Country Roads (23 page)

L
OOK WHAT
P
A
did to my room,” Eric said, leading Paul down the hall. “He got the idea from a TV show. It’s called penciling.”

“You mean stenciling,” Paul said, stopping in the doorway. He scanned the newly colorful walls, where soccer balls, horses, campfires, baseball bats, and dogs danced in a kaleidoscopic array. “Your pa did this?”

“Yeah. I got to pick what pictures I wanted and he pen—stenciled them. See, there’s a pony, although he’s not gray like the one at Sharon’s. Maybe Pa can repaint the colors for me.”

Paul took a step into the small room, pivoting slowly as he spotted Mario and Luigi from Eric’s favorite video game, Harry Potter, hockey skates, and a skunk. He laughed at his brother’s reference to the eventful camping trip. “How long did it take him?”

Eric bounced down on his bed, his brow furrowed in thought. “I dunno. A lot of weeks? It took awhile to find the right pictures. It’s awesome.”

“It sure is,” Paul said, sitting beside the boy and considering the amount of work and care that had gone into the project. So Jimmy hadn’t painted the outside trim because he’d been busy doing this. Paul felt his frustration with his brother ease.

“Eric? Paul?”

“We’re in Eric’s room,” Paul called out, “admiring the new decorations.”

Jimmy appeared in the doorway. “His room needed painting, so I, uh, figured I’d jazz it up a little.”

“You could give Martha Stewart a run for her money.”

Jimmy made a scoffing sound, but pride shone in his face. “It came out pretty good.”

“Pa, could you make the pony gray like Sharon’s?” Eric asked.

“Sure,” Jimmy said. “I can mix the black and white from the skunk and make gray.”

“Pa’s a pro at mixing paint,” Eric said. “He said he couldn’t buy every color under the rainbow, so we figured out how to make colors.”

Paul stared at his brother, searching for some outward indication of this new facet of his brother’s personality. All he saw was a two-day growth of beard and untrimmed dirty-blond hair.

He tried and failed to picture Jimmy experimenting with various combinations until he came up with all the colors on these walls. Come to think of it, he couldn’t imagine him taping stencils up and carefully filling them in, letting each color dry between coats.

“Anyone want ice cream? I got rainbow sprinkles,” Jimmy said.

Eric took off like a rocket.

Jimmy shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at his sneakers. “You don’t have to babysit me tonight.”

Paul levered himself off the bed. “Better safe than sorry.” He was still trying to wrap his mind around his brother’s unexpected artistic accomplishment.

“Suit yourself.” Jimmy spun out of the room while Paul followed more slowly.

When Paul got to the kitchen, his brother had his head in the freezer, rummaging for ice cream. Bowls, spoons, and a bottle
of sprinkles sat on the kitchen counter. Jimmy backed out of the freezer, juggling three cartons of ice cream and an ice cream scoop. Paul was pretty sure Jimmy didn’t own an ice cream scoop a year ago.

Julia believed a killer horse could change. Maybe it wasn’t crazy to believe his brother was changing too.

“This is Verna Hinkle, the best legal secretary in the state of West Virginia.”

Julia put her hand out to the woman sitting behind the big oak desk in Paul’s reception area. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Hinkle.”

“It’s Verna, hon,” the woman said, reciprocating with a hand covered in huge, sparkling rings. “A pleasure.” She winked at Julia, her thick false eyelashes turning the small gesture into a showpiece of drama.

“Is she typing words or just random letters?” Julia asked in a low voice when Verna turned back to the computer and began keyboarding at blinding speed.

“Whole sentences with nary a mistake,” he said, ushering her into his office and closing the door. “Before I hired her she used an IBM Selectric. She said word processing was for the weak fingered, but once I convinced her to give the computer a try, she took to it like a duck to water.”

Julia forgot about Verna as she looked around his office. A heavy golden oak desk was centered on a burgundy-and-blue Oriental rug. Two chairs with wooden frames and blue upholstery sat in front of it, a low table between them. Built-in bookcases filled with official-looking legal tomes lined one wall, while sunlight spilled through a large window on the opposite side. A framed print of what had to be Sanctuary in its earlier days hung over the credenza behind his desk.

She was disappointed. The decor evoked a sense of trust and reliability, but it could have been any successful lawyer’s office. There was nothing distinctive to Paul in it.

“What’s that delicious smell?” she asked, as the waft of something sweet and warm tickled her nostrils.

Paul walked behind her to pick up a tray of muffins from an antique sideboard and offer them to her. “Verna gets them from Tammy’s Place on her way in, so they’re fresh out of the oven.”

She leaned over and inhaled. “I’ll bet all your clients try to schedule morning meetings.”

“On slow days, I open the window and put the muffins right under it. It never fails to bring in some business.”

“Better than chasing ambulances, I guess.”

He handed her a china plate to put her muffin on. “Have a seat. How do you like your coffee?”

She plopped down in one of the armchairs and put her muffin on the table between them. “No coffee, thanks.”

“How do you survive without caffeine?” Paul poured himself a mug of coffee from the pot on the sideboard.

She bit her lip. In her quest for knowledge about her condition, she’d read caffeine might contribute to seizures, so she’d cut it out of her diet. Her doctors pooh-poohed the idea, but she was willing to try anything to keep the terrifying attacks at bay. “I never got addicted.”

Paul surprised her by setting his muffin, his mug, and a bottle of water on the table before he turned the other armchair around to face her and settled into it.

“Aren’t you going to sit behind your desk and be lawyerly?” she asked.

Instead of responding with a quip, he looked somber. “Some things are better discussed on the same side of the desk.”

“It’s Monday,” she said with a sigh.

Even with the prospect of an unpleasant decision looming, she couldn’t help admiring the way Paul’s deep-blue shirt fit over his wide shoulders and tapered along his lean waist, or the drape of his light wool trousers over his long thighs. It was far too easy to picture what was under the fabrics.

“Eat your muffin,” he said, nudging her plate toward her. “You’re distracting me.”

“I’m just sitting here.”

“Those green eyes of yours are very eloquent,” he said, “and they’re saying things I want to hear, but not right now.”

“It’s your own fault for looking so hot in a suit.”

His knuckles went white as he gripped the arms of his chair. “If you’re trying to bypass the subject of your uncle, as your legal advisor, I have to tell you such avoidance would be unwise.”

“Fine.” She broke off a piece of muffin and put it in her mouth.

He sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands between them. “I understand you love your uncle, and you’re grateful to him for managing your career up to this point.”

Paul’s voice and eyes were kind, and an upswell of tears clogged her throat as an image of her uncle formed in her mind. For a moment, she felt nothing but deep, untainted love for the man who had guided her for so many years. Which made the sense of loss that swamped her at Paul’s next words so much worse.

“But you should consider hiring an outside representative, a professional in the field whom you can trust to be objective about your work.”

She must have looked distressed, because Paul shifted in his chair and his voice became even gentler. “Julia, your uncle will always see you as a child, no matter how old you are or how successful you become. You need to have an agent who respects your talent and your judgment, and who recognizes you as the mature artist you are. It will be better for your career, and trust me, it
will be better for your relationship with your uncle in the long run.”

“I don’t know if I can do that to him.”

Paul looked down at his hands before he raised his gaze back to hers. “He lied to you about the demand for your art, deliberately, and for an extended period of time. Can you continue to work with him, knowing that?”

She turned toward the window, its frame wavering through a haze of unshed tears. “No…I don’t know.” She blinked and looked back at him. “Maybe if I understood better why.”

Paul shook his head. “That will help repair your personal relationship, but you need to separate your family from your work.”

“How do I tell him that?”

He sat back. “I’ll tell him. One thing lawyers are good at is delivering news people might not want to hear.”

“No!” she snapped. “That’s how I got in this situation to begin with. I let other people take over the things I didn’t want to deal with.” She sat up straighter. “If I’m going to fire him as my agent, the news has to come from me.”

“If?”

“All right, when.” She fidgeted with her water bottle. “I don’t know how to find another agent.”

“Claire would be able to help with that.”

She felt a little jolt of hope. “Do you think Claire would be my agent?”

“Ask her.”

“What if she doesn’t want to do it?”

“She’ll say no and suggest someone else.”

Julia sighed. “It sounds so simple when you say it.”

“Don’t mistake simple for easy. What you have to do will be tough, but it will put your career on the professional footing it
deserves. More important, it will remove a significant source of trouble between you and a person you love.”

“You’re a smart lawyer, Paul Taggart,” she said, reaching across the table to touch the back of his hand.

He immediately flipped his hand to clasp hers, his warm grip sending waves of comfort through her. “Just experienced. In my opinion, you and your uncle have a good chance of repairing your relationship because you’re handling it sooner rather than later. Some folks let these situations go on until the anger and resentment have built a wall too high and thick to knock down.”

“Or the falling debris crushes them underneath it.” Julia heard voices beyond the closed office door, reminding her that Paul had real clients who needed his attention. “I’ve taken up enough of your workday.”

He trapped her hand between both of his. “I want to make sure you’re comfortable with what we’ve discussed.”

“But you have another appointment. I can hear them outside.”

“That’s why I have Verna.” He locked his eyes on her face. “How do you feel about this?”

Her fingers tightened around his. “Like I’m about to jump off a cliff into deep water. But I’ve been letting other people tell me what I should do for too long. Fear forges heavy-duty chains.”

“Fear?” His eyebrows drew together. “What are you afraid of?”

Lulled by the honesty of their connection, she’d forgotten he didn’t know about her epilepsy. She cast around for an explanation that would satisfy him. “Fear of the unknown, fear of taking a risk, fear of upsetting my family.”