Small-Town Secrets. Pamela Tracy
Richard? Wasn’t he a judge?”
Adam bent down, opened his toolbox and soon cleared the floor.
He was sure. Both Chester and Richard’s names were written on the courthouse, but they were two different engravings.
All his life his father had been telling Adam to pay attention to what went on around him, not to lose himself in whatever project he was engaged in.
And he’d been right.
Adam Snapp had become a successful artist, but he hadn’t been able to balance art and life. His art had become his sole focus.
All the while, the rest of his life had fallen apart.
IF ANYONE HAD told Yolanda that Adam would become Mr. Fix-it, she’d have laughed. He was a dreamer, an artist and a wanderer. His family and friends had always worried about him, sometimes even more than they had about his brother. But Yolanda had to admit, Adam always seemed to land on his feet, albeit wobbly.
After dropping out of high school, he’d managed to become a pseudo artist-in-residence, surviving by doing caricatures during the weekend and then masterminding most of the artwork—mostly murals—at Bridget’s Animal Adventure. Back then, a whole five years ago, he’d painted during the day and during the night, acted as a security guard in exchange for room and board.
Yolanda’s mom had called him a loser. But Trina Sanchez had thought only a man wearing a suit and tie and bringing home a four-digit-a-week paycheck was to be admired.
Yolanda had never met that man. Her memories of her own father were shadowy. She remembered that he was tall and that his chin and cheeks had always felt rough to her touch. He’d smelled of ink, as he’d worked in Phoenix at some type of print shop. He’d died when Yolanda was four. Her mother hadn’t talked about him much, simply saying he should have had more drive.
Yolanda had long suspected that no one possessed enough drive to please her mother. Yolanda certainly hadn’t.
When it came to Adam Snapp, Yolanda couldn’t get a handle on whether he had drive or not. He was passionate about his art, and never seemed to worry about anything else, like rent or food. In his teens and early twenties, he’d been content to live in an old house, more a caretaker’s cabin, on BAA’s property. Existing day to day, almost like a hippie. Yolanda had almost envied him this worry-free existence.
Unfortunately, there’d been only so many walls to paint in Scorpion Ridge, which was just a tiny spot on the Arizona map. Fortunately, his talent had gotten noticed, big-time, and he’d left Scorpion Ridge with a suitcase of clothes and four suitcases of art supplies. At least that’s what Yolanda’s grandmother had heard from Mr. Teasdale, who’d heard it from... Well, the small-town grapevine had many roots.
What Yolanda remembered most was that when Adam left Scorpion Ridge, her mom had shaken her head and given him six months before he came back, head hanging, to move in with his parents.
Yolanda had refrained from mentioning that she still lived with her parent. And, although Yolanda nodded in agreement with her mother’s prediction, secretly she believed Adam would do something great with his talent. She respected that he had the motivation to follow his muse to other places. She’d been so busy making sure she got straight A’s that she’d not had time to develop a muse. Wasn’t sure she knew how.
And, though she’d never admit it, especially to him, she thought Adam was quite good.
To everyone’s surprise, two years after Adam left, an article in the Scorpion Ridge Gazette reported that he’d won a national competition and was becoming fairly well-known, with patrons willing to pay in the five digits for his art.
Even in black-and-white, the winning mural featured in the newspaper was riveting. It was as if Adam had only been practicing when he’d painted all the murals at BAA. His real talent lay elsewhere.
And now he worked for her, removing hinges.
“Yolanda.”
Startled, Yolanda blinked, realizing that she’d followed Adam to the front porch and had just stopped, afraid to go back in the house but unsure what to do next.
“I’m fine.”
He shook his head. “No, you’re not.”
Yolanda started to protest, but stopped. Adam, of all people, could read people’s moods. He’d been doing it his whole life, watching out for his disabled brother by diffusing emotional situations before they got out of hand.
“You’re right,” she admitted, “for some reason, I’m overreacting.”
“Not like you,” he admitted. “How can I help?”
It felt strange to accept help from him. She and Adam were usually adversaries—she promoting the side of logic; he on the side of risk.
She glanced back at the house, almost asking him to walk around with her again. Help her figure out where the woman had gone, how she’d disappeared. He’d do it, she knew. He would never walk away from someone who needed him.
“Nothing right now,” she finally said. “I’ll figure it out.”
He nodded, not looking convinced, and he took a couple of steps down the front stairs.
She didn’t want him to go.
“Adam, why’d you come home?”
He raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by the question. “Haven’t you heard? I came back to help my parents.”
Yolanda knew that his dad had hurt his back while teaching a Tae Kwon Do class, and that the doctor had found something suspicious in the X-ray. But Adam’s parents were young. Probably in their fifties.
Her mother had been young, too, even though Yolanda had been a change-of-life baby, a complete surprise, born when her mother was forty-six. She’d passed away at seventy-one, too young. Yolanda still wanted her mother. And Gramma Rosi was eighty-six. Maybe eighty-seven. No one was quite sure.
“I heard that but didn’t realize your father was so sick that you had to give up your career.”
“Sometimes family comes first.”
No, Yolanda thought. Family always comes first.
But she didn’t buy that his father’s illness was the only thing that had brought Adam home. Something had to have happened, something that had stymied his paintbrush, filled his eyes with sadness and erased the smile from his face.
Yolanda didn’t know what, but right now she was glad he was here because his over-six-foot frame made her feel protected. She rather liked the sensation. The old woman must have really spooked her, enough so that she walked to the edge of the steps, closer to him. Funny, she’d never realized just how tall he was.
“I’ve got a class to teach,” he reminded her, but he didn’t leave. The street in front of her wasn’t busy. It was a small-town kind of Monday, paced for the beginning of the week. Tuesday and Wednesday would see more people out and about. By Thursday the out-of-towners would arrive not only to enjoy the wildlife habitat but also to stay at the many ranches that catered to weekend cowboys.
It was Yolanda’s town. The Acuras had arrived here just after the Moores and Ventimiglias. She liked the close-knit Scorpion Ridge community, quaint downtown and the feeling of a rich history that came with it. Adam had always been meant for bigger and better things, however.
He stood for a moment, watching her. “If you’re really afraid, you can always come to the studio with me. I doubt your ghost will be signed up for a beginner’s class.”
“She wasn’t a ghost. Ghosts don’t smoke.” Yolanda stepped around him and settled in one of the two rocking chairs on the front porch and studied her surroundings. Across