Country Roads(34)

“You’ll have to choose the guest list carefully.”

She picked up a ballpoint pen, clicking it open and closed. “I will, but part of my strategy involves Paxton Hayes, and you can’t control him.”

“The blogging art critic? You think he’s a pompous ass.”

“He’s the only person who can stir up interest in Julia’s show fast enough. He ought to like these new paintings, since he prefers his art with a dark psychological slant.” She dropped the pen and went back to the mouse. “Besides, the most important part of this has nothing to do with the reception.”

“It’s for Paul?”

“I married a very smart man.” Claire’s hand went still on the mouse. “I’m worried about Paul. When was the last time you saw him ride his Harley?”

“It’s been awhile,” Tim admitted. “So you think a week in Julia’s company will be enough to cheer him up?”

“Julia’s plans might change. I didn’t intend to live here, either, and look what happened.” Claire’s lips curved into a smile. “A big lug of a veterinarian convinced me to stay forever.”





Chapter 11




PAUL JOGGED UP the cement steps of his brother Jimmy’s brick ranch house, carrying two shopping bags. In one was a high-tech compass for his nephew, Eric, while the other held two bottles of gourmet steak sauce.

Ringing the doorbell, he noticed the white wood trim around the door needed repainting. His shoulders sagged under the weight of another disappointment. He’d bought the house for his brother, so Eric wouldn’t have to stay even one night in the ratty apartment where Jimmy had been living after his wife threw him out. Evidently, it was too much to ask that Jimmy keep the place up.

The door swung open. “Hey, big brother,” Jimmy said. Dressed in a stained apron bearing the slogan “May the forks be with you,” he held a spatula in one hand and tongs in the other. His bright-blue eyes were bloodshot, and sweat beaded on his forehead and darkened his blond-streaked hair. “You’re right on time.”

As Paul stepped into the foyer, a haze of smoke made him cough. “Where’s my man Eric?” he said, looking past his brother with the expectation of seeing his nephew hurtling toward him.

“Oh, didn’t I tell you? I switched weekends with his mother, so Eric and I can go camping with the Millers next weekend.”

Paul forced himself to keep smiling, but the evening stretched before him like a wasteland without the promise of his nephew’s lively, rambunctious presence. The agreement Paul had hammered out with Jimmy’s ex-wife, Terri, allowed Jimmy to have Eric every Wednesday night and alternate weekends. Paul made sure to visit his brother on those days, both to check up on Jimmy and because he relished his time with his nephew. “I wanted to show him how to use this new compass.” He lifted the bag.

Jimmy looked guilty. “Well, at least he can practice with it next weekend.”

Paul put his nephew’s bag on the hall table and held out the other one. “Thought you might be able to use this.”

He had bought the steak sauce at the gourmet shop next door to Annie B’s, where he’d gone to ask about a replacement for Julia’s ruined blouse. The memory of the malevolent black horse with his lips drawn back from his teeth reaching for Julia’s soft, vulnerable arm sent a shudder through him even now. His brother had plopped his cooking implements down on the hall table and was reading the sauce labels, so he hadn’t noticed.

Jimmy looked up and waved his hand around to make the smoke swirl in the air. “Probably good you brought these. The steaks could be a mite overdone.” He handed the sauce to Paul. “You want to put them on the table?”

Paul went past the kitchen door and into the dining area. The round pine table was already set with ironstone plates that matched the autumn leaf border of the vinyl placemats. The paper napkins were folded into triangles under the forks. Paul placed the bottles in the center of the table with a sinking feeling. If his brother was making such an effort to entertain him, something must be wrong.

“Grab the pitcher of iced tea out of the refrigerator,” Jimmy said, as Paul walked into the kitchen, his eyes watering in the thick smoke.

Paul cast a glance at the ceiling to find the smoke detector hanging from its wires with the battery compartment empty. “Jimbo, if you burn the house down with your cooking, the insurance company won’t give me squat without a working smoke detector,” he said. His real fear was that Jimmy would drink himself into a stupor, drop a half-smoked cigarette, and go up in flames with the house. Even worse, Eric might be in the house with him, although Jimmy swore he never drank when his son was there.