Summer in Eclipse Bay

Chapter 14

"I read them," she said.

"You don't count. You're leaving town in a few weeks, remember?" He took her arm and steered her away from the entrance. "What the hell are you doing here? I hope you weren't planning to eat lunch at the Total Eclipse. You weren't raised in Eclipse Bay, so you probably lack the necessary immunity to survive Fred's cooking."

"I wasn't planning to eat there. I saw you go inside and I knew you had probably gone in to talk to someone about the painting."

"Brilliant deduction." Across the street, Sandy Hickson was watching them with great interest, a dripping squeegee dangling absently from one hand. Nick took Octavia's arm again. "Come on, let's get you out of here. There's enough talk about you going around as it is."

She skipped a little to keep up with him. "Did you learn anything in the Total Eclipse?"

"Always something to be learned in the Total Eclipse." he said flatly. "It is never less than an enlightening experience."

She frowned. "What happened in there?"

"Long story."

"It's lunchtime. Why don't we go somewhere and you can tell me this long story."

He looked at her.

"You know," she said with a determinedly bright smile. "You can give me a report."

A report, he thought. First he was therapy and now he was business. This relationship was not improving. On the contrary, it seemed to be going sideways. But an invitation to lunch counted for something.

"Okay," he said. "But you're the client, so you're buying."

She flushed a little and did not seem amused. "Certainly. Where shall we go?"

"I assume you have to get back to the gallery right away. We can grab a bite at the Incandescent Body."

"Well, actually, no, I don't have to get back to the gallery right away," she said smoothly. "I just hired an assistant for the summer. Gail Gillingham. She said she could handle the place for the afternoon."

"Gail?" He thought about that. "Good choice."

"I think so. Unfortunately, I can't offer her anything permanent, but she said that the position will give her some breathing space in which to hunt for a better situation. You know what they say, the best time to look for a job is when you've already got one."

"Yeah, I've heard that." He kept his grip on her arm and angled her across Bay Street, steering toward the gas station, where his car was still parked at the pump.

"Gail has a very professional attitude and she's smart."

Octavia said, trotting briskly along beside him. "I think that eventually she'll turn up something at the institute or at Chamberlain."

"Probably."

Octavia finally noticed that they were halfway across the street. She frowned. "Where are we going?"

"To get my car."

"Oh."

When they reached the BMW, Nick opened the door on the passenger side and stuffed Octavia into the seat. He closed the door and reached for his wallet.

"What do I owe you, Sandy?"

"Twenty-three bucks." Sandy peered through the windshield, looking at Octavia. "Everything go okay in the Total Eclipse?"

"Sure." Nick handed him the cash and started toward the driver's side of the car. "By the way, turns out Eugene and Dwayne were mistaken about that rumor they were spreading around."

Sandy blinked. "You mean the one about Miss-" He broke off abruptly when Nick gave him a hard look. He swallowed heavily. "Wrong, huh?"

"Yeah." Nick opened the door. "Completely false. Be a good idea if you didn't pass it along. Know what I mean?"

"Right," Sandy said quickly and nodded. "Big mistake."

Nick got behind the wheel. "You got it," he said through the open window. "Big mistake."

He drove out of the station, aware that Octavia was watching him intently.

"What was that all about?" she asked.

"Nothing important."

"Don't give me that. You deliberately intimidated Sandy Hickson. I want to know why."

He turned the corner and drove up the street that led away from the waterfront. "I didn't do a damn thing to Sandy."

"Yes, you did. I saw you. Something about the way you looked at him. I call that intimidation. Why did you do it?"

He contemplated that question for a while. Then he shrugged. "Okay, you should probably know what's going on, seeing as how you're the client, and all."

"Absolutely." She put on her own dark glasses, settled back into her seat, and folded her arms beneath her breasts. "Talk."

"There's a rumor going around town that you're the one who swiped the Upsall."

For a couple of seconds she did not move, just sat there gazing blankly through the windshield. Then she whipped around in the seat.

"Someone thinks I stole it?"

"I picked up the story from Sandy. He said he got it from a couple of colorful types who hang out at the Total Eclipse-"

"Mean Eugene and Dickhead Dwayne."

He was a little taken aback. Somehow it was hard to envision her calling anyone dickhead. He had to keep reminding himself that the Fairy Queen was not all sweetness and light. Not anymore.

"Uh, yeah," he said.

"Those two are spreading the rumor that I'm responsible for the theft, hmm?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I hate to say it, but you must admit that there is some logic to their theory. I mean, I do have motive, opportunity, and a good working knowledge of the art world. How hard would it be for a slick operator like me to scam a bunch of locals like A.Z. and Virgil and the Heralds? All I'd have to do is make the picture disappear, tell everyone it got stolen, and then, a few months from now when I'm settled in some big city, make it mysteriously reappear. Presto, my name is suddenly legend in the world of modern art."

"Not hard," he agreed.

"And no one back here in Eclipse Bay would have a clue."

"No one but me," he corrected mildly.

"You wouldn't have any way of knowing what had happened, either. Not unless you made it a point to keep up with events in the art world."

He did not take his eyes off the road. "I'd do that, though."

"You would?"

"Let's just say I'd keep up with events concerning you."

"Oh." She mulled that over for a while and then, apparently not knowing what to do with it, let it go. She tightened her arms around her midsection. "Well, it's all moot because I did not steal the painting."

"I explained that to Eugene and Dwayne."

"You did?" Something in her expression lightened. "That was very nice of you."

"That's me. Mr. Nice Guy."

"I'm serious," she said. "That rumor about me taking the painting sounds quite logical when you think about it. I can see where reasonable people might start to wonder if I was the thief. After all, I am related to Claudia Banner and everyone knows what she did here."

He said nothing.

"I appreciate your support."

"Hey, you're the client. I lose you, I lose my fee."

"What fee?" she asked warily.

"Good question. Been wondering about that, myself. What fee?"

"You're not expecting a fee and you know it," she said crisply.

"That right? No fee, huh?"

They were in the woods now, climbing the hillside above the town. The cool, green canopy cut the bright sunlight. He watched for the familiar sign.

"Stop making a joke out of this," she said briskly. "We both know why you're looking for the painting. You want to help A.Z. and Virgil and the others."

"Not exactly," he said.

"What does that mean?"

"Means, not exactly."

The sign inscribed with the faded words Snow's Cafe came into view. The parking lot was crowded with vehicles ranging from bicycles to Volvos. Most of them, he knew, belonged to students and staff from nearby Chamberlain College. Arizona had catered to that particular clientele since she had opened the restaurant.

He turned off the road and parked next to a shiny little yellow Volkswagen.

"You know," Octavia said coolly, "the macho-cryptic private eye talk reads well in your books, but it doesn't go over so great in person."

"I hate when that happens."

He unfastened his seat belt and climbed out before she could pursue that line of inquiry. He was not in the mood to explain that the real reason he was playing private eye was because of her. Something Eugene had said came back to him. How does it feel to be led around by your balls?

That was Eugene for you, a real relationship guru. Downright insightful.

He shut the door and started around the rear of the car. By the time he got to her side she was already out of the front seat, moving toward him with a determined stride. She gripped the handbag slung over one shoulder very tightly and there was a dangerous look in her eyes.

Damn. He was getting hard.

He opened the door of the cafe and ushered her into the pleasant gloom of the comfortably shabby interior. Tough-looking rock stars of another era, thin and angry and wearing a lot of leather, glared down at them from the ancient posters that decorated the walls. The music piped through the old speakers came from the same time warp as the posters, but the decibel level was kept reasonably low so that you could hold a conversation without shouting.

Arizona did not spend much time here these days. She relied on employees she recruited from the work-study offices of Chamberlain. She trained a new crew at the beginning of each academic year and she paid them handsomely. The result was a remarkably loyal staff that, in turn, freed her to concentrate on what she saw as her chief mission in life: keeping tabs on the goings-on at the institute.

"Getting back to the way you explained things to Eugene and Dwayne." Octavia tossed her bag into the booth and slid in beside it. "Maybe you'd better tell me precisely what you said."

"Hard to recall precisely what I said." He flipped open the plastic-coated menu.

Portions of Arizona's bill of fare were occasionally updated to reflect passing trends such as soy products and veggie patties, but mostly A.Z. stuck with the basic student food groups: burgers, fries, and pizza.

"Talk to me, Nick. I'm very serious here. What did you say to Eugene and Dwayne?"

"Why is that conversation of such great interest to you?" he asked, not looking up from the menu.

"Because the more I think about it, the more it worries me. I don't know those two well, but from what I've heard about them, it would surprise me if they took good advice willingly."

"I tried to provide an incentive."

She went very still on the other side of the table. "That's what I was afraid of."

"Look, don't worry about it, okay?"

"I'm worried." She reached out and plucked the menu from his fingers. "What magic words did you use to make them back off those rumors?"

What the hell, he thought. She would probably find out sooner or later, anyway. He lounged against the padded seatback and contemplated her for a moment.

"Lavender and Leather," he said finally.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Lavender and Leather is the name of a gay bar located in the Capitol Hill neighborhood in Seattle," he explained. "About a year ago, Eugene and Dwayne went off to the big city, had a few beers, and decided it would be amusing to hang out in the vicinity of the establishment. They planned to entertain themselves hassling some of the patrons."

She was instantly incensed. "And here I've gone out of my way to be polite to them whenever I see them on the street. I actually felt sorry for those two."

"The interesting part is that, being Eugene and Dwayne, they managed to misjudge their intended victims. They picked on a couple of guys who had studied the martial arts. In short, Eugene and Dwayne got their asses kicked. Literally. It was not, I am told, a pretty sight."

"Oh, good." Octavia brightened. "I love stories that end like that. They confirm Aunt Claudia's theories about karma."

"Eugene and Dwayne apparently got a real jolt of karma that night." He picked up the menu she had taken from him and opened it again. "As you can imagine, however, it is not an incident they wish to have widely publicized here in Eclipse Bay."

"Ah, so that's it. Now I understand. No one here knows about their humiliating experience in Seattle?"

"Trust me, it is, perhaps, the best-kept secret in Eclipse Bay. If it ever got out that two gay men had used Eugene and Dwayne to mop out an alley, I doubt if the dynamic duo would ever be able to appear in public around here again."

She propped her elbow on the table and rested her chin on her hand. "In other words, you threatened Eugene and Dwayne."

"That's pretty much what it comes down to, yeah. Subtlety does not work well with those two."

"Hmm."

He looked up at that. "What?"

"If no one here in Eclipse Bay knows about Eugene and Dwayne's excellent adventure in Seattle, how did you learn the details?"

"Virgil Nash."

"Virgil? What does he have to do with Eugene and Dwayne?"

"As little as possible, like everyone else. It's another long story but I'll give you the short version. Several years ago, back in our wilder days, a bunch of us used to get together with some other guys out on a road near the bluffs to race our cars."

"I thought drag racing was illegal."

"Hey, we were nineteen-year-old guys with cars. What else could we do?"

"Right. Guys with cars. Go on."

"At the time, Eugene's pride and joy was a Ford that he boasted could beat anything else on the road. He was winning regularly but one night I beat him. He didn't take losing well, to put it mildly. After the race he followed me home. It was one o'clock in the morning."

"Go on."

"He had Dwayne with him, naturally. They probably egged each other on. At any rate, Eugene started playing games on the road that runs along the low cliffs just south of town."

"I know it. There are a lot of tight curves. What kind of games?"

"Coming up fast from behind, nipping at the bumper of my car, pulling up alongside and swerving toward us just as we went into a curve."

"Us?"

He shrugged. "Jeremy was in the car with me that night."

"I see." She looked thoughtful.

"We didn't know if Eugene was really trying to force us off the road or merely attempting to scare us. He was more than just annoyed because he had lost to me that night. He was crazy mad."

"What happened?"

"I figured I had two choices; I could either try to outrun Eugene, which would have been dicey on those curves, or try to fake him out. I went for faking him out. Jeremy watched him while I concentrated on driving. When Eugene made one of his moves to pull up alongside, Jeremy gave me the word. His timing was right on the mark. I braked hard. Eugene kept going and lost control. His car went over a low bluff and down a short incline, and landed in some shallow water."

"Whew. Well, obviously he and Dwayne weren't killed."

"No. The only thing that saved them was the fact that the tide was still partially out. I stopped at the top of the bluff and Jeremy and I went down to see how bad things were. Eugene was slumped over the wheel. At first we thought that he was dead but then we realized he was just badly dazed. Dwayne was frozen with shock. There was no time to get help because the tide was coming in fast. Jeremy and I hauled them both out of the car and dragged them out of the water. We wrapped them in some blankets I kept in the back of the car."

"In other words, you and Jeremy saved Eugene and Dwayne."

"And neither of them ever forgave us for the humiliation," Nick concluded dryly.

"Where does Virgil Nash fit into this story?"

"Virgil lives out near where the accident happened. After we got Eugene and Dwayne out of the car, we went to Virgil's house to get help. He was there when Eugene made some threats to Jeremy and me."

"Threats?"

"Eugene was really pissed, like I said. Blamed us for wrecking his beloved car. But mostly he was just furious because he had screwed up and we'd had to rescue him. Anyhow, Virgil took us aside later and said that we should watch our backs for a while. We did, but Eugene never made any moves. The years went by and we figured everyone involved had forgotten about what happened that night."

"But Virgil didn't forget?"

"No. Virgil's been watching Eugene ever since, and that means watching Dwayne, too, since for the most part they're inseparable. When they got into trouble last year in Seattle, Virgil heard about it from a colleague who runs a sex toy shop there. He e-mailed both Jeremy and me and told us the story. Reminded us that guys like Eugene don't change and that someday it might pay to have some ammunition on hand, just in case."

"And today you used your ammunition."

"You could say that."

She watched him with an odd, unreadable expression. "For my sake."

"Yeah, well, I didn't want them spreading that story around."

"It's the kind of thing your hero, John True, would do."

He should have been flattered, he thought. But for some reason it irritated him that she was making a connection between him and the character in his books. He wasn't John True. He was Nick Harte. He closed the menu a second time and looked at her very steadily.

"Don't," he said grimly, "get me mixed up with John True. He's pure fiction. I'm real."

The interesting expression on her face disappeared immediately behind a cool veil. She took her chin off her hand and sat back. "Got it. Trust me, I won't make that mistake."

"Good." He was more annoyed than ever now. What the hell was wrong with him today?

A young waiter appeared, saving him from getting too deep into the introspective thing. Octavia ordered a salad. Nick realized that he was hungry. The confrontation at the Total Eclipse had given him an appetite. He chose the oversized tuna sandwich and fries, knowing from past experience that it would do the job.

When the waiter had disappeared, Octavia looked at him.

"Don't get me wrong, I appreciate what you did today," she said. "But do you think it was wise to threaten Eugene and Dwayne?"

"I'm not worried about those two," he said.

"Okay, so what are you worried about? I can see that you've got something else on your mind."

"Eugene and Dwayne are not the sharpest knives in the drawer, if you know what I mean."

"I sort of got that impression. So?"

"So, while they are both the type to spread false and malicious rumors, neither of them has the brainpower to concoct the one going around about you."

She elevated her brows. "I believe I see where you're going here."

"When you stop and think about it, that story Eugene and Dwayne were spreading about you is a fairly sophisticated piece of gossip. They gave you motive and opportunity and they've added a few inside bits about how the art market works. Eugene even tried to use the word provenance."

"Not the sort of word you'd expect a guy like him to have in his vocabulary."

"No."

"From what I've heard about those two, they aren't likely to know much about the art market, either."

"Highly doubtful," he agreed.

"Which means that they are probably not the source of the rumors."

"Probably not."

She was quiet for a moment. Her expression turned somber. "What do you propose to do next?"

"I'm going to try to find out who started the gossip about you," he said. "I figure whoever is responsible for the rumors might have had a motive for implicating you."

"Like, maybe, to cover up his own involvement in the theft of the painting?"

"Yeah." He hesitated and then decided to give her the rest of it. "There's something else that bothers me about that elaborate story, too."

"What?"

"It would have been a lot simpler to point the finger of blame at the Heralds. They already seem a little suspicious to most folks. Instead, whoever concocted it chose you for the fall guy."

"You think this may be personal?"

"Yeah," he said. "I do. I've come to the conclusion that someone isn't just looking for any scapegoat. Whoever took the painting wants to make you, in particular, look guilty." Chapter 15

Anne came into the gallery with Gail the following morning. She clutched a carefully rolled-up sheet of drawing paper in both hands.

"I brought you my picture," Anne said in her whispery little voice. She held it out to Octavia.

"Thank you." Delighted, Octavia came around from behind the counter to take the rolled artwork. "I'm so glad that you decided to enter a drawing in the show, Anne."

Before she could unroll the picture, Nick and Carson walked into the gallery. Nick carried a paper sack bearing the Incandescent Body logo. Carson had a cup of hot chocolate in one hand.

"Morning, Gail," Nick said. "Hi, Anne."

"Hi," Gail replied. "Say hello to Mr. Harte, Anne."

"Hello, Mr. Harte."

"This is Carson," Nick said.

"Hi," Carson said cheerfully. He looked at Anne and then at the rolled-up drawing in Octavia's hand. "Is that your picture?"

"Yes," she said.

"I did one, too. Miss Brightwell put mine in a gold frame." He looked at Octavia. "We brought you some coffee and a muffin."

"Thanks," Octavia said. "That sounds good."

"Let me see Anne's picture," Carson said.

"I was just about to look at it myself, and then Anne can select her frame."

Octavia carefully unrolled the drawing and put it down on a low table. She looked at the picture, ready with admiring words. Then she took a second look, awed by the remarkable talent displayed in crayon.

The form, color, shading, and expression were astounding, especially given the age of the artist. In some ways it was clearly a child's picture, but in others it vibrated with the raw power of a gifted and as yet untrained artist.

"Anne," she said very gently, "this is a beautiful picture. Incredible."

Anne looked thrilled. "Do you really like it?"

Octavia took her gaze off the picture with some reluctance and looked at her. "Yes." She caught Gail's attention. "It is quite remarkable, to be honest."

"I told you she was good," Gail said with quiet pride.

"Brilliant is more like it," Octavia murmured.

Carson was alarmed now. "Let me see." He hurried closer and examined the picture with an expression of mounting outrage. "It's a dog."

"It's Zeb," Anne told him. "He's my dog. Well, partly mine. He belongs to Grandpa, but Grandpa says I can share him."

Carson rounded on her. "You can't do a dog for the art show. I did Winston."

"Carson." Nick spoke quietly. "That's enough."

Carson turned to him. "But, Dad she can't do a dog. I already did one."

Anne started to look uncertain. She glanced from her mother to Octavia for reassurance and then glowered at Carson. "Miss Brightwell said I could make any kind of picture I wanted."

"That's right," Octavia said calmly. "No two dog pictures are the same, so we can have any number of them in the art show, just like we can have any number of house pictures and flower pictures."

Carson was not appeased, but he obviously knew that he was fighting a losing battle. "It's not fair."

"Take it easy, Carson," Nick said. "You heard Miss Brightwell. No two dog pictures are the same, so there can be lots of them in the show."

"Each one is special," Octavia assured him. "Each one is unique. Your picture of Winston doesn't look anything like Anne's picture of Zeb."

Carson's face tightened but he did not argue further.

Octavia smiled at Anne. "Come with me and we'll pick out a frame for your picture of Zeb. You have a choice of black, red, or gold."

Anne brightened instantly. "I want a gold one, please."

Carson clenched his hands into small fists at his sides.

Nick took Carson out of the gallery. They went across the Street and walked out onto the pier.

Nick stopped at the end and braced a foot on one of the wooden boards that formed the railing. He peeled the top off his cup of coffee.

"You want to tell me what's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing's wrong." Carson took a desultory swipe at one of the railing posts with the toe of his right running shoe. "It's just not fair."

"Why isn't it fair?"

"It just isn't, that's all. My picture was the only dog picture until now. That's why Miss Brightwell liked it so much."

So that's what this is all about, Nick thought. He took a swallow of coffee while he considered how to handle the situation. He understood Carson's position better than his son realized. Every time he thought about Jeremy and his artistic talent and how much Jeremy had in common with Octavia, he was flooded with a wholly irrational jealousy, too.

"Miss Brightwell made it clear that she likes both dog pictures," Nick said.

"She likes Anne's better than mine," Carson muttered.

"How do you know that?"

"Anne's is better," Carson said.

It was a simple statement, uttered in the tone of voice of a guy who knows his hopes are doomed.

"Mind if I ask why you care so much what Miss Brightwell thinks about your picture of Winston?" Nick asked. "Is this just a simple manifestation of the Harte competitive instinct, or is there something else going on here?"

Carson frowned. "Huh?"

Sometimes he had to remind himself that Carson wasn't quite six yet. He was smart, but words like manifestation and competitive instinct could still throw him.

"Remember, the Children's Art Show isn't a competition. Miss Brightwell isn't going to choose a winning picture. All the drawings will be exhibited. There won't be any losers."

"Doesn't mean Miss Brightwell doesn't like Anne's picture best," Carson grumbled.

"Why do you care? I mean, let's face it, you've never shown a lot of interest in art until you decided to draw a picture for Miss Brightwell's show."

"I want Miss Brightwell to like my picture best."

"How come?"

Carson shrugged. "She likes artists. If she thought I was a good artist, maybe she'd like me better."

"Better than what? Better than she likes Anne?"

Carson kicked the post again. The blow was not so forceful this time. More of a gesture of frustration. "I dunno."

"She likes you a lot," Nick said. "Trust me."

Carson took another halfhearted shot at the post with the toe of his running shoe. Definitely losing steam now. A little boy struggling to deal with complex emotions that he doesn't comprehend, Nick thought.

They stood there in silence for a while, morosely watching the sunlight dance on the waters of the bay. Nick finished his coffee.

I want her to like me, too. I don't want her to think of me as therapy or business. I want her to want me, the way I want her.

He heard a crumpling sound and looked down, vaguely surprised to discover that he had crushed the empty coffee cup in his hand. Irritated, he tossed the remains into the nearest trash bin.

An adult male struggling to deal with complex emotions that he doesn't comprehend, he thought. Well, at least he wasn't going around kicking fence posts. A definite sign of maturity.

"So," he said, "what do you say we ask Miss Brightwell to have dinner at our house tonight?"

"Think she'd come?" Carson asked with sudden enthusiasm.

"I don't know," Nick said, determined to be honest. "But we're a couple of Hartes. That means we go after what we want, even if we lose in the end."

"I know," Carson said, "she likes salads. Tell her we're gonna have a really big salad."

"Good idea."

"Salad, hmm?" Octavia said a few minutes later when they presented her with their proposition.

"With lots and lots of lettuce," Carson assured her. "As much as you want."

Nick leaned back against the counter and folded his arms. "Maybe a couple of radishes, too," he promised.

She gave him that mysterious smile that left him in limbo. "I could hardly pass up an offer like that," she said. "It's a date."

Nick turned to Carson. "Guess we'd better hit Fulton's before they run out of the best lettuce."

"Okay." Carson whirled and rushed toward the door.

Nick looked at Octavia. "Thanks. He's dealing with his first-ever case of professional jealousy. Anne's picture of Zeb hit him hard."

"I noticed."

Outside, Jeremy drove his Nissan into the little parking lot. Nick watched him climb out of the car and start toward the row of shops.

"Carson realized right away that Anne's picture was much better than his," he said to Octavia.

"The art show isn't a competition."

"Yeah, I reminded him of that." He crossed the showroom to the open door. "But he's a Harte. He had an agenda when he entered his picture of Winston in your show. He wanted you to think his drawing was the best. Now he's worried that he's been outclassed by a better artist."

She nodded. "I understand."

Outside on the sidewalk, Jeremy had paused at the entrance to Seaton's Antiques. He glanced at Nick, his face impassive. Then he opened the door and disappeared into his grandmother's shop.

"I'm really glad to hear that you understand," Nick said softly. "Because I'm having a similar problem."

She leaned her elbows on the counter. "You're worried that you've been outclassed by a better artist?"

"Professional jealousy is tough to deal with at any age."

He went outside to join Carson.

At six that evening she stood on the top of the bluff with Carson and looked down at the five finger-shaped stones that thrust upward out of the swirling waters at the base of the short cliff.

"It's called Dead Hand Cove," Carson explained, cheerfully morbid. "Dad named it when he was a kid. On account of the way the rocks stick up. Like a dead hand. See?"

"Got it." The day had been pleasantly warm but there was a mild breeze off the water. Octavia stared down into the cove. "The stones really do look like fingers."

"And there's some caves down there, too. Dad and I went into them yesterday. We found some marks on the walls. Dad said he put them there when he was a kid so that Aunt Lillian and Aunt Hannah wouldn't get lost when they went inside."

"That's a Harte for you," she said. "Always planning ahead."

"Yeah, Dad says that's what Hartes do." Carson's mood darkened into a troubled frown. "He says sometimes all the planning doesn't work, though. He says sometimes stuff happens that you don't expect and things change."

"You mean stuff like Anne's picture of Zeb?" she asked gently.

He gazed up at her quickly and then looked away. "Yeah. It was better than my picture of Winston, wasn't it?"

She sat down on a nearby rock so that their faces were level. "Anne has a marvelous talent. If she decides to work hard at her drawing and if she has a passion for it, I think she could someday be a fine artist."

"Yeah." He kicked at a clump of grass.

"Different people have different kinds of talents," she said. "It's true that Anne has a gift for drawing. But the fact that you could see that her picture was so good means that you have another kind of talent."

He glanced at her, still scowling but intrigued now. "What kind?"

"It isn't everyone who can take one look at a picture and know that it is very good."

"Big deal."

"Yes, it is a big deal," she said matter-of-factly. "You have an eye for excellence, and that talent will be an enormous asset to you in the years ahead."

"How do you know?" he grumbled.

"Because it's the same talent I've got."

That stopped him for a few seconds. Then he looked appalled. "The same kind?"

"Yes."

"But I don't wanna run an art store. I wanna run a big company like Granddad Hamilton and Great-Granddad Sullivan. Dad says that's probably what I'll do on account of it's in my genes or something."

"The talent to recognize quality and beauty when you see it will be useful to you no matter what you do with your life," she said.

"You're sure?"

"Positive."

"Cause I don't wanna have to run a little art gallery like yours."

"Don't worry, I doubt if you'll end up doing that for a living. But you may decide to buy art to hang in your home or on the walls of your office someday, and with your talent you'll be able to buy really excellent art. You won't have to pay a consultant to tell you what's good and what's not so good. You'll be able to make your own decisions."

"Huh." But he was clearly somewhat mollified by the prospect of making decisions.

"Who knows?" she said. "Maybe someday you'll be in a position to buy one of Anne's paintings."

"I'm not gonna buy any pictures of her dumb dog, that's for sure."

Dinner went well, Nick thought later. He was unaccountably relieved, even pleased. It had, after all, been a new experience for him. Not that he couldn't do salad and boil a pot full of some of Rafe's ravioli stuffed with gorgonzola cheese, spinach, and walnuts. He had, after all, been cooking for himself and Carson for quite a while now.

But when he had resumed a social life a year or so after Amelia's death, he had consciously or unconsciously confined himself to women who, he was fairly certain, would not have been comfortable sitting at a kitchen table with a precocious kid.

Maybe the women of the Harte family had been right all along, he thought. Maybe he just hadn't wanted to see any of his dates in a domestic light. You looked at a woman differently after you'd seen her hanging out in your kitchen, carrying on an intelligent conversation about dogs and dinosaurs with your son.

Whatever the case, one thing was certain. When he looked across the old kitchen table this evening, a wooden table that had been scarred and scuffed with the marks of three generations of Harte family meals, it had hit him with shattering clarity that Octavia looked perfect sitting here with Carson and himself.

They played all of the ancient board games that had accumulated in the hall closet over the years until Carson reluctantly fell asleep on the sofa. Nick carried him upstairs to bed. When he returned to the living room, Octavia was in her coat, fishing her keys out of her pocket.

"It's getting late," she said, smiling a little too brightly. "I'd better be on my way. Thanks for dinner."

She was the one running away this time, he thought.

"I'll walk you out to your car."

He collected his jacket from the closet and put it on without buttoning it. When he opened the front door he smelled the sea and saw the trailing wisps of a light fog.

"Good thing I'm going now," Octavia said. She stepped out onto the porch and looked around. "This stuff looks like it's going to get heavier."

"Probably." He followed her outside, leaving the door ajar. "Thanks for what you said to Carson earlier. He's feeling a lot better now that he knows you're not going to judge him solely on his art."

"No problem."

"The kid's a Harte, what can I say? He wants you to like him and he'll do whatever he thinks will work."

"He doesn't have to worry. I like him. A lot. He's a pretty terrific kid."

He gripped the railing with both hands and looked out into the gathering mist. "What about me?"

"You?"

"I'd better warn you that this is a case of like son, like father."

She went still on the top step and gave him a politely quizzical look. "You want me to like you?"

"I want you to like me a lot."

She jangled her keys. "If this is about sleeping with me again-"

"It is about sleeping with you again," he said deliberately. "But it's also about explaining why I left in such a rush the other night."

"I know why you left in a rush. You panicked."

He released the railing and swung around abruptly to catch hold of her by the shoulders. "I did not panic."

"Sure you did. You're obviously dealing with a lot of unresolved issues connected to the loss of your wife, and when you get too close to a woman, you panic."

"Bullshit."

She gave him a gentle, sympathetic pat on the arm. "It's all right, I understand. I spent some time going through the grieving process after Aunt Claudia died. I can't even imagine how hard it would be to lose a beloved spouse."

He tightened his hands on her now. "It was hard, all right. But not for the reasons you think. I'm going to tell you something that no one else, not even anyone in my family, knows."

She stiffened. "I'm not sure I want to hear it."

"Too late, I'm going to tell you, whether you want to hear it or not. You probably know that the man at the controls of that small plane that crashed with Amelia on board was a family friend."

"Yes. Everyone knows that."

"Yeah, well hardly anyone else except his wife and me knows just what a very good friend he was of Amelia's."

"Nick, please stop."

"I found out after the funeral that they had been lovers at one time. They'd quarreled and each of them wound up marrying someone else. A couple of months before that plane crash, they had reconnected. It seems they'd both reached the earthshaking conclusion that they had married the wrong people."

She touched his cheek and said nothing.

"They were going off to spend the weekend together at a ski resort that day. His wife thought he was out of town on business. I thought Amelia had gone to visit her sister in Denver."

Octavia said nothing, just shook her head sadly.

"After the funeral his widow and I talked. We both decided that, for the sake of her son and mine, we would let the story stand about her husband having given my wife a lift to Colorado. Everyone bought it."

"I see." She lowered her fingers. "I'm sorry, Nick."

"I don't want you to feel sorry for me." He took his hands off her shoulders and cupped her face between his palms. "I just want you to understand why I've been a little reluctant to rush back into a serious relationship."

"You're scared."

He set his jaw. "I am not scared."

"Yes, you are. You made the kind of mistake that Hartes aren't supposed to make. You screwed up and married the wrong woman once, and you're absolutely terrified of screwing up again. So it's easier to play it safe."

"I made a mistake. I'll give you that much. And it's true that Hartes don't usually make those kinds of mistakes. But I'll never regret it."

She comprehended immediately. "Because of Carson."

"Amelia gave me my son. I will always be thankful to her memory for that."

"Of course you will, and that is as it should be. But that doesn't mean that deep down you're not afraid of trusting your emotions again."

"I am not afraid," he said evenly, "but I am damn careful these days. Amelia and I rushed into marriage because we both thought passion was enough. It wasn't. Next time around, I'm going to take my time and make certain that I know what I'm doing."

"Know what I think? I think you're being so careful that you get nervous when there's even a hint that a relationship might cross the line between casual and serious." She searched his face. "Is that what happened the other night? Did you panic because you thought our one-night stand might turn into something more than that?"

"For the last time, I did not panic. And for the record, I never intended it to be a one-night stand."

"I beg your pardon, did you freak out because you were worried that our little summer fling might get too heavy and too complicated?"

He refused to let her push him into losing his temper. He was trying to accomplish an objective here. Hartes never lost sight of their goals.

"Correct me if I'm wrong," he said, "but I was under the impression that you weren't looking for anything more than a short-term arrangement either, Miss Free Spirit."

She flushed. "I wasn't the one who ran for the door that night. I was doing just fine with the summer-fling thing."

"I did not run for the door. I left in a hurry, but I did not run."

"Details."

"Important details. And I'd like to remind you that I showed up at your gallery the next morning," he said. "It's not like I didn't call. And how the hell do you think I felt when you told me that the sex had been therapeutic? You made it sound like a good massage or a tonic, damn it."

She bit her lip. "Well, it was, in a way."

"Great. Well, do me a favor. The next time you want physical therapy, call a masseuse or a chiropractor. Or buy a vibrator."

Her eyes widened. She was starting to look a little unnerved, he thought. For some reason, that gave him an unholy amount of satisfaction.

"Don't push me," she warned.

"I haven't been pushing you." He hauled her close. "This is what I call pushing you."

He kissed her, using everything he had to seduce her into a response. He was not sure what he expected, but he knew what he wanted. He had his agenda. He was going to make her admit that the sex hadn't been merely a therapeutic tonic.

He was vaguely surprised and somewhat reassured when she made no move to free herself. After an instant's hesitation, her mouth softened under his. Her arms went around his neck and her fingers sank into his hair. Heat swirled through him, igniting his senses.

He had been right about this much, at least, he thought. She still wanted him. Nothing had changed on that front. He could feel the passion quickening within her.

When she shivered in his arms and tightened her hold on him, his triumph was tempered by the sheer enormousness of his sense of relief.

He dragged his mouth away from hers and nibbled on her earlobe. "It was good between us. Give me that much at least."

"I never said that it wasn't good." She tipped her head back, giving him access to her throat. "It was great."

"Then why not enjoy it?" The taste of her skin and the herbal fragrance of her hair combined into an intoxicating perfume. He knew that he would never forget her scent as long as he lived. "We have the rest of the summer."

She tensed in his arms. Her fingers stopped moving through his hair. Very slowly she pulled away and raised her lashes. "Maybe you're right."

He kissed the tip of her nose. "No maybe about it."

"It's possible that I overreacted the other night."

"Understandable," he assured her. "You were coming off a difficult year. A lot of emotional stuff going on in your life. You're making some major decisions about your business and your future. Lot of stress."

"Yes."

"Maybe you were right about one thing," he offered, feeling generous now. "Okay, it's not easy to think of myself as a sort of physical therapist, but I have to admit that there is a therapeutic side to really good sex."

"Probably releases a lot of endorphins, and then there's the exercise aspect."

"Right. Exercise." He was not sure this was going the direction he had intended, but it wasn't like he had a lot of alternatives.

"Rather like taking a brisk walk on the beach, I think," she mused.

He made himself count to ten and forced a smile. "No need to analyze it too much. Sex is perfectly natural and there's no reason that two healthy, responsible adults who happen to be single and uncommitted shouldn't enjoy it together."

She did step back then, slipping out from under his hands. "I'll think about it."

He did not move. "You'll think about it?"

"Yes." She turned and went down the steps. "I can't give you an answer tonight. I'm not thinking clearly right now, and I don't want to make another rash decision based on overheated emotions. I'm sure you can understand."

"Now who's panicking?" he asked softly.

"You think I'm afraid of having an affair with you?"

"Yeah. That's exactly what I think."

"Maybe you're right." She sounded regretful but accepting of that possibility. "As you said, I've been under a lot of stress lately. It's difficult to sort out logic and emotions."

He followed her down the steps, shadowing her to the car. When she stopped beside the vehicle he stopped too, very close behind her. He reached around her, letting his fingers skim across the lush curve of her hip, and opened the door.

"I'll see you in the morning," he said. "Meanwhile, try to get some sleep."

She slipped into the front seat. "I'm sure I'll sleep just fine, thank you."

"Lucky you."

She started to put the key into the ignition and then paused. "One more thing I wanted to say."

He gripped the top of the car door. "What's that?"

"I think you should give Jeremy a call. Invite him out for a beer or whatever men do when they want to talk things over."

"Now, just why in hell would I want to do that?"

"Because you were once good friends and there's no reason why you can't be friends again. Deep down, he knows that you didn't have an affair with his wife."

She turned the key in the ignition, pulled the door shut, and drove away into the night.