“Then what’s the bad news?”
“She pestered me until I said you would donate two hours of legal consultation to the silent auction. And I told her she couldn’t buy it for herself this time.”
“Did she agree?” The last time he’d spent the two hours fending off the theater fund-raiser’s amorous advances.
“Yessir. I think she’s given up on you.”
“I can only hope. This isn’t one of those costume things, is it?”
“Black tie optional, but you do look handsome in that tux of yours.” She batted her mascara-thickened eyelashes at him.
“I won’t tell Harvey you said that.”
“After fifty-two years of marriage, Harvey knows he’s the only man for me, so he don’t mind if I take a gander when it’s worthwhile.” She turned back to her keyboard.
Verna Hinkle had been born before anyone had ever heard of a personal computer, yet she had adapted to the new technology without a blink of her big blue eyeliner-ringed eyes. She wasn’t afraid of anyone in Sanctuary and guarded his inner-office door with the fierceness of a mother sow, which made her a pearl beyond price.
He sauntered through the inner door, tossed the paper bag on his desk, and neatly draped his jacket over the hanger on the coatrack. Grabbing a bottle of water from the minifridge built into the wall of oak bookcases, he sat at his desk and took a long swallow before he unwrapped the BLT.
He hadn’t planned to tour the stables with Julia, but he couldn’t tear himself away. Watching her take in the sights at Sharon’s had made him see everything differently himself. Her observations turned a bale of hay into a study in textures, while a sleeping barn cat became a series of graceful curves.
The feel of her skin when he touched her wrist had hypnotized him; he couldn’t stop stroking the satiny warmth of it. He had nearly kissed her last night in the car. She’d looked so deliciously tousled and sleepy, as though she was already in his bed. But despite the sensuality of her hair and lips, he sensed an undercurrent of innocence that stopped him. He had rescued her, and now he was cast in the role of her protector, not her ravisher.
Claire thought his problem was rescuing too many damsels in distress. His real problem was that he felt responsible for them afterward.
Waking his computer screen from sleep, he scanned down his e-mails, stopping at the one from Ben Serra. It was a request for a phone call.
“Ben, Paul Taggart here. It was a pleasure to talk with you yesterday.”
“Glad you called, Paul. I have good news. We have approval to make the Pro Bono Project nationwide right out of the gate. And you’re the man we want for the job.”
“Are you set on having it based in DC?” Paul asked, knowing the answer.
“We’ve even got the office space for it. One of the big law firms up here has agreed to give us a whole floor in their office building for well below market rates.”
Paul felt the last scrap of hope shrivel up and blow away as Ben went on to describe the floor in enthusiastic detail.
“So you’ll consider our offer?” Ben asked, as his catalog of features came to an end.
There was no way he could take the job, but Paul couldn’t bring himself to turn it down on the spot. “It’s a good one,” Paul said. “Let me think about it.”
“No one else can do this justice,” the other man said. “In fact, I’m not sure anyone else can do it at all.”
“I appreciate your confidence in a small-town lawyer,” Paul said.
Ben harrumphed. “You and I both know you’re hiding your light under a bushel in Sanctuary. You could get a job in a top law firm anywhere.”
Paul thanked him and ended the call with a stab of his finger. Balling his sandwich up in the waxed paper, he tossed it in the trash can. His appetite had vanished, and he’d be having dinner at his brother’s soon anyway.
Shoving his chair back, he paced over to the tall window looking out onto the ornately trimmed Victorians that lined Court Street. Right now he hated every curlicue of every architectural detail.
Ben was wrong about one thing. He wasn’t hiding in Sanctuary. He just couldn’t escape.
“Julia! I’m so glad you came by in person instead of calling.” Claire’s face lit up as she crossed the gallery’s main showroom to peck Julia on the cheek. “I have the most amazing idea for your paintings.”
When Sharon dropped her at the inn, Julia had found a message from Claire waiting for her. She had changed her damaged shirt and headed for the gallery on foot.
“An amazing idea?” There was something about the enthusiasm in Claire’s voice that made Julia uneasy.
Claire led her to a curved cream leather sofa set in the middle of the showroom. Seating herself in a matching chair, Claire leaned forward with her forearms braced on her knees. “I want to have a special by-invitation-only reception for you where we unveil your new work to the art world and thrill our clients with the opportunity to actually meet you. And I want to do it next Friday.”
The idea of being the center of attention in a room full of critical strangers made her stomach flip. “Next Friday! That seems really, really soon.”
“Well, I want to tie it into something else. We’re having a charity gala next Saturday to raise money for the local theater, which means a certain number of my out-of-town customers are planning to be here for the weekend already.” Claire smiled, and Julia understood why she was so good at selling expensive art. “I was hoping you might attend the auction and consider donating a drawing. It would bring in extra publicity and add to the theater’s coffers.”
Julia stopped breathing. Claire wanted her to expose herself to the judgment of an audience not once, but twice? The great black horses of her paintings galloped through her mind with teeth bared and eyes glowing red.
“I’ve overdone it, haven’t I?” Claire said. “I’m just so excited about your new direction. I want to share it with people who will truly appreciate it.”
Julia gulped in air. “I, well, I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to be there.” What if she reacted the same way she had at the catastrophic portfolio review in art school? “I’ve never, you know, mingled with prospective buyers. I’m likely to say something wrong.”
“Trust me, you’ll charm them just like you’ve charmed all of us.” Julia’s panic ratcheted down a notch at the compliment. “Besides, patrons expect artists to be a little odd. It goes with the creative territory.” Claire sat back. “And I didn’t mean to be pushy about a donation.”
“Oh, I’d be happy to donate something.” The sketch of Paul walking out of the water flitted through her mind, and she choked on a nervous laugh.
“You have an idea?”
“No, well, maybe something small.” She mentally pushed Paul’s image away. “But I was only going to stay another couple of days.”
“Maybe you’d consider extending your visit?”
Claire’s gaze was intent as Julia looked for excuses. “I can’t really work in my room at the inn. They might not appreciate the mess.”
“Oh, I can find you a temporary studio.”
Julia thought of her uncle and the painful conversation she needed to have with him. Maybe putting off their confrontation for another week wouldn’t be a bad thing. She might have her emotions under better control so she could approach it as a straightforward business discussion.
She also considered Paul and their one brief, tantalizing kiss. When she thought of leaving without kissing him again, the colors in the paintings around her seemed to go flat.
“If you think it’s a good idea…” As soon as she said it, a shudder of nerves racked her. She imagined herself standing in the center of the gallery in a harsh spotlight while well-dressed people holding wineglasses circled her and jeered at her Night Mares. As they sniped, her eyesight would darken from the edges inward, and the electrical switch in her brain would flip to seizure mode as she collapsed onto the wide wooden planks of the gallery’s floor. “Maybe I shou
ldn’t…” No, she was no longer allowing herself to be imprisoned by her fear. “I’ll stay.”
Claire clapped her hands and stood up. “I’ll get right to work on the guest list and invitations. And setting you up with a studio. Did Paul tell you where to buy supplies?”
Julia nodded. Paul had remembered that the enterprising owner of Hardy’s Hardware stocked whatever the local artists asked for.
“Have them delivered here and I’ll get them to your studio.” Claire bent down and gave her a quick hug. “You’re doing me a huge favor. You’re going to put the Gallery at Sanctuary on the map.”
“What if the art world hates my Night Mares? It’ll wipe you right off the map again.”
“You traveled all the way to Sanctuary because you knew your new paintings were good.”
She was right. If Julia hadn’t believed in what she was doing, she would have bowed to her uncle’s pressure months ago. She nodded and forced her lips into a wavering smile.
Claire gave her an encouraging nod and pulled Julia to her feet.
“We’ve got a lot to do before next Friday.”
As soon as the door swung shut behind Julia, Claire dashed to the desk and spun the chair around to face the computer. As she clicked away with the mouse, she hit a speed-dial button on the phone.
“Hello, sweetheart.” Her husband’s voice rumbled through the speaker.
“I did it,” Claire said. “I got Julia to stay for the reception and the auction.”
“She might surprise a few people with her frankness,” Tim said.
“Everyone expects artists to be a little different. She’ll play right into that, and people will love her.” Claire sat back in her chair. “Honestly, I’m more worried she’ll overhear a negative comment about her paintings and that will make her question her talent again.”
“You’ll have to choose the guest list carefully.”
She picked up a ballpoint pen, clicking it open and closed. “I will, but part of my strategy involves Paxton Hayes, and you can’t control him.”
“The blogging art critic? You think he’s a pompous ass.”
“He’s the only person who can stir up interest in Julia’s show fast enough. He ought to like these new paintings, since he prefers his art with a dark psychological slant.” She dropped the pen and went back to the mouse. “Besides, the most important part of this has nothing to do with the reception.”
“It’s for Paul?”
“I married a very smart man.” Claire’s hand went still on the mouse. “I’m worried about Paul. When was the last time you saw him ride his Harley?”
“It’s been awhile,” Tim admitted. “So you think a week in Julia’s company will be enough to cheer him up?”
“Julia’s plans might change. I didn’t intend to live here, either, and look what happened.” Claire’s lips curved into a smile. “A big lug of a veterinarian convinced me to stay forever.”
Chapter 11
PAUL JOGGED UP the cement steps of his brother Jimmy’s brick ranch house, carrying two shopping bags. In one was a high-tech compass for his nephew, Eric, while the other held two bottles of gourmet steak sauce.
Ringing the doorbell, he noticed the white wood trim around the door needed repainting. His shoulders sagged under the weight of another disappointment. He’d bought the house for his brother, so Eric wouldn’t have to stay even one night in the ratty apartment where Jimmy had been living after his wife threw him out. Evidently, it was too much to ask that Jimmy keep the place up.
The door swung open. “Hey, big brother,” Jimmy said. Dressed in a stained apron bearing the slogan “May the forks be with you,” he held a spatula in one hand and tongs in the other. His bright-blue eyes were bloodshot, and sweat beaded on his forehead and darkened his blond-streaked hair. “You’re right on time.”
As Paul stepped into the foyer, a haze of smoke made him cough. “Where’s my man Eric?” he said, looking past his brother with the expectation of seeing his nephew hurtling toward him.
“Oh, didn’t I tell you? I switched weekends with his mother, so Eric and I can go camping with the Millers next weekend.”
Paul forced himself to keep smiling, but the evening stretched before him like a wasteland without the promise of his nephew’s lively, rambunctious presence. The agreement Paul had hammered out with Jimmy’s ex-wife, Terri, allowed Jimmy to have Eric every Wednesday night and alternate weekends. Paul made sure to visit his brother on those days, both to check up on Jimmy and because he relished his time with his nephew. “I wanted to show him how to use this new compass.” He lifted the bag.
Jimmy looked guilty. “Well, at least he can practice with it next weekend.”
Paul put his nephew’s bag on the hall table and held out the other one. “Thought you might be able to use this.”
He had bought the steak sauce at the gourmet shop next door to Annie B’s, where he’d gone to ask about a replacement for Julia’s ruined blouse. The memory of the malevolent black horse with his lips drawn back from his teeth reaching for Julia’s soft, vulnerable arm sent a shudder through him even now. His brother had plopped his cooking implements down on the hall table and was reading the sauce labels, so he hadn’t noticed.
Jimmy looked up and waved his hand around to make the smoke swirl in the air. “Probably good you brought these. The steaks could be a mite overdone.” He handed the sauce to Paul. “You want to put them on the table?”
Paul went past the kitchen door and into the dining area. The round pine table was already set with ironstone plates that matched the autumn leaf border of the vinyl placemats. The paper napkins were folded into triangles under the forks. Paul placed the bottles in the center of the table with a sinking feeling. If his brother was making such an effort to entertain him, something must be wrong.
“Grab the pitcher of iced tea out of the refrigerator,” Jimmy said, as Paul walked into the kitchen, his eyes watering in the thick smoke.
Paul cast a glance at the ceiling to find the smoke detector hanging from its wires with the battery compartment empty. “Jimbo, if you burn the house down with your cooking, the insurance company won’t give me squat without a working smoke detector,” he said. His real fear was that Jimmy would drink himself into a stupor, drop a half-smoked cigarette, and go up in flames with the house. Even worse, Eric might be in the house with him, although Jimmy swore he never drank when his son was there.
His brother speared several charcoal-colored slabs of meat onto a platter. “That’s just temporary until the smoke clears.”
Paul made a mental note to replace the battery himself before he left. Taking the iced tea from the refrigerator, he grabbed a serving bowl filled with chopped-up lettuce, tomatoes, and cucumbers he assumed was their salad before he went back to the dining alcove.
“Here we are! Marinated hanger steak,” Jimmy said, setting the mystery meat down on the table with a flourish. “I used some balsamic, some Worcestershire sauce, and a little brown sugar, just like the Internet said.”
“So your cable’s working again,” Paul said. “Did you get my e-mail about the change in your health insurance?” He carried his brother’s insurance through his law practice; it was the only way he could persuade the contractor Jimmy worked for to hire a known alcoholic.
“They don’t write those things in English,” Jimmy said. “Why don’t you just tell me where to sign the papers?” He lifted the lid from a casserole dish and steam poured out from the potatoes baked in their jackets. Paul sighed inwardly in relief; his brother knew how to make those because Eric loved them smothered in cheese and bacon bits. Something in the meal would be edible.
“You should know what you’re covered for.”
“We’ll talk about it later.” Jimmy grabbed the tongs and put the largest chunk of meat on Paul’s plate. “Sit down and enjoy some home cooking. I know you don’t get enough of that, being a bachelor without a kid to feed.”
Paul sat. “You’re right. It’s nothin
g but sandwiches at my desk and takeout pizza.” A lie. He often cooked for himself. He’d managed a decent chicken cordon bleu the other night.
Paul sawed at the steak and turned the conversation to a topic they could agree on. “How’s Eric doing with his new substitute teacher? What’s his name—Voss?”
A look of relief spread over Jimmy’s face. “Sounds like he and Eric have come to an understanding. If Eric finishes his test or his in-class exercise before everyone else, he can read his library book quietly at his desk.”
“It sounds like Mr. Voss knows what he’s doing.”
Eric had a quick mind, which meant he spent a lot of time waiting for the other kids to finish their work. If he didn’t have something to occupy him, he found creative but disruptive ways to entertain himself.
“Yeah, maybe if we’d had a teacher like him, we would’ve raised less hell in school,” Jimmy said.
“I don’t know about raising less hell, but we might have learned something.”
“You took in more than you let on.”
Paul shook his head, remembering how he’d barely gotten into college. “I was in every remedial class they had at WVU.”
“Well, you pulled your shit together for law school.”
“Only because I got interested.”
“Guess I never found anything that interested me. You know, this peppercorn sauce with brandy and black truffles is right tasty, despite all the fancy stuff in it,” Jimmy said, offering one of Paul’s gifts.
Paul took the bottle with gratitude, dousing the overcooked beef in the sauce to give it a flavor other than shoe leather. As the two brothers chewed their steaks in a silence that grew longer and longer, Jimmy’s eyes began to dance. He swallowed and grabbed his iced tea to take a long drink. Paul was still trying to get to the point of choking down the tough beef when his brother started to laugh.
“Bro, you can spit it out,” Jimmy said. “We’ll grind our teeth down to nubs if we try to finish this.”
Country Roads Page 9
