Country Roads

by Nancy Herkness

  “You like it?” Julia had to gasp for breath as she spoke.

  “I think like is too mild a word for what you’re doing here. I’m blown away.”

  “Oh, thank God!” She sagged so hard against Paul, he dropped her hand to wrap his arm around her waist.

  “You need to sit down,” he said, shifting his grasp as he grabbed the rolling desk chair and eased her down onto it.

  “Let me get a bottle of water,” Claire said, starting toward the door.

  “No, no, I’m fine,” Julia said. “I just need to breathe for a minute.”

  As oxygen flowed into her lungs, a tear of sheer relief zigzagged down her cheek. She let her head fall back, muttering to herself, “I knew it was good. I knew it.”

  Someone touched her knee, and she tipped her head forward again to find Paul kneeling in front of her, his brows drawn together in a frown of concern. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m better than all right. When you’re barraged with criticism all the time, you begin to doubt your own judgment. You can’t imagine the relief of knowing I wasn’t crazy or blind.”

  Claire was unwrapping the next painting Bud had carried in. “This one is as good as the first!” she said, leaning it against the wall and walking away to gaze at it. “Maybe better.”

  Paul was still hovering in front of Julia. Reckless in her newly restored confidence, she asked, “What do you think of them?”

  His eyebrows shot upward in surprise. “Me? I told you I’m not an art expert.”

  “Neither are most of the people who buy art,” Julia pointed out.

  He gave her a searching look and pushed off the floor, towering over her as he straightened to his full height. He moved in front of the easel, and she felt nerves squeezing her throat closed again. As he said, it shouldn’t matter what he thought. After all, Claire was the expert, and she was bubbling over with excitement. But Julia wanted his approval too. She wasn’t sure why. She just did.

  She surged out of the chair, sending it rolling into the desk with a bang. “Oh gosh, I’m sorry,” she said as Claire started. Paul didn’t seem to notice. He stood stock-still, his arms crossed over his chest.

  Julia tiptoed around so she could see his expression and wished she hadn’t. He looked as though someone had walloped him in the belly when he least expected it.

  “You don’t like it,” she whispered, the jubilation draining out of her.

  It took him a moment to focus on her. “You painted this?” He shook his head in wonderment. “It’s so…so big and wild and you’re so…so, I don’t know.” He made a gesture toward her.

  Claire came to his rescue. “So small and fragile-looking. To be painting with such emotional power.”

  “Right,” he said. “I can’t make the connection.”

  Julia turned to the painting, trying to understand what he meant. It was one of the pictures she called Night Mares, a massive black horse with glowing eyes galloping through a riot of colors and shapes.

  “I have to admit, I’m sort of stunned myself,” Claire said, coming to stand beside Paul.

  “I guess I can’t afford this, but I sure as hell would like to own it,” he said.

  “You would?” Julia asked, his enthusiasm warming her.

  “Paul, when did you become an art lover?” Claire asked.

  “When I found something I liked.”

  “It’s yours,” Julia said.

  Both of them looked at her as though she’d lost her mind. “I’m much obliged, but I can’t accept this,” Paul said. “I know what your paintings are worth.”

  “It wouldn’t be worth anything if you hadn’t rescued me from the side of Interstate 64.” Julia grimaced at the memory of all those cars whizzing past her. “I want you to have it for being kind to a total stranger. There should be a reward for that.”

  Claire’s dark eyes sparkled with laughter. “Oh God, please don’t make him worse. We call it D-I-D syndrome. Paul has a compulsion to save damsels in distress.”

  He chuckled, but Julia noticed he was tapping his fingers against the side of his thigh.

  “Well, I’m a very grateful damsel, and I want you to have the painting.”

  “It’s out of proportion to my contribution.”

  He wasn’t taking her offer seriously, she could tell. “Well, then consider it your retainer since you’re my lawyer now.” She felt an overwhelming desire to know her painting was hanging somewhere Paul Taggart would see it every day.

  His face relaxed into a smile. “It would take me the rest of my career to work this off.”

  “So you’ll accept it?”

  “No, ma’am. When it comes to the law, I only accept cash.” His tone was light, but she heard the rock-hard refusal beneath. His pride wouldn’t allow him to accept something he thought was too valuable.

  Claire had been standing halfway between the two of them, simply watching, but now she interjected, “I could give you an advance against sales, if cash is a problem.”

  “You could?” Julia felt uncertain again. Her uncle handled all her financial affairs, an arrangement she’d never minded until the last few days, when she’d needed money to buy the car without letting him know about it.

  “We do it all the time for our established artists. And you certainly qualify as established.”

  “Well, if you do it for other artists, I guess it’s all right then,” Julia said, although she felt uneasy about taking money she hadn’t earned. “All I really need is enough to pay Mr. Skaggs for the tow and fixing the flat.”

  “You’re not really going to drive that piece of garbage again, are you?” Paul broke in.

  “I guess I could rent a car.” She’d never done it before, since she almost never drove. It was another of those everyday tasks she had no idea how to perform.

  He sighed. “Where do you live?”

  Julia could see Claire’s shoulders shaking with silent laughter as Paul tried to rescue her again.

  She looked him straight in the eye. “You’re not driving me back to North Carolina.”

  A look of relief crossed his face when she mentioned her home state. She wondered if he would have offered to drive her to Florida or Texas.

  Claire took her hand away from her mouth to wipe her eyes. “You might as well resign yourself, Julia. Paul will not rest until he has delivered you safely back to your castle.”

  “This is the problem with people who’ve known you since high school,” he said. “I have no intention of driving Julia back to North Carolina. I was going to suggest hiring Gordy Wickline to do it, paid for by your advance.”

  “Excuse me, I’m not a package,” Julia said. “I can hire my own transportation.” As she said it, she remembered she had to confront her uncle when she got home. She would have to confess to going behind his back to prove him wrong. He would be angry and hurt, a combination that stabbed a knife of dread into her heart. “I may not go straight home.”

  Bud propped another canvas against the wall and unslung a ratty duffel bag from his shoulder. “Well, that’s the last of the paintings, and here’s your overnight bag. Come on over to the station whenever you decide what to do with your car.”

  “Thanks. I think I want to junk it. Just let me know what I owe you for everything.”

  “Nothing at all. I can tell everyone I met a famous artist. And I can probably get enough parts off the car to make a profit.” He winked.

  Julia resolved to take him a gift as soon as she could find something appropriate. She’d ask Paul for suggestions. “I appreciate it, but I’m really not famous.”

  “Didn’t you paint that picture Mrs. Arbuckle keeps in her special room?”

  Claire spoke as Julia turned to her with a question in her eyes. “Yes, she did.”

  “That’s famous enough for me.” He nodded to them and walked out.

  “I’ll show you,” Claire said, waving her toward the door.

  They walked a few steps farther up the gallery’s corridor and s
topped in front of a door with a keypad beside it. Claire punched in a combination and swung the door open. Julia stepped into the room to see one of her early landscapes with horses hanging in solitary splendor on the opposite wall. It was lit perfectly, and she was surprised at how much she still liked it. Sometimes it was painful to revisit her older pictures; they were so immature. In this one she had managed to capture the light in a way that made it interesting, even if the subject was conventional.

  She slid a sideways glance at Paul to see how he reacted to this painting. He was examining it with a detached expression. There was nothing of the stunned astonishment her other painting had evoked.

  “I’ve always loved this painting,” Claire said, her gaze locked on it as she walked forward.

  “The light’s good,” Julia said. “I managed to get that right. And the chestnut’s posture gives some interest to the composition.”

  “But you’ve left this particular style behind,” Claire said with an understanding smile.

  Julia was beginning to really like her. She nodded. “It was the best I could do at the time.”

  “Most painters would kill to do one-quarter as well,” Claire said.

  “I’m with Julia,” Paul said. “This one’s really good, but I like the new ones. They grab you by the throat and won’t let go.”

  She beamed at him. He might not be an expert, but he got her new work. She opened her mouth to express her gratitude when her stomach growled so loudly both her companions turned to look at her. She pressed her hand against her abdomen, trying to muffle any further complaints. “Sorry. I didn’t eat lunch today.”

  Carlos would be distraught if he knew her breakfast had consisted of a package of crackers from a vending machine and several gulps of water from the rest stop’s drinking fountain. And the crackers were only possible because she’d found some stray change on the floor of her car. She’d spent all her cash to buy the rusty SUV, so there wasn’t anything left over for food.

  “Let me order you a sandwich,” Claire said, reaching toward the telephone on the desk.

  “No, I’ll take her to lunch,” Paul said.

  “Don’t you have clients to see? It is a workday.” Julia couldn’t resist a little dig, since he wouldn’t accept her gift.

  A half smile tilted his mouth. “No, my afternoon is completely open.”

  “So the meeting went well?” Claire asked. “They’re going to fund the Pro Bono Project?”

  “Yup.” Satisfaction lit his eyes. “With a minimum of arm twisting.”

  “I’m so glad,” Claire said, touching his hand briefly. “You deserve it.”

  “There are still a lot of details to be worked out.”

  “I’m sure, but you can take pride in knowing they were excited enough to travel all the way down here from New York.”

  “I’m pretty sure the golf courses at the Laurels were the main draw.” His fingertips were oscillating against his thigh again.

  “When did you become so modest?” Claire asked.

  “Right about the time Julia here looked at me as though I were a serial killer.”

  Julia had been feeling left out as the two friends discussed something that clearly meant a lot to Paul. Now she happily leaped back into the conversation. “I was just being cautious,” she protested.

  “It’s something about his eyes, isn’t it?” Claire said. “He’s got that scary laser focus.”

  Paul held up a hand to forestall further analysis of his potential as a mass murderer. “I think it’s time to get some food into Ms. Castillo. We’ll leave you here to contemplate all the commissions you’re going to collect from selling her paintings.”

  A sudden realization wrenched Julia’s gaze around to Claire. “Wait! You never mentioned whether you could sell the paintings or not. You just said you thought they were good.”

  Claire’s gaze slid away toward the paintings. “I can sell them, but all that intensity may not appeal to my usual clients. I’m going to have to reach out to a different audience, one I haven’t been in touch with for a while.”

  “So they’re not going to be as marketable as my earlier ones.” Julia felt the weight of her uncle’s judgment land on her shoulders like a lead shawl.

  “That’s not what I meant,” Claire said, coming over to take Julia’s hands and squeeze them encouragingly. “You’ve done your job. You’ve made superb art. Now you have to let me do my job, which is to find the right buyers for it.”

  “You don’t have to sugarcoat the truth for me,” Julia said, squaring her shoulders as she gently pulled her hands away. “If they aren’t good enough to sell, just tell me.”

  “They’re more than good enough to sell.” Paul’s voice was firm. “I want one, and I’ve never bought an original artwork in my entire life.”

  Claire’s eyes lit up. “If you’re planning to stay here in Sanctuary for a while, I have an idea. It’s a little risky, but it might make a big splash in the art world.”

  “What kind of idea?” Julia wasn’t big on making splashes. Most of her life had been structured to avoid anything that might create unnecessary tension for her.

  Claire shook her head. “I need to work out the details before I tell you.” She started toward the door. “Let me give you your advance, so you can buy lunch.”

  “It’s my treat,” Paul said.

  Before she could protest, he put his hand in the small of Julia’s back and propelled her firmly toward the door. Her shirt was so thin, it felt as though his palm was touching her bare skin. Little shivers of heat radiated out from his hand to skitter across her back.

  Or maybe she was light-headed from hunger.

  Chapter 4

  JULIA TOOK THREE steps onto the Library Café’s open-air dining terrace and halted, gazing with delight at the town of Sanctuary spread out below them. “It’s like one of those perfect Victorian towns they set up around model railroads.”

  “We try to keep it nice,” Paul said.

  As they stood just outside the French doors, waiting to be seated, she glanced up to see him scanning the view with a proprietary air. “You look at it as though you own it,” she teased.

  A shadow crossed his face. “Sometimes I feel more like it owns me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I was mayor of Sanctuary for two terms, and some folks think I still am.”

  “Best mayor we ever had.” A white-haired woman wearing a yellow apron embroidered with an open book beside a piece of cake walked up with two menus tucked under her arm.

  “Can you tell Mrs. Bostic was my number-one supporter?” Paul’s smile was genuine as he leaned down to give her a peck on the cheek.

  “Get on with you,” the café hostess said. “I may have told all my friends to vote for you, but I was just doing what was best for the town. Sunshine or shade for your table?”

  “Sunshine,” Julia said, just as Paul said, “Shade.”

  “I figured you might burn with that fair skin and red hair,” Paul said, as they followed Mrs. Bostic to a green metal café table set under a yellow-and-white striped umbrella.

  Pleasure blossomed in her chest because he had noticed something about her, even if he should have asked where she wanted to sit. “Sometimes it’s worth the burn to feel the sunbeams on your skin.”

  He pulled out the wicker chair. “It’s not good for you, though.” He sat down across from her, leaving the menu closed on the table as Mrs. Bostic pulled out an order pad. “I recommend the chicken salad sandwich and the sweet potato fries. And the pecan pie, if you have a sweet tooth,” Paul said.

  Julia had declared her independence when she loaded her paintings in the Suburban to set out for Sanctuary, and she wasn’t about to give it up now. She opened the menu, scanned through it, and grimaced. He had ordered exactly what she would have chosen. She slapped the folder shut on the table. “And an iced tea, please.”

  “You see. I let you choose your own beverage.” His pale eyes held an understand
ing glint.

  Mrs. Bostic scooped up the menus. “I’ll have your drinks here in a jiffy.”

  Julia waited until the woman was several steps away. “Are you always so bossy?”

  “No, I just know what’s best for everyone.”

  That reminded Julia of what her uncle had said when he told her he wouldn’t offer her new paintings to the gallery: I’m doing what’s best for your career. The pain of his rejection seared through her again. He had been like a father to her since her parents moved away. She turned in the direction of the view but saw nothing of its beauties.

  “That was meant to be a joke.” Paul’s wry voice broke into her reverie.

  She jumped and turned back to him. “I know. I was thinking about something else.”

  “Nothing good, from your expression.” He was spinning a spoon back and forth through the fingers of his right hand.

  “Are you nervous?”

  “No. Should I be?” The spoon continued to twirl as though it had a life of its own.

  “Well, it’s just that you’re fiddling with that spoon.” She gestured toward his hand.

  Frowning, he looked down and placed the spoon on the table, lining it up with the knife beside it.

  “You didn’t even realize you were doing it, did you?”

  He shrugged. “It’s a habit I should have broken by now.” He unfolded his napkin onto his lap. “So, shall I drop you at Claire’s house after lunch? She ought to be home by then.”

  “At Claire’s house?”

  “She invited you to spend the night with her.”

  “She did?”

  “As we were leaving the gallery.”

  “I was distracted.” By his hand warming her skin through the gauze of her blouse. Her eyes were drawn to his long, elegant fingers now lying still on the table.

  “What’s the verdict, now that you know about the invitation?”

  Julia gnawed at her lip. Her original plan had been to head back to her home immediately after hearing what Claire had to say about the paintings. She had worked hard to cover her tracks, because she hadn’t wanted Carlos to know she didn’t trust his opinion of her work. Now she needed to regroup.