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She awakened very early and crawled over him as carefully as she could. A rush of tenderness claimed her as she lingered for a moment to gaze down at him. The early morning light washed his back, sculpting the curve of muscle and ridge of tendon. All her life she’d had to settle for second best. But not last night.
She picked up her clothes and headed for the house, where she took the world’s fastest shower, pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, and transferred a few necessities into her pockets. On her way back outside, she glanced toward the gypsy caravan under the trees. He’d been the unselfish, audacious lover she’d always dreamed of. She didn’t regret a moment of last night, but now dreamtime was over.
She wheeled the smaller bike out of the barn and pedaled to the highway. Each hill felt like a mountain, and her lungs started burning long before she reached town. By the time she crossed the final summit and began the descent into Garrison, her legs had turned into overcooked spaghetti.
Nita Garrison, as it happened, was also an early riser. Blue stood in her cluttered kitchen and watched her poke at a toaster waffle. “I charge four hundred dollars for a three-by-three-foot canvas,” Blue said, “with a two-hundred-dollar deposit due today. Take it or leave it.”
“Chump change,” Nita said. “I was prepared to pay a lot more.”
“You also have to provide room and board while I’m working.” She pushed away memories of the gypsy caravan. “I need to know Tango better so I can capture his true personality.”
Tango opened one droopy lid and stared at her through a rheumy eye.
Nita whipped her head around so fast Blue was afraid she’d leave her wig behind. “You want to stay here? In my house?”
It was the last thing Blue wanted, but inevitable after what had happened. “It’s the best way for me to produce a quality painting.”
A diamond and ruby ring glittered on Nita’s gnarled finger as she pointed toward the stove. “Don’t think you can leave your mess all over the kitchen.”
“You can safely assume your kitchen will be better off with me here.”
Nita give her a calculated look that didn’t bode well. “Go get my pink sweater. It’s on my bed upstairs. And stay out of my jewelry. If you touch anything, I’ll know it.”
Blue drove a mental knife into Nita’s black heart and stomped through the old woman’s overly decorated living room to get to the second floor. She could polish off the portrait and be on the road in a week. She’d survived a lot worse than spending a few days with Nita Garrison. This was her fastest ticket out of town.
All but one of the doors had been closed off upstairs, leaving the hallway marginally neater than the rooms below, although the pink plush carpeting needed vacuuming and a collection of dead bugs clouded the bottom of the cut glass ceiling fixtures. Nita’s room, with its rose and gold wallpaper, white furniture, and long windows elaborately swagged in rose drapes, reminded Blue of a Las Vegas funeral home. She picked up the pink sweater from a gold velvet chair and carried it downstairs through the white and gold living room, which had a velour chaise, lamps dangling crystal prisms, and wall-to-wall rose carpeting.
Nita shuffled into the doorway, her swollen ankles spilling over her orthopedic oxfords, and held out a set of keys to Blue. “Before you start work, you need to drive me to the—”
“Please don’t say the Piggly Wiggly.”
Apparently Nita had never seen Driving Miss Daisy because she missed the allusion. “We don’t have a Piggly Wiggly in Garrison. I don’t let any of the chains move in here. If you want your money, you have to drive me to the bank.”
“Before I drive you anywhere,” Blue said, “call off your dogs. Tell them to get back to work on Dean’s house.”
“Later.”
“Now. I’ll help you look up the phone numbers.”
Nita surprised Blue by barely putting up a fight, although it took another hour for her to make the calls, during which she ordered Blue to empty all the wastebaskets in the house, find her Maalox, and take a pile of boxes down into the creepy basement. Finally, however, Blue was behind the wheel of a sporty, three-year-old red Corvette Roadster. “You were expecting a Town Car, weren’t you?” Nita sniffed from the passenger seat. “Or a Crown Victoria. An old lady’s car.”
“I was expecting a broomstick,” Blue muttered, taking in the dusty dashboard. “How long since this thing’s been out of the garage?”
“I can’t drive anymore with my hip, but I let it run once a week so the battery doesn’t die.”
“It’s best to keep the garage door down while you’re doing that. A good thirty minutes should take care of it.”
Nita sucked on her teeth, as if she were drawing venom.
“So how do you get around?” Blue asked.
“That fool Chauncey Crole. He drives what passes for the town’s taxi. But he’s always spitting out the window, and that turns my stomach. His wife used to run the Garrison Women’s Club. They all hated me, right from the beginning.”
“Big surprise there.” Blue turned out onto the town’s main street.
“I got even.”
“Tell me you didn’t eat their children.”
