A Path Less Traveled (22 page)

He stood off to
one side, hands on his hips, his eyes and forehead wrinkled.

Her mouth went
dry, a sour taste on her tongue. “Clearing out the store.”

His face paled.
“Why?”

“It doesn’t make
sense to pay a lease when I can run the business from home.” She stepped around
him and hurried back inside the store.

He followed, his
steps echoing on the wooden floors. “But the store front and sign let people
know you’re in business.”

“Pretty expensive
advertising, if you ask me.” She hoisted another box with a grunt.

He grabbed one
also and tagged along behind her. “Whose car?”

“Mine. I traded
the Suburban for it.”

Andy slid his box
in the backseat and turned to face her, his lips taut. “Is there something—”

“I’m fine.”

His eyes
narrowed. “You sure?” His tone and expression held doubt.

“I’m fine.” Trish
rushed inside to get one more box for the front seat. The sooner she filled the
car, the sooner she could leave. It was pretty obvious this move would take
more than one trip, especially with a cracker box for a car.

Andy blocked her
way. “Say ‘you’re fine’ one more time and I won’t believe you.”

She peered into
his green eyes. “I’m . . .”

“. . . fine.
Yeah, you said that already.” He frowned. “Do I owe you money?”

Trish forced a
smile. “No. For the number of hours I’ve put in, I’ve been sufficiently paid.
Once the building is in the dry, I’ll have more work to do.”

“Have any other
jobs besides mine?”

She heaved a
sigh. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no.” Trish balanced the box
between her body and the building, locked the door, and moved to the car, Andy
on her heels. “I’m really not trying to cut you off, Andy, but I’ve got to get
this load home and come back for the rest.” Before she owed Otis another
month’s rent.

He hustled around
her and opened the car door. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

“I’m fine.”

Andy lips curved
upward, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

He stared as she
pulled away from the curb, his expression full of concern.

The dashboard
clock read 4:45. She’d told Dad she’d be home by 5:00, and she should still
have time to make it. After supper, she’d borrow one of the ranch trucks and
bring Bo back to town with her to get the rest of the stuff. Then she’d call
Otis.

A mile out of
Miller’s Creek, a grinding noise sounded from beneath the front part of the
car. She pressed the accelerator, but the car only moved slower. Trish steered
to the side of the road. The engine continued to run, but the car wouldn’t
budge.

This wasn’t good.
She dropped her head back against the seat, her brain racing. The thought of
having the car checked by a mechanic had crossed her mind, but she’d been
running late and the salesman had seemed so reputable. Now here she was, in the
same old position, needing to be rescued.

There was no way
she could call Andy, even though part of her yearned to hear the comfort in his
voice. He’d already done more than enough. Besides she didn’t want to see the
I-told-you-so look in his eyes. That left Dad or Steve. With a heavy weight on
her chest, she grabbed her cell phone.

Dad answered on
the second ring. “Hello?” Laughter rang in the background. What was going on?

“Dad, my car
broke down.”

“Where?” His
voice took on instant seriousness.

“I’m about a mile
outside the city limits on my way to the ranch.”

“We’ll be there
soon.”

True to his word,
her father and brother pulled up a few minutes later.

“Whose car is
this?” Steve gave her a hard stare as he slammed the pickup door, his eyes
disappearing behind his scowl.

She raised her
chin. “Mine.”

“Since when?”

“Since this
afternoon when I traded the Suburban.”

“You traded your
SUV for this?” Dad spoke with an incredulous tone, his bushy gray eyebrows
inching upward.

“Relax, Dad. I
checked the Blue Book values. I got enough cash to pay off the Suburban and
have some left over.”

Steve started the
car and put it in gear. Nothing. “Transmission’s gone.”

“Tr-transmission?”
Trish hated the quake in her voice. “How much does that cost?”

“A couple of
thousand.” Steve’s mouth flat-lined. “If you’re lucky.”

Dad stalked off
toward the pickup, the fury on his face like a thunderous black cloud.

So much for the
extra cash. What she wouldn’t give for a hole to crawl into. “At least it gets
good gas mileage.” The explanation sounded weak and puny to her ears.

“Yeah, especially
now.” Steve deadpanned the line, but none of them laughed.

Later that night,
after paying to have her car towed to Billy Ray’s Auto Shop, and after she and
Bo made the trip to Miller’s Creek in the ranch pickup, Trish stood in the
cottage and ogled her artwork with a critical eye. If only she could make a
living with her paintings like Andy had mentioned.

Was he just
offering encouragement when he’d said she should sell her art, or was it a
viable option? She chewed her bottom lip and tumbled the idea in her brain. The
monthly Morganville Trade Days were next weekend. Should she take the chance of
renting a booth space?

Her imagination
took over as she considered the possibility. Well, it wouldn’t hurt to try. All
of the paintings could go except the one Andy liked best. That would be her
farewell gift for all he’d done to help her and Bo.

* *
* * *

Andy rolled out
of bed on Saturday, still fatigued. He yawned and raked a hand over his
whiskers. The past few weeks had been crazy. Besides keeping up with his law
practice and t-ball team, he’d monitored the new building’s progress and his
father’s decline. Sleep and relaxation had become a precious commodity.

He moved to the
bathroom sink and removed his shaving supplies from the medicine cabinet. The
mirror revealed sagging pouches of skin beneath his eyes. More evidence that
time was passing.

Even with his
father’s medical problems, the main thing tormenting him now was Trish’s
situation. He’d spied her from a distance at church last Sunday, but by the
time he’d made it out the door, she and Bo were pulling away in an old pick-up.
What had happened to her car? He lathered his face with shaving cream while the
sink filled with water.

Yesterday he’d
learned from the scuttlebutt at Granny’s Kitchen that Trish had been hired to
help the summer custodial staff at school, and Dani mentioned that she also
planned to sell her artwork today at the Morganville Trade Days. If the tide
didn’t turn for her, and quick, she’d be gone before summer was up. The thought
flooded his body with panic.
Lord, help me know how to help her. And help me
know when to let go, if that’s Your plan.

An image of the
stacked paintings in her cottage popped into his mind. He needed to find a way
to buy her art today without her knowing it. And he knew exactly which painting
he wanted.

Half an hour
later, shaved and showered, he downed a banana and glass of milk and headed
downstairs. Just as he reached the bottom step, his cell phone rang.

“Mr. Tyler, this
is New Horizons Nursing Home. We wanted to make you aware of a problem.” The
woman’s voice held a gentle Southern drawl.

He stopped in the
foyer of City Hall and ran a hand down his neck. “What kind of problem?”

“Your father had
a seizure, and we’ve transferred him to the hospital.”

His heart pounded
against his ribs. “I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

Half an hour
later he arrived at Morganville General, parked his car, and hurried inside,
the smell of disinfectant burning his nostrils. Within a few minutes, he
located his father’s room. A doctor and nurse stood at the foot of the bed
perusing charts and conversing.

“I’m Andy Tyler,
his son.” He looked toward the frail man who once intimidated him. “How is he?”

“I’m Dr. Green.”
The older man with salt and pepper hair shook his hand, concern in his face and
voice. “We gave him some medication to stop the seizures, but I’m glad you’re
here. I need to ask a question.”

“Okay.”

“Does your father
consume large amounts of alcohol?”

“He used to, so I
assume he still has a problem.” There’d been days when he’d come home from
school to find the house littered with empty beer cans. “Why?”

“Because it
explains both the dementia and seizures.” He no longer made eye contact, his
lips pressed into a taut line of disapproval. “I’d like permission to try an
experimental drug to see if it controls the seizures a little better. Of
course, the nature of an experimental drug is that it is in the early testing
stage.  We’ll need your written permission.” He never looked at him directly,
but instead stared at his clipboard.

“Of course.” Andy
battled ancient feelings. Was yet another person shunning him because of his
father’s problem? Like he was somehow responsible.

The doctor
clicked his pen and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. “We’ll get the paperwork
rounded up for you to sign.” He pivoted and hustled from the room with not so
much as a “goodbye” or “nice to meet you.” The nurse plumped Dad’s pillow, sent
him a “poor you” smile, then left.

Andy released a
sigh and checked his watch. As badly as he wanted to get to Trish, Dad was his
responsibility. He wandered down the hall to a chair in the waiting room,
picked up a magazine, and tried to distract himself with an article about
plants that thrived in hot Texas summers. Fifteen minutes passed. He tossed the
unread magazine aside and approached the nurse’s station.

A woman in scrubs
stared at her computer screen, never glancing his way. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, I’m
supposed to sign some papers for Dr. Green concerning my father’s medication.
I’ve been here a while—”

“We’re working on
it.” She glanced up, impatience flashing in her eyes. “Our computers are having
issues. If you’ll have a seat, I’ll call you as soon as I have them ready.”

He nodded. “I’ll
be in my father’s room.”

Back at Dad’s
bedside, he plopped down in the chair next to beeping machines and stared at
the grizzled profile of the man who’d once struck terror in his heart. The man
he’d loved desperately—the man who’d never shown love in return. Trying to
figure out why was pointless. The best thing to do was accept it for what it was
and move on.

A scene from his
childhood flashed to his mind. His father had towered over him, his breath
thick with booze. “It’s all your fault that your mother left!” Andy blinked
back the sting in his eyes. For years he’d believed it, and part of him still
wondered if—

“Here you go, Mr.
Tyler.” The nurse entered the room with a clipboard and pen and held it out to
Andy. “Thanks for being so patient.”

He signed his
name and handed it back. “I’ll be back later today to check on him.”

It wasn’t
difficult to locate Morganville Trade Days. All he had to do was follow the
flow of traffic. Downtown swarmed with people. After several minutes of driving
around, he found a parking spot, and joined the hustle and bustle. Historic
buildings housed businesses and encircled a turn-of-the century courthouse. The
pecan trees surrounding the square were so thick that grass struggled to grow
in the shade.

Andy tried to
keep a safe distance from both sides of the street. It wouldn’t do for Trish to
see him. He finally spotted her on the far side of the square, and his heart
melted. She stood near the entrance of her booth in a flowered dress that
billowed around her knees. Several minutes passed. Her attempts to befriend
people who passed appeared futile. No one entered her booth. Only a few
accepted the business cards she offered.

He ducked behind
a pecan tree to think through his options. He needed an accomplice. An elderly
man parked on a nearby bench, the woman with him unloading her packages. “I
know you’re bored to tears, Henry. Why don’t you sit here while I shop?”

The man nodded in
relief.

As the woman
bustled away, Andy approached. “Excuse me, sir, my name is Andy Tyler. Could I
get you to do me a favor?”

The man didn’t
respond, but just looked skeptical.

“I want to purchase
a painting from an artist here, but I don’t want her to know I’m the one buying
it.” Andy pointed toward the stall where Trish’s artwork hung on display.
“She’s right over there.”

“Why don’t you
want her to know?” The old man’s tone held wariness.

Andy propped one
hand against a pecan tree’s rough bark. “Well, it’s a long story, but the short
version is that she’d think I was doing it just to help her out.”

“Is that why
you’re buying it?”

“Yes and no. I
want to help her, but I also really love her artwork.”

“You in love with
her?” The man cocked his bushy eyebrows in a way that made Andy laugh.

Good question.
“Let’s just say I care about her.”

“Same thing, if
you ask me,” muttered the old man, “but in that case, I’ll do it.”

Andy grinned and
reached for his wallet. “The painting I want is large and shows a cowboy hat on
a fence post with a rocky path and bluebonnets.” He withdrew the bills and
handed them to the man, who reached for his own wallet. “I want her to have all
this money.”

The man’s bushy brows
rose again as he counted the money. “You must love her a lot.” He tottered off
toward Trish’s booth.

Andy hustled to
the safe side of a pecan tree to watch. The man located the painting and
pointed it out to Trish, but she shook her head no. Andy frowned. Why wouldn’t
she sell it? The man stuffed the bills back in the wallet, shook her hand, and
hurried back across the street.