyes closed and then resolutely hit the erase key. It was too early to call him back anyway.
&nb
sp; It wasn’t too early to call Sharon, though. Horses were early risers. “Hey, sorry to bother you in the middle of morning chores, but I need a good lawyer.”
“That ratbag ex of yours isn’t going after the horse painting, is he?”
“No, no, I need one for my sister. Frank wants a divorce, and I want to take Frank to the cleaners.”
“Jesus H. Christ, what kind of a rotten bastard dumps his wife when she’s seriously ill? I’ll call Paul Taggart myself and tell him to leave Frank Snedegar with nothing more to his name than a pair of dirty boxer shorts.”
“Paul Taggart?” Claire was surprised by the name of her old high school friend. “He’s a good lawyer?”
“Can’t think of a better one. He golfs with Judge Hardy.”
“A good lawyer knows the law...” Claire started.
“A great lawyer knows the judge,” Sharon finished. “You know Paul?”
“I went to high school with him, and we played foosball at the Sportsman. He was smart and had great reflexes. Even back then, he knew everyone.”
“I can’t picture you playing foosball, especially not in such a dive.”
“The entertainment possibilities in Sanctuary were limited in those days. We used to drive forty minutes just to go to McDonald’s. By the way, don’t mention this to anyone,” Claire said. “I don’t want Frank to start draining bank accounts or anything.”
“You got it.”
“How’s Willow doing? I was so upset when Tim told me how badly she’d been abused.”
“Willow’s going to be just fine, don’t you worry,” Sharon said. “So when did you talk to Dr. Tim?”
“He stopped by the gallery to give me an update on her condition.” Claire wanted to gloss over their encounter, so she kept talking. “Too bad Holly didn’t marry someone like Dr. Tim. He wouldn’t desert her when the going got rough.”
“Yeah, although you have to wonder...”
“About what?”
“A man whose wife committed suicide.”
“For all we know, she was clinically depressed and went off her meds.”
“You’re probably right. Dr. Tim sure seems solid.” The volume of Sharon’s voice ratcheted up to a level that made Claire jerk the phone away from her ear. “Hey, Lynnie, don’t put Jojo in there! Sorry, I have to go.”
Claire hit the End button and cradled the phone for a moment. Somehow she had put the whole tragedy of Tim’s wife out of her mind. He seemed so normal, so straightforwardly who he was.
Dropping her phone on the bed, she got up and found Holly sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee out of a mug with #1 Mom in hot-pink letters. As Claire sat down across from her, Holly said, “I don’t even remember going to bed. Thanks for getting me in my jammies. And everything else.”
“That’s what sisters are for,” Claire said. “Remember it! And I’m taking you to the appointment I’m going to make with Paul Taggart to start the divorce.”
“Okay. That would be good.” Holly traced the writing on her mug with a fingertip. “After seeing all those bills yesterday, I realize I was stupid. Frank didn’t spend all the money on himself, did he?”
“There’s no way to know for sure,” Claire said after hesitating a moment.
“You know the worst part? I still love him.” Holly slopped coffee onto the polished pine of the table. “I’ve loved him since the moment he walked up to me at the bowling alley and asked me to dance. In a bowling alley! It was the most romantic thing anyone had ever done.”
Claire came around the table to smooth Holly’s uncombed hair. “Sweetie, there are lots of other romantic men in the world. You’ll find one who dances in the bowling alley and sticks around when you need help the most.”
Would Tim Arbuckle dance in a bowling alley? Claire shoved the question out of her mind.
Holly wiped her eyes. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to leave soon so I can pick up the girls and take them to school myself. I need to see them for a little while.”
“I’ll call my boss and Paul’s office while you’re showering.”
“Pick out anything you want from my closet,” Holly said as she disappeared down the hall. “I think we still wear the same size.”
The offer made Claire’s throat tighten. In the way of sisters, they had argued about sharing clothes, but when the occasion was important, one always handed over the perfect dress to the other.
When Claire explained to her boss that she had a family emergency, Davis offered to open the gallery himself. “Take all the time you need,” he said. “Family’s important.”
Her second call got them an appointment with Paul Taggart in a couple of hours.
Now Claire was staring at the selection of high-waisted mom jeans and floral-patterned knit tops that constituted Holly’s wardrobe. She didn’t want to insult her sister by preferring to wear the wrinkled, tear-stained clothes from yesterday, but Claire decided when Holly was strong enough, she was going to take her shopping. It was one of the things they used to love doing together.
Spotting a pair of black jeans squashed in the far corner, she pulled them out and rooted around for a solid-colored top, finally locating a simple white T-shirt with a slightly scooped neck. Not what she would have chosen for a first meeting with an attorney who was also an old friend, but it was Holly’s divorce, after all, not hers.
“Did you find something?” Holly asked, coming in with a towel wrapped around her head. When Claire held up the jeans, an odd expression crossed her sister’s face before she said, “I haven’t worn those in a long time.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Because moms don’t wear tight black jeans.”
“You’re right. Black jeans just reek of sin and devil worship.”
Holly looked startled and then began to giggle before she faked throwing her brush at Claire. As she ducked, Claire felt closer to her sister than she had in several years.
“WELL, I’LL BE, it is my Claire Parker.” Paul Taggart was as tall and lean as she remembered him from their days as foosball partners at the local bar. “I heard you were back in town, but I didn’t believe it.”
Ignoring her outstretched hand, he drew her into a hug and then held her away from him, his long fingers gripping her arms with all the strength he’d developed spinning the game’s rods. His familiar lightning-fast grin flashed white teeth against an olive complexion. “You look good,” he said.
“You too, Paul. In fact, you haven’t changed a bit.” Seeing him sent her reeling back to the days of fake IDs and cheap beer. “You know, I always wondered how you finished at the foosball nationals.”
“Eliminated in the quarterfinals,” he said.
“Too bad. I was sure you’d go all the way.”
“I thought so too, but those guys were good.” He gave a rueful wink before turning to her sister. “Morning, Holly. I understand you need some legal assistance. Have a seat.”
As Holly talked, Claire watched Paul. Sitting there in his tie and shirtsleeves with his suit jacket draped over the back of his chair, he looked confident and professional without being intimidating. The sharp angles of his face hadn’t changed, but he had grown into them.
His office projected the same reassuring qualities. The golden oak desk was large but not overwhelming. Matching bookshelves held framed photos and knickknacks scattered among the thick legal tomes. None of the photos showed what might be a wife or children, which surprised Claire.
She’d occasionally wondered what Paul had done with his life. Seeing her high school friend well established professionally was satisfying, especially after the time she’d seen another schoolmate—one of the smartest boys in her class—bagging groceries at Kroger. The man had barely raised his head when she said hello. The incident reminded her of the reasons she’d done everything in her power to leave Sanctuary behind.
Claire forced her attention back to the process required for divorce in West Virginia. A few details were different from her Ne
w York experience, but most of it sounded depressingly familiar. However, her old school chum was handling Holly’s questions and concerns with a gentle clarity that kept the ugliness to a minimum.
“Have you ever held a full-time job?” Paul was asking Holly. “Do you have any professional training?”
“Just waitressing at Joe’s Drive-In. Frank and I got married before I finished college, and then Brianna came along.”
“Frank has a good job, so that shouldn’t be an issue,” Paul said, but there was a line between his brows as he jotted something on his legal pad.
Claire remembered the statistics about the drop in the standard of living for divorced stay-at-home mothers. She thought of Holly’s cozy little house and the unicorns dancing across Brianna’s walls. She leaned forward. “Paul, I’m counting on that killer instinct that made you a nationally ranked foosball player to get the maximum child support and alimony for Holly. Frank’s the one who’s walking out, so he needs to suffer the consequences financially.”
Paul sighed. “Unfortunately, the courts don’t much care why a couple is divorcing. It’s all about dividing up the assets equitably and making sure the children are reasonably well provided for. I’ll do my best, though.”
As they stood to leave, he came around in front of his desk and said, “Claire, can I talk with you privately?”
“I’ll be right there, Holly.” As soon as her sister closed the office door, Claire turned. “What is it? Is there a problem?”
“No, no, nothing like that.” Paul drummed his fingers with machine-gun speed against his thigh, a nervous gesture she remembered from the old days. “It’s just really good to see you, and I wondered if you’d like to have lunch one day this week. To catch up on things.”
“That would be fun, but I need to be sure Holly’s okay before I schedule anything.”
“Of course. Let me know when you’re free.”
He seemed oddly constrained, but Claire put it down to the passage of so many years. Even though she felt as though they could pick up their easy friendship right where they’d left off, he might not. On an impulse, she rested her hands lightly on his shoulders and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m happy you’re doing so well. I’m sorry we lost touch.”
Take Me Home Page 4
