Dillon rose, slouched to the counter, and poured herself a cup of coffee, dumping in milk and three spoons of sugar. Charlie was deeply thankful to have gotten past that age long ago-too old to be a child, too young to be a woman, caught in a world where you were expected to be both but were offered the challenges of neither. In ages past, at thirteen you were learning to be a woman, learning the needed survival skills, the small simple skills involved in everyday living and in raising a family and, in the best of times, the urgent intellectual skills so necessary to human civility. Charlie found it hard to conceal her anger at the change in Dillon. Observing the girl's attitude, she found it difficult to remember that only a few months ago she had considered Dillon Thurwell nearly perfect, had thought Dillon was working very hard at growing up. Training the horses under Max's direction, Dillon had been mastering the skills of concentration and self-management, building confidence in her own strength-absorbing the building blocks that she would so badly need as a strong adult.
To see Dillon now, to see the change in her, to see the twisting of her strong early passions into self-destruction, angered Charlie to the point of rage.
All because of her mother-and yet that was so lame. Dillon was still her own master, she still had the luxury of choice in what she would make of herself, no matter how her mother behaved.
Sipping her coffee, Dillon stood by the table staring at the plans and elevations, then glanced down the hall toward the living room and three bedrooms. "What's the point? This house is big enough already." She stared at Charlie. "You starting a family? You pregnant?"
"I am not starting a family. Not that it would be any of your business. I need workspace. A studio." Charlie couldn't help feeling confrontational. She watched Ryan, who was studying Dillon, probably fighting the same impulse to paddle the child.
"So what was this murder last night?" Dillon said. "Some guy fell dead in your lap?"
Charlie managed a laugh. "That's putting it crudely but accurately. You missed the excitement. I was hoping to see you at the opening."
"I don't go to art exhibits. I suppose my mother was there with what's-his-name."
"I saw Marlin Dorriss. I didn't see your mother."
"So who died? Some waiter? What, poison in the canapes?"
"He worked at Jolly's. Sammy something. Blond, good-looking guy." Charlie's voice caught at Dillon's expression. "You know him?"
"Why would I know some waiter?"
"Why not? Something wrong with waiters? You never go in Jolly's? Who knows, he might be-have been, some college student working his way through. Not that it matters. Did you know him?"
Dillon stared at her.
"What?"
Dillon shrugged. "Maybe he hung out around the school. Some tall, blond guy hung around the high school."
"Not around your school? Not around the junior high?"
Another shrug.
Charlie wanted to shake her. "He was a bit old to be hanging out with school kids. What was the attraction?"
"Maybe he has a younger brother."
Charlie just looked at her. Ryan turned the blueprints around, laying the elevations of the new living room before Dillon. Dillon, in spite of herself, followed the sweep of the high ceiling and tall windows.
"This is what we're doing," Ryan said. "This will be the new living room. There," she said pointing to where the new arch would be constructed, "off the kitchen and dining room."
"That's gonna cost a bundle." Dillon had grown up knowing, from her mother's business conversations, the price of real estate, and knowing what it cost to build. "I didn't think a cop made that kind of money"
Charlie and Ryan stared at her.
"I guess it's none of my business what you do with the captain's money."
"I'm spending my money," Charlie said quietly. "And that is none of your business. However, for your information, we're using money from the book I worked on after the author died. And from my gallery and commission sales." She wanted to say, What's with you? You think dumping on me is going to solve your problems? You think belittling me is going to make you feel better about your mother or yourself? With heroic effort, she said nothing.
Ryan said, "The two smaller bedrooms will be joined to make Charlie's studio. Tear out this wall, here, we have a fifteen-by-thirty-foot room. Add a couple of skylights and voila, Charlie's new workspace. You have a problem with that?"
Dillon looked at Ryan with interest. Charlie watched the two of them face-off, Dillon a defiant, angry young lady; Ryan both angry and amused. Charlie thought that Ryan was a far better match for Dillon Thurwell's rage than she herself. She didn't much like confrontation-but Ryan had grown up with cops, and she knew how to give back what she got.
Charlie would have liked to share with Dillon her excitement over the new studio as she shared it with her other friends, to relay her delight over simple details like the big adjustable shelves to hold drawings and prints and paper supplies, the new printing table, her anticipation over a new (used) desk, over a decent place for her computer.
She studied the girl, looking for a spark of the old Dillon. "I'll be working on the building project as carpenter's helper, under Ryan's direction. I want to improve my carpentry skills. I'm already pretty good at Sheetrock, from helping with Clyde's apartment building." She wished she could hone her people skills as easily. She wished she could master the moves to make the world right again for Dillon.
Dillon looked at her and rose. "Can I ride Redwing?"
Charlie nodded. "Don't let the dogs out of the pasture. You want company? We're about through here."
"Could I call my friend? Could my friend ride Bucky?"
Charlie stared at her. Bucky was Max's big, spirited buckskin. The sun rose and set with that gelding, no one else rode Bucky. "What friend is that?" she said carefully.
"From school. My friend from school."
"A girlfriend?"
Dillon said nothing. The child's stare made Charlie very glad she didn't have a teenager to raise. "You know that no one rides Bucky. Even I don't ride Bucky, without a very special invitation."
"I guess I'll go home then." Dillon turned on her heel, heading for the door.
Ryan rose, moving quickly around the table. She put her arm around Dillon. "Christmas vacation isn't far off."
"So?" Dillon turned a sour look on her. But she didn't move away.
"You have a job for the two weeks of vacation?"
Dillon shrugged. "Who needs a job? Who wants to work during vacation?"
"You want to work for me?"
"Why would I want to work for you? Doing what?"
"Carpenter's gofer. Fetching stuff. Sweeping up, cleaning up the trash. Maybe some nailing. Learn to lay out forms and mix cement. I can get a work-learning permit through the school. I'll pay you minimum, which is likely more than you're worth."
Dillon stared at her. "Why would I want to do that kind of work?"
"Something wrong with it? It's the way I started, when I was younger than you. At about the same time I began to learn to shoot a gun and to train the hunting dogs-carpentry skills might come in handy, whatever you do with your life." Ryan looked hard at Dillon. "What you do right now-while you're hurting-will shape the rest of your life. You want to spend it sneaking around shoplifting?"
Dillon pulled away. Ryan took her hand. "You are not your mom, Dillon. And she's not you." Ryan's green eyes flashed. "You plan to mess up your life just to punish her? What do you get out of that? If you're a survivor, as I hear you are, you'll stop this shit. You'll not let the dregs of the world plan your life for you, you'll write your own ticket."
She drew Dillon close and hugged her. "Charlie and Max love you. Clyde and Wilma love you. I don't love you but I'd like to be your friend." She tilted Dillon's chin up, looking hard at her. "You come to work for me, you'll have more fun with my carpenters than with your smarmy girlfriends-I bet they wouldn't have the guts to tackle construction work."