Country Roads (8 page)

“So you knew Claire from school?”

“Yup. We used to tool around together on my motorcycle. It was a weird combination. I was the class screwup, and she was one of the well-behaved, smart kids.”

“So she was your girlfriend?”

“No, I was too stupid for that.”

“What do you mean?”

He started the Corvette’s engine and pulled out of the parking lot. “Claire’s pretty special, and I at least had the sense to know that much, but I wasn’t interested in a real relationship back then.”

“Oh right. Teenage boys and their hormones. I have three stepbrothers, so I know what you mean.”

He took his eyes off the road to flick a glance at her. “I’ve been wondering about an artist who looks pure Irish, is named Castillo, and speaks Spanish with her uncle. What’s the family structure there?”

“Complicated. My birth name was Julia O’Malley, but my father left when I was two. Mom thinks he went back to Ireland after their divorce, but she was so pissed off she never bothered to find out for sure. Things worked out for the best, though, because she and my stepfather, Raul Castillo, fell in love and got married.” She felt the usual pang of missing her faraway parents. “Papi adopted me, and I took his last name. Carlos is my father’s
older brother. When my parents moved to Spain ten years ago, I was eighteen and Carlos took over for Papi. He manages my career and a lot of other things for me. He’s a very successful accountant, so being my agent is kind of a labor of love. He’s a very honorable man and he treats me like his daughter,” she added to give her uncle his due.

“That explains a lot.”

“A lot of what?”

He steered the sports car through a hairpin curve, its engine growling in low gear as they climbed the narrow mountain road. “Why you’ve been so sheltered. Three protective stepbrothers. An uncle who’s standing in for your parents.”

She didn’t mention the most compelling reason for her family’s protectiveness. She wanted him to see her as whole and competent, not a fragile being who couldn’t be trusted to deal with the real world. “You know, it’s my own fault.”

“What is?”

“This situation. I just wanted to make art, so I let my uncle handle everything else.” Julia frowned as her lack of practical experience struck her. Her condition didn’t preclude her being involved with the business side of her career. She felt stupid and naive.

“Are you afraid of your uncle?”

Surprise made her glance at Paul. “You mean, physically afraid?”

He nodded, his face tight with concern.

“No. Absolutely not.” Her uncle’s weapons were more subtle but effective because she cared about him: a headshake of disappointment, a hurt smile, a gesture that said he only wanted to protect her. Just picturing him brought the lingering taste of failure back to her throat.

“That relieves my mind,” Paul said.

They rounded a shoulder of the mountain, and low-slanting sunlight splashed through the windshield, making her blink.

“Look left and you’ll get a great view of the river,” Paul said.

She shaded her eyes with her hand and let out a long “ah” of admiration. Ridges of mountains in varying shades of blue rolled away into the distance, their edges gilded by the low-lying sun. The river wound through the valley below, the water glowing like liquid gold. Her fingers itched for a brush and an array of paints. It would be a challenge to capture this moment of light, which changed even as she watched.

And it would make her uncle happy since it was a landscape, not a terrifying black horse on an abstract background.

She must have made an unhappy sound, because Paul took one hand off the wheel to give her shoulder a quick squeeze. “Does it remind you of home?”

“A little, but I was just thinking about how I would convey the scene on canvas, and how happy it would make Carlos to have me paint something pretty.”

“Don’t let him poison your pleasure in your work.”

She glanced sideways at him. The bone structure of his face seemed to stand out because his jaw was clenched in anger. “Would you let me paint you?” she asked, as her eyes followed the shadows and angles revealed by his emotion.

“What!” The car swerved almost imperceptibly.

“I wasn’t kidding when I said you would make a great subject.”

He laughed. “Would it tick off your uncle?”

“No, I’d have to paint you nude to do that.” She had become so comfortable with him, she forgot to avoid sexual innuendos.

“Now
that
I might agree to, depending on the setting.”

She flushed as a sizzle of nerves and excitement surged through her. “I know, walking out of the river, water streaming off you.” She was beginning to see it in her mind’s eye. “You could have a fish in your hand, as though you’d just caught it, and…”

“Not the setting I was hoping for.”

“It could be a really big fish.”

“I’m not much of a fisherman. I was thinking of an
indoor
setting.”

She sucked in air on a tiny gasp at his implication.

As she cast around for a sophisticated, woman-of-the-world sort of reply, he turned off the road between two stone posts and accelerated onto a paved but winding driveway, saying, “This is the kind of road the ’Vette is built for.”

When he took the first corner at a dangerous speed, Julia forgot about his flirting. Her throat tightened in panic, but the low sports car stuck to the road like Velcro. The next curve was gentler so their speed increased, and by the third one, she braced herself in the seat while she hoped he would floor it. “This is fun! Do you ever take your car to a racetrack?”

“Not anymore.” His voice was flat, and she wanted to ask why not, since he clearly enjoyed driving. But she could sense his withdrawal, and she didn’t want to push him any further away.

As they came out of the trees, a spectacular wood-and-stone house nestled into the hillside just to their right. He drew up to the front door and stopped the car.

“That’s a big house,” Julia said, feeling overawed.

“Wait till you see its owner.”

N
OW
I
UNDERSTAND
why people take helicopters to eat at the Aerie.” Julia picked up her wineglass and leaned back in her chair. “That was the most delicious food I’ve ever tasted.”

“You should take her to dinner there, so she can see the view,” Claire said to Paul.

His expression was unreadable in the dim candlelight, but his tone was light. “If she’s willing to hang around Sanctuary for another three months, I’d be happy to. It takes at least that long to get a reservation.” His eyes went to Tim. “Unless you’re a vet.”

Tim Arbuckle’s laugh rumbled up from his massive chest. He was a giant of a man, and Julia had been relieved when they sat down for dinner because it made him less overwhelming. “I’m pretty sure you have some connections, being a former mayor of the municipality and all.”

Julia envied the easy banter between the three friends. Except for her two years at art school, she’d never had a social circle. Most of her classmates headed for New York City or Paris after graduation, so she’d lost touch with them. Especially the ones who were uncomfortable with her condition. On top of that, professional jealousy often ruined friendships.

“Mrs. Bostic was singing Paul’s praises as the mayor today,” Julia said.

“They tried to talk him into running for the state legislature,” Tim said. “I offered to be his campaign manager, but he turned me down.”

“Your size would have scared the voters away,” Paul said.

“Why didn’t you run?” Julia asked.

He twirled his wineglass by its stem. “I guess I subscribe to the axiom that all politics are local, and I wanted to keep mine that way.”

Claire muttered something about “your brother” before she stood abruptly and picked up a couple of plates. Paul gave her a sharp look, and she gave it right back. As Tim pushed back his chair, Claire said, “No, no, everyone else relax. I’ll just clear enough to bring out dessert.”

Julia ignored her and got up. “I’d like to help. I want to get another look at the Salvador Dalí collage you have in the kitchen.” Picking up her plate and Paul’s, she followed her hostess out of the dining room and stopped in front of the collage. “I love his use of texture in this.”

Claire took the plates from Julia and stacked them on the counter. “Dalí was a master of mixed media.” Lifting a cardboard bakery box out of the restaurant’s cooler, she put it on the counter, pulling out a pair of scissors to cut the string around it.

Julia took a deep breath. “Thank you for looking at my paintings. I really needed a different perspective from someone who was, well, an outsider.”

Claire put down the scissors. “I’m honored you came to me.”

“I want to ask you one favor.” She tried to inject all of her need into her gaze. “Please promise you’ll always be honest with me.”

“But my opinion is just one person’s.”

Julia shook her head. “That doesn’t matter. I trust you.”

Claire went still. “It’s strange how life works out,” she said, before picking up the scissors to cut the last string around the
pastry box. “Back in New York, when your uncle took the wrappings off the first painting I ever saw of yours, I felt this instant sense of connection. It was as if you showed me a better way to look at the world.”

“That’s a pretty incredible compliment.”

Claire spread her hands on the stone countertop and stared down at them. “I’ve been where you are, not trusting my own judgment.” She looked up. “Tim is not my first husband. I was married to the man who owned the gallery your uncle brought your paintings into. My then husband and I disagreed about the merits of your work, and he made me feel as though I had completely lost my ability to appraise art.”

“Oh God, I’m so sorry my paintings caused a problem for you!”

Claire shook her head. “Milo was doing everything he could to destroy me. In fact, your painting was the first thing I fought my ex-husband for and won. That was when I started rebuilding myself.”

Julia had been listening with growing anger and incredulity. The idea that this dazzling woman had been torn down by a vindictive husband was horrifying. “I’ll make sure Milo never gets another of piece of my work to sell.”

“That’s wonderfully supportive of you, but Milo’s gallery went out of business a year ago. I even found it in my heart to be sad for him.” A secret little smile played over Claire’s mouth, and Julia knew she was thinking about Tim. “He’s an unhappy person, and my life has turned out quite well since we parted.”

Julia wasn’t so charitable. “I would have spray-painted ‘Serves you right’ across his gallery windows as soon as I heard the news.”

Paul was lounging in his chair, lulled into a satisfied stupor by food and wine, when Claire broke the candlelit silence. “Tim, why don’t you show Julia the rest of the house while Paul and I clean up?”

“Julia, are you game?” Tim asked, standing up. “Claire picked out all the art, so you should find it interesting.”

Paul watched the way Julia’s expression blazed with a combination of surprise and delight. She always looked thrilled when someone invited her to do something with them, as though she didn’t expect to be included. Claire referred to her as a recluse, yet he saw nothing shy or retiring about this vibrant woman. It seemed even less apt when you considered she had the gumption to drive a rust heap of a car several hundred miles to ask a total stranger to look at her paintings, especially when she thought they might be bad. There had to be some other reason for her seclusion, and he suspected it was her controlling uncle.