Country Roads(9)

Claire came to his rescue. “So small and fragile-looking. To be painting with such emotional power.”

“Right,” he said. “I can’t make the connection.”

Julia turned to the painting, trying to understand what he meant. It was one of the pictures she called Night Mares, a massive black horse with glowing eyes galloping through a riot of colors and shapes.

“I have to admit, I’m sort of stunned myself,” Claire said, coming to stand beside Paul.

“I guess I can’t afford this, but I sure as hell would like to own it,” he said.

“You would?” Julia asked, his enthusiasm warming her.

“Paul, when did you become an art lover?” Claire asked.

“When I found something I liked.”

“It’s yours,” Julia said.

Both of them looked at her as though she’d lost her mind. “I’m much obliged, but I can’t accept this,” Paul said. “I know what your paintings are worth.”

“It wouldn’t be worth anything if you hadn’t rescued me from the side of Interstate 64.” Julia grimaced at the memory of all those cars whizzing past her. “I want you to have it for being kind to a total stranger. There should be a reward for that.”

Claire’s dark eyes sparkled with laughter. “Oh God, please don’t make him worse. We call it D-I-D syndrome. Paul has a compulsion to save damsels in distress.”

He chuckled, but Julia noticed he was tapping his fingers against the side of his thigh.

“Well, I’m a very grateful damsel, and I want you to have the painting.”

“It’s out of proportion to my contribution.”

He wasn’t taking her offer seriously, she could tell. “Well, then consider it your retainer since you’re my lawyer now.” She felt an overwhelming desire to know her painting was hanging somewhere Paul Taggart would see it every day.

His face relaxed into a smile. “It would take me the rest of my career to work this off.”

“So you’ll accept it?”

“No, ma’am. When it comes to the law, I only accept cash.” His tone was light, but she heard the rock-hard refusal beneath. His pride wouldn’t allow him to accept something he thought was too valuable.

Claire had been standing halfway between the two of them, simply watching, but now she interjected, “I could give you an advance against sales, if cash is a problem.”

“You could?” Julia felt uncertain again. Her uncle handled all her financial affairs, an arrangement she’d never minded until the last few days, when she’d needed money to buy the car without letting him know about it.

“We do it all the time for our established artists. And you certainly qualify as established.”

“Well, if you do it for other artists, I guess it’s all right then,” Julia said, although she felt uneasy about taking money she hadn’t earned. “All I really need is enough to pay Mr. Skaggs for the tow and fixing the flat.”

“You’re not really going to drive that piece of garbage again, are you?” Paul broke in.

“I guess I could rent a car.” She’d never done it before, since she almost never drove. It was another of those everyday tasks she had no idea how to perform.

He sighed. “Where do you live?”

Julia could see Claire’s shoulders shaking with silent laughter as Paul tried to rescue her again.

She looked him straight in the eye. “You’re not driving me back to North Carolina.”

A look of relief crossed his face when she mentioned her home state. She wondered if he would have offered to drive her to Florida or Texas.

Claire took her hand away from her mouth to wipe her eyes. “You might as well resign yourself, Julia. Paul will not rest until he has delivered you safely back to your castle.”

“This is the problem with people who’ve known you since high school,” he said. “I have no intention of driving Julia back to North Carolina. I was going to suggest hiring Gordy Wickline to do it, paid for by your advance.”

“Excuse me, I’m not a package,” Julia said. “I can hire my own transportation.” As she said it, she remembered she had to confront her uncle when she got home. She would have to confess to going behind his back to prove him wrong. He would be angry and hurt, a combination that stabbed a knife of dread into her heart. “I may not go straight home.”

Bud propped another canvas against the wall and unslung a ratty duffel bag from his shoulder. “Well, that’s the last of the paintings, and here’s your overnight bag. Come on over to the station whenever you decide what to do with your car.”