Carrie Weaver - The Road To Echo Point

“You never told me why this dog is so important. I can see your mother needs help, but, well, wouldn’t she be more comfortable in an institution? Where there are people trained to handle her problems?”

He crossed his arms. “Home is the best place for her. Annabelle has been trained to help keep her here. Wandering is a big problem.”

“That’s what I’ve read.” Vi mulled over her options.

“I can do two weeks. That’ll use up all my personal and sick time, but I think I can make it work. After that you’re on your own.”

“No deal. This mess is your fault. You’re here till Annabelle’s well enough to work. You leave and I’ll have the judge issue an arrest warrant so fast it’ll make your head spin.”

No counteroffer. That wasn’t good. This was his turf and his rules. It went against everything in her being to do it, but she had no choice but to bid against herself.

“Three weeks.”

He folded his arms over his chest, his mouth set in a thin line. “Uh-uh. Four weeks. And that’s only if Annabelle heals without complications. It could be six.”

Vi pictured her future sliding down the drain in six weeks. Jerry Jones could be well on his way to stealing her promotion.

But knowing when to concede was one of her better survival skills—she’d learned that at home a long time ago. She’d let Ian think he’d won, this time. “It seems I don’t have a choice.”

The man nodded, accepting her apparent defeat. A crooked grin pulled at the corner of his mouth. He had dimples. What a waste.

“It’ll be interesting to see who wins. You or Daisy.”

“I don’t lose. Ever.”

“Uh-huh,” he grunted, an eyebrow raised in speculation. “I’ll take the shift tonight. Tomorrow while Daisy’s at the center, we’ll discuss her care. You better get some sleep, you’ll need it.

VI FLINCHED. Her heart pounded. Some sort of noise?

She struggled to focus. It was dark, only vague shadows of heavy furniture against pearly white walls.

Where the heck was she?

A strange bed, high off the ground, a footboard with swirls of black against misty gray. Intricate, hand-worked wrought iron.

The noise. There it was again. Pounding, yelling, more pounding.

Daisy. The old lady. What was going on?

Vi burrowed farther under the covers, muffling a curse. With the bedspread over her head, she could barely hear it. Ian had promised to take this shift.

Sure enough, a muffled, “I’m coming, Mom.”

Something heavy thudded against the wall, then footsteps dragged outside her door. It was like something out of the Simpson trial. Had Kato been this scared?

She clenched a corner of the crisp muslin sheet.

More hollering. A doorknob rattled. The pounding resumed.

Vi couldn’t take it anymore.

Fresh air hit her in a cool wave as she pawed her way out of her cocoon. Throwing on her robe, she slid her feet into her slippers.

The door latch was cool beneath her hand, the door opened easily, silently. She sucked in a breath, rattled by what she saw—Ian, a pair of Arizona State University maroon-and-gold sweatpants slung low on his hips and nothing else. Shirtless, he was more Greek god than hulking monster.

Ian fumbled in his pocket and took out a key. He barely got it clear of the lock when a figure came through the doorway and bounced off his chest.

He didn’t grab the figure. Instead, he stood there, arms hanging at his side, talking. Just talking.

Daisy jabbered in rapid-fire succession. Not a word made sense.

Ian inclined his head as he spoke to Daisy, his voice low, reassuring. “It’s okay, Mom, I’m here. It’s me. Ian. Everything’s okay.”

The jabbering slowed to English. “I was trapped. Somebody kidnapped me and locked me in there to die.”

“No, Mom. I locked the door so you wouldn’t get lost.”

“I don’t get lost.” Daisy straightened, the top of her head barely reaching Ian’s chest.

“Sometimes you don’t remember so good.”

“I remember perfectly.” She smoothed her wild hair. Stabbing a finger in Vi’s direction, she shrieked, “She did it. She broke into our house and locked me in my room. She stole my paintings!”

“Shhh. You remember Vi, our guest.” He laid a hand on his mother’s withered arm. “Come on, I’ll walk you to the bathroom.”

“Yes, of course,” she murmured.

The two walked down the hall, hand in hand, one robust, the other tiny and confused.

Vi shook her head and shuffled back to bed, where she flip-flopped for more than an hour. What about this Alzheimer’s stuff? What was it she had read? Progressive, no cure. Eventually fatal. Not a pretty picture. The old lady would die. But what happened in the meantime?

Sighing, Vi contemplated the mess she’d made. Her futile attempt to outrun the past had sent ripples through three lives, four if she counted the dog. The thought of Annabelle with her bandaged hind leg and Daisy with her irrational tantrums made Vi want to crawl under the covers and hide. She’d messed up big time and turned life upside down for everyone involved.

Was she any better than her dad? Letting her emotions get the upper hand until she lost control and did something stupid? Something that hurt another living being?

Vi shook her head. She wouldn’t accept that. There was a world of difference between her and her dad. She intended to make things right for Daisy and Ian. But she wasn’t a trained nurse, or even a social worker. What if she screwed up? The woman could have gone through that glass panel today. If the fall hadn’t gotten her, the glass would have sliced her to shreds. This was too much for them to expect of her.

The decision wasn’t easy, but it was best for everyone involved. She would leave in the morning. Call her attorney. Have him explain everything to the judge. Sell her car, if necessary, to pay for a qualified nurse….

IAN POURED HIMSELF another cup of coffee. Thank God for the senior center. Tuesdays and Thursdays were what kept him going. The first few hours were exhilarating. Freedom beckoned, with endless possibilities. What should he do first? Read? Jog? Work at the computer? Sleep maybe? At nine in the morning, the world looked rosy.

But the crash always came. Along about noon, he’d come down off his high. The responsibility would drop on his shoulders like a rack of free-weights. By two o’clock his gut started churning, tying itself in knots. Fear? Disappointment? Dread for sure. Maybe even a little guilt. He could do better. Be more patient.

Vi staggered around the corner, interrupting his thoughts. Her pink terry cloth robe was belted haphazardly, her black hair wild. She scratched her head, leaving a big cow lick behind.

He shook his head. This couldn’t possibly be the same woman. He let his gaze rove from her face, down her neck, to where the nubbly fabric dipped between her breasts. The ratty old robe was an improvement over the power suits and country club casual stuff. Breasts?

Ian shoved his mind into reverse.

Breasts. The boardroom barracuda had breasts. Imagine that.

He shook his head, bemused.

“Morning, Vi,” he drawled, his gaze seeking out more visual clues, from her shaggy pink slippers upward. Breasts meant hips and a waist. But the bulk of her robe kept everything else hidden.

He stifled a sigh of disappointment. The deprivation was getting to him. Abstinence had never been one of his strong points.

“Morning,” she mumbled, shuffling past.

He winced as she slammed a cupboard door. So did she.

“Where the hell do you keep the coffee cups?”

“My, aren’t we cheery this morning. Upper left.”

She turned, briefly, to fix him with a bloodshot glare.

“Too much partying last night?” He hid a smile in his coffee cup. That’d get a reaction.