"Are you kidding?" She ushered Carson out of the back room into the gallery and closed the door behind them. "I'd never let my personal feelings get in the way of hanging a beautiful picture like yours. Wouldn't be good business."
"Great-Granddad says all business is personal. People just don't like to admit it."
"Everyone knows that your great-grandfather is brilliant when it comes to business."
"Yeah." Carson looked proud. "He says I'm gonna be brilliant at business, too. He says that in a few years I'll be running my own company."
"Is that what you want to do?"
"Sure."
She hid a smile. There was not so much as a flicker of doubt in the words. "Nice to know where you're going so early in life."
"Uh-huh." Carson's small brow puckered slightly. "Thanks for going out with Dad last night."
"You're welcome."
"He's been acting a little weird lately."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"It's not your fault." Carson's expression was intent and very serious now. "It's just that everyone keeps telling him that he oughta get a new wife so I can have a new mom."
"Pressure."
"Yeah. That's what Uncle Rafe and Uncle Gabe say. I heard Granddad tell Grandma not to put so much pressure on Dad, but she and Aunt Lillian and Aunt Hannah all say he needs some pressure."
"Hmm."
"They think Dad doesn't want to get married again because he's still sad about my mom being in heaven and all."
"Well, that may be true," she said gently.
"Maybe." Carson was clearly dubious. "I don't remember her, but Dad does. He says she was really pretty and she loved me a lot."
"I'm sure she did love you very much, Carson."
"Yeah, and everyone says Dad loved her. But I don't think that's the reason he doesn't want to get married again. He told me once that if you lose someone, it doesn't mean you won't fall in love with someone else someday."
This was dangerous territory, she thought. Time to change the subject.
"Carson, maybe it would be better if we talked about something else."
He ignored that, intent on making his point. "I think Dad just hasn't found a lady he really, really likes, you know?"
"Quite possible." She went behind the counter and pulled out a sheet of paper. "Now, then, I'm trying to decide how to hang the children's pictures. I've made a little map of the gallery. Want to help me choose a good spot for Winston?"
"Okay." He scrambled up onto the stool. "What about you, Miss Brightwell?"
That gave her pause. "Me?"
"Have you ever found a man you really, really like and want to marry?"
"Not yet." She picked up a pencil.
"Think you will someday?"
"Maybe. I hope so. I'd love to have a son like you someday."
"Yeah?" Carson looked pleased. "You could have a kid of your own if you get married."
"Yes." Way past time to change the subject. She pulled the gallery floor plan closer so that they could both view it. "Now, then, the first thing we have to keep in mind is that the pictures all have to be hung at the right height so that people your age can see them properly."
He studied the floor plan. "Not too high."
"Right." She sketched some pictures on a display panel. "I was thinking of grouping them according to the age of the artists, but I'm wondering if it might be better to arrange them by subject, instead."
"You mean like put all the animal pictures together?"
"Exactly." She made some more notations on the piece of paper. "In addition to your picture of Winston, I received a lot of pictures of horses and one or two cow portraits."
"You didn't get any other dogs besides Winston, did you?" he asked quickly.
"Not yet."
"Good. That means mine will be the best."
"I sense a certain streak of competitiveness here."
"Huh?"
"Everyone knows that Hartes are very goal-oriented. They like to win."
"Great-Granddad says winning is a lot better than losing."
"I'm not surprised to hear that. I suspect it's a family motto. And there's certainly some truth to it. But that viewpoint overlooks the fact that not all situations have to be viewed in terms of win-lose."
"Huh?"
She smiled. "Never mind. I was just thinking out loud.
The point is, the Children's Art Show is not a competition. There won't be any prize for the best picture."
"Oh." He shrugged and let it go. "Mind if I ask you a question?"
"What is it?"
Carson looked up from the floor plan. "Do you like my dad, Miss Brightwell?"
She was amazed when she did not miss a beat in her response. "Yes, I do."
"A lot?"
"I like him enough to go out with him," she said cautiously.
"He likes you, too. A lot. That's why he called you so many times. He didn't mean to make you mad or anything."
"Carson, I really don't think-"
"He never, ever asked a lady to go out so many times after she turned him down once or twice."
She wrinkled her nose, amused in spite of herself. "I suspect that I may have unwittingly aroused those Harte competitive instincts we were just talking about." Aroused might not have been quite the right word under the circumstances, she thought. "Make that triggered."
"Huh?"
"That attitude about winning that we discussed a moment ago. It's possible that your father decided that persuading me to go out with him was a sort of game. He wanted to win, so he kept calling me until I said yes."
"Oh." Carson gave that some thought and then shook his head. "Nah. I don't think that's how it is with him. Dad says he doesn't like people who play games."
"Neither do I." Resolutely she turned back to the floor plan. "I think that the house pictures would look good on the two panels in the center of the room. What do you think?"
The door of the gallery opened. She looked up quickly, expecting to see Nick returning from the mail run. But it was Jeremy Seaton who strolled into the showroom.
He was good-looking in an angular way. His light-brown hair was cut in a close, conservative style as befitted a member of the institute staff. His clothes were left over from his days in academia: khaki trousers, an open-throated, button-down shirt, and expensive-looking loafers.
"Good morning, Jeremy. Something tells me you've heard about the Upsall."
"Yep. Couldn't resist coming by to see it for myself." He gave her a quick, easy smile and then looked at Carson. "I know you. You're Nick Harte's son, right? You're looking more like your dad every day. I'll bet you don't remember me. We haven't seen much of each other in the last couple of years. I'm Jeremy Seaton."
Carson shook his head. "I don't remember."
"Figured you wouldn't. Well, it doesn't matter. Your dad and I used to hang out together a lot in the old days."
Carson looked intrigued. "You knew Dad when he was a kid?"
"Sure did. We played some baseball together. And when we got a little older we also played a little pool down at the Total Eclipse."
"What else did you do?" Carson asked eagerly.
Jeremy stroked his jaw, looking thoughtful. "As I recall, we spent an inordinate amount of time cruising up and down Bayview Drive on Friday and Saturday nights showing off our cars and trying to get girls to look at us. Wasn't a whole lot to do here in Eclipse Bay in those days."
"Still isn't, as far as I can tell," Nick said from the doorway. "Hello, Jeremy. Been a while."
Octavia could have sworn that the temperature in the gallery plummeted at least twenty or thirty degrees. There was a definite chill in the air.
Jeremy lowered his hand and turned around with a deliberate air and a politely bland expression. "Harte." His tone remained civil, but all the warmth had leached out of it. "Heard you were in town for the summer."
"Heard you've taken up full-time residence and got yourself a job at the institute," Ni
ck said in a voice that was equally lacking in inflection. "Giving up the academic life for good?"
The gallery was flooded with toxic levels of testosterone. Nick and Jeremy might have been good friends in the past, Octavia thought, but something had gone very wrong somewhere along the line.
"Thought I'd try something a little different," Jeremy said. "Everyone needs a change once in a while. How's the writing going?"
"Swell."
"Rumor at the post office this morning is that you're planning to use Octavia here to help with some in-depth research for your next book," Jeremy said coolly.
"You've lived in Eclipse Bay long enough to know better than to listen to post office gossip."
"I sure wouldn't want to think that there was any truth to the rumors I heard today."
"When you get right down to it, it doesn't much matter if there's any truth to them or not," Nick said. "Either way, it's none of your business."
Confusion and something that might have been the beginnings of unease appeared in Carson's small face. She knew exactly how he felt, Octavia thought. This uncomfortable little scene had gone far enough.
"I've got the Upsall in my back room, Jeremy," she said briskly. "Come around behind the counter and I'll show it to you. You know something about art. I'd be interested to get your opinion."
Neither of the two men looked at her. They watched each other with the air of two lions facing off over a downed zebra.
I definitely do not look good in stripes, Octavia thought.
She cleared her throat. "Gentlemen, if you wish to continue this conversation, you may do so outside. I would like to remind you that there is a minor present. I would suggest you find someplace private where you can make idiots of yourselves without an audience."
That got their attention. Both men turned toward her. The chill in their eyes would have thawed a frozen pizza in two seconds flat.
"Can't wait to see the Upsall," Jeremy said tonelessly.
"This way." She spun around and walked back into the room behind the counter.
Jeremy followed. Nick came to stand in the opening. He did not enter the room. Carson hovered at his side.
"What's an Upsall?" Carson asked.
Octavia unwrapped the painting with a small flourish. "This," she said, "is an Upsall. I think."
Carson studied the swirling storm of color on the canvas. "Cool. Looks like the painter dropped a big bucket of paint and it splashed all over the place."
Nick's mouth twitched. "Couldn't have said it better, myself."
Jeremy said nothing, intent on the canvas. After a few moments of frowning scrutiny, he crouched in front of the painting and examined the brushstrokes in the corner of the canvas.
"Well?" Octavia asked. "What do you think?"
"It's certainly his style. Upsall had a way of putting paint on canvas that was very distinctive."
"Yes. That's how he obtained such incredible depth of color. It could be a copy, of course, but it looks like there's several decades worth of dirt and grime on it."
"Which means that if it was a copy, it was made years ago."
"Upsall's work didn't become popular until recently," Octavia said. "There wouldn't have been any incentive for someone to take the time and trouble to forge one of his paintings several decades back."
"Could be the work of an admirer or a student," Jeremy said, sounding doubtful. "What are the odds that an original Upsall has been sitting in old man Thurgarton's house all these years?"
"I'm no expert," Nick said from the doorway. "But following your logic, Seaton, what are the chances that Thurgarton would have had an excellent copy of the work of an obscure artist?"
Jeremy did not look at him. "Like you said, you're no expert."
"But Nick does have a point," Octavia said firmly. "It would be just as difficult to explain a fine copy as it would an original. All things considered, I'm strongly inclined to stick with my first instincts. I think this is a genuine Upsall. I'm planning to get a second opinion next week, though, just to be sure."
Jeremy straightened and shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers. He continued to regard the painting for another long moment. Then he nodded once, abruptly.
"I think you're right," he said. "It's an Upsall. Which means that Arizona Snow, Virgil Nash, and the Heralds are all about to get a very nice windfall."
"Looks like it." Octavia rewrapped the painting.
"Who'd have believed it?" Jeremy shook his head. "A genuine Upsall hidden away in Eclipse Bay."
Nick smiled with icy amusement. "Who says Eclipse Bay isn't the center of the art world?"
Chapter 8
Another summer storm was headed toward Eclipse Bay. Not a yippy little terrier of a storm like the one that had scampered through town last night and left everything damp. This one promised to be a real monster. It prowled and paced, sucking up energy from the sea while it waited for the cover of darkness.
Octavia stopped at the far end of the short stretch of beach and stood looking out over the quietly seething water. The tide was out. The brooding sensation was back.
A couple of days ago she had convinced herself that leaving Eclipse Bay at the end of the season was the right thing to do. Now she was not so certain. The strange feeling that she could not depart until she had accomplished whatever it was that she had come here to do had descended on her again.
Was her imagination going into high gear? Or was she already coming up with excuses to delay the day she walked away from Eclipse Bay and Nick and Carson Harte?
A shiver went through her. This was not good. This was risky rationalization and she did not do risky stuff. According to Claudia, the tendency to play it safe and not take chances was a major failing. She could still hear her aunt's words ringing in her head.
You know what I want you to do after I'm gone? I want you to go out and raise a little hell. Live it up. Take some chances. Life is too damned short as it is. You want to get to my age and have nothing interesting to look back on?
Okay, so she'd taken a mini-chance last night and what did she have to show for it? She'd cooked dinner for Nick Harte. Big deal. She'd kicked him out of the cottage before she'd even discovered whether or not he was sufficiently interested in having mad, passionate sex with her to bother to give her The Talk.
Playing it safe.
She had set out to walk off the restlessness after getting home from the gallery, but the exercise wasn't working as therapy. It was tempting to blame her mood on the advancing storm, but she knew there were other factors at work. One of them was the memory of the tension she had witnessed between Nick and Jeremy earlier that day.
Why was she allowing the thinly veiled hostility that had shimmered between those two get to her? It wasn't her problem if they had issues. She had her own issues. She had a business to sell. That sort of enterprise required planning and care. And then there was the move away from Eclipse Bay to engineer. For starters, she had to make arrangements to ship all of the stuff she had brought here. What on earth had made her bring so many of her personal treasures to the cottage? She should have left them at her apartment in Portland.
But the apartment in the city had always had a temporary feel. She had not been tempted to try to settle in there. It was her cottage here in Eclipse Bay that she had tried to turn into a home.
Lots of issues.'
Nick Harte.
Yes, indeed. Nick Harte was a big issue.
What was it about him that drew her? He was not her type. She had more in common with Jeremy Seaton, when you got right down to it.
This was getting her nowhere. Brooding was a waste of time and energy and it never, in her experience, resulted in good outcomes. The negative feelings simply fed on themselves and got heavier and more bleak.
It was time to get a grip. Take charge. Act responsibly.
She turned and started determinedly back along the beach.
She had almost reached the bottom of the cliff path when the
overwhelming, primordial knowledge that she was not alone jangled her senses.
She looked up quickly and caught her breath when she saw Nick standing at the top of the bluff. The ominous early twilight generated by the oncoming storm etched him in mystery. His dark hair was ruffled by the growling wind. His black windbreaker was open, revealing the black pullover and jeans he wore underneath. Top bad there wasn't a photographer around, she thought. This shot would have been perfect for the back cover photo on one of his books.
For a timeless moment it was as if she'd been frozen by some powerful force, unable to move, barely able to breathe. But an acute awareness arced through her, raising the small hairs on the back of her arms. She ought to be getting used to the sensation, she thought. Nick Harte had this effect on her a lot.
With an effort, she forced herself to move through the oddly charged atmosphere and started up the cliff path. She climbed carefully, conscious of how the wind was whipping her long, white skirt around her legs.
"Looks like the weather people missed the call on this storm," Nick said when she reached the top. He glanced toward the looming chaos that threatened on the horizon. "Going to be a lot stronger than they predicted."
"Yes." She held her hair out of her face. "What are you doing here, Nick?"
"I brought dinner." His tone was casual to the point of careless, but his eyes were anything but casual. A dangerous energy crackled there in the blue depths. "Unless you've got other plans?"
She'd had some plans, she thought. But none of them sounded nearly as interesting as dinner with Nick. Or as reckless.
"You cooked dinner?" she asked, buying herself a little time to analyze the situation before she did something really, really risky like invite him into her cottage.
His mouth curved in a rakish grin that showed some teeth.
"Now, why would I sweat over a hot stove all afternoon when I've acquired a brother-in-law who owns and operates a restaurant?"
She found herself smiling in spite of the invisible lightning in the air. "Good question."
"I brought a picnic basket that is stuffed to the hilt with some of Rafe's finest delicacies. Interested?"
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