by Francis Ray
“I don’t have time to argue. Mother had back surgery a month ago and is on restrictions.” He bent to place the painting in the back. “She’s just stubborn enough to try and help.”
“Why didn’t you say something?” Kara rushed back up the steps and into the room to see Tristan’s mother reaching for a painting. “Stop!”
The woman straightened and turned. Where there had been mild curiosity in her eyes, there was now reproach. “You insulted my son.”
Tristan entered the room and took in the situation at once. “You watch Vera while I load the rest into my truck.”
“You don’t have any shoes on,” Kara said.
He glanced down at his feet. “It won’t take me long to put some on and I’ll get you loaded and you can be on your way.”
Kara closed her eyes. He was giving her what she wanted, so why did she want to cry?
“Change your mind?” his mother asked as Tristan left the room.
“I—” How could she explain what she didn’t understand? She wanted to believe Tristan, but she didn’t trust her own judgment. Her mother’s censure and lack of belief in Kara wasn’t helping. She shook her head.
“Tristan, like his late father, will go the distance for you, but question his honor and integrity and he’ll walk,” his mother told her.
“I didn’t mean to. It’s just…” Kara rubbed her temple.
“Just what? I deserve an answer after your unfounded accusation,” his mother said tersely. “He’s honest and dependable. I’m not just saying that because I’m his mother. He goes out of his way to help others.”
Kara nodded. Liars and users didn’t spend hours in a hospital room or readily give financial assistance without being forced. She hadn’t been able to find a provider for Mr. Bowler’s medicine by the time he was ready to go home, and Tristan picked it up from the hospital pharmacy at a cost of over three hundred dollars. “He helped his friend, a patient in the hospital. That’s how we met.”
Tristan came back into the room wearing loafers. Kara imagined they were the easiest to get on. He wanted her out of his house and she couldn’t blame him. She’d practically called him a thief when he’d been patient and thoughtful. She had let her fears and insecurities rule her. She was ashamed of the way she had behaved.
She placed her hand on his arm when he stooped to pick up a painting. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you.”
He stared at her a long moment, then straightened. “You don’t know me, but I’m hoping to change that. Besides.” He smiled at his watchful mother. “Artists are supposed to be temperamental. I grew up with one.”
Kara whirled to his mother. “You paint?”
“Pottery, but it was long ago,” she said. “Now, I’m an interior designer.”
“She took pity on her favorite son and did this place for me,” Tristan said, walking over to curve his arm gently around his mother’s waist and kiss her on the cheek.
“It’s beautiful and restful,” Kara said.
“Thank you. It’s what I wanted for him.” She smiled up at Tristan. “You’re also my only son, and you’re much better at redoing the room than bringing it all together with furniture and accessories.”
“You’re blessed to have her, but you seem to know that,” Kara said, not bothering to wish that she and her mother were close. It simply wasn’t going to happen.
“Vera is my ace in the hole,” he said proudly. “I wish you could stay, but I know how strongly you feel about inconsiderate people being disrespectful of other people’s time.”
His mother frowned up at his teasing face. “It’s horrible when your child grows up and uses your words against you.”
He grinned. “I love you too.”
“Kara, do you have children?”
His mother’s words wiped the indulgent smile from his face. “Vera.”
“No. I’ve never been married,” Kara answered, feeling a bit restless again.
“Many women these days don’t seem to think that’s necessary for children,” his mother said.
“For me it is,” Kara answered. Her father had been her champion. She shuddered to think what her life might have been like if she’d grown up without a father.
“Enough.” Tristan urged his mother to the door.
Vera laughed softly. “I’m going. Kara, we’ll have to have lunch and I really mean it.”
“I’d like that,” Kara said, meaning it as well. She and Tristan’s mother might have gotten off to a rocky start, but she liked the other woman. It spoke well of her that she and her son had such a close relationship, something Kara had once longed for but had to accept that it would never happen.
“I’m going to walk Mother to the car and make sure she puts the top up on her latest toy,” Tristan said.
“If you need to drive her or go with her, I can leave and we can talk later,” Kara offered, pulling her keys out of her pocket. She was going to start believing in herself and trust Tristan.
“I’m fine, but thanks for asking,” Vera said, picking up her handbag from the table. “I don’t mind telling you that I adored your work. I’m hoping we can work together.”
“I’d like that,” Kara said around a lump in her throat. There would be no reason for his mother to lie to her.
“Vera, you are not getting first refusal so stop trying.” Tristan chuckled, urging his mother toward the front door. “Be back in a minute.”
Outside, darkness had settled. Tristan closed Vera’s car door and waited until the convertible top was secure. “Drive carefully and call when you get to the museum and home.”
“Hadn’t you better get back to Kara?” Tristan didn’t move. “All right, worrywart,” Vera finally said. “I think I might like her, although she needs some serious wardrobe adjustments.”
Tristan started to say he liked her the way she was, then thought better of it. He didn’t want to give his mother any ideas or encouragement regarding Kara. He straightened. “I’m just helping her work get exposure. She has too much talent to let it go to waste.”
“I believe your father initially tried to tell his parents the same thing about me.”
Tristan didn’t know what to say. He’d heard the story a thousand times from his mother. His father had seen her pottery in a small shop in London and sought out the artist. It had been love at first sight for the serious college professor and the outspoken American graduate student. His father’s parents had taken considerably longer to warm up to his mother. Tristan didn’t remember his father, but Vera made sure he’d never forget him. “I wish I could remember him.”
“So do I. He loved fiercely and did everything with passion and drive.” She brushed her fingertips across his face. “You’re so much like him.”
“Call.”
“Even if I might interrupt something?”
Tristan flushed, searched for something to say.
His mother laughed. “Good night, honey.”
Shaking his head, he watched her back out of the drive. Inside, he went to the empty room, one of many in his house, where he’d put the paintings. He didn’t see the need of putting something in a room just to put it there. He hated clutter.
Entering the room, he saw Kara kneeling before a painting of a garden bench in front of a meandering river. “Vera liked that one a lot.”
Kara jumped, pushed to her feet, and turned. The weariness was back in her expressive eyes. “Why do you want to help me, especially after the things I said?”
“Why not?” He went to her. “I’ve said things I later regretted. You have talent. If I can help you get the word out, why shouldn’t I?”
“Through your articles?” she asked.
Kara certainly liked things spelled out. He had a feeling it was because she might have trusted the wrong person in the past and paid the price. “One of the ways, but material for a magazine has to be done a minimum of four months before the issue.”
“Four months!” Kara was unable to contain her a
stonishment.
“Don’t worry, I have other immediate ideas,” Tristan reassured her. Every emotion showed on her beautiful face. “There are newspapers and columnists asking my opinion all the time about what’s new or who I think is the next up-and-coming talent. I also Tweet and blog. Both sites get a lot of hits. I’d like to spotlight your work on both. I’m also doing an article for the Dallas Morning News in a month. I’d like to mention you there as well.”
Her hand pressed against her chest. “You—you’d do that?”
“It would be my privilege and pleasure.”
As if having trouble taking it all in, she closed her eyes for a moment then stared straight at him. “I don’t want to anger you again, but I want you to know up front that even if you help me I’m not going to go to bed with you.”
He reached out and ran a finger down her cheek. She shivered. “No, you’ll go to bed with me because you want to.”
Surprisingly his self-assurance didn’t scare or anger her. “You’re wrong, Tristan.”
“If nothing else, I got you to call me Tristan. Progress. Now, let’s look at the paintings and decide which ones to spotlight first, and which one I’m going to buy to hang in my office.”
She’d been about to kneel, but she straightened instead. Architectural Digest had nothing on his home. Vera had done a fantastic job. “You—you want to hang one of my paintings in your office?”
He went to an oil painting of a still life. “I told you I don’t have anything in my house unless I can enjoy it, and that goes for artwork.” He held up the painting in strong blues, yellows, and greens. “This one I think.”
It was one of her favorites and already framed. She’d started the painting on the anniversary of her father’s death. She’d wanted to honor him, to celebrate his life and what he’d meant to her.
“Two thousand all right?” he asked.
She blinked. Swallowed. Her heart raced. “Dollars?” she squeaked.
“And that’s a steal.” He looked at the painting again. “You are going to be very famous and I get to say I bought your first painting.”
“I—you don’t have to pay me that much,” she said, trying to get her stomach to stop doing flips. “You’re helping me.”
He frowned at her. “That doesn’t mean I should take advantage of you. Your paintings have value. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. Then too, think how impressed people are going to be with me that I discovered you.”
“I think your mother is right, you like helping people,” she said. “Thank you. I accept your offer.”
“Good. What do you say we go see how this looks,” Tristan said.
“You make me believe.”
His eyes narrowed with regret. She’d said the words with such a mixture of hope and fear that he wanted to touch her, hold her. “Kara.”
She shook her head and stepped back. “Which way is your office and do we need a hammer?”
“You can run tonight, but one day…” Still holding the painting he left the room.
Kara, girl. Don’t be a fool again. Tristan is definitely out of your league.
“Kara, come on.”
“Coming,” she called, rushing out of the room to follow him. She was a smart woman. She could do this.
“How about here?” he asked, holding the painting on the bare wall across from his desk.
Seeing Tristan, his handsome face animated as he held her work, she wasn’t so sure anymore.
“I could see it every time I look up,” he went on to say.
He really meant it. Her heart did a lazy roll in her chest. She was definitely in over her head. “It’s perfect.”
He grinned and lowered the painting. “I’ll get the stud finder and hammer. I can’t wait.”
Kara watched him leave the room, her eyes unerringly going to his butt before she jerked her gaze back to the painting. She was definitely in trouble.
* * *
The next day Kara couldn’t keep the smile off her face. Not even her mother’s closed door when she left to pick up Sabrina for church could curtail her happiness. Tristan and his mother thought she had talent. He’d even purchased a painting. She’d gone to sleep holding the check. She’d told Sabrina what had happened on the way to church.
Sabrina had insisted they celebrate with brunch, her treat. Kara had agreed because she planned to pay. Soon she wouldn’t have to watch every penny and Sabrina, as much as Tristan, was the reason. Without her encouragement and faith, Kara would have wallowed in self-pity and doubt. Kara told Sabrina as much while they were eating. Finally, she would be able to please her mother.
Pulling up in her driveway that afternoon after dropping Sabrina off at home, some of Kara’s happiness ebbed and guilt nudged her. It was almost three. She couldn’t help remembering that her mother hadn’t eaten last night and Kara hadn’t fixed her breakfast that morning. She’d wanted to get out of the house as quickly as possible to avoid another argument.
Kara had called her mother after church to check on her but there had been no answer. Opening the door, she got out of the car and went inside. She frowned on seeing her mother’s door still closed.
She knocked. “Mama? Mama, are you all right?” No answer. She knocked again, ignoring the sting of her knuckles from the wood. “Mama?” She opened the door. Her heart lodged in her throat. Her mother lay on the floor with the bedsheet wrapped around her left leg.
“Mama,” Kara screamed, rushing across the room to gently turn her mother’s face toward her. Seeing she was awake only eased a portion of her fear. “Does anything hurt?”
“My hip,” she moaned. “I waited for you to come. I called over and over.”
Guilt stabbed Kara. Her mother had had right hip replacement surgery nine months ago. Kara reached for her mother’s phone. “I’m going to call an ambulance.”
“No.” Her mother grabbed her hand. “No hospitals.”
“You shouldn’t be moved if-if anything is broken,” Kara said, her voice trembling.
“Undo the sheet and let’s see.” Her mother’s eyes closed. “The pain is like after my surgery.”
Kara swallowed. If only she had returned or checked on her earlier. Her mother had needed morphine after her surgery. Getting up, Kara supported her mother’s legs while pulling the sheet away, watching her mother’s face. She grimaced twice before Kara had her free. “I think I should call an ambulance.”
“For once don’t argue,” her mother snapped. “Just help me back into bed.”
Kara helped her mother stand, then eased her back into the bed, straightening the covers. “I’ll get your pain medicine.”
“You know I can’t take it on an empty stomach,” her mother said to Kara’s retreating back.
She whirled. “You haven’t eaten?”
“How could I have eaten tangled up the way I was?” she said angrily. “I could have broken more than my hip while you were off having fun.”
The hostile comeback had Kara’s eyes narrowing. She’d been around enough people in pain to be aware of the catch in their voice, the grimace, even perspiration. Her mother exhibited none of those signs when she’d leaned forward in bed to blast Kara. She was angry at being ignored more than she was hurt. Relief swept through her. Pointing out that she had called wasn’t as important as knowing her mother was all right.
“I’ll fix you some toast to take your medicine, and then dinner.”
Her mother settled back in the bed, closing her eyes. “I want an egg and sausage with the toast. I think I’ll try to sleep.”
“All right, Mama.” Kara left the room and went to the kitchen. So much for her happy day. It seemed pleasing her mother was a long ways off.
* * *
Life was good, Sabrina thought. With the convertible top down, the wind blowing in her hair, Sabrina couldn’t keep the smile off her face as she cruised down the street. She’d been too revved to stay at home once Kara had dropped her off, and decided to do a little shopping. She woul
d have liked Kara to have come with her, but Sabrina knew her best friend wanted to check on her mother.
Sabrina’s smile faded as she pulled into a rare parking spot of the upscale outdoor shopping center. Kara needed to think of herself first more often. She was a fantastic friend and deserved to be happy. Perhaps Tristan was just the ticket. Her smile returning, Sabrina grabbed her handbag from the passenger seat and got out of the car.
She was on the hunt for a dress, perhaps one that would make Cade drop to his knees. Laughing wickedly, she caught the interested gazes of two men walking toward her. They slowed. Her pace increased. There was only one man she was interested in. Cade Mathis. He would be a challenge, but then, her life had been a challenge. He wasn’t getting away from her.
Nine
The strident buzz of the alarm clock woke Kara up at six Monday morning. She desperately wanted to go back to sleep. After she’d served her mother dinner in bed, she’d needed Kara to fluff her pillows, massage her leg, go to the store for her favorite Blue Bell ice cream, polish the silver, water the houseplants. The list had gone on and on.
A couple of hours after she’d found her mother on the floor, Kara figured out she was being punished, but she’d done her mother’s bidding anyway. Her mother’s manipulations just showed Kara how much she needed to move. Without the buffer of her father it was impossible for them to peacefully live together. It was even more important that her paintings sell.
Flinging back the covers, Kara showered, dressed, and went to the kitchen to fix her mother a tray. She paused at the entrance on seeing her mother sitting at the table, her right leg propped on a small hassock they kept in the kitchen. She always slept late unless her hip was bothering her.
Despite the doctor’s stern orders, her mother hadn’t done the physical therapy as ordered and now she was paying the price. She blamed the doctor for the continued pain and stiffness. Falling had probably aggravated her condition.
“Morning, Mama. Are you feeling better?”
“I’ve felt better.” She rubbed her right thigh. “Staying in bed seemed to make it worse. The therapist said a whirlpool would help. I could sure use it after my fall. I’m sore all over.”
