Country Roads

by Nancy Herkness

  She was disappointed. The decor evoked a sense of trust and reliability, but it could have been any successful lawyer’s office. There was nothing distinctive to Paul in it.

  “What’s that delicious smell?” she asked, as the waft of something sweet and warm tickled her nostrils.

  Paul walked behind her to pick up a tray of muffins from an antique sideboard and offer them to her. “Verna gets them from Tammy’s Place on her way in, so they’re fresh out of the oven.”

  She leaned over and inhaled. “I’ll bet all your clients try to schedule morning meetings.”

  “On slow days, I open the window and put the muffins right under it. It never fails to bring in some business.”

  “Better than chasing ambulances, I guess.”

  He handed her a china plate to put her muffin on. “Have a seat. How do you like your coffee?”

  She plopped down in one of the armchairs and put her muffin on the table between them. “No coffee, thanks.”

  “How do you survive without caffeine?” Paul poured himself a mug of coffee from the pot on the sideboard.

  She bit her lip. In her quest for knowledge about her condition, she’d read caffeine might contribute to seizures, so she’d cut it out of her diet. Her doctors pooh-poohed the idea, but she was willing to try anything to keep the terrifying attacks at bay. “I never got addicted.”

  Paul surprised her by setting his muffin, his mug, and a bottle of water on the table before he turned the other armchair around to face her and settled into it.

  “Aren’t you going to sit behind your desk and be lawyerly?” she asked.

  Instead of responding with a quip, he looked somber. “Some things are better discussed on the same side of the desk.”

  “It’s Monday,” she said with a sigh.

  Even with the prospect of an unpleasant decision looming, she couldn’t help admiring the way Paul’s deep-blue shirt fit over his wide shoulders and tapered along his lean waist, or the drape of his light wool trousers over his long thighs. It was far too easy to picture what was under the fabrics.

  “Eat your muffin,” he said, nudging her plate toward her. “You’re distracting me.”

  “I’m just sitting here.”

  “Those green eyes of yours are very eloquent,” he said, “and they’re saying things I want to hear, but not right now.”

  “It’s your own fault for looking so hot in a suit.”

  His knuckles went white as he gripped the arms of his chair. “If you’re trying to bypass the subject of your uncle, as your legal advisor, I have to tell you such avoidance would be unwise.”

  “Fine.” She broke off a piece of muffin and put it in her mouth.

  He sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands between them. “I understand you love your uncle, and you’re grateful to him for managing your career up to this point.”

  Paul’s voice and eyes were kind, and an upswell of tears clogged her throat as an image of her uncle formed in her mind. For a moment, she felt nothing but deep, untainted love for the man who had guided her for so many years. Which made the sense of loss that swamped her at Paul’s next words so much worse.

  “But you should consider hiring an outside representative, a professional in the field whom you can trust to be objective about your work.”

  She must have looked distressed, because Paul shifted in his chair and his voice became even gentler. “Julia, your uncle will always see you as a child, no matter how old you are or how successful you become. You need to have an agent who respects your talent and your judgment, and who recognizes you as the mature artist you are. It will be better for your career, and trust me, it will be better for your relationship with your uncle in the long run.”

  “I don’t know if I can do that to him.”

  Paul looked down at his hands before he raised his gaze back to hers. “He lied to you about the demand for your art, deliberately, and for an extended period of time. Can you continue to work with him, knowing that?”

  She turned toward the window, its frame wavering through a haze of unshed tears. “No…I don’t know.” She blinked and looked back at him. “Maybe if I understood better why.”

  Paul shook his head. “That will help repair your personal relationship, but you need to separate your family from your work.”

  “How do I tell him that?”

  He sat back. “I’ll tell him. One thing lawyers are good at is delivering news people might not want to hear.”

  “No!” she snapped. “That’s how I got in this situation to begin with. I let other people take over the things I didn’t want to deal with.” She sat up straighter. “If I’m going to fire him as my agent, the news has to come from me.”

  “If?”

  “All right, when.” She fidgeted with her water bottle. “I don’t know how to find another agent.”

  “Claire would be able to help with that.”

  She felt a little jolt of hope. “Do you think Claire would be my agent?”

  “Ask her.”

  “What if she doesn’t want to do it?”

  “She’ll say no and suggest someone else.”

  Julia sighed. “It sounds so simple when you say it.”

  “Don’t mistake simple for easy. What you have to do will be tough, but it will put your career on the professional footing it deserves. More important, it will remove a significant source of trouble between you and a person you love.”

  “You’re a smart lawyer, Paul Taggart,” she said, reaching across the table to touch the back of his hand.

  He immediately flipped his hand to clasp hers, his warm grip sending waves of comfort through her. “Just experienced. In my opinion, you and your uncle have a good chance of repairing your relationship because you’re handling it sooner rather than later. Some folks let these situations go on until the anger and resentment have built a wall too high and thick to knock down.”

  “Or the falling debris crushes them underneath it.” Julia heard voices beyond the closed office door, reminding her that Paul had real clients who needed his attention. “I’ve taken up enough of your workday.”

  He trapped her hand between both of his. “I want to make sure you’re comfortable with what we’ve discussed.”

  “But you have another appointment. I can hear them outside.”

  “That’s why I have Verna.” He locked his eyes on her face. “How do you feel about this?”

  Her fingers tightened around his. “Like I’m about to jump off a cliff into deep water. But I’ve been letting other people tell me what I should do for too long. Fear forges heavy-duty chains.”

  “Fear?” His eyebrows drew together. “What are you afraid of?”

  Lulled by the honesty of their connection, she’d forgotten he didn’t know about her epilepsy. She cast around for an explanation that would satisfy him. “Fear of the unknown, fear of taking a risk, fear of upsetting my family.”

  It sounded plausible to her, but she could tell Paul wasn’t buying it. He continued to search her face, his gaze seeming to bore into her brain in search of the truth she was hiding from him. For a moment she was tempted to confess, but she thought of how that would change their relationship, how he would think of her as someone less. She almost shook her head in a refusal to suffer that. Instead she tried to inject a limpid sincerity into her expression as she met his eyes.

  His frown deepened, but he let her get away with it. “You have to break some eggs to make an omelet,” he said, but she sensed the platitude concealed his skepticism and his questing mind was going to keep at the problem until he solved it…or she left town. If she could keep him at bay until then, it would be enough.

  There was a burst of laughter from the reception room, and Julia stood up, bringing Paul with her. “The natives are getting restless.”

  He stepped around the table and pulled her into his arms. “The natives can wait until I’m sure you’re all right,” he said, using his thumbs to tilt her
head back so he could see her face.

  The worry in his eyes nearly undid her. She reached up to cup his cheek.

  “I’ll call you tonight,” he said, turning to kiss her palm with a heat that made promises about what they’d do after he called.

  “And send me your bill,” she said, dashing out of the office before he could respond.

  “Lunch,” Verna said, pointing to a brown paper bag on her desk as Paul said good-bye to his last morning client.

  “What did you surprise me with today?” he asked.

  “Tammy’s steak salad with truffle-oil dressing and a side of sweet potato fries.”

  “Since when did Tammy get so fancy she uses truffle oil?” Paul asked, as he peered into the bag.

  “She said a customer brought it to her as a gift and she’s gotten real fond of it. Can’t abide the stuff myself, but I figured you’d like it.” Verna stopped typing. “That little artist girl seems right sweet.”

  He thought of Julia sprawled on the counter of Plants ’N Pages. “Sweet might not be quite the word, but she’s a good person. Talented too.”

  “She likes you.”

  “And I like her.”

  “Then why was she about ready to cry when she came out of your office?”

  “She has some legal issues involving her family. It upsets her.”

  Verna eyed him sternly. “That had better be the only reason.”

  “Jesus, Verna, have I ever—”

  “Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain.” She raised a hand to silence any further objections. “No, you treat women real good, but that one’s got a sensitive skin, so you need to be extra careful. You don’t understand the effect you might have.”

  “Why do I feel like that isn’t a compliment?” Paul swiped the bag off the desk and headed for his office.

  “Oh, it’s a compliment, hon. You are one heck of a charmer, but I get the feeling she hasn’t met up with many of those in her life.”

  Paul closed the door and frowned across the room. Verna didn’t usually comment on the women in his life, and he didn’t fool himself into thinking she didn’t know about them.

  He sat down at his desk and took out the food containers, opening them automatically as he remembered Julia’s comment about the chains of fear. The emotion behind it had been too raw for him to believe her vague explanation. Yet her previous denial of any physical fear of her uncle had been genuine. He would bet on that. So she was hiding something else.

  He speared a slice of steak out of the salad and put it in his mouth. “Nice work, Tammy,” he murmured as the smoky flavor of the truffle oil glided over his tongue. He went after another slice and chewed it as he considered how hard he should push Julia to reveal her secret.

  She was his client, so he owed her his best advice, and he needed full disclosure to give that. She was his lover, so he wanted to help her, and he couldn’t without knowing what the problem was. However, she didn’t want to share it with him, so maybe he should leave it alone. After all, their relationship had a short expiration date. But if she left without resolving whatever she feared, he wouldn’t be able to offer any assistance.

  He put down his fork. The thought of her absence ruined the exotic savor of the truffles. In fact, the sunlight streaming in through the window seemed to turn gray. Hell, they couldn’t even have a long-distance relationship, because he worked all week and couldn’t leave his brother on the weekends without breaking the promise Terri had asked of him: to keep Jimmy sober and away from her house. And with a mental apology to Claire, he knew there was no way someone of Julia’s caliber would stay in the artistic backwater of Sanctuary.

  As the realities of his situation landed on him like a ton of bricks, he decided he might as well call Ben Serra and turn down the directorship of the Pro Bono Project. Better to kill the hope all at once, so he could settle back into his rut without thinking about the might-have-beens.

  He pushed his lunch aside and scrolled through his e-mails, hunting for Serra’s telephone number.

  His intercom buzzed. “Your brother’s on the line,” Verna said. “Says he’ll keep it short.”

  Paul groaned. The last person he wanted to talk to right now was Jimmy. He picked up the telephone receiver. “Hey, Jimbo. What’s up?”

  “Paulie, I’m real sorry about Saturday night.” Jimmy’s voice was pitched low, as though he didn’t want anyone to overhear him. “I should have called Adam, not you.”

  Paul wasn’t in the mood to pull punches. “It’s not who you called, it’s when you called. Next time, call one of us before you start drinking.”

  “Yeah, I know. It’s just I got thinking about how I kept you from taking that job, and it made me feel like a worthless shit.”

  Paul tried to rub the oncoming headache away. “You’re not worthless, and I can tell you how I know that. Eric. You’ve got a great kid there, bro.”

  “Not because of me.”

  “I see you with him, and you are one hell of a good dad.”

  “I don’t know.” Despite the demurral, Jimmy’s voice held a lilt of hope. “Maybe I’ve gotten better at the parenting thing.”

  “You were never bad at it, Jimbo. You just had a big problem you let get in the way.”

  There was silence. Paul waited to see if his brother would explode or just whine in self-justification. For once, Jimmy did neither. “You think I was a good dad back then?”

  “When you were sober, yeah, I do.” It was true. From the day Eric was born, Jimmy had been crazy about his son, changing diapers, getting up for middle-of-the-night feedings, and beaming as he carried his baby around on his chest at social gatherings. Until he and his wife started having problems, and Jimmy tried to hide from them in a bottle.

  Paul didn’t hold it against Terri that she’d given up on his brother; she’d just been too young and inexperienced to deal with an alcoholic husband and a young child at the same time. She’d made the best choice she could for herself and Eric. The familiar guilt washed over him; he might have been able to help all three of them if he’d been around.

  “I’d do anything for Eric,” his brother said.

  Except stay sober. Paul scrabbled in his drawer for Tylenol. He knew alcoholism was a disease and his brother was trying to fight it, but right now his sympathy was in short supply. The headache was tightening its grip on his skull.

  “Anyway, I wanted to tell you Saturday night won’t happen again. I’m going to all my AA meetings from now on. I won’t miss a one.”

  “That’s good to hear.” Paul meant it.

  “Shit, my boss is coming,” Jimmy muttered. “Anyway, I called to say I’m sorry. About Saturday. About the job. I gotta go.”

  The connection went dead.

  Paul put the phone down and shifted some papers to get at the pill bottle. As he did, he spotted a drawing Eric had given him last week, a skunk holding a bag of chips. It reminded him of the stencils on Eric’s bedroom walls, and he pulled it out and centered it on the desk in front of him.

  Jimmy had surprised him twice now. First with the stencils. Now with the phone call. Usually his brother would wait a few days before he cracked a joke about falling off the wagon, and that would be the extent of his acknowledgment of the incident. His apology was something new.

  After swallowing two Tylenol, he dialed Adam Bosch’s number. Maybe Jimmy’s AA sponsor could shed some light on this.

  Paul steered the Corvette past the soaring glass entrance to the Aerie and onto the private driveway leading to Adam Bosch’s well-hidden home. It was strange to see the restaurant’s normally packed parking lot empty, although it allowed him to admire the elegant simplicity of the building Adam had designed and built.

  The sound of the ’Vette’s big engine was muffled by the dense rhododendron thickets and tall pines lining the curving drive. As he rounded the last turn, the trees seemed to draw back to reveal a modern house reflecting the same sensibility as the restaurant. It was the first time he’d seen
it, since Adam guarded his privacy vigilantly. Paul felt a certain sympathy. Running a famous restaurant was similar to being mayor of a small town: people felt they had the right to your attention 24-7. He had been surprised the man would take on sponsoring Jimmy at AA on top of his business demands.

  He parked the car on the sweep of river-stone paving and jogged up the wide front steps. The door opened as soon as he reached it, and Adam Bosch held out his hand. “Nice to see you, Paul. Come in.”

  “Appreciate your taking the time to see me on your day off,” Paul said, shaking hands and noting the chef was dressed entirely in black, as always.

  Adam waved him inside. “I always have time for Jimmy’s family.”

  Following Adam out of the foyer and into a high-ceilinged living room, Paul got the impression of clean-lined modern furniture melded with antique art and richly colored rugs. One whole wall was glass and offered a view as spectacular as the one at Claire and Tim’s house. Adam led the way to a couple of leather armchairs ranged on either side of a low table. A tray of cheese and fruit, a basket of steaming bread, a pitcher of water, and two glasses waited for them there. “Have a seat. Help yourself,” Adam said, as he sat. “It’s an occupational hazard, wanting to feed people.” Adam filled the two glasses and handed one to Paul. “From the spring behind my house.”

  Paul took a sip. The water was icy and pure. “Delicious.” He drank deeply before setting the glass down.

  The chef nodded and waited, his dark eyes unreadable.

  “Tell me if I’m asking something you can’t answer,” Paul said, leaning forward. “I’ll understand if there are issues of confidentiality.”

  “As Jimmy’s AA sponsor, I have a certain amount of leeway when sharing information with his family, so I’ll give you as much as I can.”

  Paul locked his fingers together between his knees. “I know Jimmy had a setback on Saturday, because I picked him up at the bar.”