A Path Less Traveled by Cathy Bryant Page B

be
great, especially after the delicious meal.”
    The work
completed, Andy and Trish strolled down a well-worn path to her house, the area
blanketed with oak trees and prairie grass and sprinkled with bluebonnets and
Indian paintbrush. Her house soon came into view. Made of Texas limestone, the
rustic cedar posts and a metal roof completed the look of a Texas ranch house.
    They strolled
around back to a large deck, which overlooked a grassy meadow. A cottage stood
in a grove of trees to the right. “Who lives there?”
    “That’s my art
studio.” Her voice turned solemn. “Right after were married, Doc built it for
me.”
    “I’d love to take
a look at more of your artwork.”
    Trish pressed her
lips together, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and peered off in the
distance. Finally, she released a heavy sigh. “Sure.”
    They made their
way across an overgrown pathway, bypassing an equally unkempt flower garden.
Trish looked the other direction and stopped short of the door. With a deep
breath, she inched forward and twisted the doorknob, the door creaking out a
groan that mirrored her face.
    The one-room
cottage, decorated with cobwebs, smelled of musty disuse. A small kitchenette
sat to the left, and an overstuffed chair to the right. Along the rear wall,
natural light flooded in through a bank of windows, and dust danced in the
beams.
    A variety of
canvases leaned against the window frames. He drifted toward them, drawn by a
combination of curiosity and fascination. One at a time, he examined them, more
awed and impressed than ever. The artwork was every bit as spectacular as he’d
imagined.
    Trish anchored
herself near the doorway, like a frightened cotton-tail rabbit, torn between
freezing and bolting. She clutched one elbow, her face pale.
    “Your work is
beyond beautiful, Trish. Words can’t do it justice.”
    She made no
reply.
    “You wanna
leave?”
    Trish nodded and
escaped out the door.
    As he exited the
room, Andy gave one last look around. This room was Trish. From the decorations
to the paintings . . . even the dust and cobwebs. Maybe one day the hurt and
confusion could be cleared from her life, and she’d be able to return to the
art she once enjoyed.
    Without speaking,
she glided toward the beckoning pasture, now back-dropped by a gorgeous Texas sunset, apparently not ready for the stroll to end. Andy followed and allowed the
beauty of the early May evening to wash over him.
    Trish finally
broke the silence. “It was tough to open that door and go in. I haven’t been
there since before Doc died.”
    Andy took time to
think through his response. The last thing he wanted was to hurt her further.
She seemed so vulnerable. So fragile. “I could tell it was difficult, Trish,
but it was a major step in the right direction. I’m proud of you.”
    Her eyes swam
with instant tears. “It used to be such a happy place. Now it seems . . .
ruined.” Her words ended in a murmur.
    Andy seized her
hand and halted, purposely not speaking until she looked him in the eye. “Not
ruined, just in need of some TLC. One step at a time.”
    She withdrew her
hand and continued the walk. They approached a wooded area, where a narrow path
disappeared in dark shadows.
    Andy eyed the
dense grove, old fears clawing his insides, his neck hairs bristling. He choked
on the desert dryness that puckered his mouth and battled his desire to run.
“We’re going in there?”
    Trish came to a
standstill a few steps down the shaded path, her eyes full of questions. “It’s
okay, Hansel. I brought bread crumbs, and I’ll make sure we’re not baked into
gingerbread by a wicked witch.”
    He didn’t return
her smile. “I’d rather not, if you don’t mind.” He hated that his voice quaked.
    “Okay.” She
turned back, and they moved toward the house. “Wanna tell me why?”
    “No reason. Just
need to get back. So tell me, what’s up with Little Bo?”
    Trish filled him
in. She lowered her head and voice. “He