Hidden Cove

by Meg Tilly

  The hotel didn’t have a gym, which would’ve been nice. The lack of a gym wasn’t an issue for Gabe personally. Early in his career he’d realized that if he wanted to stay healthy while on book tour he’d need to be creative. While gyms were de rigueur in many of the North American hotels his publisher put him up at, internationally, it was touch and go. He’d devised a series of high-intensity exercises based on the tae kwon do discipline he’d discovered as a teen and continued to practice for much of his twenties. He had adjusted a few of the forms so they could be completed in a hotel room using minimal space.

  However, he’d recommend to his father that they put a gym in. State-of-the-art equipment was expected in a five-star resort. Didn’t matter if the guests rarely used it. They would want to know they had the choice. Steam rooms, chilled ice water with cucumber slices, fresh rolled white hand towels, and a basket of crisp apples for an impromptu after-workout snack.

  He wrote for a couple of hours, then sampled the “high tea” in the manor house. The tea had been hot and strong, but the baked goods and the little tea sandwiches had been uninspired and stale. The glass of port was a stingy pour and of mediocre quality.

  Gabe returned to his room, added his observations to the notes for his dad, then settled down to write for a few more hours, making sure to get up and stretch every thirty minutes or so. He would wander to various windows and take in the 360-degree views. Sometimes it felt as if that were his life, married to his computer as the days flipped past, catching glimpses of other people’s lives from behind the safe confines of his window.

  On one of his stretch breaks, he noticed a woman in the back field. She stood among the wooden sculptures, almost as if she were one of them. He was too far away to make out her features, but there was something about her that drew his eye, captured it. Perhaps it was her stillness, or the splash of color against the tall beige grasses.

  Suddenly she moved. As if she were a wild deer awakening from a dream. She took off at a rapid clip, strode across the field, and disappeared down a flight of wooden stairs.

  Gabe stayed at the back window awhile longer, but she didn’t reappear. He hadn’t thought she would. Her stride had been determined and purposeful, her body leaning forward as if her mind had already arrived at the place she was headed.

  He poured more coffee into his mug, his thoughts still lingering on her. He unwrapped a complimentary cookie from its plastic wrap, then returned to the desk, where his manuscript was mocking him.

  Four

  LOOKED AT OUR UPCOMING SCHEDULE, ALL BOOKED UP. THX 4 THINKING OF ME THO.

  It surprised her how long it had taken to find the right words. Zelia glanced at the time at the top-right-hand corner of her computer screen, 4:37 p.m. Alexus, on the East Coast, would have closed shop for the day. Zelia read over the text message one last time, then hit send.

  The reply was almost instantaneous.

  WHAT ABOUT LATER IN THE YEAR?

  Jesus, Zelia thought, staring at the screen. She must be working late. She chewed on her lower lip. What now? Alexus knows I’m at the computer because I just sent her a text.

  WE’RE BOOKED SOLID. SORRY, she typed.

  NEXT FALL THEN?

  What the hell? Zelia thought, but she must have said it out loud because Mary came in from the next room.

  “What’s going on?” Mary asked.

  “Ick . . .” Zelia said, pushing back from the computer and rubbing her face. “Alexus Feinstein wants me to do an exhibit for an artist she’s championing and I don’t want to.”

  Mary shrugged. “Then don’t. You’ve worked hard, built a name for yourself. You and your gallery are highly respected in the art world, which puts you in the catbird seat.”

  “She’s advocating pretty aggressively, which is out of character for her. Maybe she’s been drinking—I don’t know, but it’s making me uncomfortable.” Zelia blew out a frustrated breath. “The thing is . . . I feel defensive, too. The artist is talented. I would even venture to say enormously so . . .”

  “And yet . . .” Mary said. The woman would have made a damn fine therapist.

  “And yet I don’t want to have these . . . these paintings in my beautiful gallery. Don’t want to be surrounded by his art. I don’t know why, but I feel almost nauseous when I look at it, scared, like my breath can’t get past my throat.” Zelia scooted her office chair back toward her workstation. “Here,” she said, clicking on the file. “Take a look. Tell me what you think.”

  Zelia vacated her chair, and Mary sat down and started clicking through the images. Zelia watched her assistant closely. Mary had an uncannily correct intuition when it came to art. She could tell in a flash where talent lay, what would sell, and what price people would be willing to pay.

  Mary’s face didn’t change as she studied each painting one by one. She was systematic in her perusal, carefully considering each one before clicking to the next.

  “Well,” Zelia said with a half-hearted laugh, trying to break the tension that was building in her gut. “You’ve gotten a lot further than I did.”

  Mary didn’t respond, just went to the next painting and the one after that. When she reached the last one, she closed the file and turned to face Zelia.

  “You’re right,” Mary said, her forefinger sliding the frames of her charcoal-gray glasses back into place on the bridge of her nose. “It doesn’t matter how gifted the artist might be. You can’t have these paintings here. It would damage your heart. Anyone who knows and cares about you wouldn’t ask you to do this.” She turned back to the computer and pecked out a few words.

  NOT NOW. NOT EVER. DON’T ASK AGAIN.

  Mary looked up at Zelia, who was standing next to the chair. “Okay?” she asked.

  Zelia couldn’t help but laugh. It was rude, but there was something that felt right about it as well. “Okay,” Zelia said, nudging Mary out of the chair. “I get it. I need to grow a pair.” Zelia sat down and softened the edges of Mary’s text.

  AS MUCH AS I RESPECT AND ADMIRE YOU, LEXI, THESE PAINTINGS ARE NOT RIGHT FOR ME OR MY GALLERY. NOT NOW. NOT EVER. PLEASE DON’T ASK AGAIN.

  She glanced over at Mary, who nodded. “Send it,” she said.

  Zelia sent the text, a slight ache in the pit of her stomach.

  The reply was immediate. SCREW YOU!

  “That went well,” Zelia said with a nonchalance she didn’t feel. She shut down the computer, went into the bathroom, and washed her hands. Used lots of soap, hoping the warm water would help disperse the anxious adrenaline that was zinging through her, unwind the knot that had settled in her gut.

  Five

  ZELIA WOKE TO her cell phone ringing. Damn. She’d forgotten to switch it to airplane mode before she went to sleep. She glanced blearily at the clock on her bedside table as she reached for the phone. Who in the world would be calling me at 7:23 in the morning?

  She’d had a terrible night’s sleep. Felt guilty about the dismissive text she’d sent to Alexus and sick about the aggressive reply she’d received in return. Screw you . . . What the hell was that about? Screw you . . . From Alexus, who, until last night, had never been anything but an absolute sweetheart. Maybe she was joking? But even as Zelia thought it, she knew she was clutching at straws. Look, everybody’s entitled to an off day. So Alexus was pushy. You could have been kinder in your refusal. You don’t know what kind of stress she might be under that caused her to respond like that. Maybe she’d been drinking. Maybe she’s having financial difficulties. It’s hard enough being a small business owner. Add on to that the art world, which is so darn finicky . . .

  Around and around her thoughts chased one another. Sleep had arrived only once she’d promised herself she would reach out to Alexus in the morning.

  Bzzzz . . .

  She peered at her phone. Not a local number, she thought as she swiped her finger across the screen.r />
  “Hello?” She knew the minute her voice escaped from her lips that there was no way in hell she was going to be able to pull off the fairy tale that she hadn’t just been woken from a dead sleep. Her voice was way too husky and sleep-filled.

  No one replied.

  “Hello?” she said again.

  She heard a slight click. “Hello there,” a cheery recorded voice chirped. “I hope you are having a fabulous day! I’m Jane from Ackerman’s Air Duct Cleaning Company—”

  Zelia pressed end, switched her cell phone to airplane mode, then plopped it on the bedside table. Briefly, she wished that it had been an actual human on the phone, so she could let them know how inconsiderate it was to cold-call people early in the morning.

  She pulled the covers over her shoulder in an attempt to grab another forty-five minutes of sleep. After twenty minutes she realized it wasn’t going to happen. Trying to sleep with a deadline clock ticking was an impossible task.

  She got up, took a shower, and dressed before making a travel mug of tea and a slice of buttery cinnamon-sugar toast. She pulled on her jacket and boots. Out on her driveway she gave Old Faithful, her 1992 Volvo sedan, her daily pat on the hood. “Hey there, old girl. Blue skies, so I think I’m going to hoof it today. Don’t get up to any mischief while I’m out.” Old Faithful didn’t reply. She never did, but Zelia liked to imagine it made her happy to be acknowledged thusly.

  Zelia took a path through the woods, munching happily on her cinnamon toast. She’d drink the tea on the smoother terrain of the boardwalk, which bordered the bay and led to her gallery and beyond.

  * * *

  * * *

  GABE LEANED AGAINST the boardwalk railing, tipped his head upward, and shut his eyes, enjoying the early-morning sunshine on his face. He could hear the seagulls behind him, wings flapping, and the occasional shrill caw. They were flying into the air with clams in their beaks, dropping them onto the rocks and then swooping down to eat the contents. Sometimes a wily seagull would lurk below and snatch the prize from the broken shell. Made him laugh. Reminded him of his dad.

  When they’d spoken this morning, his dad had sounded much improved, eager to pick Gabe’s brains about the place. “Take your time, boyo. No need to rush back. Enjoy all that the island has to offer. Beautiful women, hikes, biking, art galleries, artisan cheese makers, bakers, beautiful women . . .” His dad had repeated the last one with a laugh. “It’s all those damned yoga studios populating the island, keeps them healthy—and flexible, too. Important for a woman to have flexible hips, makes birthing easier. You’re gonna love Solace. We sure did.”

  Gabe wasn’t going to touch that crazy birthing theory with a ten-foot pole. “You’ve been here?” His dad seemed so conservative. It was hard to picture him flinging off his suit and tie and rubbing shoulders with the tree-hugging free spirits that appeared to populate the island. “Doesn’t seem like your kind of place.”

  “What do you know about my kind of place? Hell yeah, I’ve been there. Was on a fishing trip. Met your mother when we came ashore to stock up on supplies.”

  “Wait a minute. Family folklore is you and Mom met at a pub.”

  “Which we did. That little pub down by the marina, right there on Solace Island. Toby’s. You should check it out. I came through the door, and there was your mom wiping down a table, her face shining bright like a button. She was on the island for the summer on a farm stay. Was picking up extra dough waiting tables in the evenings. Love at first sight. For me, anyway. She took a little convincing. Thought I was a rogue.” There was laughter in his voice, as if he was pleased that she’d sussed him out so well. “Came back to Solace for our honeymoon, where, I am proud to inform you, you were conceived—”

  “Dad—”

  “Yes siree, I planted you in your mother’s womb right there in Mansfield’s Elsworth Cottage—”

  “Seriously. TMI.”

  His dad cackled happily. “Yep. If you think about it, a love for Solace Island is probably embedded in your DNA. It’s a magical place, my son. A game changer. You’ll see.”

  Along with the feeling of vertigo that arose from the unwanted image of his dad and mom having intimate relations, a flicker of irritation flared. The latent teenager inside him wanted to snap that he was perfectly happy with the status quo of his life, thank you very much. Was in no need of a damned game changer. He managed to suppress the temptation. He was working on establishing a more mature relationship with his dad and not giving in to the knee-jerk responses that made him feel like a shit heel afterward.

  He steered his father’s attention to the weather, asked about the nor’easter that the news channels were having a field day with, made a few appropriate comments, and then hung up. He decided to take advantage of not being buried under a foot and a half of snow and grabbed his jacket, heading out.

  It was a glorious day, forty-two degrees Fahrenheit with a crisp breeze blowing off the ocean. He breathed in. Could almost taste the salt from the sea. He imagined the soot and pollution from the city leaving his lungs and floating away as he exhaled. The air was different here, crystal clear; it renewed and refreshed.

  He heard the sound of footsteps approaching. Sounded like a woman, wearing boots with a slight heel. He contemplated keeping his eyes shut, but the writer in him was curious if what he imagined was correct.

  He cracked his eyes open, slanting a quick look at the feet, and was glad that he had. She was wearing boots, but they didn’t look like he’d imagined. They were deep blue velvet with clear amber heels, an impractical purchase for the West Coast’s rainy climes. Intrigued, he brought his gaze up from her half boots, past her voluminous charcoal-gray dress, which—with the aid of the strong headwind—clung to her voluptuous curves. The whole ensemble was topped off with a forties swing jacket, the top two buttons secured, allowing the rest of the fabric to flutter behind in her wake. Unexpected lust slammed through him. His gaze moved up her graceful ballet dancer’s neck to a heart-shaped face surrounded by a mass of soft brown curls that shimmered with honey-blond highlights. Her eyes were downcast. The woman was clearly deep in thought, seemingly troubled about something. He wanted her to glance up, but she didn’t. Her lush red lips were parted slightly, as if a word or a breath were resting between them, waiting to be released.

  And then it hit him. She was the woman who had been standing among the sculptures yesterday. But that wasn’t all. There was something familiar, a sense of déjà vu. The wispy fragments of a long-forgotten dream.

  He straightened and opened his mouth to speak, but she’d already passed him, leaving a trailing scent of cinnamon sugar, breakfast tea, and a fragrance that was uniquely hers.

  He watched her briskly stride along the boardwalk, a travel mug in her hand. Then she veered left and cut through a parking lot. She stood in front of the Art Expressions Gallery, rummaging through her jewel-toned purse, then transferred her mug into her left hand and unlocked the door. She had the buttons of her swing jacket undone by the time the door closed behind her.

  Six

  ZELIA READ GUNTER Möller’s artist statement and groaned. “Seriously?” she said, scrubbing her hands across her face. “This took you a month and a half to write?”

  She reread it, hoping somehow a second reading would bring clarity.

  My work embodies the chaos within and reflects the outward disorder of the world, like a broken mirror found in the heart of the forest. Always striving to capture a modicum of light that has long been denied. Decades lost. Decades denied. I achieved this result through carefully applied and thought-out brushstrokes, which represent the slow, plodding footsteps of time. —Gunter Möller, Artist

  Nope. No clarity. “Good Lord,” she murmured. “I have no idea what this jumble of words means.”

  She clicked reply and typed:

  Hi, Gunter. I received your artist’s statement. Thank you. It’s a good start.
However, I feel it needs another draft in order to make your thoughts more accessible to the viewer. If you are deep in the throes of the work, no worries. I’d be happy to do a polish for you. —Zelia

  “Please let him be deep in the throes of work,” she said, hitting send.

  She glanced at the time. It was two forty-five. That meant that on the East Coast Alexus would be closing shop in fifteen minutes. Zelia had left a message on her cell voice mail, but Alexus hadn’t returned the call. Hadn’t replied to the e-mail she had sent that morning or the midday text.

  Zelia stared at her computer, willing Alexus to respond.

  Two more minutes passed.

  “This is ridiculous,” Zelia muttered, picking up her phone. “I am not losing another night’s sleep over this.” She scrolled through her contacts and tapped Alexus’s office landline.

  Brrrring . . . brrring . . .

  “Good afternoon, Feinstein and Company. How may I help you?” It was Alexus’s assistant. He sounded a bit run-down.

  “Hi, Tristan,” she said. “Zelia here. You okay? I hope you aren’t coming down with that dreaded flu.”

  “No, I—”

  “Oh, thank goodness. You do not want this flu. I just got over it. The darn thing lasted for three weeks. Ugh. Hey, I need to talk with Alexus for a moment. Could you patch me in, please?”

  “I’m sorry, but—”

  “Look,” Zelia cut in. “I get it. She’s pissed off. Told you not to put me through, but it’s very important that I—” Her voice petered out because it sounded like he was crying. “Tristan?”