The Road To Echo Point

“What exactly do you do?” she asked.

“Write. Kind of an action, mystery type thing.”

His shoulders tensed as he waited for the look. That surprised look. Sure enough, there it was. Then she eyed him up and down, before letting her gaze stop at his face.

The silence lengthened. He let it go on and on, until he couldn’t stand it anymore.

“I was an English Lit major. That was right after I quit dragging my knuckles and figured out those darn opposable thumbs.”

A flush crept up her neck. She opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off.

“Don’t bother denying it. You’re not the first to make that assumption.”

Her flush deepened, worked its way up her face. Amazing that her smooth, olive-toned skin could get that red. A few more twists in the breeze and he’d let her off the hook.

“Of course, those assumptions come in handy at times. Like when I helped out in Daisy’s dance studio. At first I was drafted against my will, but when I got a look at all those ballerinas in leotards, I learned a whole new appreciation for dance. The dumb jock thing was what kept me from being severely beaten on a daily basis. I learned to compensate.”

The expression on her face was priceless, well worth the soul-baring. Her mouth dropped open, her eyes widened. “Ballet? You?”

“You got it. I was pretty good, too. Better quarterback though, much to Dad’s relief.”

Vi let the rest of Ian’s disclosure wash over her without registering. It was the only way she could keep her sleep-deprived brain cells from overloading completely.

This guy was a real trip. He’d developed the ultimate line. Not just a hard body, he was a renaissance man—intelligent, gifted and cultured, all rolled into one package. The average woman would buy it hook, line and sinker.

“How about antiques, what do you think of those?” she quizzed.

“I can take ’em or leave ’em.” He grinned, an amused half smile that lit his eyes. “I don’t enjoy show tunes, either. Never patted another guy on the butt, on or off the football field. ‘Good game’ worked just as well.”

Okay, so he was an interesting paradox and liked women. But she had one ace up her sleeve, one that couldn’t be conned or forced. Chemistry.

Vi let her gaze roam, from the barrel chest to biceps nearly the size of her thigh. Sweat made a damp V on the front of his T-shirt, highlighting some impressive pecs. Slim hips, muscular thighs. Toned calves. Probably even muscular feet. But it didn’t matter. Not an ounce of chemistry.

None. Zip. Zilch. Nada.

Now a guy in a crisp, blindingly white dress shirt, Armani suit, cuff links, that might be another matter.

She crossed her arms and smiled. “I’m sure Daisy’d be very glad to hear that. I imagine she wants grandchildren—most mothers do.” It was good to be in control again. Another three weeks or less and she’d walk out of here the way she’d arrived, in control and knowing where she was headed.

“Nah, she never says. Wants me to be happy, that’s all. Demanding old broad, isn’t she?”

“Not unless you mind finger foods or stand down wind of her on a bad day.”

“Hey, that’s not fair. You ought to try getting her in a bathtub.”

“No thanks. Not in my job description.”

“No, I guess not. I didn’t think it would be in mine, either. But it’s the Alzheimer’s. If you’d known her before… Well, she was quite a woman.”

“I’m sure she was.” Vi placed her hand on his forearm, then let it drop to her side.

The Daisy who had danced, fallen in love, painted—all of it was slipping away and there was nothing Ian could do. It must tear him up. But not her problem. If she kept reminding herself of that, she’d be okay.

“I’ve got some books about it. Alzheimer’s. If you’re interested?”

She edged toward the door. “No thanks. No time,” she shot over her shoulder, making her escape. There was no way she’d admit to the exhaustive Web search she’d made. Or the compulsion she felt to learn what made Daisy tick. And she definitely would not admit to wanting to make Ian’s life a little easier.

IF THE WOMAN didn’t shut up, Vi was going to wrap her hands around her wrinkly little turkey neck and squeeze the living daylights out of her. It wasn’t fair. The lady’d had more adventures than one person had a right to. Sitting next to her, Vi felt like a mere imitation of a woman.

She shifted in her chair, then flicked her watch to make sure it hadn’t stopped. Ian had only been gone twenty minutes.

“…and that’s when I said, ‘Joe, you just put that thing back in your pants right now.’” Daisy cackled with ribald glee, a far cry from her usual tinkling laughter.

According to Daisy, she’d been quite the belle of the ball around these parts. Every man within miles was smitten.

“Uh, Joe…he’s Sheriff Moreno’s father, isn’t he? I met the sheriff yesterday when he came by to check up on me.”

“Yes, he’s Vince’s father. And my, but Joe was a fine-looking man in his younger years. All that dark wavy hair and passionate Latin eyes. Now he’s a man who knows how to please a woman.”

Vi groaned. She’d never be able to look Sheriff Moreno in the eye again without imagining Daisy and his father together, horizontal.

“How’d Ian’s dad feel about your admirers?”

Daisy’s eyes lost their sparkle. She clasped her expressive hands in her lap and allowed the corners of her mouth to quiver, just for a second.

Her voice was husky now, the elegant widow was back. “Oh, no, dear. I didn’t move here until after Edward died. The first year at home was hard. Keeping Ian out of trouble, getting over it all. Well, a year and a day later, I decided I’d had enough of cold winters and an even colder bed. Figured Arizona was a brand-new start. For me. For Ian.”

Vi fought to stay detached, removed from the woman’s grief, old but still raw. But she couldn’t. It grabbed her and wouldn’t let go.

“Did you think you’d die if you stayed a minute longer?” she murmured.

The old woman’s eyes narrowed, searching her face. She grasped Vi’s hand and gave it a hard squeeze.

“Yes. Who did you lose, dear?”

The kindness in Daisy’s voice was almost her undoing. The loss was as sharp as the day Patrick had died in a car accident.

She swallowed the lump in her throat. “My brother.”

“How long?”

“Twelve years.”

Twelve years. Could it really have been that long? Patrick with the wide, giving smile. The strength that had sheltered her, protected her from the worst of it. The back that had taken many of her beatings.

“Painting. That’s when I took up painting. Ever try it?” Daisy chirped.

“Not really. Just pastels.”