When Morning Comes (12 page)

Kara laced her fingers together. “Before we discovered my paintings were missing, Tristan said he might write about my art, that he had an interior design contact who wanted one-of-a-kind artwork for her clients.”

“Sounds reasonable.” Sabrina nodded. “The rich want original artwork. Many of them love to tell anyone who'll listen that they have the only one of this or that or it's a limited number, whether it's cars or homes, but especially artwork because art implies class and culture.”

Kara jerked around. “Do you mean he might really sell my paintings for thousands after giving me less than two thousand dollars?”

“Not if you don't let him.”

“I've struggled financially since my father's illness when I had to take over his care and bills,” Kara mused, coming to her feet. “I did without so he wouldn't have to worry about his medicine or doctor bills. I've taken crap from my mother because she's my mother and I promised Daddy that I'd take care of her. But I won't take crap from Tristan.”

Grinning, Sabrina stood. “You want me to go with you and hold your coat?”

“I got this.” Kara's hands clenched and unclenched. “My mother had no right to sell my paintings.”

“I could follow you, and help you bring them back,” Sabrina offered.

“No.” Kara's eyes narrowed. “Tristan took them. Tristan can bring them back.”

“Go, Kara,” Sabrina yelled. “I wish I could be there, but I want a full report tomorrow.”

“You got it. Good night, and thanks.”

“Good night.” Sabrina waved and started toward the back gate. Kara waited until Sabrina closed the gate, then she went inside the house. She didn't stop until she knocked on her mother's door.

She lifted her hand to knock again when there was no response, then let it come to her side. Usually, she knocked again to make sure her mother had heard her, to make sure that she was all right. But not this time. Perhaps, like Tristan, her mother needed to learn that Kara could only be pushed so far.

Grabbing her purse and Tristan's card, she went to the two-car garage and got into her Maxima. It started immediately. The car was used when she'd purchased it after graduating from college, but it was reliable, unlike many of the people she knew.

Passing Sabrina's house, Kara saw her on the porch with fists clenched and pumping upward. Kara smiled. Whatever else, it was good having a friend you could talk to, a friend who didn't judge, a friend who gave you a swift kick when necessary.

Five minutes later Kara hit I-35. Thirteen minutes later she exited the freeway onto MKL Boulevard. Luckily, she knew the area. Besides the Women's and the African-American Museum on the State Fairgrounds, it was also the home of the Automobile Building. Her father had taken her to the State Fair every year until she was in high school and went with friends.

Turning onto Grand Avenue, Kara checked the address again and slowed. The short street was lined with mansions built in the early 1900s. Many of them had been repaired to their original glory. Because the homes were located in the inner city, she noted that a few were in disrepair and for sale. The ones that had been renovated would probably sell into the millions if located elsewhere. Still, even here they came with hefty price tags.

She slowed on seeing a black truck she recognized as Tristan's. There was also a gleaming red Mercedes two-seat convertible behind the truck. Not giving herself time to become nervous, she parked on the street. The expensive sports car was probably Tristan's other car. Shutting off the motor, she went up the steps.

The house was magnificent, with white rattan furniture tucked on either side of the wide porch. Huge hanging baskets of purple petunias and begonias hung on either side of the white pillars. There was stained glass in the door. But she wasn't there to admire Tristan's house. She rang the doorbell.

The door opened. A stunning woman who appeared to be in her early fifties stood there. She had flawless light-brown skin, a pert nose, and inquisitive brown eyes that studied Kara as intently as she was studying her. Her auburn hair was cut in one of those careless, carefree styles that cost a fortune. Kara could only dream about such styles. Large diamond studs glittered in her ears, an even larger diamond stone surrounded by emeralds shone on her ring finger.

“Yes?”

The voice was cultured and coolly polite. The gaze direct. The black knit trimmed with gold braid unmistakably St. John. The poised woman made Kara a bit nervous. She had been so intent on getting her paintings back, she hadn't thought to change out of the oversized blouse and faded jeans she preferred to wear around the house.

“May I help you?”

Kara straightened her spine. Her paintings were all that mattered. “I'd like to see Tristan, please,” she finally managed before the woman could become tired of waiting for her to say something and close the door in Kara's face.

“And you would be?” the woman asked, her gaze going from Kara's dingy old tennis shoes to the hair she hadn't combed since Fred had dropped her off at home hours ago.

Knowing its tendency to curl and escape the ponytail she'd put it in that morning, Kara swiped her hand over one side of her head and then the other, well aware that it wouldn't do any good. Her curly hair had a mind of its own, but it couldn't be helped. “I didn't mean to interrupt, but he has some things that belong to me and I want them back.”

“Vera, did you get the door?”

Kara's head jerked in the direction of Tristan's voice. It had sounded as if it had come from upstairs.

“I did and there's a young woman here who says you have something that belongs to her,” the woman answered, not taking her gaze from Kara.

“Kara. I'll grab a shirt and be right down.”

Kara's gaze snapped back to the older woman. Tristan had a cougar. The thought angered Kara. She didn't want to examine the reason too closely. Once she had her paintings, she'd be on her way and she'd never have to see him again.

“Come in.” The woman opened the door and stepped aside.

Kara stepped into the wide foyer and folded her arms. As soon as she gave Tristan a piece of her mind and the check, she was leaving. If he didn't deliver her paintings, she'd hire a lawyer.

She heard the sound of feet hurrying down the stairs. She looked up to see Tristan, barefooted, buttoning his shirt as he came down the curved staircase. “Hi, Kara. Vera, why didn't you offer her a seat?”

“Because I'm not staying long,” Kara said, jerking her gaze away from his muscled chest. “I just want what's mine and you can get back to whatever.”

The woman lifted a regal, perfectly arched brow. “I don't know whether to strut or take offense.”

“Kara Simmons, my mother, Vera Landers-Fiore.”

 

Eight

Kara's mouth gaped. All she could do was stare at the elegantly beautiful woman. “She can't be. She's too young.”

“Definitely strutting time,” Vera said, patting her reddish-gold hair.

“Weren't you on your way to the African-American Museum for a meeting with Dr. Robertson?” Tristan asked.

Vera smiled, showing even white teeth and dimples. “This promises to be more interesting than talking about fund-raising projects.”

“Vera—”

“What do you have that belongs to her?” Vera asked, her curious gaze going from her son to Kara.

“My paintings,” Kara answered, finally finding her voice and her footing.

All playfulness left the other woman. “You're the artist?”

Kara didn't know how to respond. No one had ever called her an artist before.

“Yes,” Tristan answered for her.

“Here.” Kara pulled the check from the pocket of her jeans. “My mother had no right to set a price for them and you had no right to buy them for fifty dollars each.”

“Fifty dollars!” his mother yelled.

“Vera, if you leave now, I'll let you have first look at Kara's paintings—after me, of course,” Tristan told her.

“Then she'd better stay because I'm not selling my paintings to you,” Kara said, her hands on her hips.

Tristan stepped to her. “I can see how you might doubt my good intentions, but if I had wanted to cheat you I wouldn't have given you my home address and phone number.”

Kara wouldn't let herself believe the sincerity in his face or his logic. “You just wanted to use me. You had me fooled once, but no more.”

“I never wanted to use you.”

She glanced around, away from his compelling face. No man was fooling her again. “Where are they?”

“I'll take you to them, but they aren't leaving this house.” Turning smartly, he left the room.

“We'll just see about that.” Kara followed him down the wide hallway.

Opening the door, he stepped back. Kara brushed past him to see her paintings propped around the walls of the empty room, face out. She'd never seen so many of them displayed at the same time before. Her chest felt strange.

“You have incredible talent, Kara, but you have to believe in yourself,” Tristan said from behind her. “You have to take charge of your life.”

She jerked her head around to stare at him. He was referring to her standing up to her mother. Embarrassment and anger warred within her, at him, at herself. Anger won. “You don't know me.”

He stepped closer. “I want to, Kara.”

She could see it in his eyes, his face, hear it in his voice. She wanted to believe him. It scared her how much. She wouldn't be used again. “So you can steal my work?”

“Now just a min—”

Tristan held up his hand, abruptly cutting off his mother. For a brief moment Kara thought she saw hurt and disappointment in his eyes, then it was gone. He stared at her so long she wanted to tuck her head and say she was sorry. As difficult as it was she made herself not look away. She wasn't going to be taken advantage of again.

Stepping around Kara, he picked up the nearest painting. “What doesn't fit in your car, I'll put in my truck and follow you home.”

His mother passed Kara on her way to another painting. “I'll help.”

“Touch a painting at your own peril, Vera,” Tristan told his mother, then spoke to Kara. “Open your trunk so we can get started.”

“I'll get the front door,” his mother offered and rushed out of the room.

Kara pulled the keys from her pocket and followed Tristan outside. She didn't know why tears stung her eyes. She was the wronged person here. Or was she? Her self-righteous anger had fizzled and now she wasn't so sure about anything. It took her a couple of tries to fit the key in the trunk's lock. As soon as the lid lifted, Tristan placed the painting inside and immediately went back into the house.

Kara swallowed and pulled an old blanket from a corner to cover the paintings she kept for just such purposes. She stepped aside to see Tristan coming down the steps. He wanted her gone. She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I can get the rest.”

“I don't have time to argue. Mother had back surgery a month ago and is on restrictions.” He bent to place the painting in the back. “She's just stubborn enough to try and help.”

“Why didn't you say something?” Kara rushed back up the steps and into the room to see Tristan's mother reaching for a painting. “Stop!”

The woman straightened and turned. Where there had been mild curiosity in her eyes, there was now reproach. “You insulted my son.”

Tristan entered the room and took in the situation at once. “You watch Vera while I load the rest into my truck.”

“You don't have any shoes on,” Kara said.

He glanced down at his feet. “It won't take me long to put some on and I'll get you loaded and you can be on your way.”

Kara closed her eyes. He was giving her what she wanted, so why did she want to cry?

“Change your mind?” his mother asked as Tristan left the room.

“I—” How could she explain what she didn't understand? She wanted to believe Tristan, but she didn't trust her own judgment. Her mother's censure and lack of belief in Kara wasn't helping. She shook her head.

“Tristan, like his late father, will go the distance for you, but question his honor and integrity and he'll walk,” his mother told her.

“I didn't mean to. It's just…” Kara rubbed her temple.

“Just what? I deserve an answer after your unfounded accusation,” his mother said tersely. “He's honest and dependable. I'm not just saying that because I'm his mother. He goes out of his way to help others.”

Kara nodded. Liars and users didn't spend hours in a hospital room or readily give financial assistance without being forced. She hadn't been able to find a provider for Mr. Bowler's medicine by the time he was ready to go home, and Tristan picked it up from the hospital pharmacy at a cost of over three hundred dollars. “He helped his friend, a patient in the hospital. That's how we met.”

Tristan came back into the room wearing loafers. Kara imagined they were the easiest to get on. He wanted her out of his house and she couldn't blame him. She'd practically called him a thief when he'd been patient and thoughtful. She had let her fears and insecurities rule her. She was ashamed of the way she had behaved.

She placed her hand on his arm when he stooped to pick up a painting. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to insult you.”

He stared at her a long moment, then straightened. “You don't know me, but I'm hoping to change that. Besides.” He smiled at his watchful mother. “Artists are supposed to be temperamental. I grew up with one.”

Kara whirled to his mother. “You paint?”

“Pottery, but it was long ago,” she said. “Now, I'm an interior designer.”

“She took pity on her favorite son and did this place for me,” Tristan said, walking over to curve his arm gently around his mother's waist and kiss her on the cheek.