Blue Ink Page 3

  I pointed to my pumps. “There was so much mud Ardan had to carry me to his truck.”

  She sniffed and gave me a half smile. “How could you know about the elk? This countryside is dodgy. Wild beasts everywhere, including bears. Did he tell you about them? They come right up to the rubbish bins, cheeky as can be.”

  “Bears?” I coughed. City mouse was about to become country mouse.

  “Mountain lions too. And wild turkeys.” She shuddered. “Poor things are ugly as can be. It’s no wonder you Americans decided to eat them for Thanksgiving.”

  Bears? Mountain lions? “I’m scared of all those things.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Lanigan will keep us safe. He knows this land like his own hand.”

  “Have you been with him a while?” I asked.

  “For a little over a year.”

  “How in the world did you get to Idaho?”

  “I followed a bloke here.”

  “To Idaho?” I asked.

  “No, first to San Francisco, then here. I didn’t have anywhere to go after things didn’t work out with Charlie, so I answered an ad for a housekeeper as far away from him as I could. Happily, it was a job with Mr. Lanigan. And wouldn’t you know, I love it here. There’s no man to cause me troubles.” Effie dropped her voice to just above a whisper. “At least, I did love it here. Until Mrs. Lanigan arrived. Mr. Lanigan’s no trouble to look after. But her? Well, you heard the noises coming from her room.”

  “She won’t stay forever, though?” I asked. “Bliss told me I’d only be needed for two or three months.”

  Effie started to cry again. “Two or three months is forever. Did Mr. Lanigan tell you she’s already scared away two other companions?”

  “No, I hadn’t heard that.” Two? Obviously, Mrs. Lanigan was not the sweet grandmother I’d imagined. “What happened just now?” I gestured toward the tray.

  “She didn’t like her breakfast. I didn’t cook the yolks enough.” Effie talked through her tears. “And she wanted coffee not tea, even though yesterday she’d asked for tea. She threw her cup and plate at me. Broke these lovely dishes. If she only knew how others live. My poor mum never had a new set of dishes her whole life and here she tosses them at me like they’re nothing. You should see the wall. Splattered with blackberry jam and bits of glass everywhere. Mr. Lanigan sent me away, so he could clean up and have a talk with her.”

  “You poor thing. Here, come sit.” I motioned to the breakfast nook. “I’ll make you some tea.”

  “That would be lovely, but there isn’t time. Let me show you into the living room.”

  There wasn’t time. Why was that? Were we on a schedule?

  We walked out of the kitchen and into the living room. On one end, picture windows displayed a view of Blue Mountain. The other windows looked out to the backyard. Decorated traditionally, with the same walnut wood floors as the kitchen, the room could be featured in one of those architecture and design magazines. The pale blue on the walls, and the white trim and wainscoting were a great complement to the classically designed furniture in dark woods and light fabrics.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” Effie said. “I’ll go change now before Mr. Lanigan needs me to fix her another breakfast.”

  After she left, I explored the room, looking for details about the man who lived here. A couch the color of butter and a pair of striped blue and white easy chairs faced the window. Landscape paintings of the seaside and a European looking village hung on the walls. Eclectic pieces of pottery and various wood carvings were set about, all of which seemed to have been chosen and collected from a life of travel.

  It was as if I’d decorated it myself. In fact, the room was remarkably like a photograph I’d pasted on the vision board I’d made on my laptop. I made a mental note to look at that again tonight.

  Bookshelves lined the back wall. I trailed my fingers along the rows of books, curious to see what he read for pleasure and deemed important enough to take up shelving space. He had an assortment, mostly fiction, arranged in categories, with everything from thrillers to classics. An entire section was devoted to spiritual books, a few written by the Dalai Lama and other eastern philosophers, along with Christian thought leaders. Another section was more of the self-help variety, including several books about family dynamics.

  If nothing else, this trip would be great fodder for my writing.

  Chapter Four

  Ardan

  * * *

  Mother refused to come out from under her blankets.

  “Go away.”

  “I’m not going anywhere until you explain your behavior,” I said. “You’ve made Effie cry again.”

  The wall near the doorway was scattered with various breakfast items, including bright purple jam and egg yolks. I pulled the covers back. My anger lessened slightly at the sight of her bony frame and matted hair. “What in God’s name are you doing throwing things at poor Effie?”

  Mother yanked the blanket back over her head.

  I sat in the chair nearest the bed and pressed the palms of my hands into the knees of my jeans. How was a nice woman like Charlotte going to make it here with Mother? I hadn’t mentioned it to Charlotte, but Mother had already run off two companions in a matter of days. Both left abruptly in tears. For the past week Effie and I had been trying to manage Mother ourselves. Sadly, we were not very good at the job.

  My focus at first had been to get Mother well enough to ship her back from whence she came. This required her to build her strength up by walking and eating, not hiding in this bed. However, it became abundantly clear that her eyesight had degenerated to the point where she saw only shapes and shadows, which was why she’d tripped and fallen in the first place. I’d arranged for a consultant from an organization for the blind to come out to the house and work with her on ways to get more independence back, in the form of a cane and other techniques. Mother had been so stubborn and obstinate the consultant had thrown up her hands in frustration and walked out the door.

  Subsequently, I was forced to admit the truth. Mother couldn’t live on her own. She needed to be here with her family. I needed to figure out a way for both of us to be happy again.

  “Mother, we have to talk.”

  “Leave me alone.” Her voice sounded muffled under the covers, yet still biting. Mother’s words were like nails out of nail gun. Fast and fierce. No one was safe from their sharp points.

  “I’m not leaving you alone. You’re going to talk to me about what’s going on with you. Giving up is not like you.”

  “It is now.”

  “The doctor said it will take time, but you can expect a full recovery. If you do your exercises and start walking a little every day.”

  “My eyesight won’t recover. It’ll only get worse.”

  “I’ve hired someone new to help you. Someone interesting.”

  She went still under the blanket. “Doubtful.”

  “Do you remember the great detective story we read over Christmas? The one Bliss’s friend wrote?” Mother had asked if I’d read it to her as a treat for Christmas. I’d happily obliged. We’d sat on the couch by the fire sipping warm beverages and eating whatever Blythe brought out to us. By early evening, we’d finished the last page and agreed Luci Storm was our new favorite character. “That Charlotte Wilde knows how to tell a good yarn,” Mother had said. My hope was that Mother wouldn’t be able to resist a writer she admired. She revered artists of any kind. Over her long life, she’d donated a lot of funding to the arts, including writers.

  “What about her?” Mother remained under the covers

  “I’ve hired her to hang out with you.”

  “Hang out? I’m not thirteen.”

  “Well, whatever you want to call it, Bliss asked her to come spend time with us. She can write between visits with you. She’s agreed to help you with your exercises and walks.”

  Mother drew back the covers to expose her face.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

&
nbsp; “Why would she come here? Isn’t she a famous writer now?”

  “Bliss said her first book didn’t do as well as hoped and the agent says the new one is too dark.”

  “How stupid. I love that Luci Storm.”

  “Well, she needs time to sort out what to do next and here in the quiet is a great place to do it,” I said.

  “She must be broke.” She moved to lay on her back.

  “She indicated as much, yes. You know how hard it is to make money in the arts.” I leaned closer and deployed my soothing voice. “Mother, she has a sweet nature—down to earth and clever. She has a good sense of humor, given her reaction to the elk.”

  “The elk?”

  “I had to rescue her. They were blocking the road and the fields are all muddy and wet.”

  “This place is barbaric.”

  “She’s wearing stylish jeans and black pumps. Kind of your style.” Jeans that hugged every curve of her tight little body. I kept the image of her round breasts in that pink sweater to myself.

  “Piercings? Tattoos, I suppose,” Mother said.

  “Not that I could see. She looks downright old-fashioned.”

  Mother brought her hands out from under the covers and clasped them together over her chest. “She sounds a step up from the first two.”

  “It’s also a favor to Bliss. She asked if we could sort of look after Charlotte while she looks after us. Without a job like this she might not write another book.” I knew an appeal to Mother’s philanthropic side might influence her to give Charlotte a chance.

  She did what my brothers and I called her sniff and shrug, like the entire subject bored her. “Fine. I’ll see her.”

  “I’m going to give her some coffee and breakfast before bringing her up to meet you. She had a long trip from Boise this morning.”

  “I thought she lived in Portland?”

  I smiled to myself. Mother remembered that detail from Charlotte’s back cover biography. This was a positive sign. “She stayed in Boise last night after driving from Portland.”

  “She’s not the snooty kind of writer, is she?” Mother asked as I rose to my feet. “Those are always so disappointing.”

  “Not a snooty bone in her body. She looks younger and more innocent than I would’ve thought,” I said. “She was honestly scared of the elk.”

  “They have those eyes,” Mother said. “Disconcerting.”

  “And she’s quite small. Like a quarter horse.” Compact with just the right curves, like her little blue car. People often looked like their cars or dogs, I’d noticed.

  “What’s her face like?”

  “A young, more modern looking Sophia Loren.” Over the past few months, I’d learned to describe people in ways Mother could best relate. “Round eyes the color of English breakfast tea.” Her eyes were enough to wreck a man. And that mouth—sensual, full mouth begging for someone to kiss it.

  “Is she Italian?” Mother asked.

  “On her father’s side.” I loved her hair with those springy curls. “Her hair is massive. Super curly.”

  I retrieved a towel from the bathroom to clean up the mess on the wall. When I returned, Mother’s mouth was set in a line of disapproval.

  “Son, have you developed a crush on Charlotte Wilde already? Don’t you dare make a move on her.”

  “Not that I’m one to make moves, but why shouldn’t I?”

  “Because these things never turn out for you. Do you really want to be responsible for her inability to write after your affair implodes?”

  She had a point. Starting with my first unrequited love for Felicity Spinner when I was seventeen, most of my relationships had been disasters. Felicity never had eyes for anyone but Ciaran. Unlike my charming and clever brothers, I was shy and bookish. My father’s voice came to me again.

  Not with Charlotte.

  There was a current that ran between Charlotte and me, connecting us somehow. I felt bold and witty when I was with her.

  For now, I needed to concentrate on Mother.

  “I’m going to bring Charlotte up in a few minutes. Please, be nice.”

  “No promises.”

  I hustled down the hallway toward the front room. Could Charlotte handle Mother? I prayed silently that her kind face hid an inner strength. Because I knew this already. I desperately wanted Charlotte Wilde to stay in Idaho.

  Chapter Five

  Charlotte

  * * *

  I was reading the opening passage of a book about former lives when Ardan entered the living room.

  “I’m sorry to have left you so abruptly,” he said. “Mother was having a tantrum.”

  “I gathered as much.”

  He glanced toward the other end of the house as if his mother might hear him. “Let’s talk outside.”

  We went back out to the patio and sat at the dining table under the umbrella. The morning sun shed warmth over the stone patio. Birds chirped from the trees. The scent of lilacs filled the air. I fidgeted, clenching and unclenching my hands under the table. So far everything about Idaho had been unnerving. Not bad, but unexpected, including the man next to me.

  I took a good look at him. His hair was even more disheveled than earlier, like he’d tried to tear it from his head.

  Effie came out to the patio dressed in a dark blue cotton dress and carrying a tray with a full coffee service. She’d washed and fixed her face.

  “You’re looking much better,” I said.

  “Thank you, Miss Wilde.” She set the tray on the table and poured two cups of coffee. “Would you like cream and sugar?”

  “Just milk, thank you.”

  “Half-and-half or shall I fetch the milk?”

  “Whatever you have is fine.” I crossed and uncrossed my legs under the table. No one fetched things for me. I was the fetcher.

  Effie poured from the silver pitcher.

  “I can add my own cream,” I said.

  “No, miss. I do that for you.” Effie added cream and stirred it with a small spoon. She set the cup and saucer on the table in front of me. “May I get you anything else?”

  I shook my head so hard a few of my curls got caught in my sticky lip gloss. “No. Thanks, though.”

  She did the same for Ardan, adding sugar and cream to his cup. When she left, Ardan turned to me. “Please let Effie know if you need anything. I want you to feel at home here.”

  “Thank you. I’m not particular. I don’t want to cause Effie any trouble. I can take care of myself.”

  “Good luck with that. Effie’s old school—trained in England by a former butler. For the life of me, I can’t get her to stop calling me Mr. Lanigan. Every time, I think she’s talking to my dad. I’m afraid Mother may run her off, and I’d be lost without her.”

  A weight of dread landed on my shoulders. Bliss hadn’t said much about Riona Lanigan. Now I wondered if that was on purpose?

  He spread his hands out on the table. “About Mother. She’s always been difficult. Now that her movement and vision have been impaired, she’s nearly impossible. I suppose it’s obvious what she did to Effie this morning?”

  “The stains on her dress and broken dishes were dead giveaways,” I said.

  “Last night she told me I was keeping her prisoner out here in the middle of nowhere.”

  Prisoner? Great. I was about to become her guard.

  “Bliss said you could tame lions,” he said. “Which is what we need. A lioness tamer.”

  “I’ve worked for a few tyrants.” I had hoped those days were past me, but no such luck. “I’ve seen some temper tantrums in my time.”

  “Go in strong. The moment she senses timidity, she strikes. Like with poor Effie.”

  My teeth stuck to my dry mouth when I tried to smile. “I’ll do my best.”

  “I love Mother. I mean, of course I do. She’s my mother. But between you and me, I’m the only one of my siblings who can stand to have her stay for any length of time. She’s utterly alienated both Blythe and Bliss.
My sister avoids her with excuses about work.”

  He looked so worried I forgot my own angst. “It’ll all be fine. Tell me what you need me to do.”

  “Keep her company during the day. Encourage her to eat. Make her do her physical therapy exercises. Get her outside for fresh air and short walks. The doctors said she needs to walk a little each day to rebuild her strength.”

  “I can do that.”

  “She naps in the afternoons and goes to bed early, so you’ll have time to write,” he said.

  I nodded. If I could find my muse. Lately she seemed to have gone into hibernation. Could I find her in the shadow of Blue Mountain?

  “And we’ve got to get her to eat something. She’ll never get stronger if she doesn’t have proper nutrition. She refuses to eat most days.” He stood and gestured toward the house. “Let’s do this.”

  “Fine. I’m ready.” I drew in a deep, calming breath. Nothing to be worried about. I’d worked for some men who could curdle milk with a look.

  I followed him down a hallway. “Your room will be upstairs. Mother’s is on the first floor because of the stairs.” He tapped on the door. A weak voice said to come in for Pete’s sake. “You know I’m in here. Why’re you knocking?”

  He held the door for me to enter before him.

  “Mother, I’ve brought Charlotte.”

  Mrs. Lanigan winced as she tried to sit up. Ardan went around the bed to slide another pillow behind her back. She was thin and bony. Her hair was dyed blond, but an inch of white roots showed. I had a feeling this was not typical. Was there anyone in town who did hair? I hadn’t thought about that until now. Did Peregrine even have a hair salon?

  “Hello, Mrs. Lanigan. It’s nice to meet you.” I stood by the bed and offered my hand.

  She gave my fingers a quick squeeze. Not a handshake exactly. I guessed those were reserved for important people. She squinted as she turned her face toward me. “You have a squeaky voice, like a child.”