On Sunset Beach (13 page)

“You’re being very gracious.”

“I’m a realist. And besides, I am going to have a damn good time doing this.” Carly tapped a pen on the kitchen counter. “Now I’ll have to work out something with my galleries. I’d planned on going in to New York tomorrow anyway.”

“Well, just let me know when you’re coming to St. Dennis, and I’ll have the guest room ready.”

“Don’t you think you have your hands full already? I mean, with your sister and her friends, and the dog …”

“Gabi will adjust, and happily. She just loves having you around. And as for the dog, you know that Dune loves her aunt Carly.”

“I admit to being a big favorite of kids and dogs everywhere.”

“So get your ducks in a row there, pack a bag or two, and head south.”

“Will do. I’ll give you a call back after I hear from Ed.”

Carly hung up and did a little dance across the kitchen floor. She was still dancing when the phone rang again, and Ed gave her the good news.

“I’m delighted to hear this, Ed. St. Dennis will not regret the decision, I promise you.”

“We’re hoping you can start immediately. We’d like to move forward with publicizing the exhibit as soon as possible.”

“I’ll be down there by the beginning of next week to go over the job with Cameron,” she told him. “Ed, I’m requesting that you permit me to handle all the promotions and any announcements that are to be made in connection with the gallery in general and this exhibit in particular. I think we have to build expectations in the proper manner. I have a lot of experience in building a buzz for a showing.”

“I agree. I’m leaving it all in your hands. I trust you’ll be in touch once you and Cameron have worked out a timetable?”

“Absolutely. You should hear from us next week.”

“Excellent. I’ll let the other members of the council know. Oh, and one more thing. We’re thinking that there should be some sort of contract between us—the town—and you relative to your services, expectations of renumeration.”

“I’ve already told you that I’ll be donating my time, Ed, as well as some of the proceeds from the book, once it goes on sale.”

“And that’s all very generous of you, don’t think we don’t appreciate it. We just feel it should all be set out in writing so it’s all legal and so that everyone involved is on the same page.”

“It’s fine with me. Have the town’s attorney write it up and I’ll look it over.”

“Jesse Enright is working on it right now.”

“That’s fine. I’ll look forward to discussing it with him once he’s finished.”

Their business completed, Carly ended the call and began to work out her schedule for the rest of the week. She’d go in to New York tomorrow, as she’d planned, and hit Boston on Thursday. She’d fly back
to Connecticut that same day and spend the weekend packing, making an inventory of the dozen paintings she had with her—size, subject, medium, and where in the course of Carolina’s career they fell—and preparing them for transport. Fortunately none of the paintings were overly large, so she should be able to fit most of them in the new Escalade she brought home on Monday. She’d also take Carolina’s journals, her notes for the book, and her laptop.

She’d just started going through the paintings when the title for her book came to her:
Stolen Moments
. It reflected not only that one painting and whatever story it told—would she ever find out?—but the time Carolina had to steal from her everyday life in order to paint. Pleased with the title and with herself, Carly went online to make a reservation for the train the following day and the flight on Thursday, then happily went about the task of measuring every painting.

The train into Grand Central on Wednesday morning was delayed twice, and accordingly took way longer than it should have. It was almost noon by the time Carly paid the cab she’d taken from the train station and walked into the gallery she’d opened eight years earlier.

Carly loved the renovated town house she’d bought in Tribeca, where she started her professional career as an art dealer and gallery owner. Over the years, she’d cultivated a number of young talents in the neighborhood, artists she met at street fairs and in the co-ops in and around the gallery. It was Carly who offered gallery space—however small—to artists who showed promise long before anyone else recognized their potential.
Several of her early finds had gone on to become names in the art world, and they all remembered who gave them the thrill of seeing their work hang in a real gallery for the first time, or who brokered their first sale. For these early sales, Carly often waived her fee when she sensed an artist was about to break big-time, or if their financial situation was precarious. She offered advice and sometimes dinner or cab fare when it was needed, and never asked to be paid back. She gained the reputation of being a friend to struggling artists, of being totally honest, ethical, and generous. It was a testament to her that once-struggling artists who’d gained notoriety in the art world would still deal only with her—a fact that did not endear her to much of her competition, gallery owners and art brokers who resented that she somehow, uncannily, always seemed to know which artists would be the next big thing.

The bell over the door had rung lightly when she entered, but no one had greeted her. She could see into the next room, where a tall, dark-haired woman chatted with a short bald man. Where, she wondered, was Enrico, her gallery manager?

Carly couldn’t help but beam with pride as she gazed upon the sidewall to the right of the front door, where Elvira Chesko’s work was displayed. The watercolors were gorgeous, every one of them, and it pleased Carly enormously that the young woman had fulfilled the promise she’d seen in her early works. Carly’s sixth sense had paid off in a big way when it came to Elvira, and Enrico had done a fabulous job placing the works.

An exhibit of works Carly couldn’t place hung opposite Elvira’s, and she crossed the floor to get a better
look. A small white card affixed to the wall under the first of the works identified the artist as Peter Stillman, a name she didn’t recognize. Carly stepped back and studied the exhibit overall. The third and fourth paintings needed to be switched with the sixth and seventh, she decided. She dropped her bag on a chair and lifted the first of the four, standing it up against the wall while she removed another.

“Miss, please!” The dark-haired woman Carly had seen when she entered the gallery now flew into the room, alarm on her face and in her voice. “You can’t touch the paintings! You can’t just take them down! I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to just put it down or I’ll … I’ll call the police.”

“Well, I …” Carly stood up and turned to face the woman, who, close up, didn’t appear as young as she had at first glance.

“Carly! My sweet!” Enrico swept in through the front door, a bag from the trendy take-out establishment across the street in one hand. “You naughty girl! You didn’t tell me you were coming in today.” He turned to the woman who’d seconds earlier had chastised Carly. “I see you’ve met the boss.”

“Ah …” The woman flushed scarlet.

“Carly Summit.” Carly offered her hand. “You are …?”

“Ava.” The woman’s voice was barely above a squeak. “Ava Miles. I’m so sorry, Ms. Summit, I had no idea …”

“It’s Carly. And please don’t apologize for doing your job. I should have introduced myself, but you seemed to be involved with the gentleman …”

“Oh, my goodness. Mr. Lentz! I left him in the middle of a sentence.”

“Yours or his?” Enrico asked, but before she could respond, Carly shooed her back into the other room.

“You scared the living crap out of her, you know.” Enrico took Carly’s arm and tried to steer her toward his office, but she wasn’t finished in the gallery.

“Who is this artist?” she asked. “Peter Stillman.”

“He belongs to the co-op around the corner. Do you like?” Enrico gestured at the wall.

“I don’t know yet. Maybe.”

“The paintings haven’t come in yet from Georgina Jeffers and you know how I hate a blank wall. I hope you’re okay with it?”

“I’m okay, yes, but if I could …” Carly resumed shuffling paintings around until she was satisfied.

“I have to admit, this is better. I hadn’t considered hanging the streetscape next to the one with the tall trees, but side by side, the trees seem to echo the streetlights. I like it.”

“Good. Let’s go into the office, where we can chat.” She grabbed her bag from the chair where she’d tossed it. “What’s for lunch?”

“Lentil, pear, and walnut salad, a little blue cheese sprinkled over top. Turkey, avocado, and tomato on a croissant. One very large brownie. I’m happy to share.”

“I’m happy to hear it. Grab two forks and a couple of plates from the kitchen and meet me in my office.” She grabbed the bag out of his hands. “I’ll hang on to this.”

Carly turned on the light in her office and went straight to her desk, where she placed Enrico’s lunch
next to her handbag. There was mail to be read and phone calls to return—those calls Enrico didn’t feel important enough to send to her cell phone. She could hear him in the hall, talking to Stephen, the gallery’s operations man, and she smiled. After she’d spent so much time alone with Carolina’s paintings, it was a joy to be back in this place that she loved with people she enjoyed.

Enrico appeared in the doorway, plates and knives and forks in one hand, two bottles of Perrier in the other.

“I thought you might like some bubbly water,” he told her as he lined everything up on her desk.

“That’s great, thank you.” She sat back in her chair and watched as he placed half of the sandwich on a plate, next to which he piled half of the salad, careful to divide the walnuts and pears evenly.

There were days when everything Enrico did made her smile. Thirty-eight years ago he’d been christened Richard but declared it lacked flair when he was nine and changed it to something that he felt better reflected who he was. Everything he did, Carly had learned shortly after hiring him, had flair. He passed a plate across the table to her, then followed it with a bottle.

“There aren’t any clean glasses right now,” he told her. “The dishwasher is still running. If I’d known you were coming, I’d have washed up a bit. On the other hand, I know you’re not above drinking out of a bottle now and then.”

Carly laughed. Next to Ellie, Enrico was her best friend. He’d been her first hire when she opened the gallery, and she’d missed his company for the week she’d been home with her nose in Carolina’s journals.

They chatted and gossiped over their food, but when
they’d finished and Enrico had cleared away the remains, Carly rolled her chair closer to the desk, rested her arms on the top, and asked, “So tell me about Ava.”

“I did tell you about Ava. I emailed her résumé to you and told you that I thought she was the best candidate for the new receptionist and you emailed back and said ‘fine.’ ”

“I did?” Carly frowned. “When was this?”

He took out his iPhone and scrolled through emails, then turned the phone around so she could see the message and the date. The Saturday she’d been in St. Dennis. No wonder she didn’t remember.

“How’s she working out?” Carly decided not to try to explain why she’d been distracted.

“She’s doing great.”

“Any word from Jackie?” Their previous receptionist had simply failed to show one day.

“No. I did manage to catch her sister at her home one night last week. She said that Jackie’s having a hard time since breaking up with the guy she’d been dating and then wrecking her car.” He leaned a little closer and lowered his voice. “It sounded like a breakdown to me.”

“Have you tried her apartment again? Is there anything we can do for her?”

“She’s gone back to Illinois to stay with her parents. The sister seemed very embarrassed and surprised that Jackie had left without a damn word. Frankly, I was surprised, but you never know about people.”

“I was surprised, too,” Carly admitted. “If you hear from her, let me know. And give her sister a call in a few weeks, see if there’s anything we can do for her, then give me a call.”

“Give you a call?” Enrico narrowed his eyes. “Where are you going? Back to London?”

“No. This time, I’m going …” She hesitated. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Enrico, but she hadn’t really thought about discussing her plans with anyone just yet. “I’m going to be at my friend Ellie’s for a while. I don’t know how long.”

“Oh my God, tell me she isn’t sick.” Enrico’s hand flew to his heart.

“She isn’t sick. I’m just going to be lying low for a bit, working on a very sensitive project that I’m not announcing yet.”

“Oh, do tell,” Enrico whispered.

“You have to promise not to breathe a word, Enrico. Not to anyone.”

“Cross my heart.” He did.

“Ellie’s great-great-grandmother was Carolina Ellis.”

“No. The Carolina Ellis whose paintings of that old church we had here for, like, a week before they both went to auction last year for megabucks?”

“The same. Ellie inherited the house Carolina lived in, the house where she painted—and all of Carolina’s paintings that were hanging there and stashed in the attic.”

“For real?” His eyes widened. “Like, an entire cache of paintings …”

Carly nodded. “An entire cache of hitherto unknown paintings.”

“And she’s going to let you exhibit them. Here.”

“You’re half right. She has agreed to let me handle the exhibit—and the subsequent sale of any she decides to sell. I can see you’re already thinking about the commissions and the raise you’re going to ask for.”

“You know me all too well. But what part was half right?”

“The exhibit isn’t going to be here. It’s going to be in St. Dennis.” She explained everything that had gone on, from Curtis Enright’s bequest to the decision to renovate the carriage house.

“Still, that’s … well, is ‘once-in-a-lifetime opportunity’ overstating the importance?”

“Not at all. That’s exactly how I feel about it. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime chance to introduce the works of an artist who’d been thought to have only produced a handful of works.”

“How many paintings are we talking about?” he asked.