Country Roads(98)
The other woman took it in both of hers and gave it a firm squeeze. “I’m sure Paul will insist on a legal document, but a handshake is good enough for me.”
Just like that, Julia had a new agent. “This feels good,” she said, as a sense of control poured through her. She needed someone outside her family to be involved with her art.
“We’ll drink a toast to our new partnership at the show,” Claire said. “I’ve ordered very good wine so our patrons will feel less pain when writing the checks.”
She winked and Julia laughed. So far her plan was right on track. She pushed up to her feet. “Shall I give you a hand with the paintings?”
Claire rose but waved away her offer of assistance. “It’s easy to roll the panels around. You go brace yourself for your uncle’s arrival.”
On an impulse, Julia threw her arms around the other woman. Claire looked surprised, but she responded with a return hug almost immediately.
“This is going to be a great partnership,” Julia said, releasing her new agent.
Now she just had to break the news to her uncle.
An hour later, she stood on the front porch of the Traveller Inn, jiggling from one foot to the other as she watched a black sedan swing around the front circle. The driver leaped out of the car but before he could get to the back door, it opened and her uncle emerged. He wore a gray pinstriped suit, a pale-blue shirt, and a red tie.
“In full intimidation mode,” she muttered under her breath as she walked down the shallow stone steps to greet him. The image of Darkside bucking and tearing around his paddock before he took a carrot from her hand flashed through her mind. She’d been able to tame an untamable horse; surely she could handle her uncle.
He said something to the driver before turning toward her. She was surprised to find that he looked smaller than she remembered, and the silver threads in his dark hair seemed more noticeable.
His face lit up as he opened his arms. “Mi querida, it is so good to see you.”
She walked into them, breathing in the lemon-and-sage scent of his cologne. The strength and familiarity of his embrace were reassuring, and for a moment she clung to him. No matter what had happened in their recent past, he was still the man she thought of almost as a father.
“I’ve missed you,” she murmured next to his ear.
“Then why have you stayed away so long?” he asked, holding her away from him and giving her a small, exasperated shake.
“I’ve been gone all of six days,” she said, with a smile.
“And every one of those days I lived in fear.”
The will to smile vanished. “That’s unnecessary, Tío. I’m no longer a child.”
“You will always be my sobrinita.” He slipped his arm around her waist and steered her up the steps. “Tell me about this inn. Do you know when it was built?”
She recognized the tactics: he’d realized his error and was withdrawing behind his charm to regroup. “Pre–Civil War,” she said. “The owner can tell you the details.”
Her uncle continued his flow of observations as they were seated in the cozy dining room. “That is a Henry repeating rifle!” he said, his voice tinged with excitement.
Julia followed his gaze to see a long gun hanging on the wall over a print of a battle. The rifle had a polished wooden stock and brass fittings.
The innkeeper emerged from the kitchen. “That rifle belonged to my great-grandfather,” Lyle explained. “He always said it kept him alive through the war.”
“That weapon is a true masterpiece,” Carlos said.
Julia felt her temper spark at the word. Her uncle considered an old gun a masterpiece but thought her Night Mares were too awful to let anyone see. She leaned forward. “After lunch, I want to show you where my paintings will be exhibited.”
A line formed between Carlos’s eyebrows but he nodded before he opened his menu. “What do you recommend?”
“Their corn muffins,” she said with a faint smile. “I’ve never eaten anything but breakfast here.”
The line deepened as he frowned. “You know how important it is for you to eat regular meals.”
“This isn’t the only restaurant in town.” Guilt made her defensive; she knew eating at regular intervals was something her doctors had recommended to help control her epilepsy. In her newfound freedom, she’d let that particular safeguard slip.
Carlos made a disapproving sound but turned back to the menu. The waitress approached, her pen poised.
“Rainbow trout for both of us,” Carlos said, closing the leather folder. “And lemonade.”
“Actually, I’d like the crab cakes,” Julia said, choosing a dish at random. She had planned to order the trout until her uncle presumed to speak for her. “With a side salad. And sparkling water.”