The sidewalks in the center of town were alive with people in all manner of dress. A few, like Carly and Ford, were well dressed and obviously headed for one of the fine dining establishments, but most were in shorts and tank tops. There was a line out the door across the street at Sips—which sold mostly cold drinks—and Cuppachino, the coffee shop, was filled to capacity. Ford had to lead Carly through the throng gathered on the sidewalk to get to Lola’s door.
“I can’t believe this is St. Dennis,” he told her while they waited for their table. “I never would have imagined this town could attract crowds like this.”
“The inn is filled all summer long, though, right?”
“I’m still getting used to that, too.”
The hostess led them to a table, and soon after they were seated, a server arrived to pour water and offer menus, and describe the specials.
“They serve crab all over the world,” Ford noted after they’d both ordered, “but none as good as what we have right here on the Eastern Shore.”
“I have to agree.” Carly nodded. “I can’t wait to try the crab-mac-and-five-cheese side dish we ordered. I’ve had lobster mac and cheese, but not crab.”
“The chef at the inn makes it. I had it at dinner a few nights ago.”
“Do you eat all your meals in the dining room?”
He nodded. “I can’t remember a time when my mother cooked anything. We’ve always lived there, and there’s always been someone downstairs in the kitchen to cook, so my mother always deferred to the chefs, as she liked to say.” He smiled. “I think she was just happy to have someone else take over those chores. She always had so many other things to do, God knows when we kids would have eaten if dinner had been left to her. We always ate together in the dining room at the same time every night, but it was only because she didn’t have to cook.”
“I guess she helped your father run the inn?”
“Not really. I mean, she did help out from time to time when someone called in sick, and she often took over the reception desk and handled reservations at night. But most of her time was spent at the paper. That’s always been her thing.” He fell silent as their salads were served. “My mother loves it. She’s never wanted to do anything else. But she’s a controlling son of a gun, never delegated much to anyone else, which is why she’s in such a pickle now.”
“So you’ve taken over for her?”
“Temporarily. I’d agreed to write the feature articles, but it seems the community calendar has to be updated, so I worked with her on that today. And then there are the ads from the merchants that have to be placed, and the spotlight on local businesses that she likes to run every week. Oh, and there’s her new pet project, interviewing random people on the street, asking them about their visit to St. Dennis.” He laughed and lowered his voice, mimicking a TV reporter. “Is this your first visit to St. Dennis? No? So what keeps you coming back? What’s your favorite place for dining out? Antiques shopping?” He laughed again. “She’s decided she wants to run three of these mini-interviews every week from now until Labor Day.”
“And she wants you to be the roving reporter.”
“Of course. But it’s not bad, really. I did my three this afternoon down at the marina.” He paused. “It was actually quite interesting, you know? Seeing my hometown through the eyes of other people?”
“It sounds to me like Grace knew what she was doing when she tapped you to take over for her.”
“It’s her way of trying to keep me in St. Dennis. I think she thought if she made me take over for her, I’d find that I liked it enough to stay and run things for her.”
“Is it working?”
“I don’t hate it,” Ford admitted, “but I never thought about the Gazette as my life’s work.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “It just wasn’t something I was interested in. I was always more the outdoor type. Spent most of my spare time on the water. Still do.”
The waiter brought their entrées—a duet of pan-seared scallops in an orange glaze and grilled tuna—and served the wine Carly selected and the beer Ford ordered to go with their meals.
“My brother-in-law brewed the beer,” he explained. “Drinking wine makes me feel like a traitor.”
“I won’t tell Clay,” Carly promised. She tasted the scallops and sighed. “Perfect. It’s no wonder Lola’s is reputed to be the best in the area.”
“Lola herself—the first Lola—was quite a girl, if I remember correctly. She’s gotta be well into her nineties now, and if all the stories about her that I heard when I was growing up are true, she must have had some life.”
“She’s still alive?”
Ford nodded. “She stopped at the inn yesterday to see how Mom’s doing.”
“Seems like a shame for you to be wasting your interview time on me,” Carly said. “I would think Lola would make a much more interesting subject. It sounds like she’d have plenty to talk about.”
The hand holding his fork paused midway between his plate and his mouth. “I hadn’t thought about it, but you’re right. She’s very outspoken—some might say blunt—and very opinionated. I don’t know that I could do her justice, though.”
“I don’t know why you’d say that. The two pieces you’ve done so far have been really good.” She cut a scallop in half and added, “I think you sell yourself short. You’re a good writer.” Carly was beginning to suspect that Ford liked being a journalist more than he wanted to admit.
“Speaking of writing, how are your projects coming along?”
“Great. I’m actually further ahead than I’d realized. Once I started putting my notes together, I realized I have the bones of the catalog already written. All that’s left to do is match up the paintings with Carolina’s comments. I should be finished by Monday.”
“And once you finish it, then what?”
“Then I send it off to the graphic designer I found to format it and turn it into a printed catalog.”
“So do you make a cover …?”
“I photographed one of Carolina’s paintings for the cover. It’s so perfect. I’m using the same one for the cover of the catalog, the book, and for the invitations to the opening that I’m sending out.”
She put down her fork and opened her bag, took out her phone, and scrolled until she found what she was looking for. She passed the phone to Ford, saying, “This is the painting. Carolina called it Stolen Moments. It might be the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen.”
He took the phone and turned it to the light.
“It looks like two people on a picnic, but I can’t see it well enough to get a feel for it.” He handed back the phone.
“It is a little dark in here, and the image is small,” she conceded. “I’ll show you the real thing when we get home. Well, not the real thing, but a larger copy of it.”
“Where are they now?” he asked. “The paintings.”
“In Ellie’s attic.”
He put his fork down and leaned across the table slightly.
“You are concerned about having a high-tech, state-of-the-art security system at the carriage house to protect paintings that are currently sitting in Ellie’s attic?”
“That’s where we found them. Those paintings have been there for most of the last century,” she explained. “No one knew they were there then, and no one knows they’re there now. Once we move them into the carriage house, everyone will know where they are. That’s when the security will matter.”
“You don’t think you’re taking a chance …”
She shook her head. “None.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I think next week might be time to drop the C-bomb.” Carly had finished her meal, and took the last sip of her wine.
“The C-bomb?”
She laughed. “The Carolina bomb. The announcement that we have Carolina’s lost works and that they will be on display for the first time ever at the carriage house at the end of August.”
<
br /> “You sure you want to do that before Tony gets the security system up and running?”
“He said he only needed a few days, right? By the time the article runs next week, he’ll have the installation completed.”
“True. I’ll just have to stay on him to make sure he keeps his word.”
“Thank you again for arranging that. Once the exhibit is in place, it has to be secure.”
The waiter came by to ask about dessert, which neither Carly nor Ford wanted, so Ford took the check, paid it, and stood to take Carly’s hand.
They took their time walking back to the car. The sun had set over the Bay, the last pale touch of light a mere sliver of coral on the horizon, and the moon was beginning to rise in the sky. The night was warm, but not humid or cloying, and there was the faintest bit of breeze off the water.
“It’s such a beautiful night. Look how pretty the light is on the water. Could we walk down to the Bay?” Carly asked.
“Sure.” He pointed toward the marina. “When I was a kid, there weren’t as many boats docked here, and those that were, mostly belonged to the watermen from town. There were hardly any tourists back then. Oh, we had some summer people, but not like now. Everything changed so much in the years I was gone.”
“I didn’t know the town then, but I really like what I see now. There’s a different vibe here than there is in any other place I’ve been. I can’t put my finger on it, but I always feel welcome here. Besides, I really like the little house I’m renting.”
They stopped near a lamppost and watched a whaler back into the dock. Ford stood behind Carly, his arms around her, and she leaned back into him. She tried to remember if she’d ever felt so right about being with anyone before. Todd? She almost laughed at the comparison.
“Want to come back to the house for coffee?” she asked.
“Sure.” He turned her around and lifted her chin with his hand, then kissed her. If she’d thought the first kiss had been a winner, this one was a gold medal. She was crushed against his chest and had to stand on tiptoe, even in those high heels, but she hardly noticed. Kissing Ford took her breath away, and everything about him—his lips, his tongue, that tiny bit of five o’clock shadow that grazed her skin—sent her senses reeling.
When he relaxed his hold on her and her feet hit the ground again, she made an attempt to speak, then thought better of it. All she could think of to say was “Um …”
“So we’ll head back to your place, and you can show me your progress on the catalog.” He took her hand as if he hadn’t just totally tuned her up and they walked to the car.
The drive back to Carly’s house took less than five minutes. At her suggestion, Ford parked in the driveway, and they walked hand in hand to the side door. She unlocked it and they went through the small back hall into the kitchen. Carly dropped her bag and keys onto the table.
“Coffee?” she asked because she knew she had to say something.
“Let’s break out that bottle of wine I left here the other night. Unless, of course, you went on a binge and polished it off yourself.”
“Who has time for a binge?” She got the wine from the cupboard and handed it to Ford to open while she looked for glasses.
“Corkscrew?” he asked.
“Oh. The first drawer next to the sink.” She looked over the glassware in the cupboard. “I didn’t order wineglasses, so I guess we’ll have to go with these.” She took down two fat pale green glasses and placed them on the table.
“They’ll do just fine.” He pulled out the cork, then poured wine into each glass. When he finished, he tucked the cork back into the mouth of the bottle and handed her a glass. “Here’s to your book and your gallery and your exhibit, and to the success of all your projects.”
“And to the St. Dennis Gazette and your budding journalism career.” She tilted her glass to touch the rim of his. “And if that doesn’t work for you, then we’ll drink to your heart’s desire.”
He smiled, his eyes locked on hers, then raised the glass and took a sip, and she did the same.
“So you were going to show me the picture that you’re using for the cover of the book and the catalog,” he said, his eyes still on hers.
“Yes, I was. I mean, I am.” She put her glass on the table and gestured for him to follow her. “It’s in the dining room. That’s this way.” She was sounding uncharacteristically like an idiot, which she attributed to Ford’s proximity more than to the wine.
“Mind if I take off my jacket?”
“Of course not.” She held out her hand and took his jacket when he removed it. The scent of his aftershave clung to it, and she held it against her body as they walked into the dining room.
“I’m afraid I don’t have any hangers in the closet out here,” she said as she draped the sport jacket over the back of a chair. The scent was still with her, and she cleared her throat. “The photo I took of the painting is here … somewhere …”
She searched the table for the right pile.
“Oh, here.” She held it out to him, but instead of taking it from her hand, he moved next to her so that he was looking over her shoulder. His breath was warm against her cheek and it was all she could do not to take his face in her hands and kiss that mouth.
“Where did you say this was painted?” He took the photo and turned it to the light.
“I don’t know where. I’m assuming it’s someplace around St. Dennis. At least, I think it’s a real place, and I think it’s a real scene. I think that’s Carolina in the painting. Doesn’t she look like the photograph of Carolina that we saw in Blossoms?” She pointed first to the woman on the sand, then to the man seated next to her. “And this man—he’s the same man who was in the photo. My gut tells me that she painted this from memory, a very special memory.” Carly sighed. “Stolen Moments. It’s very romantic, don’t you think? It makes me wonder who the man was, and where they were.”
“I don’t know who, but I think I know where.”
“What?”
“It’s Sunset Beach. It looks different now, after all these years, but I’m pretty sure that’s where this scene took place.”
“How can you tell?” She frowned.
“Those trees in the background—they’re loblolly pines. The only beach in St. Dennis where those trees grow is Sunset Beach.”
“It’s real, then.” She stared at the photo. “It’s just as I thought. Carolina and her mystery man stealing away on a summer day …”
Ford laughed and put the photo on the table. “I can see I’m going to have to take you on that kayak trip sooner rather than later. You can only get there by water.”
He encircled her in his arms and she reached up to take his face in her hands. His lips brushed against hers, just the slightest whisper of a touch, and for the first time in her life, Carly understood what people meant when they said that time stopped. There was nothing in her world but Ford, and that delicious mouth, and the arms that pressed her to him. The sheer awareness of him spread through her, head to toe, and she felt her breathing go shallow and her heart pound. When his lips traced a trail from her mouth to her cheek, from her cheek to her neck, she thought either her head would explode or she’d faint, she wasn’t sure which, and for the longest moment, she didn’t care.
When his mouth made its way back to hers, she wrapped her arms around his neck and backed up against the table. His hands skimmed her back, then her hips, before settling momentarily on her waist. His body was hard against hers, pinning her against the table and his tongue teased the corners of her mouth until she felt dangerously close to losing control.
His hands grew still on her hips, and his mouth broke free from hers.
“Wow,” he whispered. “For someone so small, you pack an enormous punch.”
She held him to her for a moment longer, then felt him disengage slowly.
“I think maybe I should be going,” he said, leaving unspoken the implied before things go too much further.
Ca
rly nodded. She wasn’t really sure where she wanted this relationship to go, and apparently Ford wasn’t either. Slow seemed the way to go right about now.
“So when do I get my Turkish dinner?” he asked, that five o’clock shadow just a tickle on the side of her face.
“What’s your schedule this week?”
“My schedule is more flexible than yours.” He leaned forward to touch his forehead to hers and rested it there for a moment. “What do you have lined up?”
“A bunch of residents who want to show me their paintings. You?”
“I have a couple of interviews.”
“I can make dinner and you can interview me while we eat,” she suggested.
“I like it. That works. How ’bout Wednesday?”
“Wednesday works for me, too. I should have the invitations to the exhibit sketched out by then.”
“It’s a date.”
His arms were slow to let her go. Carly walked with him to the door, her emotions conflicted, not wanting him to leave, but not yet ready for him to stay.
She stepped out onto the side porch and inhaled deeply. Flowers from the neighbor’s yard perfumed the air, and the night sky was clear as could be. Ford went down the two steps to the ground, then came back up to kiss her good night.
“Talk to you soon.”
She nodded, her arms folded across her chest, and watched him get into the car. He waved as he backed out of the driveway, and she raised a hand to wave back, though she knew he wouldn’t see her from the road. She went inside and changed out of her killer dress into shorts and a T-shirt, and unstrapped her killer shoes.
She took her glass outside onto the little patio. She sat on one of the folding chairs she’d borrowed from Ellie and set the glass on the small table—also Ellie’s—and leaned back to watch the stars and thought about how life sometimes throws you curves when you least expect them. She’d come to St. Dennis to set up an art gallery and show off some paintings she believed should be seen. Romance was the last thing on her mind, and yet, there he was, and he seemed so right.
On Sunset Beach: The Chesapeake Diaries Page 22