The Road To Echo Point

The Ian guy stood in the doorway, his massive arms folded over his chest.

Vi took in his scruffy, stubbled jaw. She raised an eyebrow at his just-rolled-out-of-bed hair—short, dark-blond spikes here, mashed flat to his head there. And to think she’d envied guys with their wash-and-go cropped hair. Apparently, the “wash” part was critical to the whole ’do. He looked like a shower and a dab of shampoo might work wonders.

The view improved once her gaze got past the stubbled jaw. His Phoenix Coyotes hockey jersey, though badly wrinkled, outlined a very nice set of pecs, then hinted at a muscled stomach before neatly disappearing in to his jeans. No doubt about it, he was devoted to his hometown teams. The teal and purple presumably brought out the green in his eyes, but today they were just too bloodshot.

It had to be one hell of a hangover, judging from the way his hand shook where he gripped the wrought iron door handle.

Wariness twisted her stomach. This was more than she’d bargained for. Vi let her suitcase down with a thunk. The laptop case remained firmly on her shoulder.

She stuck out a hand. His grip was strong, but with a tremor she could have named in seconds.

“Too much partying?” It was more of an observation than a question.

Ian scowled in response. His shoulders straightened. He had to be six-three or six-four. No wonder he’d scared the hell out of her.

“Look, lady, I don’t know where you think you’ve landed, but there isn’t too much to celebrate around here.”

Vi shot him a glare. “I know a hangover when I see one.”

“You do, huh? How about sleep deprivation, you familiar with that?”

She raised her chin a fraction. “I’ve read a bit. And my secretary has a colicky baby. She says that’s why she’s always late.”

He looked her up and down, his gaze attacking her neatly pressed khakis, polished loafers, cotton sweater set. He shook his head. “No, you’ve never missed a moment’s sleep. Your poor secretary.”

The laptop strap bit into her shoulder. His words bit into her pride. She was a good boss, dammit. She’d come up the hard way—won a scholarship for inner city teens. She knew what it was like to struggle, to fight.

Vi took a deep breath and reminded herself that getting along with the guy might mean all the difference. “Look, we got off to a bad start. Why don’t we try again? You could begin by inviting me in.”

He grunted in reply, shoving away from the wall. He turned without a word, leaving her to follow like a helpless child.

She grabbed her tweed suitcase and trotted behind him. And she never trotted behind anyone. One or two steps ahead at the very least.

“I’d like to get unpacked right away. Get my computer set up….” Her mind was off and running, calculating how she would keep her finger on the pulse of the office, while stuck out here in the boonies. She shuddered to think that Echo Point was the closest outpost of civilization. It was a good twelve miles away.

“Yeah, we better get moving. The witching hour is almost here,” he muttered.

She barely heard him. “What was that…witching hour?” she mumbled, still mulling over office politics.

VI JUMPED at the sound of an insistent knock at her door.

She shoved her socks and underwear into the top drawer of the distressed pine dresser and slammed it shut.

“Vi?” came the deep voice.

“Just a minute,” she called, stowing her luggage under the bed. As she stood, she adjusted the pile of pillows, smoothed the lovely chenille bedspread. Unbleached cotton, maybe even organic. It felt heavenly, soft, under her fingers. It’d taken years to educate herself about the finer things in life. And soon, she’d be able to afford them. Even with the big chunk of her paycheck she sent to L.A. each month.

Another knock. This time louder. Desperate almost.

Hurrying to the door, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She pasted on a confident smile.

“Ready…lead the way,” she said as she opened the door. She was talking to a hulking back moving down the hallway. Vi jogged to catch up with him.

The Mexican tile blurred beneath her feet—the stark white walls glowing in contrast. Migraine-inducing bright. But at least it lightened up all the colonial Mexican stuff.

Just when she thought she might go blind from the glare, the hallway opened into a great room. Large, low-ceilinged, with a big screen TV in the corner. Spare, to the point of being scary. No homey pile of magazines. Just a remote and a TV magazine—

Vi frowned. Was the remote actually chained to the coffee table?

It was.

“Mom, this is Vi.”

Ian nudged her forward until they reached a leather sofa. The high gloss and buttery tones promised soft calfskin. A colorful Indian blanket was draped across the back, right behind an old woman. Slender arms, soft, silvery-gold hair worn in a chin-length bob and cornflower blue eyes that sparkled.

“Vi, this is my mother, Daisy.”

“Hello.” She extended her hand.

The woman grasped Vi’s hand in her own. Pat-pat went the ringed fingers. Her hands were cool, her scent divine. There was a grace to her movements, a regal quality in her posture. This woman hadn’t slouched a day in her life.

“I’m Daisy. Welcome.”

The woman stood, and her petite frame surprised Vi—her head didn’t reach much higher than Vi’s shoulder. Without warning, the tiny thing enfolded her in a hug.

Vi stiffened. Glancing over the golden head to the giant, she pleaded with her eyes.

Save me.

There would be no rescue from that corner. The exhaustion had cleared from Ian’s face and his eyes were alight with affection.

She awkwardly patted the woman’s straight back, then disengaged herself.

“Mom, Vi’s going to join us for dinner.”

“Who’s Vi?” she asked, a frown pulling at her brow.

“I’m Vi.”

“Oh, yes, yes of course, dear. But who’s joining us for dinner?”

Vi turned helplessly to Ian. This threatened to become a bad game of “Who’s on First?” She’d had only a brief opportunity to research Alzheimer’s and didn’t quite know what to expect.

“Mom, why don’t you show our guest your paintings while I get dinner.”

“What a lovely idea, dear.” The old woman took Vi’s arm and gently led her through an arch and down a long corridor.

Vi couldn’t help but notice the strange wallpapering technique they’d employed. There was some sort of border on the wall, about elbow height. It looked like metallic tape. Reflective tape?