Snapshots Read Online Free

Rick’s friend and role model, and the shock and grief of his murder had never completely gone away. Now, years later, to be faced with nearly losing his wife in a similar situation had not only been terrifying, it had brought him up short. He didn’t want to live his life like this anymore. He wanted things to be peaceful, calm, nice.
    Of course, the case could be made that Rick had lost his wife before Padrón ever forced her into his car, but he wasn’t about to discuss that with Trista unless she brought it up first.
    Thankfully, she didn’t. She stretched, smiled at him and stood. “That chair in Martine’s hospital room has put a permanent kink in my spine. I could use a glass of wine to start the unwinding process. How about you?”
    â€œI’ll get it.” He started to rise, but she stayed him with a light hand on his arm.
    â€œNo, let me. I’m going inside to change shoes, anyway. I’m ready to kick back some.”
    He looked at her feet, small for such a tall woman. She wore espadrilles with cork wedge heels that made her ankles seem impossibly slim.
    â€œAll right, if you insist. I like the Delicato chardonnay. It’s in the refrigerator.”
    â€œI’ll try it,” she said.
    When Trista returned wearing bedroom slippers, which were incongruously fuzzy and pink, she carried two glasses on a narrow tray. “I couldn’t find any crackers or cheese. Maybe I should stop by the store on my way back from the hospital tomorrow.” She sat down beside him and eased the back of her patio chair down a notch.
    â€œI don’t expect you to do the shopping. I’ll be happy to pick up some food tomorrow. You’ve helped so much with Martine, and I’m grateful you’re here, believe me.”
    She regarded him over the top of her wineglass. “Where else would I be?” she asked. “I belong with you and Martine at a time like this.”
    â€œI appreciate everything you’re doing,” he said, thinking back to all the other occasions when he and Martine had depended on Trista. The time they’d won a Caribbean cruise in a raffle and she’d house-sat, overseeing the building of their new Florida room while they were gone. Trista had rearranged her vacation days in order to accommodate them. And a few years ago when Martine had injured her knee while skiing, Trista had uncomplainingly occupied their guest room for two weeks, doing all the cooking and keeping Martine company. Martine declared that she would have gone stark raving mad sitting around the house by herself all that time.
    â€œSo what do you think of the Carolina Panthers’ chances when they play the Dolphins next season?” Trista asked, and since this was something on which Rick held a well-thought-out opinion, he gratefully entered into a discussion. It amazed him that he was capable of this when he was hurting so much inside, but it had become second nature to pretend everything was okay when it wasn’t.
    The conversation progressed to updating her about his parents and their work in China and inquiries about Virginia Barrineau, who now lived with her sister in Macon, Georgia. It was easy talk, unchallenging and comforting because it required no thinking, no decision making.
    â€œI like this chardonnay,” Trista said when the conversation began to wane. She swirled the pale liquid in her glass, studying it. “You have good taste in wine.”
    â€œYou used to be disappointed that wine didn’t taste like Kool-Aid,” Rick reminded her, recalling their first foray into alcohol together. When they were high-school juniors, he’d snitched a bottle of pinot grigio from his parents’ bar at Sweetwater Cottage, and they’d drunk every last drop from paper cups on the beach. The wine had given them only a mild buzz, and Martine had declared that she liked beer better, so what was all the fuss about?
    He and Trista had