A Path Less Traveled

by Cathy Bryant

  God, forgive me and help me do better. She thought back to her behavior over the past couple of weeks. Shame washed over her. How had she allowed herself to slide down the slippery slope of depression? While it was true she couldn’t control the situation, she did have a choice in how she reacted. It all came down to her choice. She could choose not to allow the horrid and difficult circumstances to get her down. After all, God was still in control, and she belonged to Him.

  Trish glanced at the words she’d penned before sitting down to read her Bible.

  Art Lessons Available

  Taught by Trish James at the

  Community Center

  Call 555-5273 to enroll.

  Would Andy’s suggestion work? Part of her wanted to believe the idea was a good one, but the hurt part of herself—the part that had seen disappointment after disappointment—cautioned against getting her hopes up.

  “Bo, are you ready for practice?” Trish called out, then stood and meandered from the sofa toward his room.

  Bo met her in the hallway, cap and glove in his hands. “Ready.” He grinned up at her, his eyes twinkling with excitement.

  The bittersweet moment hit full force, and she caught her breath. Her baby was growing up. She marveled at the difference she saw in him after only a few weeks. Andy deserved all the credit. His influence was the gentle drip of love on the grieving heart of a little boy without a daddy.

  As they drove into town, Trish thought of Andy again, and her heart overflowed. A realization had taken place over the past few days. She loved him. Not a first love like what she’d shared with Doc, but something just as deep and just as intense. She pressed her lips together. This wasn’t something she could allow herself to consider at this point. Until she knew whether the art lessons would garner enough interest for her to make a living, it just wouldn’t be fair to any of them. But maybe one day.

  Maybe one day. Her new mantra.

  She parked in front of the Miller’s Creek Crier newspaper office, cracked the windows, and turned off the ignition. Swiveling in her seat, she faced her son. “I need to run this ad into the newspaper office. Unbuckle and come in with me.”

  “’kay.” He didn’t argue, just unclipped his seatbelt and opened the door. More of Andy’s influence.

  Trish and Bo entered the building to the smell of fresh ink and stale coffee.

  Janet Beecher perched behind the counter, her fingers flying over the computer keyboard. She glanced up. “Hi.”

  Trish slid the paper across the counter. “Hi, Janet. I need to run this ad for a couple of weeks.”

  The older woman scanned the words. “Really? You’re going to give art lessons?” Was she excited or only curious?

  “I thought I’d give it a try.” Trish lowered her gaze. If this flopped, people would consider her the biggest fool in town. How many different ways had she attempted to make a living for her and her son over the past few months? She sighed. More than she cared to count.

  “Wonderful. My group of ladies were mentioning the other day how we needed something like this. I might be interested.”

  Trish’s mouth dropped open, but she quickly closed it with a smile. “Just let me know what day and time will work best for you, and I’ll put you down.”

  “I’m off on Mondays.”

  By the time they made their way back out to the car a few minutes later, Trish had managed to set a firm time for an art lesson the following week—Monday afternoon at 2:30. She slammed the car door behind her, snagged a notepad from her purse, and wrote down the appointment with a feeling of satisfaction. A spark of hope ignited in her heart. Maybe one day.

  Her next stop brought her to Soldano’s. This should be the best time to drop in. It was still too early for the evening crowd. There were only a few cars in the parking lot, so hopefully they weren’t too busy yet. Trish hurried inside, Little Bo’s hand tucked safely in hers. Juan Soldano met her at the counter.

  “Welcome, Meez Trish. Table for two, si?” The Hispanic man smiled, a gold-capped tooth winking from his grin.

  “No, Juan. I’m not here to eat. I wanted to see if . . .” She paused, unsure of how to ask, finally just opting to plow ahead. “You wouldn’t need any help during the lunch hour by any chance?” She peered up at him and waited for the expected “no.”

  His coal-colored eyes widened. “Si, we do need help. Especially since Graciela has gone to work for Señor Tyler.”

  “Gracie’s working for Andy?”

  “Si, si. She is answering the phone and filing and learning about how to become a lawyer. Señor Tyler is such a good man. He is going to pay for part of her schooling. Such a good man.”

  A tender smile made its way to her face. “Yes, he is.”

  “Could you work from eleven until two, Monday through Saturday?”

  Trish nodded. Perfect. She’d work on Andy’s interior design project on the mornings she wasn’t working at school, then she could work her shift at Soldano’s and go straight to art lessons. She caught herself. It was only one lesson at this point. But maybe, just maybe, one day . . .

  * * * * *

  “Bo let’s try you at short stop.” Andy motioned him to the spot between second and third base. “If someone hits the ball to you, where do you throw it?” he asked as Bo trotted to his new position.

  “The base ahead of the lead runner.”

  Andy followed behind him and gave him a high-five. “Atta boy!” Little Bo grinned up at him and Andy’s heart turned to mush. He’d fallen so quickly for the brown-eyed fellow who looked just like his mama. Andy glanced to where Trish stood, dressed in a pair of cut-offs and a T-shirt, her fingers entwined in the chain link fence behind home plate. With her hair pulled back in a ponytail, she looked more like a teenager than a mom. She seemed better somehow. Stronger. He sauntered toward home to hit balls to the team and prayed it was true.

  “Pretend there’s a runner headed to third.” Andy tossed the ball into the air and nudged it with a soft tap toward first base. Brody fielded the ball, tagged the bag, and threw the ball to the third baseman, who pretended to tag the runner.

  “Good job, Brody!” Carla Clark bellowed from the stands.

  “Now pretend there’s a runner headed home.” Andy hit a grounder to Bo, who fielded it, but threw the ball to first.

  “He said home, you moron.” Brody snagged the pitch and threw the ball back to Andy.

  “That’s okay, Brody,” yelled his mother. “You’re good enough for the both of you.”

  Bo started to swell up like an old toad, and Andy yanked his head around to glare at Carla. His attention was sidetracked by Trish. She had Bo’s full attention and held up one finger at a time, counting.

  Bo shot her a snaggle-toothed grin. Her lips curved upward in response.

  Good for them. They were both learning to deal with adversity. Did that mean they didn’t need him anymore?

  Andy continued to hit balls to the team, his thoughts on the scene he’d witnessed after the last game. On his way toward his apartment on the second floor of the City Hall building, he’d seen Trish and Little Bo behind the grocery store, picking up boxes. He released a sigh and pounded a ball to center field where one boy plopped in the grass to tie his shoelaces.

  Lord, I feel like I’m missing something here. There’s gotta be a way to keep them in Miller’s Creek. Show me how.

  Only as the team ran their after-practice laps, did another idea germinate and take root in his mind. After the visit with his father tomorrow night, he’d head to Dallas with Trish’s painting in tow.

  * * * * *

  Andy strode toward the upscale Dallas art studio on Saturday morning with Trish’s painting tucked under one arm. It had been several months since he’d seen the woman who would’ve been his mother-in-law. His skin crawled as nerves took over. Their last meeting had been the night of the wedding rehearsal right before he’d discovered Sheila in the arms of her supposedly ex-boyfriend.

  Claire Windsor pois
ed like an elegant bird behind the counter of the posh Dallas studio, the air saturated with cloying perfume. When she saw him, her perfectly made-up face took on a hard edge. “You have a lot of nerve coming here.” Her voice held venom.

  “Hello to you, too, Claire.”

  She didn’t acknowledge or respond to his greeting. Instead she glared, her eyes searing a hole straight through his head.

  How was he supposed to cut through her anger to show her Trish’s work? “Look, I know this is awkward.”

  “Awkward? You back out of a very expensive wedding the day before it’s to take place and have the nerve to call this awkward?”

  Hadn’t Sheila told her the truth? And if not, how was he supposed to tell her what had happened without looking like he was making excuses? “Didn’t she tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “She was still seeing Brad. I found them kissing after the rehearsal.”

  Her eyes widened.

  So Sheila hadn’t mentioned it. So like her.

  Claire pursed her lips in thoughtful repose. Finally she spoke, her tone demanding. “Why are you here?”

  Andy pulled the large-scaled painting from beneath his arm and rotated it to show her. “I have a friend who painted this, and wanted to see if you’d be interested in a showing of her work.”

  Claire’s dark-lined eyes scanned the picture and took on a glint.

  Ha! He had her hooked.

  “It’s good. Very good.” She tilted her head his way. “And where is the artist?” She glanced down at the signature, a wry smirk curling one corner of her dark lipstick. “Where is Trish James?”

  Andy ignored the subtle hint in her voice. “Let’s just say she doesn’t have a whole lot of confidence in her work or herself.”

  Claire arched one perfect eyebrow. “She paints like this and has no confidence?” She narrowed her eyes into cat-like slits. “Why did you choose me?” Her tone was all business now.

  “Because I believe you’ll treat her fairly.”

  Her expression softened. “You always know the right thing to say, don’t you, Andy?”

  He handed her a card with Trish’s contact information and raised his shoulders in a slight shrug. “It’s still your choice, Claire. Here’s where she can be reached.” He pivoted and headed to the door, turning back to face her before he left. “Oh, and please don’t tell her I had anything to do with this.”

  “I’ll do what I can, but no promises.”

  Andy heaved a sigh and returned to his car with the painting. He’d done all he could. The rest was up to God.

  Chapter 22

  The old wood and glass door squeaked and then slammed. Andy glanced up from his desk as a very nervous Gracie followed Otis Thacker into his office. “I’m sorry, Andy, but Mr. Thacker needs to see you.”

  Demanded to see him was more like it. He sent her a reassuring smile. “Thanks, Gracie.” She let herself out the door as Andy stood and offered a hand. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Thacker.”

  Thacker set his bulldog jaws and harrumphed, completely ignoring his outstretched hand.

  Andy’s eyebrows rose in spite of his attempt to keep his expression under control. He motioned to the two leather chairs positioned in front of his desk. “Please have a seat. Would you like some water or coffee?”

  “I didn’t come here for happy hour. I came to talk business.” The older man groused the words, then shuffled to the chair and creaked his way into it. He rested both hands on his cane and glared.

  Andy brought a hand to his nose. That cologne Otis doused himself with must be left over from the 1960s. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “Well, since you’re charging me an arm and a leg in retainer fees, I figured it was time to put you to work.”

  “Okay. What are we looking at?”

  Otis jutted out his jaw, his mouth arching downward in a grouchy rainbow. “I’d like to file suit against a tenant who broke lease. And I wanna get more than what they owe since I haven’t been able to lease the building on such short notice.”

  “Sorry to hear that. We’ll do all we can to make sure you receive full compensation.”

  “I certainly hope so since that’s what I’m paying you for. How much is all this gonna cost me anyway?” Thacker’s voice came out in a gravelly growl.

  Andy took a sip of coffee and cleared his throat. “Well, sir, counting the time to draft the necessary legal documents and any court time involved, I would guess I’ll be spending several hours—”

  Whack! Thacker brought his walking cane down hard on the corner of the desk. “Enough of the legal mumbo-jumbo! How much?”

  “Roughly a thousand dollars.” Andy reached up and tugged on the tie which had suddenly cinched tighter.

  Thacker’s face turned purple, and his eyes bugged out like a bullfrog on steroids. “A thousand? Why, that’s highway robbery! I’ve been paying you five hundred a month since you got here, and haven’t used your services once. Now you’re gonna charge me a thousand? You might get that out of some of those city dudes in Dallas, but you ain’t gonna get it outta me!” He creaked out of his chair and tottered toward the door.

  Andy’s pulse escalated, and he hurried to his side. “I’m sure we can work something out, Mr. Thacker. Please have a seat and let’s talk through this.”

  Thacker squinted, then released a grunt. “Oh, all right.” He waddled back to the chair, his cane raised. “But I’m not paying you a penny more than five hundred.”

  Andy returned to his seat mulling the matter over in his mind. The old codger had him in between a rock and a hard place and knew it. As an influential member of Miller’s Creek, he had the power to make or break his stay as the city attorney. “Tell you what, since you’ve already paid five hundred this month, we’ll make the total owed five hundred.” Andy once more positioned himself in the chair and rolled it under the desk, grabbing a pencil and a legal pad. “Now how much does your client owe in back rent?”

  “Three months worth. Three thousand dollars.”

  Thacker was getting a thousand bucks a month in rent and choking on paying him? There weren’t any houses in Miller’s Creek nice enough to qualify for that kind of lease price. “And where is this house located?”

  “House? I never said it was a house.”

  “What is it then? A building?”

  “Yep, and renovated recently.”

  So Otis owned part of downtown Miller’s Creek. Probably didn’t pay a penny for the renovation, thanks to Dani’s generous donation. “How many more months remained on the lease?” He tried to keep his voice on an even keel.

  “Eight.”

  Andy scribbled some notes on the legal pad. “You been in contact with this person?”

  “Yep. Phoned ‘em several times, but now they won’t answer my calls.”

  No surprise there. “And did the lessee mention why they were behind and why they were breaking lease?”

  Otis waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Ah, some sob story about not getting enough business and needing the money for something else. Said they’d pay as they could, but I haven’t seen one red dime.”

  Andy’s radar went up. “Um, who is this person?”

  “Steve’s sister, Trish James.”

  Otis’ words pushed him back against the seat. How was he going to explain this? “Sorry Mr. Thacker, but I can’t represent you.”

  Otis’ face screwed up. “Why’s that? I have you on retainer.”

  “It’s called conflict of interest. I’ve hired Trish to help me with my new office, and I coach her son’s t-ball team.”

  “Doesn’t sound like a conflict to me.”

  He squirmed in his seat, suddenly feeling like a catfish on a hook. Out of the water. Flopping around on the creek bank. “Uh, this is confidential, but we’ve . . . er . . . also considered a relationship.” Well, he’d considered it anyway.

  The older man’s uni-brow rose and fell before curving into a scowl. “You don’t waste
any time, do you, young man? What’s wrong? Not enough pretty women in the city for you, so you move here to hit on our young widows?” He rose to his feet and made his way to the door, slamming it behind him.

  Andy’s blood pressure climbed to the stratosphere. So much for making a good impression on Thacker. This would most likely be the latest fodder for the grapevine, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

  * * * * *

  Trish signed out at Soldano’s, shucked the apron covered with smiling maraca-shaking chili peppers, and hurried to the car she’d not-so-affectionately nicknamed The Lemon. Her shift had run late again today, leaving her fifteen minutes to set up for afternoon art lessons. Her two students barely made teaching worth the effort, though she enjoyed it more than she’d ever imagined possible.

  She crawled into the car, heat blasting her in the face. Summer obviously wasn’t the best time to open a private art studio. Several people had expressed an interest, but wanted to wait until fall to begin. To make matters worse, the money she’d made off lessons had been eaten up by childcare expenses.

  With a toss of her head, she made her way to the Community Center. Oh well, things worked out the way they did for a reason. It must be part of God’s plan, even though God’s plans sometimes made no sense to her.

  The cell phone buzzed and she grabbed it from the console. Steve. She punched the talk button. “What’s up?”

  “Hey, I have something I think you should know.” The warning in his tone sent shivers down her spine.

  “What?”

  “I ate lunch with the geezers at Granny’s. Otis was shooting off his mouth about filing suit against you for being delinquent on your payments and breaking your lease.”

  Her mind went numb. Then hot anger flared, coupled with embarrassment. “You’ve got to be kidding!” Now that Steve knew this detail of her financial situation, it wouldn’t be long until Dad found out.