Читать книгу The Road To Echo Point - Carrie Weaver - Страница 12

“I THOUGHT I’D LOST HER.”

Vi waited for the bombshell to sink in. She held her coffee cup suspended at chin level, denying herself that first luscious swallow. Hot, steamy fingers of aroma wafted upward, stinging her nose. Caffeine withdrawal seemed like a light sentence for her crime.

“Hum?”

Ian leaned against the kitchen counter, more interested in cramming a whole power bar in his mouth than her confession. He wore black nylon shorts, a white T-shirt and a gray hooded sweatshirt, his usual running uniform. The senior center bus had barely chugged down the drive, and he was ready to go.

“I said, I thought I lost her,” she bit off every word, enunciating clearly. “I got up with her at midnight, one-thirty and three. No problem. But the last time…I didn’t wake up. Didn’t even hear her until she was out the bedroom door. I’m not a real rise-and-shine kind of person—it took me a couple minutes to get going. By the time I found her, she was asleep in the bathroom.”

Ian chewed slowly. His jaw was smooth for once, his eyes alert and ready for the day. He looked years younger than the first time she’d seen him, boyish almost. Except for the frown.

“You found her. No harm done.”

“But what if I don’t next time? What then?”

“Look, you can do this. I wouldn’t trust you with her otherwise.”

“Why are you so sure you can trust me?”

“You’re smart and determined.” He hesitated for a moment. “And whether you admit it or not, you care.”

Restless energy prodded her into action. She paced the kitchen floor. “No way, you’ve got me all wrong. My career is the most important thing in the world to me. And right now it’s in danger of going down the tubes. I’m behind already and so exhausted I can’t string together a coherent thought.”

Ian shrugged. “You’ll get used to it. Just sleep in the day.”

“I can’t. That’s when I get my work done. I’ve still got a job to do, no matter what happens here.” The tightness in her chest expanded to a fist-sized knot of frustration. “I’ve got a shot at District Claims Manager. It’s big, really big.”

He hesitated, chewing slowly. “Okay, so you sleep during the day, then work at night in Daisy’s room. We’ll set up a desk.”

“You don’t understand. I get tunnel vision when I’m working. The whole place could burn down and I’d never notice. Besides, Daisy’d be a wreck—the light, rustling papers, dictation. She wouldn’t sleep a wink.”

Ian pushed away from the counter. He loomed over her, his bulk no longer benign. “So what do you want me to do? Let you off the hook? Say okay, go back to your important job in Phoenix. We’ll manage just fine. Well, you know what, we won’t manage, thanks to you. And I won’t let you off the hook. Nice try.”

He crumpled the wrapper and tossed it in the general direction of the trash can. “I’m going for a run. You do whatever you want. Just don’t leave.”

It was hard to believe this was the same guy who tended the old lady with such patience. There was a hard glint in his eyes and his voice vibrated with anger, as if he wanted to wrap those big hands around her throat and squeeze. Hard.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he slammed out the kitchen door without a backward look. She wasn’t worth the effort to strangle.

Vi set her coffee cup down on the counter and pushed it away. Then she bent over and banged her forehead against the Formica. Once, twice, three times. Not hard enough for it to hurt, but she hoped hard enough to knock some sense into her.

“What am I going to do?” she asked the empty room. As long as the walls didn’t answer, she figured she must have a shred of sanity left.

Daisy could have been lost, or seriously hurt. It had seemed simple enough. Watch Daisy sleep. She hadn’t counted on getting only a couple hours of uninterrupted sleep a night. It was starting to take a toll. Her eyes were gritty, her head felt like it was stuffed with cotton.

Vi rubbed her temples as she mulled over the whole mess. She’d have to adapt, somehow. That was the key to survival. In nature, in the corporate jungle, even in this weird house. Adapt or die. But how to adapt to something she couldn’t understand and couldn’t predict? The old woman and her idiosyncrasies ruled the whole house, no matter what time of day. Like yesterday. Only a few glorious moments at the computer before Daisy wandered in and accused her of all sorts of nasty things. Theft, kidnapping, murder, they were all part of Vi’s M.O., according to Daisy.

She would get used to it, Ian had said. Ha! Changing her sleep schedule was next to impossible. It was like an alarm went off somewhere the instant her head made contact with a pillow during the day. So much as a long blink and Daisy would wind up. It could be something as simple as a bath and World War III would erupt. Even the thick adobe walls couldn’t block out the yelling, the slap-slap of escaping bare feet on tile, the thud of Ian’s tread in hot pursuit. And sometimes, a dirty word or two.

Once, before she learned to lock her door, Daisy had rushed into her room. The old woman had been nearly naked, her eyes wide with fear, her breathing shallow.

Vi shook her head as she remembered the strange episode.

Daisy hadn’t said a word. Just stood there, scrawny arms wrapped across her sagging, wrinkled breasts, and shook her head frantically from side to side.

Ian had followed close behind, his breathing labored, as if he’d run an eight minute mile.

“Mom…” he’d gasped.

Daisy had feinted to the left, then dodged right.

But Ian was too quick for her. He wrapped her in a big bear hug from behind.

She bit and clawed and lashed out. “Let me go,” she screeched. The air crackled with her terror.

Ian let go.

She backed away from him and cowered in a corner.

It took several minutes for Ian to catch his breath. Vi waited, mute, unable to differentiate between perpetrator and victim.

Finally, he said, “It’s okay, Mom. No bath today. I’ll get you a nice warm washcloth to sponge yourself down with.”

“I don’t need a bath. Had one yesterday.”

“Sure you did.” His voice held more defeat than conviction. “But a warm washcloth wouldn’t hurt. You know, knock down the trail dust.”

“It’s a trick. Just like that woman.” She pointed an accusing finger in Vi’s direction. “She was sent to spy on me.”

“It’s not a trick, Mom. I’ve never lied to you before, have I?”

She ruminated on that for a minute, hands on hips. Apparently she’d forgotten she was naked from the waist up. But Vi hadn’t. Her gaze bounced around the room as she looked everywhere, but at Daisy. At least the other woman wore white cotton briefs.

“Nooo…you haven’t lied. But she’s sneaky. See, she won’t even look me in the eye. And she won’t tell me her name. She’s hiding something.”

Ian shrugged helplessly. “She has problems with new things. Remembers stuff from twenty years ago, but has a hard time with anything new.”

“Can’t teach an old dog new tricks,” Daisy chirped.

Ian’s lips twitched into a smile. “Exactly. Well, Vi, we’ll just have to keep trying.”

“Who’s Vi?” Daisy interrupted.

Ian sighed and shook his head. “She’s having a hard time with the Vi part. Sometimes giving her a point of reference helps. Mind if I try something?”

“Go ahead.”

“Mom, this is Violet. She’s named after a flower just like you.”

“Yeah, as in shrinking Violet,” Vi muttered.

Daisy practically glowed with excitement. She gestured with her hands as she spoke. “Another flower woman. I should have known immediately. We’re kindred spirits, my dear. This is so exciting.” She floated across the room and slid her arm around Vi’s waist. “I’m so glad you came, Violet dear. It will be so good to have another flower woman to keep me company.”

Vi forced herself not to cringe. If she kept very, very still, her elbow would not brush against the woman’s bare breast. She sucked in a breath and managed a plastic smile.

“Violet. Yep. That’s me.”

Ian gently grasped Daisy by the shoulders and drew her away. “Let’s get you cleaned up and dressed and ready for your volunteer work. You can chat with Vi…ah…Violet, when you get home.”

“That would be lovely, dear.” Daisy twisted around to wave gaily. “We’ll talk later, Violet.”

And that had been the beginning of the end. She would continue to be Violet for the duration of her stay, she just knew it. Once Daisy latched on to something, she didn’t let go. Maybe it was because of all the memories she’d lost. Maybe that made what she did remember all the more precious.

A high-pitched whine interrupted Vi’s reverie, bringing her back to the present. The noise came from the corner. She swiveled on the stool to look into Annabelle’s concerned brown eyes. This time they didn’t trigger a flood of bad feelings. Annabelle was a big dog—what had Ian said?—a chocolate Lab mix? Really nothing at all like the terrier pup she’d had as a kid. The pup her dad had killed.

Annabelle whined again.

“I’m okay. Nothing to worry about, girl.”

Who was the crazy lady now? Talking to animals.

The whine grew more persistent, ending with a half bark.

Vi got off the stool and approached the dog, slowly, carefully. She seemed harmless enough. Head on paws, big beseeching eyes, who could resist?

Vi knelt a few feet from the animal and stretched out her hand. The dog sniffed her fingers, then her big, pink tongue swiped across Vi’s palm.

“Yech.” Vi wiped her hand on her pants, but leaned a little closer.

The dog didn’t move a muscle, just swished its tail slightly. Bolstered with confidence, Vi let her fingers wander over the soft, silky ears.

Annabelle’s tail thumped her approval.

Warmth flared somewhere near her heart. That wasn’t bad at all. She lowered herself to sit cross-legged next to the dog. Annabelle inched forward on her stomach and rested her head on Vi’s lap.

The warmth expanded. It became a reassuring feeling that grew with each stroke of the dog’s coat.

“You’re a lovely girl, aren’t you.”

The pink tongue bathed her wrist.

“You know, girl, it was an accident. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

The big, brown eyes gazed up at her, as if she were the most important person on earth.

“And I don’t really think Daisy is as big a pain in the butt as I did at first. She just kind of freaks me out. Never knowing what she’ll do. And that’s a lot of responsibility. Ian says he trusts me, but he doesn’t know me. I can’t even keep a houseplant alive, let alone a confused old woman.”

Vi stroked Annabelle’s head and worked her way down her soft, silky back. She really was beautiful. Her hind leg was in a cast, but healing nicely according to the vet.

“And you know what, Annabelle? The woman insists on calling me Violet. I don’t want to be Violet. Violet, as in shrinking Violet. As in, let-people-walk-all-over-her Violet. And run-and-hide Violet….”

Annabelle whined, stretching up to lick Vi’s chin.

“I didn’t mean to upset you. I promise I’ll help you get better. That way you can have your job back, and I can have mine. Sound like a plan?”

She nodded for the dog. Of course it was a good plan. Next time she went to Phoenix for more files, she’d stop off at the library and do some research on fractures. It would right a wrong, good karma and all that. And it would get her out of this mixed-up place where up was down and night was day.

IAN STOOD IN THE DOORWAY, watching Vi and Annabelle. The woman held the dog’s head in her lap, talking softly, so softly he had to lean forward to hear.

Remorse? And tenderness. And something missing, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Confidence. That cocky attitude.

Guilt, or the power bar, twisted his gut. It was okay to use her when he thought she was a heartless witch. But now she looked relaxed and very unwitchlike.

Her tender murmurs grated on his nerves. Ian didn’t want to hear anymore. He didn’t need to feel bad about disrupting her life.

He cleared his throat.

Vi’s head came up. Their eyes met for a minute, before she looked away. What he’d seen there made him curse under his breath. Confusion. And fear. Beneath that tough-as-nails stuff was a woman hiding from something. A woman who didn’t expect much from people. But with the dog, she’d let down her guard. Let out all that vulnerability. And dammit, he’d had to witness it.

“I was checking on Annabelle. Making sure she was okay.”

“Yeah, no problem.”

“Short run.” She raised an eyebrow.

Ian tried to convince himself he wasn’t seeing her any differently, but he was. “I don’t like being gone long. Force of habit. Besides, I’ve got a lot to do.”

He watched her pry Annabelle’s head off her lap, careful not to disturb the snoring dog. She rose so smoothly the dog didn’t even twitch.

“What exactly do you do?” she asked.

“Write. Kind of an action, mystery type thing.”

His shoulders tensed as he waited for the look. That surprised look. Sure enough, there it was. Then she eyed him up and down, before letting her gaze stop at his face.

The silence lengthened. He let it go on and on, until he couldn’t stand it anymore.

“I was an English Lit major. That was right after I quit dragging my knuckles and figured out those darn opposable thumbs.”

A flush crept up her neck. She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off.

“Don’t bother denying it. You’re not the first to make that assumption.”

Her flush deepened, worked its way up her face. Amazing that her smooth, olive-toned skin could get that red. A few more twists in the breeze and he’d let her off the hook.

“Of course, those assumptions come in handy at times. Like when I helped out in Daisy’s dance studio. At first I was drafted against my will, but when I got a look at all those ballerinas in leotards, I learned a whole new appreciation for dance. The dumb jock thing was what kept me from being severely beaten on a daily basis. I learned to compensate.”

The expression on her face was priceless, well worth the soul-baring. Her mouth dropped open, her eyes widened. “Ballet? You?”

“You got it. I was pretty good, too. Better quarterback though, much to Dad’s relief.”

Vi let the rest of Ian’s disclosure wash over her without registering. It was the only way she could keep her sleep-deprived brain cells from overloading completely.

This guy was a real trip. He’d developed the ultimate line. Not just a hard body, he was a renaissance man—intelligent, gifted and cultured, all rolled into one package. The average woman would buy it hook, line and sinker.

“How about antiques, what do you think of those?” she quizzed.

“I can take ’em or leave ’em.” He grinned, an amused half smile that lit his eyes. “I don’t enjoy show tunes, either. Never patted another guy on the butt, on or off the football field. ‘Good game’ worked just as well.”

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?”

That one hit a raw nerve. One she hadn’t known existed until she’d picked up Daisy’s paintbrushes. Until she’d immersed herself in the joy of creating so thoroughly that space and time ceased to exist. But that wasn’t a career. Creativity didn’t pay the bills or keep her safe.

“I’ll tell you what I’ve accomplished. I’ve bought my own house, my own car. I can come and go as I please, without permission from anyone. If I want something, I can reach out and grab it.” She poked his unyielding chest with a paint-smeared index finger. “And you know what, that feels pretty darn good.”

Vi ran out of breath. It sounded just a little bit desperate, even to her.

She braced her fists on her hips. “And what about you, Mr. Obedient Son, Mr. I’ve-got-my-life-so-together? You can lecture me all you want about life and priorities, because you’re safely sidelined for the moment. At least I’m honest about what I want. I like being in charge, and that’s something I won’t give up. Ever.”

Ian grasped her shoulders, getting closer, too close. “Hey, calm down. I didn’t know… I mean, that you felt so strongly about it. I never thought of insurance that way…you know, passionately. But I guess it’s not the insurance you love, it’s the being in charge part.”

He absently rubbed her neck with his thumb.

She jerked away.

“What’s so bad about being in charge? I haven’t lied to you. What you see is what you get. Now don’t you have some corn dogs to cook up or something?”

Turning away, she willed her hands to stop shaking.

“I thought maybe I could understand why it’s so important to you.” Ian studied her face.

Violet warmed under his scrutiny.

“I guess I was wrong.”