Take Me Home (8 page)

“I
knew
it!”

“Not what you think. He was trying to soften me up to get the painting.”

“Uh-huh,” Holly said in the tone of voice that meant she thought the opposite.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going.”

“He doesn’t seem to know that.”

Claire blew out a sigh. “Yeah, I need to tell him.”

Holly leveled a look at her sister. “You’re going to cancel because of me, aren’t you?”

“I didn’t want to go anyway. He surprised me, and I couldn’t come up with a good excuse to say no.”

Her sister fiddled with the hem of her floral shirt. “I don’t want to stop you from going, but there are things about Dr. Tim you should know.”

“You mean about his wife?”

Holly’s gaze jerked upward. “You’ve already heard that she killed herself?”

Claire nodded.

“And you still want to go out with him?”

Anger tightened the muscles of Claire’s jaw. “Yes.”

“I think you should be real careful. You don’t know what drove her to it.”

“No, and neither do you.”

Holly sighed. “Don’t get all huffy. I’m just concerned.”

Now Claire felt like a heel. “I know, but it seems wrong to pass judgment on someone without knowing all the facts.”

“Do you like him?”

Like
wasn’t the right word. She was strongly aware of him. “Yes, and he cares a lot about Willow.”

“Well, Lord knows I’m not the best judge of men,” Holly said with another sigh. “Anyway, please don’t cancel your dinner. I’d feel horrible knowing you’d missed out on it because of me.”

“It’s no big—”

“Go! The girls and I will watch Disney movies. It’s our favorite Friday-night date.”

Although she knew that was true, Claire was still torn when an idea struck her. “Will you and the girls help me pick out what to wear?”

T
HE NEXT DAY
, Claire stood in front of the Castillo painting, letting the color and light and movement flood through her and wash away the ugliness of the last couple of days.

“Earth to Claire?”

She jumped and turned at the same time. “Paul! You scared the heck out of me.”

“I called from the front gallery, but obviously you were farther away than just this room.” He stood in the doorway of the secure room, a seersucker jacket hooked on his finger and slung over one shoulder. “What has you so fascinated?”

He strolled up to stand beside her, his lanky frame so similar and yet so different from the teenaged boy she remembered.

“This painting by Julia Castillo. Are you familiar with her work?”

He shook his head as he examined the painting. “It’s nice. Very scenic. Could I afford it?”

“It’s not for sale,” she said, disappointed by his lukewarm appreciation of her treasure. “It belongs to me. Davis says it adds cachet to have it in his gallery. And frankly, it’s gotten so valuable that I don’t want to keep it in my house. There’s a state-of-the-art alarm system here.”

“So I couldn’t afford it.”

“I’d have to see your Form 1040 before I could answer that.”

He grinned. “My accountant tells me I can afford lunch at Food and Folks. Join me?”

“I have an appointment in forty-five minutes,” she said, glancing at her watch, “but that should give us enough time for a sandwich.”

“If that’s all you’ve got, we’ll make it work,” he said.

As they walked the four blocks to the restaurant, Claire felt a smile curve her lips as virtually everyone they passed said hello to her companion.

He deftly avoided being buttonholed by two older men, but made a little boy giggle by producing a quarter from behind the child’s ear. She remembered that Paul had always been good at sleight of hand, hiring himself out as a magician at kids’ parties to earn some extra cash. Some things hadn’t changed.

The café’s hostess knew Paul too and escorted them to a quiet corner table covered with a red-and-white-checked tablecloth.

“I think you should run for mayor,” Claire said after they had placed their orders.

“Been there, done that.”

“Seriously?”

“Two terms. It was good for business, but bad for my social life. Too many committee meetings at night.” Paul was twirling a spoon through his fingers at lightning speed. “I know you weren’t a big fan of Mayor Wickline, so you’ll be happy to know I defeated him when he was running for his fifth consecutive term.”

“Mayor Wickline,” Claire said slowly. “I’d forgotten he became mayor.”

The name sent her back to the high school classroom, where she watched the only person who understood her love for art packing up his belongings. As Mr. Van Zandt taped his last box closed, her art teacher had looked up at her and said, “This place
destroys people like you and me. If you want to survive, get out of Sanctuary.”

It took years before she found out why he had left so suddenly; George Wickline had been the cause.

“Claire? Do you want another glass of iced tea?”

“Oh, sorry!” She shook her head apologetically at the hovering waitress. “I got caught in a time warp for a minute there.”

“My fault.” Paul’s smile was rueful. “I shouldn’t have brought up such an unpleasant memory at our reunion lunch.”

“Don’t apologize. Sometimes it’s useful to be reminded of harsh reality.”

“Not today, though,” Paul said. “This meal is about happy times.”

Shaking off her dark mood, she pointed the conversation back to him. “I didn’t see any family photos in your office. Why hasn’t some smart woman snapped you up?”

The spoon ceased spinning. “I guess the women around here aren’t that smart.”

She was taken aback by the irritation in his voice. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be so personal.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” he said, but he looked away. “What about you? No smart men?”

“I was married briefly,” she said, “and divorced at length.”

“You should have hired me as your lawyer.”

“Tell me about it! How does it look for Holly?”

“I can’t really talk to you about it. Attorney-client confidentiality,” he said with a regretful gesture. “However, I’m going to make it as painless as possible.”

“For Holly. Make it agonizing for Frank.”

He laughed, and the discussion turned to former high school classmates; Paul kept track of virtually everyone. Not all the histories were happy ones.

“Okay, I think you should run for
president
,” she said. “The way you keep everyone’s life stories straight is truly impressive. You’d be a natural campaigner.”

“Actually, I’ve been approached about running for the state senate.” The spoon was in motion again.

“Go for it. You’d be the best senator the state’s ever had.”

“I’d take that as a compliment if I didn’t know so many senators personally.”

Claire chuckled. “It’s so great to see you again.”

“Same here. I should have come to the gallery sooner.”

“Why didn’t you?”

The spoon went still. “The same reason you didn’t come to my office.”

Claire considered why she hadn’t looked him up. “You mean because you were afraid we’d say hello and a long awkward pause would follow?”

“Yeah,” Paul said with a half smile. “And because I was afraid New York would have changed you deep down, but you sure seem like the same Claire I knew way back when.”

She traced a path around the checks of the tablecloth with her fingertip. There were aspects of her younger self she wanted back, and some she couldn’t seem to shed.

“Claire?” Paul was slouching down in his chair in an effort to see her expression.

“I was wondering if I really am the same Claire,” she said, looking up. “There’s been an awful lot of water under various bridges in my life.”

“You are.” Paul’s pale-silver eyes were locked on her. “You’ve got a lot of big-city polish with the sleeked-back ponytail and the mile-high heels—which I like a lot, by the way. But I see my old friend behind it all.”

“If you say so.” Claire caught sight of the time on Paul’s big wristwatch. “Oh Lord, I have to get back to the gallery. I have a
couple coming in to look at the Len Boggs exhibition. They flew in to have lunch at the Aerie first.”

“They could buy three Boggs paintings with what lunch will cost them,” Paul said, taking the check out of the air before the waitress could lay it on the table.

“You’ve still got the quickest hands in the East,” Claire said as he waved away her offer of a twenty-dollar bill. “Do you ever play foosball anymore?”

“Only when I’ve had too much to drink. You?”

“Not since college.”

“I challenge you to a match,” he said, holding the door for her, “at the Sportsman Saturday night. Loser buys.”

She hesitated. She still felt guilty about her Friday dinner date with Tim, but a late-night foosball game on Saturday wouldn’t have the same freight, since Holly always crashed in bed by nine o’clock.

Glancing at Paul, she found anticipation blazing in his light eyes. She remembered that look, and suddenly, she wanted to feel the rubber grip of a foosball handle against her palm and the slide of cold beer down her throat. She grinned up at him. “Make it after nine, and you’re on.”

“Just like the old days.”

“Except this time, I’m going to pound you into the bar floor.”

Claire’s fly-in clients surprised her by buying an abstract sculpture instead of a Boggs landscape. The commission wasn’t as large, but she was delighted for the artist, a taciturn local farrier she sometimes saw shoeing horses at Healing Springs Stables. That reminded her of Willow, and she checked the clock. If she closed up a little early, she could make a quick visit to her whisper horse.

Thirty minutes later, she slipped into Willow’s stall, having changed only the sky-high heels Paul had commented on. The mare whinnied and abandoned the hay net she had been picking at, gently butting her head against Claire’s chest and then rubbing it up and down.

“Hey, I’m glad to see you too, but this blouse is a Diane von Fürstenberg. Just because I got it on sale doesn’t mean you can use it as a face rag,” she said, laughing as she grabbed Willow’s halter to hold her still. She dropped a kiss on the white star on the mare’s forehead. “You’ve got more energy now, don’t you, girl? And your ribs aren’t quite as easy to count. Maybe Sharon’s right. Maybe you will be a beauty.”

Willow stamped a hoof, sending the earthy fragrance of the thick straw bedding swirling around the stall. “Mmm,” Claire said, closing her eyes and pulling in a deep breath. “Warm, clean horse. Straw just out of the bale. Fresh-cut hay. It smells like home.”

Her eyes flew open. No, that wasn’t right. Sanctuary was
not
home; it was the place she had left behind for all kinds of good reasons. For the first time since she’d returned here, she was feeling the pull of her roots. This was Paul’s doing; he had sucked her back into the past where she didn’t want to be.

“Forward, I need to look forward,” she said, combing her fingers through Willow’s stubby mane. Which reminded her of her upcoming date with Tim. “I’m going to eat at the Aerie. It makes me feel guilty that I’m excited.”

She lowered her voice to a murmur. “Truth is, I’m kind of excited about seeing Dr. Tim too. He’s...well, intriguing.” She thought of the strength that sent her hurtling onto Salty’s back and the way his hand wrapped around her knee as he checked the girth. Her body set up a happy little hum at the thought that he might touch her again.

“It’s just a little harmless flirting. He wants my painting; I get to have a gourmet meal with a nice guy.”

Willow snorted.

“You don’t think it’s harmless?” Claire stroked the mare’s nose. “You might have a point. My track record with men is not impressive. But this relationship has an ending date already. I’ll be leaving Sanctuary, and Tim will be staying.”

Willow shook her head, her ears flapping.

Claire knew the horse couldn’t possibly understand her, but guilt still knotted in her chest. “You have lots of good people to take care of you besides me,” she said, wrapping her arms around Willow’s neck. “You don’t really need me.”

The truth of that twisted a strand of regret in with the guilt, and she turned her face into the horse’s warm, solid neck, trying to erase the sense that she had failed yet another being she cared about.