Country Roads (46 page)

Claire stood and enveloped her in a hug. “I hope you can get him to keep it.”

“That’s why I want witnesses.”

They walked down the hallway to a room filled with artwork neatly slotted into wooden racks. “I got my framer to do a rush job on it so Paul can hang it immediately.” Julia started to stammer a thanks, but Claire waved her into silence. She pulled out a big bubble-wrapped canvas and lowered it to the floor. “How are you going to get this there?”

“Carry it.”

“On foot? It’s pretty big and unwieldy.”

“More witnesses. And I’m used to carrying big canvases around.” Julia took a breath and met Claire’s eyes straight on. After the woman’s kindness in having the painting framed, Julia felt even guiltier about what she was about to say. “I know I promised to stay for the auction tomorrow, but do you think I could decline? My uncle is flying home Saturday morning and I thought I’d go with him. I don’t think it will hurt the bidding all that much if I’m not at the gala.”

Claire’s eyes brimmed with understanding. “Of course you can go home. I’ll deal with Belle. You’ve done more than enough.”

Julia nodded in gratitude. Bending her knees, she grabbed the two handles the framer had considerately attached to the picture’s wrapping on one side. “As long as I don’t run into a high wind, this won’t be too hard to carry,” she said, as she straightened with the painting held against her right hip. It topped her head by a couple of feet and reached to the middle of her shins.

“There’s no question people will notice you,” Claire said.

“That’s my plan.” She’d learned the power of social pressure from Paul himself. If everyone knew she’d given this to Paul, he would have a hard time returning it.

Hefting it to a slightly more comfortable position, Julia followed Claire to the front door and maneuvered the painting through it. She was grateful for the bubble wrap as she banged one corner into the doorjamb as she turned. This was going to be a little harder than she anticipated.

Setting off toward Paul’s office, she kept watch for pedestrians, flower tubs, benches, and lampposts, all of which populated the sidewalks of Sanctuary. A glimpse of a particularly abundant tub of purple and yellow petunias lit by late-morning sunshine stirred her with its simple but lavish beauty. She drank in the sound of tires on pavement, greetings called to acquaintances,
and during a lull in traffic, the trill of a robin perched in one of the linden trees lining the street.

Several men across a range of ages offered to give her a hand with her burden, reminding her of the friendliness she’d come to cherish here. People in Sanctuary might know each other’s business, but they also pitched in when that business got sticky. She thought of Verna, who was aiding and abetting this little escapade with relish. Isolated as she’d been at home, it surprised and delighted her when someone she barely knew lined up beside her to help.

She needed to carry the painting herself, but she let everyone know where she was going with it. That information earned a few approving winks and nods, which brought an ache to her throat. She didn’t explain this was a farewell gift.

It took a couple of rest stops but she finally made it to the Victorian house where Paul worked. She clumped up the steps and put her package down to swing open the heavy oak-and-glass door. Edging the painting through the opening, she leaned it against the banister of the staircase as she closed the door behind her. When she turned, Verna was gesturing her into Paul’s reception area.

“You are a sight for sore eyes,” Verna said, helping her guide the big canvas through the doorway. “His last appointment canceled, and I’ve been keeping him busy with finding old documents on the computer.”

“It’s heavier than I thought, so I had to rest once or twice.” Julia propped the canvas against some chairs.

Verna eyed the painting, which seemed to take up half the room. Julia frowned as she realized she’d only seen the
Night Mare
in her large studio at home or a wide-open gallery space. Maybe the scale was too big for any place Paul had to hang it.

She couldn’t worry about that now.

“Verna, do you really need the Snedegars’ divorce papers right—” Paul stopped in the door to his office as his gaze met Julia’s. Something flared in his eyes and then the mayoral smile closed the shutter on all emotion.

“If it’s not my favorite artist.” He walked over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Did you stop by to look over the contract with Claire? Verna, can you print that out for me?” He turned away a little too quickly to be convincing in his unconcern.

Julia closed her eyes to brace herself against the yearning response of her body to the all-too-brief touch of his lips. She swallowed and opened her eyes again. The back of his pale-blue shirt stretched across his shoulders as he leaned over Verna’s desk. Shoulders whose skin and muscle and bone she had explored with her fingers, even raked her nails over in moments of passion. She tucked her fingers into her palms to keep herself from skimming them over the warmth of his body one more time.

This was harder than she expected.

“Here you go,” Paul said, holding a stapled document out to her. He had to lean forward slightly to bridge the distance between them. As soon as she grasped the papers, he took another step backward. Glancing at his watch, he said, “I guess we could take a quick pass through it now.” His gaze went past her and narrowed. “What the—?”

She took a certain pleasure in knowing he’d just noticed the giant painting in the room. It meant he’d been focused entirely on her. “It’s the
Night Mare
you admired. I’m giving it to you.”

The easy smile slipped slightly as his jaw muscles went rigid. “I seem to remember telling you I couldn’t accept such a valuable gift.”

“I carried it all the way over here by myself and I’m not carrying it back.”

He glanced at Verna, who sat behind her desk, not even pretending to work. “I imagine I can find someone with a pickup truck to take it back.”

Unlike Paul, Julia didn’t care what Verna heard. She squared her shoulders and locked her gaze with his. “Don’t reject this gift too.”

He flinched. “Maybe we should discuss this in my office.” He swept his hand toward the open door in a command she decided to obey.

She preceded him into the room, hearing the door click shut behind her. He kept his back to her as he walked to the other side of the desk. When he turned, his mask fell away. “I’m no art collector. What the hell will I do with something that valuable?”

“Remember me when you look at it.” His stony refusal tore at her.

He rested his fists on the desktop and leaned forward, his voice low and sibilant. “Your memory is burned into every cell of my body.”

“Oh.” The words seemed flattering, but he said it as though he regretted the fact.

He collapsed into his chair. “I’ll keep the painting but please leave now.”

“I have to tell you one more thing.” She perched on the edge of the chair closest to his desk.

He lifted his head as though it weighed a ton. The fingers of his left hand beat a near-silent tattoo on the blotter.

She cleared her throat. “I didn’t want you to know this about me, but I owe you the truth.”

“Sweetheart, you don’t owe me anything. Quite the opposite.”

“I owe you this.” She twined her hands together in her lap. “My uncle had a reason for being so overprotective. It’s why I’d
never learned to ride a horse. Or ridden a motorcycle or swum in a river.”

Paul’s fingers stilled.

“I had epilepsy.” She said it carefully to make sure it was in the past tense. She couldn’t look at Paul yet, so she stared at the shape her hands made. “The first time Papi put me on a horse, I had a seizure and fell off. He caught me so I wasn’t hurt, but he never wanted to risk it again. So I drew horses instead.” She hazarded a glance at Paul. His face gave away nothing.

“You say you
had
epilepsy.” His enunciation was as careful as hers. “Does that mean you no longer have it?”

“It’s not a question with a yes or no answer. I haven’t had a seizure in seven years. Two years ago my doctors allowed me to stop taking my antiseizure medication.” She faltered to a stop.

“So are you cured?”

“As long as I don’t have another seizure I am. Many people grow out of epilepsy if it develops when they’re children. I seem to be one of them.”

“Seem?”

She shrugged. She wasn’t going to lie to him. “I believe I’m cured.”

He folded his hands together on his desk. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you would have treated me differently.”

“You’re damned right I would have. Do you realize how dangerous—” The volume of his voice rose until he cut himself off. “Of course you do,” he said levelly. “You deliberately withheld the information.”

Despite her resolution, Julia felt tears burn in her eyes. “I didn’t tell you because you wouldn’t have taken me riding on your motorcycle or to the river or—”

“Jesus Christ!” He surged to his feet, sending his chair slamming into the wall. “How do you think I would have felt if you’d gotten hurt? Or worse?”

The tears spilled down her cheeks and she dashed them away with her wrist. “I wanted you to see me as a normal person.”

“There’s nothing normal about you. I’ve been saying that all along.” He stalked over to the window.

She fought down the sob threatening to tear out of her throat. “Maybe I’d better go.”

He turned, his arms crossed. “I’ve been telling you that for days. You don’t belong here.”

She wiped her eyes one last time and stood up, her head high. “I don’t regret anything I’ve done.”

“Wish I could say the same. I could have hurt you several times over. When I think about the hazardous situations I put you in…”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, but I had a chance to leave my past behind and I took it.” She risked a quick glance at his face. His jaw was clenched tight and a vein pulsed at his temple.

She retreated to the door, stopping as she put her hand on the doorknob. Keeping her eyes on the wood panel in front of her, she said, “Will you still come to the reception tonight?”

“I’ll be there.” His words were as sharp as broken glass.

She nodded and opened the door. Verna swiveled her chair around, but Julia held up her hand in a silent plea.

“You go on then, hon,” Verna said. “It’s none of my business what happened in there.”

Julia got herself out the front door and down the steps before the sobs broke through.

She’d feared his pity, but she hadn’t been prepared for his anger.

P
AUL RAN A
yellow light right in front of a town police car. The cop waved and let him pass. Terri had just called to say Eric was in the hospital after some sort of serious accident involving bees. She was on her way from her job, but Paul was closer so he’d volunteered to offer backup to his brother.

Slamming the ’Vette into a parking space, Paul raced through the doors to the emergency room and strode straight to the admittance counter. For once he blessed living in a small town because he knew the woman behind the desk. “Afternoon, Iris. Can you tell me where my nephew, Eric, is?”

She scanned the computer screen. “Room F. Go through those doors, and take a left.” She looked back up. “He’s going to be okay. No anaphylactic shock, no trouble breathing. Dr. Bhattacharya’s treating the bee stings now.”

“Much obliged,” he said, some of his fear draining away.

He walked through the doors and down the corridor, reading the signs beside the doorways. As he approached Room F, Jimmy’s voice carried clearly to his ears. Paul slowed to listen. “I had tweezers in the first-aid kit so I got Lisa to pull the stingers out while I drove here. I told her to clean the welts with the sanitary wipes and put some ice on them.”

“I couldn’t have treated him better myself,” a voice with a faint British accent said. Dr. Bhattacharya.

“I took a first-aid course before we went camping last year,” Jimmy said. “I even bought an EpiPen, but I told Lisa not to use it unless Eric had trouble breathing.”

Paul stopped.
Jimmy had studied first aid?
This was news to him.