Griffith Tavern (Taryn's Camera Book 2) (6 page)

“Don’t fall asleep there.” The low male voice made her open her eyes and she raised her hand to shield the sun to get a better look. The man stood near her, close but not hovering, and smiled. He was tall with dark blond hair and a slight stubble of a beard laced with red. He wore dusty jeans, a blue stained T-shirt, and cowboy boots caked with mud (or something). He appeared to be in his early thirties and was attractive, if a little battered.

Because he seemed friendly and harmless enough, she smiled back. “I
could
go to sleep. That sun’s about to do me in. And it’s still early.”

Taking that as a welcome, he moved forward and leaned against her car. “It’s a nice one today. The rain last night cleared the air. Supposed to rain some more the next few days. I came up here for lunch, take some back with me.”

“That’s more or less what I’m doing, too. You work nearby?”

“I work up at Jenson Stables. You know it?”

Taryn shook her head. “I’m not from around here. I’m just in town for business.”

“Ah, well, I manage the horses up there. Show horses. Some riding lessons, too. A few boarders. Mostly show, though. You ride?”

“Not for a long time,” she answered. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been on a horse. She liked them well enough, though.

“How long you here for? Maybe I could take you riding sometime,” he offered with a smile.

Taryn could feel the warning signs, signs he was hitting on her. They prickled at her skin and made her tense up. She immediately went into defense mode. “”Well, I’m pretty busy. Lots of work to do.”

Before she could say anything more, her order was called and she had to go to the window. When she walked back to her car, though, he was still leaning against it.

“I didn’t mean to make you nervous or anything,” he said, this time a little shyly. “I’m not real good in these situations. If you decide you’d like to ride, though, here’s my business card. And I’m Jamie, by the way. I promise I won’t kidnap you, come on too strong, or send you a friend request until you get to know me more.”

She took it and tried to smile as she thanked him. She felt like a moron. “How can I resist an offer like that?”

“I have a sister. If she was out of town traveling on her own and a dude asked her out, I’d warn her to stay away–far away. You can’t be too careful these days. And now I‘ve gone and done it myself. I have references, though,” he laughed. “See the woman standing over there by the silver Cadillac?”

The woman in question appeared to be in her late seventies and was delicately nipping at a twist cone. Taryn acknowledged her.

“She was my high school art teacher. I’ve lived here all my life.”

“How do I know you’re not just picking out some random stranger and pulling my leg?” Taryn teased.

“Hey, Mrs. Meade!” Jamie shouted. The older woman turned, looked at him, and smiled.

“Hello Jamie!” she called back.

Jamie looked back at Taryn with a smug grin.

“Okay, okay,” she laughed. “I’ll
think
about it…”

On the drive to the tavern, she replayed the scene. There was no reason why she should’ve been standoffish to him. He seemed okay and he was nice-looking. As a woman traveling alone, and without a wedding ring, she got hit on a lot. At least this time the guy was easy on the eyes, and close to her age. She felt a little ashamed at herself for not talking to him more. It wasn’t his fault, after all, that she was awkward.

She wasn’t a stranger to dating since Andrew’s death. In fact, it was her past experiences with dating that made her hesitant to pursue anything. About five months after Andrew died Taryn found herself going out on a date. A client set her up with a man whose fiancée had recently called off their wedding. Taryn knew it was a bad idea the moment she agreed to it, but she was lonely and everyone kept telling her to “move on” and that Andrew would
want
her to see other people and be happy.

The date was average at best: dinner and a movie. She couldn’t even remember what they’d seen. Afterwards, they’d gone for a walk around a lake. He was charming in a simple kind of way and had complimented Taryn a lot over the course of the evening. Somewhere between skipping rocks and talking about music, she found herself making out with him. She had no idea how it happened, but they ended up on the ground, her jeans pushed down around her ankles. It was nothing but sex, and not even very good sex when it came right down to it, and it was over before she could catch her breath. In fact, during the whole time she found herself singing Kelly Willis’ version of “Don’t Come the Cowboy with me, Sonny Jim” the whole time–especially the part about counting cracks on the wall.
As
she’d stared at the sky and watched the stars she couldn’t help but think,
this is the same lake Andrew and I had a picnic at a year ago.

She didn’t see the guy, Craig, again.

That didn’t stop her from seeing other people, though.

She’d repeated the same scenario at least three more times.

Finally, one night as she was sitting in a rocking chair in her living room she received a text message from the latest man. It was full of sexual innuendo–some of it badly misspelled. She figured it was supposed to be sexy and turn her on. Instead, it made her angry.

She knew she meant nothing to these men. But worse, they meant nothing to
her
. She’d turned something she’d once thought sacred and magic into something base and crude.

“It’s normal,” her therapist had told her. “Many people react to the loss of a loved one in this way. It’s as if you’re proving you’re alive by engaging in intimacy. And, because you know you’re going to feel guilty afterwards, you might also be punishing yourself for the accident.”

Taryn hadn’t seen the therapist again.

There were no more dates for Taryn after that, though. Still, she made the mistake of telling Matt what was going on, and instead of being supportive or at least listening to her, he’d lectured her.

She’d cut him off, too.

Once completely alone, she’d gone on a tear through her house, removing pictures, bagging up clothes, and pushing most of the furniture that reminded her of Andrew into one room. After several months, when even that hadn’t helped, she’d put it in storage and found a new place to live.

Taryn had been single for almost five years without even a casual date. She and Matt made up. But she still couldn’t trust herself. Maybe she was punishing herself. Maybe all of her wires were just crossed.

Maybe she didn’t know how she felt anymore.

H
er turkey sandwich all but forgotten, she attacked her canvas with aggression. The lighting was good, despite the threat of rain and the storm clouds looming overhead, and Griffith Tavern rose before her, bleak and naked in the field. It was more imposing today and Taryn used this to her advantage. She was feeling dark and impassive herself. The paintbrush was light in her hand as she mixed colors, blended on her palette, and painted lines in firm, aggressive strokes.

I’m going to tell a story
, she announced to herself,
about a tavern that was owned and run by a woman. It’s a male building, but it was female command that kept it going. That’s what I’m going to paint.

In most aspects of her life she felt awkward, uneasy with herself. In college her clothes had been too bright, too colorful, for the young professionals already walking around in their black sweaters and business suits. Even in a town known for its country music she’d been embarrassed about her love of George Strait, Dwight Yoakam, and Patty Loveless, especially considering everyone she knew were all into grunge and alternative. Nobody had understood her friendship with Matt.

But when she painted…that’s when she felt like herself. Even in high school art class when she hadn’t been very good and only her art teacher encouraged her, she’d been happy.

Stoically, the tavern observed her in much the same manner she scrutinized it. Her sundress (she was down to her dresses since she couldn’t afford to do laundry at the moment) clung to her legs and ants scuttled over her feet. Her hair hung limply to her shoulders, matted in some places where the sweat gathered and dried. Thick, gooey mud was smeared across one cheek. A strap fell down to her shoulder, revealing the hint of a beige bra underneath.

She didn’t notice any of this.

Angry at herself even more now for not taking the nice man,
Jamie
, up on his offer and fed up with being so broke, she painted on.

Finally, when the sun started sliding in behind the clouds and she realized she’d need more linseed oil to continue, she stopped. Her canvas stared back at her, a quarter of the way completed. The real tavern waited in expectation, anticipating her next move.

Her energy had vanished, though, and she was drained. It was looking like rain, too. She couldn’t do anymore today.

After loading the car with the canvas and paints before it came a downpour, she grabbed Miss Dixie and began walking around the tavern. She was finished painting, but she wasn’t finished with her day. There were still things she wanted to do, needed to do. She might work on the painting back in her room and she could use more images.

The clicking of the camera was comforting to her and as soothing as any tonic or pills she’d ever taken. She aimed Miss Dixie at the windows, the porch, the field in the back (which used to be full of trees, she was told), and the piles of bricks that had once belonged on the building but were now laying in heaps around the yard. She’d taken more than fifty pictures before she realized it and the first few drops of rain had her scurrying back to the car.

The tavern faded into the gray sheet of rain behind her, forlorn and unmoving. Its windows were its eyes, however, and even without looking back she could feel them on her as the muddy water from the puddles sloshed against the side of the car.

T
aryn could see the image from across the room. She’d put her memory card in her laptop and stepped into the bathroom while they were uploading. When she returned, the picture that glimmered at her had her taking a step back and slamming her shoulder into the wall behind her. Even ten feet away, it called to her and grabbed. She could feel the room start to spin, her vision growing fuzzy, the blood rushing and pounding in her head. She steadied herself on the bathroom doorframe, sure she’d pass out, and yet she couldn’t take her eyes off it.

It was the last one she’d taken, a shot of the back of the tavern. You could clearly see the gaping hole in the roof, the fragmented glass hanging on in the windows, and the poison ivy imposing itself on the brick. All of that was expected. But what looked at her wasn’t.

“Oh geeze,” Taryn moaned, sinking to her feet.

Standing in the dusty, grimy glass on the second floor, was a well-defined figure of a woman. It wasn’t a trick of the light, double exposure, or any other normal photo justification. From her distance Taryn could still make out her dark hair, upturned nose, deep russet dress, and pale fingers pressing on the remainder of the glass. She knew the face as well; it was the same one reflected back at her in the mirror of her dream.

The woman, Permelia she reckoned, gazed out with sunken eyes and a frown. Her hair was groomed, her dress form-fitting and fashionable. Still, there was a look of desperation about her that made her appear on edge, frazzled–as though she might break at any moment. Her stance and the way she seemed to be pushing on the glass gave the appearance of someone who was trapped, someone who was shut off from the outside world and wanted desperately to be a part of it again.