When Morning Comes (9 page)

“I know, honey, but we'll wait if Dr. Mathis thinks it's better for both of you,” Mr. Ward said, kissing his wife's hands and looking up at Dr. Mathis. “He's been right so far.”

If Cade was surprised by her husband's quick agreement, he didn't show it. Sabrina certainly was. Something had happened between them and she wanted to know what it was.

“Good-bye,” Cade said, and strode from the room.

Sabrina followed him out. “I have questions.”

“Somehow I'm not surprised, but I have patients to see.”

“Then why don't you call me and we can have lunch or dinner as the case might be at my place,” she said. The invitation just slipped out, but it made perfect sense. She wanted to be with him, wanted them to get to know each other better. She couldn't cook anything except breakfast food and seldom did that. Maybe she could grill.

“What if I have plans?”

“Do you?” she asked boldly. It was a good thing she fought for what she wanted.

“Good-bye, Ms. Thomas.”

She folded her arms and stared up at him. “If I wait for you to call and I don't eat until later tonight, I'll probably be a bit out of sorts Monday, maybe Tuesday as well.”

“Ms. Thomas, you're skating on thin ice.”

“I don't plan on falling through,” she said, and couldn't help the grin that sprang to her face. She found she liked teasing Cade, even liked the way he clipped out her name so formally. “The second you call I'll throw the steaks on the grill so you can eat when you get there, and go home afterward.”

He stared down at her. She stared back up at him.

“Late lunch.”

“See you then,” she said, and walked away, grinning for all she was worth.

*   *   *

Tristan pulled up in front of Kara's house and got out of his truck. Blooming plants were everywhere, huddled beneath the two red oaks in front, bordering the walkway, hugging the house. Red and deep purples were the dominant colors with a smattering of white and yellow peeking through here and there. Kara apparently preferred strong colors. There was passion simmering beneath her calm surface.

It remained to be seen if he would get to sample that passion.

Going up the walk, he rang the doorbell. On the long porch were colorful pots of flowers. He idly wondered if Kara had painted the red clay pots.

The door opened. Kara stood there. She was as strikingly beautiful as he remembered and just as weary. She looked as if she didn't know whether she wanted to close the door or invite him in.

“Hi, Kara. Thanks for letting me come over to see your paintings. I admit I'm anxious to see them,” he said, hoping to help her make the decision in his favor.

“Hi. Please come in.”

He stepped over the threshold, and frowned. The house was neat and well furnished, but dull with dark woods and dark print fabrics. Kara was wearing dark colors as well. Her curly brownish-black hair was tied back. He got the impression of a self-contained woman, not the passionate woman who had painted the pictures in her office with such power.

“I thought about bringing the paintings down, but decided to wait on you,” she said, and bit her lower lip. “It's probably dusty. I haven't been up there in a month.”

“I'm used to dirt.”

She nodded and didn't move.

He suddenly understood her nerves were related to her paintings as well. He wished he could reassure her, but he couldn't do that until he'd seen her other work. The paintings in her office could have been inspired by the emotional connection and loss of her father. “Which way?”

“Sorry. This way.” She led him down a short hallway. The ladder was already down. “It's lit.”

Stepping around her, he placed his hand on the ladder. “Are you coming?”

She unwrapped her hands around her waist, then stepped forward. Her hand clamped around the ladder. “If you like the pictures, then what?”

“I have a connection with an interior designer who is always looking for one-of-a-kind pictures to place in upscale homes. The ultra rich don't want to walk into a home and see the same paintings. Even if they have a Picasso or a Monet, it's different of course.”

“The price you offered, was that just to get my attention?”

Fair question and he could see in her eyes how much the answer meant even if her hands hadn't been clenched on the ladder. “No. You might be surprised at the obscene amount of money some people pay for what passes as art. If it doesn't touch me, it doesn't go into my home, and I don't talk about it in my articles.”

“For
Luxury
magazine.”

His eyebrow lifted. “How did you know I wrote for
Luxury
?”

She blushed, briefly lowered her gaze. “My friend and I Googled you after I, er, lost your card.”

He smiled. She'd probably tossed it. “I'm glad you went to the effort. I'm anxious to see your other work.”

Nodding, she began climbing up the stairs. “I finished a landscape a little over a month ago. At last count, there were thirty-three paintings.”

Tristan tried to focus on the conversation instead of the enticing butt in front of him. “That should give me a good—”

“No! It can't be,” she said as her head peered over the edge of the opening, then she was scrambling up the ladder.

His heart slammed in his chest. He almost reached for her leg before he thought,
“Wait for me!”
He quickly joined her. Animals and snakes often got into attics. Standing beside her, he searched for the danger in the clutter and found none.

“They're gone,” she whispered, walking past a stack of plastic totes, cardboard boxes, dining-room chairs, floor lamps. “They're all gone.”

Immediately he understood. The paintings.

 

Six

Tristan heard the heartbreak, the disbelief in Kara's unsteady voice and bit back a curse. Gently, he touched her arm. She turned to him. Tears glistened in her eyes. His gut clenched at the sight.

“Why would she do that?”

He didn't know who she was talking about, but at the moment it didn't matter. “Could they be someplace else?”

“No. They're gone.”

Misery stared back at him. He'd never felt so helpless. “Let's go back down.” For a moment she just stood there. “Kara.”

Brushing the heels of her hands over her eyes, she went to the ladder and climbed back down. He didn't breathe easy until she was safely standing in the hall. “Why don't we go to the kitchen and get you a glass of water.” She didn't resist his urging her down the hall and into the kitchen or setting her in a chair.

After getting her a glass of water, he pressed it to her lips. “Drink.” She did, all the while her eyes tightly shut.

“Kara.”

Her lashes fluttered, then she opened her eyes. “I'm sorry you made the trip for nothing.”

“If you painted one picture, you can paint another one,” he told her.

“You don't understand,” she murmured.

“Then help me.” He placed the glass on the table and took her cold hands in his. “You said you paint large canvases. Is it that you don't paint wet on wet and it takes longer to finish a piece since you work?”

“It doesn't matter anymore.”

He didn't know who “she” was, but he didn't like her if she was the cause of Kara's distress. “Are you working on anything now that I could see?”

“It isn't finished.”

“It doesn't matter.” Standing up, he pulled her to her feet. “Is it here or do you have a studio?”

She rubbed her forehead. “How could she—” She swallowed.

“Where is the picture you were working on, Kara?”

“In the backyard.”

“Let's go.” Still holding her arm he left the kitchen and went to the connecting den and opened the sliding glass door. His gaze swept the backyard and he saw the easel with a small table with paintbrushes and a couple of tin cans with a chair in front. He started forward, but for the first time she resisted.

“No.”

“What?”

“It was just … never mind.” She held out her unsteady hand. “Thank you for coming.”

She was giving up, retreating, and it made him angry. “So you're going to let her defeat you?”

She flinched. “Please leave.”

“Not until I see that painting.”

Evading the hands reaching for him, he strode to the painting. He stepped around and saw the totally unexpected. His gaze lifted. Kara's hands covered the lower portion of her face.

He stared back at the partially finished painting. Even with only the eyes staring back at him, he recognized them as his own. They were devilish, playful.

“Is that how you see me?”

She brought her arms to her sides. “Could you please leave?”

He went to her. “My mother would probably like to have the picture if you're inclined to finish it.”

“Kara! Kara! Whose old truck is in front and what is the attic ladder doing down?”

Her eyes widened with alarm and her head jerked in the direction of the female voice, then back to him.

A slim, middle-aged, attractive woman appeared at the patio door. She leaned on a cane. Her lips were pursed. “Who are you?”

“Nobody, Mama. He was just leaving.”

“When he does, get my packages out of the car and put up that ladder so I can get down the hall without breaking my neck. I'm going to get a glass of tea.”

Tristan bristled. She hadn't even spoken, just started giving orders.

“I'll show you to the door,” Kara said.

In the den he saw the woman slowly making her way to the kitchen. “I came to see Kara's paintings, but they were gone.”

“You're wasting your time, so stop wasting hers. I got rid of them.”

*   *   *

Kara heard the strangled, almost animalistic sound, and realized it had come from her. She'd known it, but it was still difficult being slapped in the face with the hatred of her own mother toward her. “What-what did you do with my paintings?”

Her mother continued to the kitchen without answering. Kara followed. “Where are they?”

“Don't you dare raise your voice to me,” her mother said. “I birthed you.”

And take pleasure in my misery.
“The paintings are important to me.”

“You waste time painting when you could be doing things around the house I can't do anymore. You promised your daddy before he died you'd help out, not waste your time.” She snatched up a glass from the counter. “You're using that little incident against Burt because he agreed that your paintings are worthless.”

“I'm willing to pay for them.”

Kara had forgotten Tristan was there. She wanted to go through the floor.

“How much?” her mother asked, her eyes narrowed.

“I would have to see them first.” Tristan entered the kitchen.

“You know where they are?” Kara said. “Mother, please.”

“Your truck outside ain't worth much, so you can't be,” her mother said.

“Mother, please,” Kara admonished, aware it wouldn't do any good.

“I know people,” Tristan said, his expression unchanged. “Where can we find the paintings?”

Her mother held out her glass to Kara. Taking the glass, Kara filled it with ice, then tea from the refrigerator, and gave it back. Her mother drew out the moment.

“She won't sell for less than fifty dollars apiece,” her mother said after she'd taken a long drink.

“I need to see them first,” Tristan repeated.

Her mother took another sip of tea. “I needed room for my winter clothes and other things since you're in the other bedroom.”

Kara was always to blame. “Where are they?”

“I told Fred to take them to the city dump.”

*   *   *

“Still no answer,” Kara said, clutching the cell phone in her hands. She couldn't stop the trembling of her body. Fred Roberts was a friend of her late father. He'd begun taking care of their yard and doing things around the house for them when her father became too ill to do the work himself. “He could be in his woodshop. He helped me with the frames.”

“Then there's a good chance he kept the paintings,” Tristan said.

Kara hit
REDIAL
. She thought Fred valued her work, but it wouldn't be the first time she'd been wrong about a man. “Mother said she had him take the paintings a week ago. He should have called me.”

“I imagine he had his reasons.”

Kara listened to the phone ring and said nothing. She'd gone past embarrassment. She wanted her paintings back. She'd let him drive because they could load the pictures in his truck and the rest in Fred's truck—if he still had them.

She disconnected the call. “Turn on the next street. Fourth house on the right,” she told him, then scooted forward in her seat. “His truck is in the driveway.”

Tristan pulled in beside a gleaming red Ford truck. Kara was out the door before he cut the engine. She hurried on the bricked path to the garage in the back. She heard the buzz of a circular saw from several feet away. Ignoring the sound and the flying wood chips, she stepped into Fred's line of vision.

Her expression said it all. He cut off the power and slowly lifted the protective goggles. “Kara.”

“Where are they? Please.”

He looked at Tristan. “I—”

She stepped to him. “Please. You didn't do what Mama told you, did you? You didn't—” She couldn't finish.

Anger flashed across his gray whiskered face, in his dark brown eyes. “You think I'd take your heart and soul to the city dump?”

“The only thing keeping me going is the belief that you didn't,” she answered, swallowing hard.

“Your mama…,” he began, then trailed off.

“Do you still have my paintings?”

“In the house. First bedroom. You go on. I got to get some of this dust off.”