"Mom, I'm taking the paintings downtown to Coffee Etc." Abby called from the stairs. "Great, honey. Are you sure you don't mind?" he asked. "No, really, I don't mind. I need to go out for a while anyway. It will do me good. Just these two here or do you want me to bring that pastel landscape into your studio too?" he asked, touching the frame. "That one's not ready yet. I think those two will fit in much better with the vibe of the place," she said thoughtfully as she walked down the stairs to meet her. "It is not true?" Abby had always thought her mother, Andrea Sullivan, was a striking woman with short, dark hair, pale skin and blue eyes. She would have been happy to have her mother's beauty, but she was more like her father's family, the Sullivans. She was a tall redhead, with blue eyes, a full mouth, and a generous scattering of freckles across her nose. "You're the artist, Mom," she replied, brushing a lock of her curly auburn hair away from her face. "I'll put them in the car. Maybe I'll go to lunch or shopping or something after I drop them off. You don't need the car for anything, do you?" "Take your time dear. Try to enjoy yourself. I have some studio work to take care of anyway." Andrea blew her daughter a kiss and then returned to her attic study to work. Abby knew she couldn't spend all her time at home. The weather was wonderful and she was starting to go crazy. He had sworn his mother to secrecy, but sooner or later someone would make an embarrassing comment or ask a stupid question. He felt a little stronger than he had two weeks ago. He couldn't avoid life or any human contact, no matter how much he wanted it. The time for licking one's wounds was over. She had to face… half the paper… and scared into silence. Gorgeous. An overbearing restaurateur was the last thing he wanted to deal with. He called. "Hi. Is anyone here?" The kitchen door swung open and a tall man with dark hair appeared. "Hi. Can I help you? I'm sorry. Some of these college kids think this isn't the real world, they can show up whenever they want. What can I do for you?" "I'm Abby Sullivan. I brought some of my mother's paintings to show," she replied. “I'm Rick Markham, the owner. Let me help you carry them in,” he said, smiling, lifting the corners of his plump lips. He led her out the back door of the parking lot. They unloaded the paintings and brought them into the restaurant. “Your mother has an extraordinary talent,” Rick said as he studied the painting of Palouse's rolling cornfields. "Would you like to help me find the right place to hang it? I want to do it justice."