On Sunset Beach

Chapter 5

THE kayak glided across the water’s surface, following the gentle curve of the Chesapeake into Blue Heron Cove. Ford lifted the paddle and rested it across the hull, content to drift on the waves while they drew him closer to the pebbled beach. It had been years since he’d kayaked this far down the coast, but once upon a time, these waters had been as familiar to him as the paved roads of St. Dennis. Even as a young boy, he’d loved exploring the inlets and coves and rivers, loved the freedom, the solitude, the comfort of being alone on the water with nothing but his thoughts and the local wildlife for company. The stress and conflict he’d been feeling since he arrived at the inn were overbearing, and so he’d sought refuge in the only place where he knew for certain he’d find peace.

Ford closed his eyes and let the kayak drift closer to shore. He’d slept fitfully since he arrived at the inn, and he was nearing exhaustion. His first night home, he’d stood in the shower, the hot water beating down on him like a summer storm until his skin turned red, and even then he’d been reluctant to turn off the water. He’d joined his family in the main dining room and had been treated to the kind of meal he’d only dreamed about: exquisite, delicate crab cakes, twice-baked potatoes, and grilled summer vegetables, all served with beer from Clay’s own brewery. For dessert there’d been Ford’s favorite blueberry cobbler topped with whipped cream. Before eleven o’clock, he’d crawled into bed between soft clean sheets the likes of which he hadn’t seen in years and fully expected to pass out from the rigors of the last few weeks. He hadn’t anticipated tossing and turning through the night.

At one point, he’d gone out onto the balcony and let the warm night breezes wrap around him. The sound of the water lapping against the shore was just as he’d remembered. Through the branches of the enormous pines that stood near the shore, he could see the Bay shining smooth as glass in the moonlight, and every once in a while, he’d hear something rustling in the trees or in the shrubs below his room. Whatever else in his life may have changed, the sights and sounds of the Bay had remained the same. The comfort he’d drawn from those few minutes had lured him back to his bed and finally lulled him to sleep.

He’d been awakened that first morning by a soft rap on the outer door, and thought he’d heard someone moving about in the sitting room. By the time he’d gotten out of bed, wrapped a towel around his waist, and opened the door, whoever had come in had left. Ford suspected that it had been his brother who’d popped in just long enough to leave a tray of goodies on the console table: a carafe of steaming-hot coffee, a plate of fresh fruit, a croissant flaky enough to have floated off the tray on its own. Ford downed two cups of coffee while he leaned on the balcony railing, nibbled on his breakfast, and watched the inn’s grounds come alive. Even at an early hour, there were couples on the tennis courts, kids in the fenced play area, and sailboats out on the Bay. A lawn mower cranked along somewhere on the grounds, and down below, his sister greeted a smiling couple in the parking lot.

Ford dressed in a pair of khaki shorts and a short-sleeved tee and went downstairs. His mother had gone to a meeting, Lucy was still with her prospective clients, and Dan had the inn to run. Ford had slipped out of the inn and walked down to the waterline. Nearby, kayaks were lined up on the grass for the use of the inn’s guests. He’d selected a twelve-footer, walked it into the water, dropped into the cockpit, and headed off into the Bay.

That first foray out onto the Chesapeake had been everything he’d remembered. He’d enjoyed it so much that he’d repeated the excursion every morning since. Being alone on the Bay was the only time his head was clear enough to think things through. How best, he wondered, to transition from where he’d been to where he was and where he was going? And where was he going? How to make sense of the life he’d led in contrast to the life he now found himself in? How to adjust to the peace and quiet of this beautiful place when in his mind he still lived amid the chaos of the past few years?

And ultimately, where did he really belong? Here, or there?

It didn’t help that everyone Ford saw had asked some variation of the same questions: where had he been, how long was he staying, and had he come back to help his brother run the inn?

To the latter, he’d responded that Dan was doing a great job on his own and didn’t need help from anyone, but inside he was starting to wonder if maybe Dan resented the fact that Ford hadn’t been around to help, that he’d been off trying to “save the world,” as Dan had once quipped, instead of helping his family to save their business. As he looked around the grounds now, it was hard to imagine that there had been lean years following their father’s death, years when the future of the inn had been in question and there’d been the real possibility that it might pass from Sinclair hands for the first time in its long history. Only hard work on the part of his mother and his brother had ensured that the inn would remain in the family. Had Dan resented that the burden had fallen on his shoulders, and that neither Ford nor Lucy had stepped up?

Still in high school when their father passed away, Ford had worked at the inn with the rest of the family on the weekends, while Dan, who was seven years older, had taken on the bulk of the responsibility. Grace—and Dan—had been insistent that Ford go to college, as Dan and Lucy had done, but the only way they could afford for him to do so was through the ROTC program. Four paid years of college had obligated Ford to four years of military service, and so he’d gone into the army after graduation, eventually going on to Ranger training. His last assignment had been part of a small, newly formed covert force intended to help protect civilians from al Qaeda–backed rebels in a central African nation that was in the throes of civil war.

“Be our eyes and ears on the ground,” his superior had said, “and try to keep the rebels from taking over the country and wiping out the civilian population while you’re at it.”

Once on the ground, however, he and his cohorts had found that providing security to the small villages against the ravages of the well-armed, well-trained rebels was pretty much a full-time job. There’d been no words to describe the horrors they’d witnessed, no way to assure his family that he, too, would not become a victim of the same forces, and so he’d permitted his mother to believe that he was part of a UN Peacekeeping Mission, which was sort of a truth, though a very thinly stretched one. There were UN Peacekeeping Forces in the area, and his unit had been instructed to have their backs. He knew that if his mother had known the full truth, she wouldn’t have had a day unmarked by worry, and he’d wanted to save Grace from six years of sleepless nights, so he’d stuck to his original story.

Had several members of his own unit not been massacred along with two UN Peacekeepers in a bloody ambush six weeks ago, Ford might still be there. But when U.S. forces took a hit—as they had on previous missions, such as the slaughter in Mogadishu—the remaining troops were withdrawn and brought home, the unit disbanded as quietly as it had been formed. Upon his return to the States, Ford had opted for a discharge and had headed for home … yes, to see his family, but also because he couldn’t think of anywhere else to go.

The last thing he wanted was to have people asking where he’d been, what he’d been doing, and what his plans were. He was getting tired of saying, “Here and there,” “This and that,” and “I don’t know.”

All of which was why his stomach had clenched into one great big knot when his mother had announced at dinner on Thursday that she’d invited a few friends to the inn for a little welcome-home party for him on Saturday night. For one thing, Grace’s idea of a few friends and his were two very different things. She’d probably invited half the town, which meant he’d be repeating himself over and over and over all night without once having told the truth. He’d wanted to tell her right then and there that a party was out of the question, but the look on her face was so joyful that he didn’t have the heart. He knew she’d missed him—of course she did; after all, she was his mother—but he hadn’t realized just how much pain his absence had caused her. Now that he was home, he’d do anything to try to make it up to her, even if that meant enduring an evening spent with well-meaning friends and neighbors where he’d be forced to repeat his lies to everyone in town.

Well, at least they’d all hear the same story.

And now it was Saturday, and he was thinking that maybe he should have asked his mother to cancel the party. He’d taken the kayak out early hoping to start the day in a serene state of mind after an hour or so paddling on the Bay. But he’d been out for almost most of the morning and he still wasn’t feeling much better. At Sunset Beach he turned the kayak and paddled in toward the shore.

This had been his go-to place when he was a kid. This was where he’d come to lick the wounds of having lost a school-yard fight or the affection of a girl who decided that he wasn’t so interesting after all. Later that year, his opponent in the fight—which had mostly consisted of rolling around in the dirt—had become his best friend, but the girl, well, he could no longer remember her name. He’d come to this narrow stretch of sand to replay the ball he’d failed to catch in that day’s baseball game or the touchdown pass he’d caught the day before. The beach had witnessed his tears of grief when his beloved retriever, Barney, died, and his heartbreak sophomore year in college when the girl he’d been sure was “the one” had dumped him for a senior.

This was where he’d fled, too overcome with shock and pain to even cry, when he’d learned that his father had died.

What had happened, he wondered, to that boy who’d wanted nothing more than to play sports, to ace a test, to fish with his dad and crab with his friends, to kiss a pretty girl in the backseat of his buddy’s car after a high school dance?

He sat in the kayak, ten feet from shore, and watched the waves break so gently onto the beach that they hardly made a sound. If any part of that boy still existed, Ford was pretty sure he’d find him here—but not today. Some other day, he’d come back and he’d sit on the sand and think about all the things that had mattered to the boy he used to be, and all the things that had brought him to this place in his life, and maybe—just maybe—he’d be able to figure out where to go from here.

“Are you sure you think I should go?” Carly joined Cam and Ellie in the kitchen of their home at the end of Bay View Road. “I mean, I hardly know Grace, and I wouldn’t know her son if he fell over me.”

“You’ll know lots of other people,” Ellie assured her. “If I know Grace, half the town will be there. Besides, she specifically invited you, so I think you should go.”

“Ellie’s right. You’ve already met a lot of people here in town. You’re bound to know some of the other guests,” Cam added.

“And what better opportunity to talk up our hopes for the art exhibit.” Ellie put her arm through Carly’s and led her to the front door. “It’s a perfect setup for us to try to garner support for the project.”

“I guess as the owner of the bulk of Carolina’s work, you’re the right person to drum up interest.” Carly waited on the front steps while Cameron locked the door behind them. “But I think you should do most of the talking. I don’t want anyone to think I’m trying to push my own agenda. I think the push needs to come from St. Dennis residents.”

“You have a point.” Ellie paused. “Are we walking? Driving?”

“Driving. It’s too hot to walk.” Cam tossed his keys up and down in his hand. “My pickup or Carly’s Benz?”

“Since the truck is behind my car, I say we take the pickup,” Carly replied.

“Fine with me.” Ellie opened the passenger door and she and Carly got in.

“Cam, do you think you’ll have some time in the morning to go over the carriage-house renovations Ellie and I talked about?” Carly asked as they turned onto Charles Street.

“Ellie’s already filled me in on what you two have in mind and I have a few ideas for the project. It isn’t going to take much, since we’re not going to have to take anything down and we’ve already installed new electric. I will have to talk to my HVAC guy, but it’s a pretty straightforward project. Curtis already paid for the big-ticket items when he had us renovate the place from the ground up, so all the heavy lifting’s been done and paid for.” Cam headed up the lane toward the inn. “But to answer your question, sure, we’ll work on it first thing tomorrow and see if we can put together something Ed and the others on the council can live with.”

Every space in the inn’s guest parking lot was filled, so Cam drove around to the back of the building and parked in the employees’ lot.

“Wow, they really have a full house tonight,” Carly noted as they walked to the well-lit inn. “I don’t suppose all these people are here for Grace’s party.”

“The inn is always full this time of the year,” Cam told her. “But I did recognize a few cars while I was looking for a spot to park. Let’s go on in and see who’s here …”

Carly trailed a few steps behind Ellie and Cam, feeling just a little out of place. She reminded herself that she’d been wanting to visit the inn. Hadn’t Grace said that one of Carolina’s works hung in the lobby? Carly was itching to take a look.

The party for Grace’s son was in what Grace had referred to as the drawing room near the front of the building, and was already in full swing when Carly, Ellie, and Cam arrived.

“You weren’t kidding, Ellie,” Carly said from the corner of her mouth. “I’ll bet half the town is here.”

“Ford grew up in St. Dennis,” Cam reminded her. “Everyone in town knows him. I guess a lot of people wanted to stop by and say hi.”

“Which one is the welcome-home guy?” Carly asked.

“I don’t know,” Ellie said. “I’ve never met him either. Cam?”

Cameron looked around the room. “I don’t see him, but he’s got to be here somewhere. There’s Grace … and I see Lucy and Clay … and Dan and his kids.” He nodded. “Yeah, Ford must be around since his entire family is here.”

Carly did recognize some of Ellie’s friends she’d met before. Dallas MacGregor and her husband, Grant Wyler, gestured for the newly arrived threesome to join them. Carly had been secretly pleased that the movie star had remembered her and greeted her by name.

“Dallas, I heard about your new venture,” Carly said. Everyone had heard about the new studio and film production company Dallas had started in St. Dennis. It had been the talk of Hollywood—and therefore the magazines—for months. “I wish you much success with your film. Pretty Maids, right? From the book?”

Dallas nodded. “We plan to start shooting in two weeks. I can hardly wait.”

“You’re filming locally?” Carly asked, though she knew the answer. That, too, had been in the news. Everyone in town knew that Dallas was more at home in St. Dennis than she was in Hollywood.

“Yes. We’re looking for extras, if you’d like to make your film debut. We need people on the street, that sort of thing.” Dallas put a hand on Carly’s arm. “Though I’m sure you have better things to do. I heard about the plan you have for the carriage house at the Enright place, and I think it’s a brilliant idea to put it to good use. There are very few stone buildings in St. Dennis and that one is a beauty.”

“How’d you hear about it so fast?” Carly laughed. “We only met and discussed it this morning.”

“Ed brought his cat in for shots this afternoon,” Dallas explained. “Besides being the only veterinarian in town, Grant’s also on the town council this year.”

“So does your husband think the idea is brilliant, too?” Carly couldn’t help but ask.

“He does, but like Ed, he wants to see what Cameron comes up with. I have total confidence in Cam. I’m sure he’ll do a fabulous job. He and his crew just finished some renovations on our house and everything they did was perfection.” Dallas leaned a little closer to Carly. “Ed also said you were writing a book about one of the local artists you’d be highlighting at the gallery. An ancestor of Ellie’s?”

“Yes, Carolina Ellis was Ellie’s great-great-grandmother. Ellie was kind enough to loan me Carolina’s journals and diaries as references. Since so little is known about her as an artist and as a woman, I thought her biography would be a nice introduction to her work.”

“Could I impose on you for an early copy of your work? I’m looking ahead for my next project, and I’d love to do a film about a woman artist.” Dallas added, “A woman artist from St. Dennis would be even better.”

It was all Carly could do to keep her composure. “I’ll send you the manuscript when I’m finished. I hope I can do her justice. Carolina was quite the girl. She was crazy talented and made the most of it while raising two children and dealing with a husband who hated that she painted and did everything he could do to discourage her. The gallery show—assuming the town council will approve it—would be spectacular.”

“Now I know I have to read that manuscript.” Dallas’s legendary lavender eyes began to twinkle. “Yes, please send it to me as soon as you’ve finished. I can’t wait to read it.” She opened her bag and took out a card which she handed to Carly. “My email’s on the back.”

“Thanks. I’d just ask that you keep it to yourself right now. I’m hoping Ed and the others will keep it under wraps as well. I’d like to make a splashy announcement.”

“You can count on me,” Dallas assured her, “and I’ll make sure to tell Grant to remind the others that we don’t want the story getting old before its time.”

“Thanks, Dallas. I’d appreciate that.”

They were joined by Steffie Wyler and her husband, Wade MacGregor, who was Dallas’s brother. The talk immediately changed to the news that Steffie and Wade were expecting their first child, and Steffie’s attempts to avoid eating the ice cream she made for her shop, One Scoop or Two. Feeling like a fifth wheel, Carly drifted away into the crowd. She glanced around for Ellie and Cameron, but somehow had lost track of them. There were several small bars set up at different points in the room, and Carly headed for one, where she ordered a glass of wine. Once she’d been served, she made a beeline for the door that led into the lobby. On the way, she was stopped several times, once by Ed, who wanted to introduce her to another member of the town council, once by Ellie’s friend Sophie Enright, who’d also heard about the proposed plan for her grandfather’s carriage house (“Fabulous idea. I couldn’t be more excited. If it ever went to a referendum, you’d have my vote”), and once by Lucy, who wanted to introduce Carly to her brother, who was nowhere to be found at the moment.

Finally escaping into the lobby, Carly sipped her wine as she strolled around the room, glancing at the walls in search of the painting Grace had mentioned and trying to appear calm and collected. Had Dallas MacGregor really just asked to read her book once it was completed? Did she really say she might be interested in a film about Carolina, a film that could conceivably be based on Carly’s book?

Carly took another sip of wine and forced her feet to stay on the floor. The urge to jump up and down was hard to suppress.

Then she saw it. Across the room, on the wall behind the reception desk, hung an oil painting in a style Carly recognized from thirty feet away. She drew closer for a better look.

The subject was a grand white house with tall columns that rose to the second floor, where a balcony graced the front of the building. In the background, pine trees bent by wind stood their ground against the moonlit Bay, where choppy waters crashed over a wooden dock.

Carly knew the painting, though she’d never seen it before. Carolina had written about it in one of her journals. She stepped closer.

“Excuse me.” The woman behind the counter reached out to touch Carly’s arm. “Guests aren’t permitted behind the reception desk.”

“Oh, I just wanted to get a better look at that painting,” Carly explained.

“I’m sorry,” the desk clerk said. “It’s house rules.”

Carly sighed and stepped to the side of the desk, craning her neck to get as close as she could.

“Will you slap me if I help you up?” a male voice said from behind her.

Carly straightened up, a frown on her face. “What?”

“You were leaning over so far, I thought you were about to fall over.”

She turned and looked up into eyes that were as gray as a stormy summer sky set in a deeply tanned face too rugged to be classically handsome. For a moment, she forgot where she was and what she’d been doing.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Oh. I was trying to get a closer look at that painting.” Embarrassed by how she must have looked, she needed a moment before she found her voice.

“Just go on over and look.” He gestured to the space behind the desk.

“I tried that and got my hand slapped.” Carly lowered her voice. “ ‘Guests aren’t permitted behind the reception desk. It’s house rules.’ ”

Carly supposed his smile must have dazzled the desk clerk as much as it dazzled her, because before she knew it, he was standing in front of her, the painting in his hands.

“I’ll put it right back. Promise,” he hastily told the desk clerk. “We won’t move from this spot, right?”

“Right.” Carly nodded.

He held the painting at his chest level. “How’s this?”

“It’s … thank you.” She moved toward the painting to study the colors, the brushstrokes, the mood. Definitely one of Carolina’s late oils, she told herself. For a moment, she forgot everything except the canvas—even the man who held it for her.

“It’s the inn,” Carly heard him say, “seen from the front.”

“I wouldn’t have recognized it. I’ve only seen the back of the building,” she said. “Are the columns still there?”

“Sure. The columns, the porch, the balcony—nothing’s changed, architecturally speaking—in about two hundred years.”

“That’s remarkable.” Carly was engrossed in the painting, but felt obligated to comment. To ignore him would have been rude, especially after he’d made it possible for her to see the painting up close.

“It looks like a storm’s moving in, doesn’t it?” He peered over the top of the frame.

Carly nodded. “The water’s churned up—see how it’s swirling around the dock there? And how she—the artist—used all these shades of gray in both the sky and the water?” Gray like your eyes, she could have added, but she’d cut her tongue out before she said something that sounded so intimate to a stranger.

“I’m picking up some anxious vibes from …” He turned with the painting in his arms to the woman behind the desk and read from her name tag. “Marjorie. So I’d better hang this back here before she gets upset.”

He flashed his smile again—he had the sexiest mouth—and Marjorie merely stepped aside to permit him to return the painting to its place.

“Did you see whatever it was you were looking for?” He came back around the desk and stood in front of Carly, his hands on his hips, his gaze on her face.

“I did, thank you so much.” Carly’s heart thumped inside her chest under his scrutiny. She wished he’d stop looking at her.

“How ’bout a refill on that wine?” He gestured toward the empty glass in her hands.

“Oh. I’m good. But thanks …”

She started to walk away, and he fell in step with her.

“Maybe you should take a look at the front of the inn,” he suggested. “See those columns and the balcony for yourself.”

Having just seen Carolina’s interpretation of the inn, she found the idea appealing.

“I think I will, thanks. And thanks for the painting.” Carly shook her head. “I’d never have had the nerve to grab that off the wall the way you did. I’m surprised she let you get that close.”

“Must be my charm,” he said drily.

“Do you know which way is the front?” Carly stopped in the middle of the room.

“It’s this way.” He gestured toward the room where the party was being held. “Through the double doors …”

He held the doors for her, and lightly touched her arm when they encountered a small crowd walking in their direction. Her skin tingled under his fingertips and she thought he must have felt it, too, because he instantly pulled his hand away.

“Hey, people are looking for you.” Someone called to him as they neared the party.

“The door right ahead there goes out to the front of the building,” Carly heard him say just before he suddenly turned and vanished into the party crowd. “Enjoy the rest of the night.”

Just that quickly, he was gone.

Trying to pretend that she hadn’t been taken aback by his abrupt disappearance, Carly continued to the front door on her own. She stepped outside and went directly to the grassy circle formed by the curved driveway. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared at the old inn that had been depicted in the painting she’d seen in the lobby, and wondered if Carolina had ever painted it as it appeared on a night like this. Tonight clouds drifted like soft mist across the face of the moon and the breeze whistled through the cattails in the marshy area on the other side of the driveway. Music floated from inside the inn and she could hear laughter from a gazebo off to the left of the building. There were lights in all the front windows and the inn looked alive. She could—probably should—go back inside and rejoin the party, but she wasn’t in a party mood. Besides, she still felt awkward, never having met the guest of honor. She walked up to the front porch and took a seat on one of the wicker rocking chairs. She’d wait until she heard the party start to break up before going back in to find Ellie and Cam.

Carly sat and rocked and watched the moon emerge from the clouds only to be hidden again minutes later. Eventually her fingers went to the spot on her elbow where the man with eyes the color of a stormy sky had touched her, and she wondered if she’d see him again.