"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.
Chapter 16
Nick knew it was going to be a bad day when he drove into the parking lot of the Incandescent Body bakery the following morning shortly after ten and saw the black limo sitting near the front door. The driver was behind the wheel, sipping coffee and reading a newspaper.
"I don't need this," Nick said to himself while Carson scrambled out of the backseat. "I definitely do not need this."
Carson looked up at him. "What don't you need, Dad?"
"You'll find out in a minute." He closed the rear door and started toward the entrance to the bakery.
"I'm gonna have hot chocolate and an orange muffin this time," Carson announced with relish. "And we can get some coffee and a muffin for Miss Brightwell, too, okay?"
&nbs
p; "I'm gonna have to think about that." He was still feeling pretty pissed off by her parting remarks last night, he thought. She'd had a lot of nerve suggesting that he take the lead in repairing his shattered friendship with Jeremy.
Carson looked startled. "How come? We always bring her some coffee and a muffin."
"The situation is getting complicated."
"But we gotta take her coffee and a muffin. We always take her that stuff. She'spects it now. Dad, you promised you wouldn't do anything to make her mad."
"Okay, okay, we'll get her coffee and a muffin."
He opened the door of the bakery. Carson spotted the two men sitting at the small table immediately. Excitement galvanized him into motion. He raced forward at full speed.
"Great-Granddad." Carson looked back over his shoulder. "Dad, it's Great-Granddad. He's here."
"I noticed," Nick said. He met Sullivan's eyes over the top of Carson's head. Then he flicked a glance at Mitchell, who was looking smug. "What a surprise."
He took his time following Carson to the table where the two men sat together over coffee. Two canes were propped against one of the chairs. Misleading, those canes, Nick thought. At first glance you might make the mistake of assuming that they indicated weakness. Nothing could be further from the truth.
He had seen photos of Mitch and Sullivan when they had been in the military together decades earlier. They had been young men in their prime at the time, strong and competent, ready to take on their futures. But the picture had been taken shortly after they had survived the hell of combat in a far-off jungle, and the experience had left an indelible imprint on them. If you looked closely, you could still see it in their eyes today. These were two very tough men, the kind you wanted at your back if you decided to walk down a dark alley.
They were also both stubborn as hell and downright bloody-minded when it came to getting their own way. But in fairness, Nick thought, those traits ran through every generation of both the Madison and the Harte families.
Sullivan grinned at Carson when the boy barreled to a halt at his chair. He gave Carson a hug and ruffled his hair affectionately.
"Hello there, sport, how are you doing?"
"Hi," Carson replied. "Did you come to see my picture in the art show? Cause if you did, you'll have to wait for a few days. The show isn't until next weekend. I did a picture of Winston."
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