Small-Town Secrets. Pamela Tracy
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“Any idea what the scandal was?”
“No.”
“So my elderly visitor was probably somebody doing a bit of research on town history,” Yolanda decided.
“If you want to know about old families, ask me about mine. I was born a Munro. I married a Snapp, who’ve lived in Scorpion Ridge for over a hundred years. I can also tell you about the Moores and the Sheldons and—”
“That’s all right,” Yolanda said.
Adam held out his hand, and after thanking Loretta, Yolanda returned his phone. He said goodbye and hurried down the steps to his ancient minivan. He was the only guy she knew who willingly drove one. It had always been full of paints, brushes and old towels.
It perfectly represented his vagabond life and reminded Yolanda that she’d only be able to rely on him temporarily.
Heading back toward the house, Yolanda couldn’t help but feel that Adam’s grandmother, who apparently was well versed in the whole history of Scorpion Ridge and its oldest families, knew more than she was telling.
* * *
SNAPP’S TAE KWON DO studio was in a strip mall nestled between a nail salon and a doughnut shop. It would celebrate fifteen years of service in a few months. In some ways the studio was a blessing. It gave Adam’s autistic brother, Andy, a productive way to earn a living. But it had also been a huge change for the Snapps. When Adam was eleven, his father had walked away from a six-figure white-collar job and purchased the studio. The Snapps had gone from buying whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted, to spending on a budget.
And Adam had been angry. He’d liked having a television in his room, being able to get any video game he wanted and the best art supplies.
It had been the beginning of his strained relationship with his father. Adam had just wanted a voice, to be heard, but his dad had never seemed to want to listen.
This afternoon the parking area in front of their studio was fairly empty, as the Scorpion Ridge schools didn’t get out for another hour, and the two morning Tae Kwon Do classes, one for tots and the other for seniors, had ended before Adam rolled out of bed.
“Hey,” his mother greeted him as he stepped into the foyer. She was at the front desk taking advantage of the lull by counting out fliers to be delivered to the local schools and anywhere kids or any potential client might be found.
“Andy feeling better?” Adam asked.
“No, he’s been in his room all day. Doesn’t want to come out.”
“Still don’t know what triggered the mood swing?”
“Not a clue.”
Andy was a creature of habit, a connoisseur of routine. If his day got out of whack, he closed down.
“Want some help?” Adam offered.
“No, go on back and see your father. He tried calling you earlier.” Marianne smiled at him, as she had his entire life. She’d been his champion, but she hadn’t really understood him, either.
Adam figured his dad was checking up on him, calling to make sure he would fill in for Andy and the three-thirty class. Adam didn’t need reminders. He was here to help out, and that’s what he’d do.
Well, that was the price for arriving early: too much time to talk. His dad might have traded a suit and tie for a white sparring uniform called a dobok, but he still harbored the soul of an accountant. He liked every task to be itemized, completed and checked off.
Maybe that was where Andy got his extreme need for routine.
Robert Snapp was hunched over his desk, muttering about paperwork and frowning. He still believed, even after almost a decade, that somehow Snapp’s Studio would turn a decent profit. Maybe in the big city, but here in Scorpion Ridge?
Getting sick had only made him want to succeed more.
“You wanted to talk to me?” Adam had ignored his dad’s phone call, but it was harder to ignore the man.
“Sit down.”
Adam reminded himself that he was a foot taller than his dad and that he’d been living on his own a long time: two years working at BAA and five years in three different states as a well-paid muralist.
But all he could remember was that every time he was called into his dad’s office, whether it was here at Snapp’s Studio or at home, he would hear how displeased his father was with him. Adam had sat through hundreds of lectures grilling him on grades that were never the best, goals that were not met and how in the Snapp household everyone had a job.
Problem was, the job his dad wanted him to do and the job Adam had been born to do were two different things. Choosing a paintbrush over a “reliable” career had put the two men on opposite sides, and neither was willing to swim to the other.
Until Dad got sick.
“It’s good to have you home,” Dad said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.
Adam started to remind his dad that this was temporary, but stopped himself. Adam had had five years to miss his family and to consider the real meaning of home.
“It’s good to be home.”
One thing his ex-girlfriend Stacey had taught him was that home was temporary and love wasn’t always unconditional. To some it was the means to an end.
Now, though, his dad needed him. Dad had injured his back three months ago at the studio. He still moved slowly, and a wrong move would put him in bed. But then a blood test had turned up something more serious: pancreatic cancer. His parents had been very optimistic about treatment and recovery, but Adam hadn’t thought twice about coming home. He wanted to see the world and work a career he loved, but he could put his family first for a while.
Taking a deep breath, Adam reminded himself to keep thinking as positively as his parents, because thinking any other way made the truth all too clear.
His father could die.
So until his dad’s health returned, Adam would teach the classes that his brother and the other instructor, Mr. Chee, couldn’t.
“Glad you’re here early,” his father said. It was his idea of a compliment.
“I was working over at Yolanda’s. She’ll be opening on time.” Adam waited for the chitchat to end. His father wanted to talk about something more important than what he’d done that day.
“She’s a hard worker. So was her mother.” Adam’s dad approved of hard workers, whether they be a waitress at the local restaurant, or a grocery store clerk, or a housekeeper.
Roving mural painter didn’t make his list, though. It didn’t make Yolanda’s list, either. She’d stopped speaking to him when he dropped out of school, muttering something about people not knowing when they had it good. Back then, he’d thought she was talking about his dropping out, home life and art. Now, after working with her these past few months, he realized she’d just meant his home life.
She was right. He’d taken his family, especially Andy, for granted. His talent, too. Now that both were in jeopardy, he realized just how much he could lose.
Adam smiled, thinking about Yolanda. At first glance she was quiet, deceivingly hesitant, but underneath she was all fire and opinions. But she never got flustered. Not even when they’d worked together at Bridget’s Animal Adventure. If they’d had a problem, she’d just calmly tug on his sleeve and say, “The anaconda is loose” with no more concern than if she were asking for a tissue.
But she’d made it clear that she felt he should charge for his murals. She was a bit more impressed that he did caricatures for pay on the weekend, but only a bit.
She was too much of a Type A. Always with her calendar filled with tasks and no time to watch the sunset. Let alone