was going to be no further discussion of the software company, of Caroline, of anything.
“I need to talk with you.” Christian stepped forward and grabbed her arm to halt her.
Beth Ann looked at him, then down at the hand that closed around her elbow. “Maybe later,” she said shortly, and tugged at her arm. He released her, understanding that she didn’t have to talk to him if she didn’t want to. He wasn’t even related. His resentment began to close his throat. Part of being married meant getting to know your spouse’s family, and he felt unrealistically that Caroline, by her secrecy, had robbed him of that. Here was a family unit, perhaps more unconventional than any he had ever experienced, but he greatly disliked the fact that he was categorically placed outside the inner circle.
If he hadn’t felt so desperate, he would have laughed at the irony. His sister-in-law seemed reluctant to acknowledge his existence. Usually, Christian Elliott was begged to participate in the most exclusive of the exclusive, his family an integral spoke of the most prestigious circles in Southern California. Yet here he was, his feelings battered because some farmgirl artist person would barely look at him.
“How much later?” he asked, forcing his voice to be casual.
Beth Ann shrugged noncommittally. “I have to paint. I don’t often get the luxury of an undisturbed stretch of time. Glenn’s here until—” She looked at Glenn inquiringly.
“I’ve got to be in Fresno by noon tomorrow to meet with a client.”
“Glenn paints, too,” Beth Ann informed Christian.
“So when can we talk?”
Beth Ann glanced around. “I don’t know. How long are you here for?”
He’d planned to be on his way to the Napa Valley twenty minutes ago, the documents signed and ready for express shipping to his attorney.
“Indefinitely,” he answered.
“Indefinitely?” Her voice squeaked. He saw that he’d rattled her and wondered why. She backed away from him, her eyes just barely shuttering abject anxiety. She shook her head. “You know, I can’t really think about this now—”
With an abrupt turn she started to walk away. Christian followed her, giving a quick glance at Glenn who stood watchfully by, ready to insert himself if need be.
“Give me a time and place. I’ll be there,” he said insistently.
She was quiet and then stopped. Beth Ann looked back at Glenn who shrugged. She stared so hard at Christian’s shoulder he thought he might have dandruff. Then she heaved a big sigh. “Tonight. Los Amigos on Pacheco Boulevard. Seven o’clock,” she said wearily. “I’ll give you enough time for a dinner and coffee. Will you leave us alone then?”
“Los Amigos at seven,” Christian agreed and held up the coffee mug in his hand.
Beth Ann took it from him, peering into it. “You drank it,” she said in surprise.
“Los Amigos at seven,” Christian repeated, not understanding the feeling of hope welling through him. “I’ll be there.”
EVEN THOUGH her head was throbbing, Beth Ann worked for the rest of the morning. She took a small break for lunch and then went back to her attic for more. Really, what she spent most of her time doing was procrastinating. She straightened her files of reference photos. She organized the slides of her previous works. She studied them and looked around at the stuff she had been sporadically working on. Then she noticed the dust on the desk and decided to clean her work area.
As the light faded into dusk, she had not picked up her paintbrush at all. She swallowed her frustration, closing her eyes to the throbbing in her sinuses. Lack of sleep, she excused herself, not to mention the events of the morning. She had been up for the past several nights with Iris, making sure she wasn’t wandering around the kitchen trying to roast marsh-mallows on the gas stove. Between that and Bernie’s advanced mobility and ever increasing curiosity, Beth Ann’s watercolors, which at one time had been a refuge, had been reduced to another source of anxiety.
When Fred had called in March with the news that the Merced hotel was opening up its lobby to new artists, she had been less than enthusiastic because she had very little new work. Okay, she had no new work. But she’d promised Fred she would try, at least make a start back into the art world, as small as her local region was.
The only thing she’d managed to do was discover how good she was at avoiding painting. Between family crises and sporadically teaching weekend classes for the city’s parks and rec department, there didn’t seem to be time. Now, as she looked at the half-finished paintings that hung around her, a few damp only because she’d accidentally spilt water when she was cleaning, she knew she couldn’t blame Bernie or Iris or the lack of paints anymore. She turned on the light, realizing suddenly how dim it had gotten. A single tap on the door gave her an excuse to formally stop.
“Come in,” she called, trying to make her voice stronger, in case it was Iris.
“Done yet?” Glenn poked his handsome head in.
“Yeah. No light. My eyes are shot,” Beth Ann said guiltily, allowing the fatigue to creep back into her voice. She ran the water in the attached sink. Fred had run the plumbing up to the attic so she could do her work here. She pretended to wash out her brushes, and her water cans. “What time is it?”
Glenn glanced at her big clock that read eleven twenty-four.
“Battery died. I haven’t changed it yet,” she confessed.
“It’s just after six-thirty. You’ve got a date at seven.”
Beth Ann pulled a face. “I can’t even imagine what he wants. If I weren’t so tired, I’d have a talk about it with you.”
“Talk about it with me anyway.” Glenn sat down. “I’m dying to find out how things went. What did he say?”
“Where are Bernie and Iris?” Beth Ann asked.
“Bernie’s still zonked out and Iris is in her room looking at her pictures.”
Beth Ann nodded. That sometimes absorbed Iris for nearly an hour. “Any crises?”
Glenn shook his head. “Nope. Everyone seemed to be on their best behavior.” He looked at her piercingly. “So. That was Carrie’s husband?”
Beth Ann stared out the round picture window that overlooked the garden and the big oak, another improvement courtesy of Fred. She watched the horizon scatter brilliant reds and oranges from end-to-end. She studied the color of the sky, a perfect French ultramarine blue, and watched the lights of an airplane track across it.
“Yes,” she answered slowly. “That was Carrie’s husband. Did he stay long?”
Glenn shook his head. “Nope. As soon as you left, he left, too.” He gave her a sly smile. “Though he did ask what kind of flowers you were partial to.”
Beth Ann made a face. “You’re kidding.”
“Would I kid about flowers? I think he wants to get on your good side.”
Beth Ann was silent.
