Maureen Child - Dynasties - The Ashtons

“Fifty-four. I’m still in denial. Which is not as easy to do on this coast as it was while I was across the country.” She gave him a brittle smile, then gathered herself and rose to her feet.

He stood, too. “Dixie—”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t talk about it.”

When she walked away she was moving fast, not strolling, her back straight and stiff. And Cole just stood there and let her go, feeling as if the earth had shifted under him.

She couldn’t talk about it? That didn’t sound like Dixie. Maybe she meant she couldn’t talk about it with him…but that wasn’t what she’d said. It wasn’t what he’d felt radiating from her with the kind of buried intensity he knew only too well.

He was the one who stuffed things into compartments, banged the lid shut and sat on it to keep them there. Dixie had always possessed a terrifying honesty, with herself as well as others. She lifted lids and peeked inside. She didn’t turn away from painful truths.

At least, that’s how he remembered her.

Cole stood there a few moments longer, frowning at the path she’d vanished down. Then he went looking for his sister.

At ten o’clock that night, Dixie stood on a drop cloth in the center of her temporary living room, slashing color across a canvas. The light was lousy for painting, but it didn’t matter. She wasn’t really painting. She was venting. No one but her would ever see this.

Red roiled with brown in a muddy whirlpool at the lower right, while a mountain of black and gray reared over a pale green center like a granite wave about to crash. It was lousy art, she thought, stepping back to look it over. But damn satisfying.

The knock on her door brought a frown to her face. On the couch, Hulk lifted his head, lazily contemplating the possibility of company. To Hulk, company meant someone who could be cozened into rubbing his jaw or chin. To Dixie, it meant conversation.

She didn’t want to talk. She considered not answering, but it probably wouldn’t work. Scowling, she snapped, “Just a minute,” then poked her brush into the wire loop that held it in the cleaner. She grabbed a rag and wiped some of the paint from her fingers as she headed to the door.

Cole stood on her stoop with a frown to match her own—and a small leather tote in one hand, like an overnight case.

She eyed that tote, eyebrows raised. “Not exactly subtle, Cole.”

“It doesn’t hold my shaving gear. No full-court press tonight. No moves, no passes, no fouls. May I come in?”

She studied his face. It didn’t tell her much. “Why not?” she said at last, and stepped back.

“I did some research,” he said as he entered. “Nothing you haven’t already read, probably, but…” Words and feet both drifted to a stop as he saw her easel in the center of the room. And what sat on the easel.

In spite of her mood, his expression tickled her.

“Interesting,” he said after a moment in a careful voice. “I thought you didn’t do that kind of abstract art.”

She chuckled. “That isn’t art, it’s therapy. My version of smashing crockery.”

“That would be why it looks like crap, then.”

“Probably. I’ll scrape the canvas and reprime it later.” She cocked her head to one side. “You aren’t here to inspect my visual therapy.”

“No, I…” Hulk had abandoned the couch and was rubbing against Cole’s leg, making like a chain saw. Cole bent and rubbed behind his ears. “Hello, monster.”

Dixie ambled over to retrieve her brush, which needed to be washed. She’d made the canvas about as ugly as it needed to be. Might as well shut down for the night and find out what Cole was up to.

In the tiny kitchen, she turned on the tap and worked soap into the soft bristles. “Hulk appreciates company, no matter what the hour. I’m not in the mood.”

“Tough.” He’d set the mysterious tote on the coffee table. “You probably know all this,” he said gruffly, taking out a fat folder, “but I wasn’t sure how far your denial extended, so I thought I’d pass it on.”

She put down her brush and returned to the living area, curious. He handed her the folder. Inside, she found pages and pages of information—about Alzheimer’s. Organized into sections, with neatly printed tab tops dividing them: Stages…Treatments…Theories…Caretaker Support…

“That’s all from reputable sites,” he told her. “There’s a lot of information out there, but not all of it is reliable.”

“This must have taken hours,” she murmured, paging through the printouts.

“I wanted to know about your aunt’s condition, and you weren’t talking. Which brings us to another question.”

She looked up. “Us?”

“All right, me. It brings me to another question.” He moved restlessly, paused to frown at her visual therapy, then looked back at her. “Why aren’t you talking about it?” he demanded.

“Just because I didn’t talk to you—”

“You haven’t unloaded on Mercedes, either.”

“I told her about Aunt Jody,” she protested.

“Yeah, and that’s all. You haven’t…you know.” He waved vaguely. “Talked about your feelings.”

“Ah…” Deep inside, a laugh was trying to climb out. “Let me get this straight. You are nagging me to talk about my feelings?”

“Bottling everything up—that’s my deal. I’m used to that. Comfortable with it. You aren’t.” He sat on her couch without waiting for an invitation and began pulling more things out of his tote and putting them on the pine coffee table.

A bottle of wine. Two glasses. A box of chocolates. Nail polish. Peppermint-scented foot lotion. Cotton balls. Polish remover.

She sank down on the other end of the couch. The laugh was getting closer to the top. She waved weakly at the objects on the coffee table. “Cole? You want to clue me in here?”

“Just call me Sheila. I’m a stand-in.”

“For?” A smile started.

“This is one of those female parties. The kind where you women get together to do each other’s hair or nails and end up telling each other the damnedest things.” He shook his head, marveling.

Oh. Oh. He was giving her every signal he could, even playing surrogate female, to tell her he was here as a friend, and nothing more. Because he was worried about her. Dixie’s eye’s filled. She stood, took two quick steps, bent and kissed him on the cheek. “This is about the sweetest thing…thank you.”

“You’re not going to cry, are you?”

She laughed. And if it came out a bit watery, tough. “I’m not making any promises. Are you going to paint your nails or mine?”

“I’m going to drink the wine.” He inserted the bottle opener and twisted. He had strong hands, and they made quick work of the cork. “But you’re welcome to join me.”

“Does cabernet sauvignon go with chocolate?” She sat down and opened the box of candy. “Mmm. Dark chocolate at that.”

“Mercedes seemed to think chocolate was essential.”

She slid him a look. “You talked about this with Merry?”

“Yeah.” He poured wine into one of the glasses, and its heady perfume drifted her way. “For some reason she thinks you’re fine.”

“Maybe because I am.” She selected one she thought might have caramel. She loved caramel.

“Glad to hear it. So what do you talk about at these female shindigs?”

“Pretty much anything—men, work, hair, men, family, movies, men, books, politics…did I mention men?”

“The rat bastards,” he said promptly, handing her a glass of wine. Hulk jumped up beside him and pointed out that no one was petting him by bumping his head against Cole’s arm. Wine sloshed in the glass without spilling. Absently he began scratching the side of Hulk’s face. “They never call.”