Free Threads of Evidence by Lea Wait Page A

all of us,” he acknowledged. “Mom’s bought other places before. She has a home near L.A., a place in New York City, and for a while she had a retreat in Aspen. But she usually hires someone to direct any construction or decorating she wants. She keeps in touch by phone. Sometimes she asks me to go and check on the work. I’ve never seen her as involved as she is here.”
    â€œYou live with her, then? All the time?” Not to be nosy, but shouldn’t a thirtysomething guy have his own place?
    â€œIt’s not what you’re thinking. First of all, Mom’s often on location somewhere else in the world, so all our homes are empty. I can use them—however I choose, whenever I choose. In L.A. I have a studio nearby. That’s where I spend most of my time, working. When I’m really involved with a project I sleep there. If I want to entertain, I invite a friend or three there, or I can be more formal at the big house. It’s good to have options.” He smiled, almost shyly. “Mom and I get along pretty well. I have my own friends. I don’t get involved with all the Hollywood parties and gossip. Being an artist is convenient. People tag me ‘creative’ and I have a built-in excuse for not doing what I don’t want to do.”
    â€œAnd you’ll have a studio here.”
    â€œExactly!” He nodded. “When we finish it, the carriage house should be perfect for what I need. It will be a place to paint and store my work, a place to sleep, a small kitchen for any cooking I feel in the mood to do. I’m a genius at pasta dinners and pancake breakfasts, and I can even turn out a mean frittata.” He looked at me and winked. “Sometime I hope you’ll let me demonstrate.”
    He glanced at me. . . . He did have dark eyes! And he continued talking before I thought of an appropriate response. What would Sarah think of his invitation? But maybe Patrick was just being friendly. Maybe he’d invited Sarah for frittata, too.
    For more than a moment, I wished she hadn’t seen him first.
    â€œI’m tired of Southern California, and was never into the Aspen scene. But here?” He threw open his arms. “A beautiful location, quiet for most of the year, and, from what I’ve heard, an active art community. Before Mom bought this place, I made a scouting trip to check out galleries in Boston and Portland. I have no time this summer, with all the work that needs to be done here, but next fall I plan on visiting more of the galleries, checking out their openings, and introducing myself.”
    â€œSo you plan to spend the whole year here.”
    â€œI do,” he answered, nodding. “Although I’ll reserve judgment on the word ‘whole’ until I’ve lived here awhile. I can see making a trip to the islands, or the Mediterranean, or even back to L.A., in January or February, if the snows get too high to see out the windows here.”
    A woman came up to my table holding a gold-framed Victorian mirror. The mirror itself was damaged, but the frame was fabulously elaborate, with cupid faces peeking out from a vine pattern.
    â€œThis is marked fifteen dollars. Is that right?” she asked a little cautiously.
    I checked. “Yup. It’s fifteen dollars.”
    â€œThen it’s sold!” She grinned. “A new piece of mirror and it’ll be perfect for my downstairs bathroom.” She rested the mirror on the ground while she dug a ten and a five out of her wallet. “This is a fantastic sale! I’ll put the mirror in my van, but I’ll be back! I see other possibilities, but I have to measure them. And I haven’t even been in the other tent yet.”
    â€œGreat,” I said, tucking her money into the tin cookie box I was using as a cash box. “If you’re interested in any larger pieces, we have people who can help get them to your vehicle.”
    â€œAt your