Free Wanted Distraction by Ava McKnight Page A

canyons of Sedona.
    My mother lived on a golf course in the area, with breathtaking views of the unique red rocks rising up all around her house. Her back patio was the most relaxing place I’d ever been, even beating out a day at the spa. As I pulled into her intricately designed driveway, decorated with pavers, a small measure of my anxiety eased. I snatched my purse from the passenger seat and got out of the car. She was home, as I’d expected. My mother was a brilliant artist and spent most of her time in her home studio, which overlooked the backyard filled with lush foliage, vibrant flowers, ponds and tall, mature trees, all serving as a beautiful foreground to the canyon in which her upscale community sat.
    She and my father had split up when I was in junior high, and my brothers and I had stayed in Scottsdale with our dad, since we didn’t want to attend new schools. But we spent the majority of the summers and other vacations in Sedona, with Mom. She knew all about my obsession with Carter, so she’d understand the hell I was in. Though, I didn’t really intend to tell her about my night with him. In the light of day, propositioning him the way I had seemed a bit tawdry. Not that I’d go back and change what I’d done, but still…
    I rang the bell so as to not startle her by barging in. She wouldn’t be expecting me during the week.
    “ Bon jour, mon petit chou! ”she said as she pulled open the ornate door with splashes of turquoise, bronze and copper on the raised wood design.
    Did I mention my mother was eccentric?
    I gave her a quick hug and said, “Someday you’ll stop calling me that, I’m sure of it.”
    She laughed “Never!”
    Mon petit chou meant “my little cabbage”. I’d had a large head as a child, until my body caught up—well, relatively speaking, since I was still short and compact. But my mother had never ditched the term of endearment. Worse, my brothers had always called me Shoe. They weren’t the least bit cultured and couldn’t speak French, so they didn’t know how to spell the word correctly. But Shoe, spelled incorrectly, had always been better than cabbage. Or Tinkerbell.
    Stepping into the foyer, I asked, “Am I interrupting?”
    With her long, button-down chambray shirt over her jeans and white tank top, I suspected she was painting. Landscapes were her specialty.
    “Not at all. I was just sifting through some photos I’ve taken before I dive in. Let’s go out back.”
    I followed her through the house to the patio. She had dark brown rattan furniture with thick sienna-colored cushions and colorful throw pillows scattered all over the deep green grass and decorative patio. A tall waterfall in the far corner emitted a comforting sound that mingled with the Classical music softly playing in the background.
    After dropping my purse on a bistro table, I sank into the cozy sofa under the bushy Fremont Cottonwood. I slipped out of my sandals and curled my toes in the lush grass. My mother had disappeared into the kitchen and came back minutes later, carrying a tray with a pitcher of iced tea, two glasses, a bowl of lemon wedges and my favorite chocolate-swirl Madelines. The spongy French dessert was one she’d learned to make while studying cooking in Paris one fall, and she always kept a fresh batch on hand.
    The comfort food was welcomed, though a lump of emotion instantly swelled in my throat, due to the impending subject matter. I’d come here for a reason.
    She set the tray on the glass-covered rattan coffee table and then settled beside me, patting my leg in her maternal way.
    “What brings you by?” she asked.
    My mother, Liz Westerly, was a striking redhead with bright green eyes and delicate features. She wasn’t much taller than me, but had a bit more substance to her. She stayed fit and active, and time had certainly been kind to her. I hoped like hell I’d age as gracefully as she had, because the fifty-four-year-old woman didn’t look a day over