Читать книгу The Road To Echo Point - Carrie Weaver - Страница 11

VI ABSORBED Ian’s statement, but couldn’t comprehend it. She wasn’t quite sure how normal people treated their mothers. Maria Davis Peralta had kept her sanity, Vi supposed, by cocooning herself in denial. Denial that their life was a nightmare, and half the time, denial that she had any children at all. It was easier to pretend they didn’t exist. That is, until Patrick died. Then she was the grieving mother, so broken-hearted she had to divorce her husband, leave her two daughters, remarry and move to San Diego.

So when Ian instructed her to treat Daisy like her own mother, it exposed a raw nerve she refused to explore. Instead, she propped her fists on her hips and challenged, “Not only am I to keep the lady from wandering off and getting herself killed, but you want me to be all warm and fuzzy and treat her like family? You’ve got the wrong woman, buddy. If she were my mother, I’d put her some place where she could receive appropriate care.”

She watched her statement sink in. Ian’s eyes were shadowed for a moment. Guilt? Uncertainty? It was gone before she could identify it. Replaced by white-hot anger.

Vi backed away until her hips met the kitchen counter. No escape. She lifted her chin and waited. But the raw frustration in his face made her squinch her eyes shut.

When the blow didn’t come, she cautiously opened her eyes and saw him standing before her, defeat evident in the slump of his shoulders.

Relief washed over her. She’d stared down fear. Something she couldn’t have done five years ago. He wouldn’t destroy her. Couldn’t make her cower. No matter how big or how strong he was.

Step by step, she forced her feet forward until she stood toe to toe with the hulk. Craning her neck, she made sure she didn’t lose eye contact.

“I think I’ll just call a few of my attorney friends. Find out a little about Judge Tanner,” she challenged.

Green, clear and steady. Ian held her gaze. The seconds ticked by, neither of them moving.

When he leaned one elbow back against the breakfast bar, she exhaled slowly. He was giving her room to breathe. Or enough rope to hang herself.

“Go ahead.” He nodded toward the phone on the kitchen counter. “I’m sure your legal beagles will get a hoot out of this one.”

Vi reached for the phone, then stopped, her hand suspended midair.

She studied his expression, searching for a weakness, an inconsistency. He didn’t blink, just gave her a cocky half grin.

Damn.

He set down his coffee cup, the one that proclaimed Ruggers Do It Down And Dirty, and retrieved the phone. Shoving the receiver in her hand, he said, “Here you go. Need privacy?”

“Nooo…that won’t be necessary.”

It was necessary to keep this whole fiasco as quiet as possible. He might be bluffing. But what if he weren’t? It was bad enough she had been banished to this godforsaken place for a month. A month where she was seriously out of the loop. A month for that weasel in the Scottsdale office to suck up to the big boss without any competition. No, she didn’t need to compound the problem by making a laughingstock of herself.

Or worse, find her butt parked at a desk in Underwriting. That’s exactly where eight points on her driver’s license would get her. The big boys upstairs took a dim view of impulsive behavior, especially if it opened up the company to liability. The boss would cover for her to a point. But if it became common knowledge around the legal community…

This little episode had to be erased. Like it never happened. No points on her license, no reminders.

“I—I believe you. I’ll stay.”

For now.

Ian eyed her suspiciously. Maybe she’d capitulated too fast.

Shrugging, she spread her hands wide. “Hey, you’ve got me over a barrel.”

The taut line of his shoulders visibly relaxed. “I’m a pretty mellow guy. Just be good to Daisy and we’ll get along fine.”

“Sure. Fine.” She flashed him a smile, an earnest, kid sister kind of smile. If she couldn’t beat him, she’d join him. Their goals were the same, after all. Get the dog back on its feet ASAP. “And since it looks like I’ll be here a while, why don’t I get dressed and you can tell me exactly what I can do to help Daisy and her four-legged friend.”

He still looked at her warily, but didn’t respond. Just frowned.

Then he shrugged his shoulders and said, “We’ll meet in the den in, say, about half an hour? The den is down the hall, to the right.”

VI EASED INTO the battered old wingback chair. The torn leather armrest scratched the tender skin on the underside of her forearm. It reminded her of home. Only their furniture hadn’t started out as nice as this.

She suppressed a shudder. Someone needed to tape some holes, or better yet, scrap the chair entirely.

“Okay, shoot,” Vi prodded, notebook open, pen handy.

Ian sat behind his desk, in an equally worn leather executive chair, that one hunter green. The burgundy and green theme continued throughout the den. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, distressed wood of course. In the corner stood an adobe beehive fireplace, the inside smoke-blackened, but bare. Cozy.

Indian rugs, hand woven and old, judging by the muted colors and workmanship, were scattered on the floor, warming the brown ceramic tile. Here and there were a few knickknacks, something missing in the rest of the house. Hand-carved kachinas, outfitted in flamboyant turquoise and red, jockeyed for space between tan woven baskets and some sort of odd sculpture. Made out of a horseshoe and barbed wire, it looked like a cowboy twirling a lasso.

She cocked her head to the side, checking it out from another angle. Maybe it was a cowboy doing some sort of funky dance….

Her gaze slid to the wall behind Ian’s head. No more western stuff there. No, it was pure modern sports memorabilia. Photos of Randy Johnson and Jake “The Snake” Plummer and some guy in a hockey uniform. All were autographed, all personalized to Ian.

“You’ll watch Daisy from 10:00 p.m. to 8:00 a.m.”

She waited for him to continue.

He didn’t.

“And…”

“That’s it. Watch Daisy. If she so much as steps out of bed, you follow her. Help her find the bathroom if she gets lost. Wait for her, make sure she goes back to her room.”

“You said she’d calm down. Now that she’s used to me.”

He didn’t quite meet her gaze. “Yeah. She’ll calm down.”

“Sounds simple enough if there’s no wrestling or windows involved.” Vi snapped closed the notebook. “That’s all the dog does?”

“Originally, Annabelle was trained to watch Daisy only at night, and come get me if she got out of bed. But she gradually extended her shift, so lately she’s spent most of her time with Daisy. There are only three other certified Alzheimer’s dogs in the world, so no one really knows what she can do.”

It was amazing. How they could train a dog to do stuff like that. How the dog seemed to understand almost on a human level.

Vi was intrigued, but didn’t want to give the guy any false hopes. So she suppressed all the questions whirling around in her head and attempted to look disinterested. “Cool,” she commented.

Ian raised an eyebrow.

“You’ll think it’s pretty damn cool, after about a week with Daisy. Last night was just a small sample. When I told you about the witching hour, it was to prepare you, not scare you. The technical term for it is ‘sundowning.’ A lot of people with Alzheimer’s get restless when the sun goes down. At night, their sleep patterns are disturbed and they frequently roam.”

“They childproof homes for kids. Can’t you do something like that for her? Special locks on the doors?”

“Daisy’s figured out every obstacle I can put in her way. The last time she roamed, she ended up two miles away, and it took Search and Rescue nearly six hours to find her. It was June—she was severely dehydrated and almost died.”

“I didn’t realize,” she murmured.

“Most people don’t.” He sighed and rubbed a hand across his forehead. The bags under his eyes made him look like one of those sad old hound dogs that never moved from the porch. “Hell, I had no idea. Nobody does, until you’ve been there.”

She almost felt sorry for the guy. Almost. There was no way she intended to get drawn into his problems. She had enough of her own.

“So I’m off duty during the day?”

He nodded slowly. “If I were you, I’d sleep. You’re gonna need it.”

“I’m sure I can handle it. You a sports nut or something?” She gestured toward the pictures on the wall.

“I guess you could call me that. I was a sports writer.”

A writer. Interesting.

“Was?”

“Until two years ago. When Vince—I mean—Sheriff Moreno, called.” His gaze was focused on the wall behind her left ear. Like he was there, but wasn’t there.

“Asked if I’d noticed Daisy getting forgetful. He’d found her car, still idling, stuck in a desert wash ten miles outside of town. Said she’d seemed disoriented, didn’t know where she was or how she got there.”

Ian shifted, cleared his throat.

“I hadn’t seen her for a while. Been on the road. I should have figured it out sooner. Not Vince.”

A twinge of remorse nagged at her. She’d done this. She’d made this guy worry more than he already did. He didn’t deserve it, any more than she did.

But the touchy-feely confidences had to stop. Because if they didn’t, then she’d have to reciprocate, tell him something deep, dark, revealing. And if she started, where would she end? Her stomach rolled at the very thought.

“Okay, I get the gist. Prodigal son is racked with guilt, throws away a promising career to care for his mother. Very commendable. More than I’d do in the same situation.”

“I don’t want sympathy. You asked about the sports stuff and I told you.”

“Good. I’m not the sympathetic type.”

He crossed his arms and leaned back in his big leather chair. “No? That’s probably what makes you so damn successful, Ms. Davis. Personally, I’d hate to make a living off other people’s misfortune.”

“Yeah, well I didn’t create the system. I’m just damn good at what I do.”

“I’m sure you are.”

VI MUMBLED obscenities around the pen clenched between her teeth. The computer screen went blank again, only to be replaced by gibberish. For the second time today.

There was a tap at her door. “Ten o’clock. Your shift.”

Not already. She’d barely made a dent in the files she’d ferried in from work. There were a couple demand packets to review along with adjuster recommendations for settlement. Not to mention twenty or better status reports, case reserves and the usual inter-office B.S. to go through.

“In a minute,” she lisped around the pen.

This time the rapping was louder. Hard knuckles. “Vi, ten o’clock. Get a move on.”

Sighing, she removed the pen. “I’m coming already. Don’t get your shorts in a wad.”

Silence.

Maybe just one more file.

“Vi. Now.”

“Oh, all right.” She threw one last look at the computer screen and left the room.

Ian gave her barely enough room to squeeze through the doorway into the hall. He waited, arms crossed, ready to escort her to her own personal hell.

Frustration made her middle finger itch, the thumb and three other fingers started to bend of their own accord. She reminded herself that obscene gestures got her nowhere. Clamping her rebellious fingers into a tight fist, she rapped on Daisy’s door. “It’s me, Vi. Can I come in?”

“Go away. I don’t know a Vi.”

This was turning into a nightly ritual. Even though Vi had been there nearly a week, Daisy could not, or would not, understand that Vi was there to help. She refused to call her by name, always referring to her in the third person, like she wasn’t there. And then it was usually to accuse her of some heinous crime, such as stealing her paintings, locking her in her room or making a mess. A mess, coincidentally, that only occurred when Daisy was around.

“She’ll get used to you,” Ian assured her for the hundredth time, as he rapped gently on the wooden door. “Mom, Vi’s coming in now. She’ll keep you company, just like Annabelle did.”

“Don’t need company.”

“Sure you do. And I betcha she’ll even sing to you,” he wheedled.

It was the only way Vi could get into the room. The only way the woman would accept her. Good thing she had a passable voice.

“The Daisy song?” came the muffled reply.

Vi groaned.

Not again.

“Go on,” Ian urged, as he landed an elbow to her ribs.

“I’ll sing you the Daisy song,” she promised.

The door swung open and she was admitted to the inner sanctum. “I’ll bring you a daisy a day, dear…” she sang. “I’ll bring you a daisy a day.”

It was a lovely old ballad, all about the endurance of love. The suitor vowed to bring his love a daisy a day. And after she died, he brought a daisy a day to her grave. The first time she’d heard Ian sing it to Daisy, goose bumps had prickled her arms. Full moon, PMS, the Celtic part of her soul, the Hispanic part of her soul, whatever the reason, the song always made her throat ache, her eyes mist.

Daisy climbed into bed as Vi sang, humming right along. Framed by the crisp white pillowcase, her face relaxed, the lines and worries smoothed away. Her smile was angelic, her eyes unfocused and dreamy.

Vi usually sang her to sleep, then tiptoed to the daybed tucked away in an alcove. But tonight Daisy didn’t drift off. As Vi sang, the old woman’s eyes became more focused, inquisitive almost.

“You’ve a beautiful voice, dear.”

“Thank you.”

It was the first time Daisy had acknowledged her directly, other than in wild accusations.

“Edward used to sing that song to me.” She sighed, her finger doodling across the patterned chenille bedspread. “He was tall, like Ian. Made me feel so fragile, cherished.”

“Oh. That’s…nice.”

Fragile? People only hurt you if they knew you were fragile. Cherished, now that sounded good. She’d never experienced it, but it sounded good. Safe.

“He’d watch me dance, for hours it seemed. And he’d hum that song. It was as if we were the only two people left on earth. Alone, but so close to Heaven I could almost hear the angels sing.”

“Angels. Sure. You bet. What do angels sound like? Celine Dion? Alicia Keyes maybe?”

Daisy reached out and patted her hand. Her smile was warm, her eyes sparkled. “You’re teasing me, aren’t you? It was an allegory, dear. To illustrate my point, about love being the closest thing to Heaven we can find here on earth.”

“An allegory. Sure.” What next, a discussion on the origin of the species? World politics?

“And dance. The next best thing to sex.”

Vi tried to steer the conversation in a safer direction. “You danced? Professionally?”

“I danced. Still do, when the joints allow. Not professionally of course. I met Edward in New York, when I was auditioning for the ballet. It was a wonderful time. I met Edward and knew he was the one. Everything else paled in comparison. Even dancing. We were married by the justice of the peace and left New York without even finding out if I’d made the cuts. It just wasn’t important anymore. Only being with Edward was.”

Daisy’s eyes shone. Edward must have been one helluva guy.

“How’d you give it all up? All your hopes and dreams?”

“New hopes, new dreams. Different, but better in some ways. A family, my own dance studio…”

“Did you ever regret it?”

The other woman’s eyelids drooped, her smile faded. “Only once.”

Vi wanted to shake her, make her explain. But Daisy’s eyelids fluttered shut and she snored lightly.

THE NOISE reached Vi’s ears, as if filtered through layers of cotton. It was a rattle, like a doorknob. Somewhere though the layers, she knew it was important. Something she should do about it. Burglar?

She bolted into a sitting position. The night-light in the hall illuminated the room. No burglar. Whitewashed stucco walls, big rustic beams holding up the ceiling. Ian’s house.

She glanced around the room. Not her room. Her room didn’t have colorful paintings anchored to the walls.

Daisy’s room.

She turned to check Daisy’s bed. Empty. How could that be? It seemed only a moment ago that the woman had drifted off to sleep after reminiscing about her dance studio.

Vi muttered an oath as she swung her legs over the side of the daybed, ignoring the dull throb in her temples. Her bare toes curled away from the cold tile, but she pushed through the discomfort. No time for slippers. The reflective tape was cool, eerie beneath her fingers, as she followed it toward the bathroom. The door was open.

Her breath came in deep, ragged breaths, her pulse pounded. No light. Where could the woman be?

She rounded the door frame to check.

There she was, slumped on the toilet seat, her chin resting on her chest.

Thank God.

“Daisy?” She touched the woman’s arm, then gently shook her shoulder.

No response.