Carrie Weaver - The Road To Echo Point

Okay, so he was an interesting paradox and liked women. But she had one ace up her sleeve, one that couldn’t be conned or forced. Chemistry.

Vi let her gaze roam, from the barrel chest to biceps nearly the size of her thigh. Sweat made a damp V on the front of his T-shirt, highlighting some impressive pecs. Slim hips, muscular thighs. Toned calves. Probably even muscular feet. But it didn’t matter. Not an ounce of chemistry.

None. Zip. Zilch. Nada.

Now a guy in a crisp, blindingly white dress shirt, Armani suit, cuff links, that might be another matter.

She crossed her arms and smiled. “I’m sure Daisy’d be very glad to hear that. I imagine she wants grandchildren—most mothers do.” It was good to be in control again. Another three weeks or less and she’d walk out of here the way she’d arrived, in control and knowing where she was headed.

“Nah, she never says. Wants me to be happy, that’s all. Demanding old broad, isn’t she?”

“Not unless you mind finger foods or stand down wind of her on a bad day.”

“Hey, that’s not fair. You ought to try getting her in a bathtub.”

“No thanks. Not in my job description.”

“No, I guess not. I didn’t think it would be in mine, either. But it’s the Alzheimer’s. If you’d known her before… Well, she was quite a woman.”

“I’m sure she was.” Vi placed her hand on his forearm, then let it drop to her side.

The Daisy who had danced, fallen in love, painted—all of it was slipping away and there was nothing Ian could do. It must tear him up. But not her problem. If she kept reminding herself of that, she’d be okay.

“I’ve got some books about it. Alzheimer’s. If you’re interested?”

She edged toward the door. “No thanks. No time,” she shot over her shoulder, making her escape. There was no way she’d admit to the exhaustive Web search she’d made. Or the compulsion she felt to learn what made Daisy tick. And she definitely would not admit to wanting to make Ian’s life a little easier.

IF THE WOMAN didn’t shut up, Vi was going to wrap her hands around her wrinkly little turkey neck and squeeze the living daylights out of her. It wasn’t fair. The lady’d had more adventures than one person had a right to. Sitting next to her, Vi felt like a mere imitation of a woman.

She shifted in her chair, then flicked her watch to make sure it hadn’t stopped. Ian had only been gone twenty minutes.

“…and that’s when I said, ‘Joe, you just put that thing back in your pants right now.’” Daisy cackled with ribald glee, a far cry from her usual tinkling laughter.

According to Daisy, she’d been quite the belle of the ball around these parts. Every man within miles was smitten.

“Uh, Joe…he’s Sheriff Moreno’s father, isn’t he? I met the sheriff yesterday when he came by to check up on me.”

“Yes, he’s Vince’s father. And my, but Joe was a fine-looking man in his younger years. All that dark wavy hair and passionate Latin eyes. Now he’s a man who knows how to please a woman.”

Vi groaned. She’d never be able to look Sheriff Moreno in the eye again without imagining Daisy and his father together, horizontal.

“How’d Ian’s dad feel about your admirers?”

Daisy’s eyes lost their sparkle. She clasped her expressive hands in her lap and allowed the corners of her mouth to quiver, just for a second.

Her voice was husky now, the elegant widow was back. “Oh, no, dear. I didn’t move here until after Edward died. The first year at home was hard. Keeping Ian out of trouble, getting over it all. Well, a year and a day later, I decided I’d had enough of cold winters and an even colder bed. Figured Arizona was a brand-new start. For me. For Ian.”

Vi fought to stay detached, removed from the woman’s grief, old but still raw. But she couldn’t. It grabbed her and wouldn’t let go.

“Did you think you’d die if you stayed a minute longer?” she murmured.

The old woman’s eyes narrowed, searching her face. She grasped Vi’s hand and gave it a hard squeeze.

“Yes. Who did you lose, dear?”

The kindness in Daisy’s voice was almost her undoing. The loss was as sharp as the day Patrick had died in a car accident.

She swallowed the lump in her throat. “My brother.”

“How long?”

“Twelve years.”

Twelve years. Could it really have been that long? Patrick with the wide, giving smile. The strength that had sheltered her, protected her from the worst of it. The back that had taken many of her beatings.

“Painting. That’s when I took up painting. Ever try it?” Daisy chirped.

“Not really. Just pastels.”

“Violet dear, you may use my studio anytime. Get those feelings out on canvas. It will set you free.”

“No, I couldn’t….”

“Nonsense. I can’t paint anymore. It’s just going to waste. Might as well share it with another flower woman.”

“I don’t have time.” She shifted in her chair. Every fiber in her being strained to say yes, to bury herself in that studio, until every canvas, every dab of paint was used.

“Whenever you’re ready, Violet dear, it’s there for you.”

Violet swallowed hard. Nobody had given her such a selfless gift in a long time, something so precious and personal. Not since Patrick.

“YOUR INTERVIEW’S tomorrow?” Ian asked, tapping his fingers on the easel.

“At ten-thirty. Time enough to drive down to the valley.”

“You really want it? This District Manager thing?” He sounded like it was a management position in Hades.

“It’s what I’ve been working for.” She avoided his eyes, busying herself cleaning the brushes. The painting session had been completely unproductive, but so stimulating she could hardly stand still. The medium was new, but the experimentation inspiring.

“This is the first time I’ve seen you do something for the pure enjoyment of it. You’re a natural artist.” He nodded toward the canvas.

Violet’s cheeks warmed with pleasure. “It’s not as good as Daisy’s, but it’s not bad.” She watched him from the corner of her eye. “You seem pretty comfortable in the studio. Painting’s probably similar in some ways to writing. Instead of manipulating paint on canvas, you manipulate words.”

“I’ve never thought of it that way before, but that’s exactly what it’s like. I’m still amazed that I can create a whole other world. Probably sounds silly to you.”

“Not at all. Art’s that way for me. I’d forgotten how relaxing it can be. That’s why I chose today to paint. I needed to relax. This promotion is too important to screw up because I’ve psyched myself out.”

He leaned against the wooden workbench, splashed with layers of color. “I wouldn’t have figured you as the type for great introspection.”

“Ah, the old adjuster stereotype. Ice water in the veins, motivated by pure greed. Sadistic delight in putting innocent customers through hell.” She grinned at him wickedly. “Almost as bad as the attorneys, or maybe those Neanderthal sports nuts.”

“No way. Sports nuts are very kind-hearted underneath it all.”

Scraping dried paint off the brush handle, she could feel him watching her. But there was no way she would meet his eyes. No way she would tell him that maybe he was right. Maybe the way he treated his mother was more important than how he looked.

Instead, she fell back on safety. “Yeah, well it takes a lot more than a stout back and soft heart to get by in this world.”

He reached out and fingered a strand of her hair, working out a blob of dried crimson paint. “Ain’t that the truth. But who says I want to just get by? Don’t you ever want more Violet? After you become District Manager, what then? More money, more promotions, more power? But what have you really accomplished?”