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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?
She opened her mouth to ask about it, but never got a break in the conversation. The older woman chattered as they strolled, commenting on the weather, the ballet she’d just seen, the latest scandal involving President Nixon.
Other than forgetting the current president, she seemed remarkably in charge of all her faculties. This job might just be easier than Vi had anticipated.
“Here’s my studio,” Daisy commented, as they reached a set of double doors at the end of the hallway. She threw open the doors to reveal a breathtaking view. There were windows from floor to ceiling along one wall, framed by the gray and purple of the Superstition Mountains in the distance. Below, a lush meadow meandered to a stand of cottonwood trees, with a few scrub oak sprinkled in. Mostly green, but with an occasional burnt orange leaf here and there. Gorgeous.
And the supplies. She’d never seen so many wonderful paints in one place, short of an art store. Her fingers itched to hold a brush, to try the pastels she’d experimented with years ago, given to her by a kind teacher. But no, the colors were all wrong. A bolder, more brilliant medium was needed. One that would bring out all the contrasts and textures.
“It’s wonderful,” she breathed.
“I knew you’d like it. You have artistic hands.”
The gnarled hands picked up hers, tracing the length of her fingers, pressing gently on her palm, as if assessing her strength.
“Mine were very much like this once.” The old lady sighed and dropped her hand. She turned away from Vi, but couldn’t hide the regret in her voice.
“Once?”
Daisy wandered toward the window, lost in thought. “Can’t hold a paintbrush.”
Back she came, her movements stiff, disjointed.
“Can’t dance, either. Knees won’t work right.”
To the window and back, faster and faster.
“Everyone knows. Hold a brush properly. First lesson.”
She moved to the workbench and grabbed a coffee can full of paintbrushes. “Can’t do it.” She stalked toward Vi. “Can’t do it, can’t do it, can’t do it, can’t do it,” she chanted, louder with each refrain. Crimson splotched her wrinkled cheeks. The rest of her face was deathly pale, almost gray.
Oh, God, she’s going to have a stroke.
“It’s okay,” Vi soothed. Her stomach knotted with helplessness. How was she supposed to handle this woman?
“Can’t do it, can’t do it. Can’t do it!” She was directly in front of Vi. Droplets of saliva showered her face. The old hands clawed at her.
“Can’t do it!” she shrieked. The woman turned and with surprising strength, hurled the can, brushes and all, at the window.
The glass shattered. Large jagged cracks radiated from the spot where the can had connected.
Vi panicked. What in the heck was she supposed to do?
Surely Ian had heard the commotion. Surely he’d fling open the doors and take care of this…this situation. She strained her ears, willing his heavy footsteps.
Nothing. No sound of the cavalry coming to her rescue.
Daisy, surprisingly nimble now, raced toward the window.
Vi made a split-second decision and sprinted after her. She caught the woman from behind in a big bear hug. Daisy thrashed and screamed, batting at Vi’s arms. Vi held on tightly, gasping for air. She wouldn’t let go. Wouldn’t let this sick woman throw herself through the glass.
The tiny figure twisted and wrenched in her arms. Every movement forced Vi’s arm upward. She could strangle the old woman if she didn’t let go. But Daisy could die if she did. It wasn’t much of a choice.
CHAPTER TWO
VI SPUN HER BODY to the left, taking Daisy with her. Enraged shrieks beat against her ears. Her arm inched higher, over the lady’s chin.
Then everything went red. Vi howled with outrage. The old woman was biting her.
Teeth ground down, never releasing. No dentures here.
The door flung open. Ian’s gaze swept over her and his mother.
“Help me!” Vi screamed. The jaws clenched harder. Pain shot up her arm, radiating along her shoulder. Flashes of light erupted behind her eyes. Heat rushed over her in waves, her knees threatened to buckle.
Ian strolled toward them.
Couldn’t the man see she was dying?
“Hurry,” she yelled.
Teeth. Pain.
“Shh,” he soothed. “You calm down, she’ll calm down.” His tone was conversational, as if they discussed the weather.
The vice on her arm eased a fraction.
“Good.” He continued to saunter toward them, his voice low.
Vi tried for a fair imitation of his Mr. Roger’s cheerful croon. Through clenched teeth, she sang, “She’s killing my freaking arm.”
“It’s not your freaking arm I’m worried about.”
“It worries me,” she barked.
The vise tightened again.
“Mom, dinner’s ready.” He held out his hand to the woman. “We don’t want it to get cold.”
Vi cautiously relaxed her grip on the woman.
The jaws unclenched.
Vi backed away, ever so slowly. She didn’t dare breathe until she was out of biting distance.
“Why isn’t this woman in the hospital?”
“Because hospitals won’t take her. This is a chronic problem, not acute. And this is her home. She belongs here.”
The tiny woman faced her. Sweat dripped down her cheek. Saliva pooled at the corner of her mouth. Her eyes had lost their sparkle, dulled by confusion.
