Exit Wounds - J. A. Jance [57]
Joanna was stunned by this astonishing revelation. To those growing up in the cultural backwater of Bisbee, Arizona, a career as a fashion model would have been beyond the realm of possibility.
“You’re kidding!” Joanna exclaimed. “Eleanor Lathrop a fashion model? You mean a real, honest-to-goodness fashion model, in someplace like New York?”
“Or Paris,” Bob added.
Joanna was unconvinced. “That’s a little far-fetched. It sounds about as likely as her wanting to grow up to be a stripper. Besides, she never mentioned a word about it to me.”
“She did to me,” Bob returned.
Naturally, Joanna thought bitterly. Of course, she told her fair-haired boy and not me…
“So what happened?” Joanna asked with more than a trace of sarcasm in her voice. “If she wanted to become a model so badly, why didn’t she do it?”
“Because, after she had me, her mother convinced her that models who had damaged their bodies with babies were all washed up in the fashion biz.”
“So she decided to become a housewife instead?”
“That’s right. She stifled her own career ambitions, first because of me and later because of her husband and you. But now, Joanna, take a look at what you’re doing. It’s not just that you’re not following Eleanor’s blueprint for life. Instead, you’re designing a whole new ball game. Eleanor Matthews Lathrop had two children—you and me. It’s pretty clear to me that between the two of us we cost her everything.”
Speak for yourself, Joanna thought.
But Bob continued. “You have one child, soon to be two, but you’re living in a whole new era. From Eleanor’s point of view, society is letting you off easy. You can do whatever you want. You don’t have to pay the same kinds of prices Eleanor had to pay. As far as she’s concerned, you’re not having to give up anything.”
The cell phone next to Joanna’s ear was hot, but so was she. She sat there steaming, saying nothing but doing a slow burn. Bob Brundage had a hell of a lot of nerve analyzing what, if anything, Joanna Brady was having to give up.
“Joanna?” Bob asked at last. “Are you still there?”
“I’m here,” Joanna said stiffly. “Tell me something. Did you think all this up on your own, or did Eleanor ladle it to you one word at a time?”
“On my own,” Bob answered. “I swear, every word of it.”
“So what are you then, some kind of psychologist?”
“I have an advantage you don’t have,” Bob replied.
“What’s that?” Joanna asked pointedly. “Age?”
“That, too.” Bob’s reply to Joanna’s blunt question was pleasantly evasive. “But not just that,” he added. “I have the benefit of perspective, and perspective only comes with distance. You’re too close to see it.”
“As in too close to the forest?”
“Something like that.”
Across the parking lot, Joanna could see the Benson mayor’s aide, Martha Rogers, checking her watch and glancing anxiously around the parking lot. A look at the clock on the dashboard told Joanna why. It was two minutes away from the time to introduce visiting dignitaries, one of whom was scheduled to be Joanna Brady, sheriff of Cochise County.
“You still haven’t said what you want me to do about it,” Joanna said to her brother.
“Just be aware of it, is all,” Bob said. “And cut Eleanor a little slack now and then.”
“Does that mean you’re not going to tell me to drop out of the race for sheriff?”
“Are you nuts?” Bob asked with a chuckle. “I get all kinds of points around the Pentagon when I tell my coworkers that my kid sister is a sheriff out west in Arizona. They always want to know whether or not you carry a gun. And when I tell them you’re almost as good a shot as I am, they’re impressed.”
Joanna laughed, too. “Next time you’re out to visit,” she warned him, “you and I will do some target practice. We’ll see then who’s the better shot. Right now, I’ve gotta go. Someone’s looking for me. Tell Marcie hi for me.”
It was a thoughtful Joanna Brady who made