On Sunset Beach (32 page)

F
IRST
thing on Monday morning, Carly checked in with her galleries. Enrico was all abuzz because there were not one, not two, but three buyers interested in the Lewis Mitchells, but other than that, things were relatively quiet, because “you know that everyone leaves New York on Thursday night in the summer.”

She called Helena at Summit/Boston and found that the showing of Mindy Mason’s pottery they’d planned for November was finally contracted—signed, sealed, and delivered. Helena also was in discussions to exhibit some new artists she’d met at a street fair in South Boston and thought they might plan a sort of indoor street fair over the winter to showcase the best of them. Colby in Chicago had nothing on the calendar that she didn’t already know about, but he reiterated his offer to buy her out. This time, instead of flat-out rejecting him, she surprised even herself by telling him she’d think about it.

And she would. As soon as she had time to devote some serious attention to what she could live without,
and what she couldn’t. If she wanted to explore in-depth her interest in discovering and promoting women artists, she needed to face the fact that something had to give. She couldn’t possibly devote the amount of time and attention necessary to do justice to everything. She’d already pretty much decided to sell her holdings in the London gallery to Isabella, and that would free up some time. The others—well, she would have to make some choices. She knew she couldn’t give up New York—though she could give more responsibility to Enrico, who’d proven himself over and over to be totally reliable and worthy of a big promotion. Chicago … maybe she could come to terms with Colby, and Boston … she’d have to think about that.

The next and last call was to Elvan Kazma in Istanbul.

Elvan brought Carly up-to-date on the most recent sales and acquisitions—and of course, the latest gossip—and promised to email copies of the previous months’ ledgers. Their business concluded, Carly had one more thing on her mind.

“Elvan, that recipe you have for
manti …
 do you think you could share that with me?” Carly asked.

“Since when do you have a taste for lamb?”

“I don’t, but someone I know … well, he likes Turkish lamb dishes and that’s the only one I can think of that you don’t put on kebabs and grill,” she explained. “I don’t have a grill here, so I thought maybe—”

“Oh, a man, eh?” Elvan laughed again. “I’ll send you a recipe that will have him on his knees.” She paused. “You can get fresh mint, yes?”

“I’m sure I can. It’s summer here, and there are lots of farms.”

“Watch your email. I’ll send you the recipe for the
patlican salatasi
—you need very fresh eggplant for that—and my mother’s recipe for
lor tatlisi
. It’s better than a love potion, never fails. Just make sure you buy the best ricotta cheese you can find.” She chuckled. “And promise to save a seat for me at the wedding.”

“I think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself.”

When the recipes arrived, Carly made a shopping list. She wasn’t so sure the little lamb raviolis would send Ford to his knees, but it was a fun thought. She checked the Internet hoping to find a Middle Eastern grocery, but no such luck. She was going to have to make do with what she could find at the supermarket and the farmers’ markets in and around town. If nothing else, preparing all those tiny dumplings for the
manti
would take her mind off the stress of trying to get the carriage house ready for the opening.

At least the design for the invitations was ready, and with Ellie’s approval, she’d photographed
Stolen Moments
to use as the logo for the event. The image on her camera phone wasn’t sharp enough, so she borrowed Ellie’s good camera and got a great shot. Hopefully, at some point over the next week—when she wasn’t cooking—she’d complete the photographic inventory of the paintings.

“Stress? What stress?” she mused as she drove to the market, list in hand. Cooking always did have a calming effect on her, and if nothing else, this dinner would be an adventure.

*   *   *

Ford arrived at Carly’s house promptly at six thirty on Wednesday. Instead of wine, he carried a six-pack of MadMac’s latest beer—Summer Breeze—and a big bouquet of blue hydrangeas.

“I wasn’t sure what you liked,” he told her. “But the woman at the flower shop said everyone likes these.”

“I do like them. Actually, they’re one of my favorites. Bring them on out to the kitchen.” She pulled his arm gently to bring him closer, and kissed the side of his mouth. “Thank you.”

She searched the cupboards for something that would make a suitable vase, and finally opted for the soup tureen. She hadn’t thought to buy a vase when she ordered all of her kitchen goodies online. It had been so long since anyone had brought her flowers, and it was something she rarely thought of doing for herself.

“It smells great in here. Can I help?”

“You can open a beer for me.” She slipped an apron over her head. She’d debated for far too long on her clothes for the occasion, and the last thing she wanted was tomato stains or olive-oil splashes on her shirt or her skirt. She’d hesitated on the skirt—she’d had no time to spend on a beach or near a pool this summer, and her legs were pasty white—but in the end, she went for comfort. Pants would have been too hot, shorts too casual. The skirt seemed like a good compromise and, paired with a short-sleeved, button-down shirt, seemed just right.

“Glasses?” he asked.

“Second cabinet on the left.” She grabbed a pair of kitchen shears from a drawer and cut the flower stems so they’d fit better in the tureen.

“There. Beautiful.” She placed them in the center of the kitchen table. “They make me think of summer days when I was a kid. My mom always had white hydrangeas growing along the side of the garage, and at night, we’d chase fireflies across the lawn and the hydrangeas would stand out in the moonlight.”

Ford handed her the glass of beer. “Sure I can’t do anything?”

“You can sit right there and keep me company while I cook. If I need an extra pair of hands, I’ll let you know.”

She placed the plate of
muhammara
on the table next to the flowers, the red of the peppers in bright contrast to the white plate.

“Wow. Look at that.” He raised an eyebrow.

“Pita for the dip.” She set a small basket of toasted pita wedges, two small plates, and a pile of paper napkins on the table. “Help yourself.”

“That’s incredible,” he said after he’d dipped pita into the dip. “It tastes just like the
muhammara
the last time I was in Turkey. You can taste the walnuts and the … what’s that spice?”

“Cumin.”

“It’s delicious,” he said as he went back for more.

She checked the flame under the large pot of water that was just starting to bubble. If she kept to her timetable—provided by Elvan—everything should make it to the table at precisely the same time.

“May I ask what you’re making? Other than this dip, and something with lamb, of course …” He spooned some more dip onto one of the small plates and added a few more pitas.

“Smarty. I
am
making lamb. I’m making
manti
.”
She served herself some of the spicy dip. It was excellent, she had to admit. Hopefully everything else would be as good.

“Where’d you find them around here?”

“I said I was
making
them.” She couldn’t help but add smugly, “From scratch.”

“Seriously? All those little-bitty dumplings …” His jaw almost hit the table.

“Made them this morning. They just have to be cooked.” She turned back to the counter so that he wouldn’t see the grin on her face.

“It must have taken you hours.”

“All day.”

“I am impressed almost beyond words.”

“Oh, be impressed. I also made a chickpea salad and
lor tatlisi
for dessert. The only thing I didn’t make from scratch is the pita.” She turned to him and grinned. “You wanted Turkish, you’re getting Turkish.”

“When the woman said she could cook, she wasn’t kidding.” He dipped another pita, ate it, then took another sip of beer. “Did I mention that this was delicious?”

“You did. So now you know how I spent my day. Tell me how you spent yours.”

“I made the mistake of telling my mother your suggestion that I interview Lola. She liked the idea so much she started thinking that I should not only interview Lola, but I should plan on an entire series of interviews of some of the other local characters.”

“Such as …?” She helped herself to another bit of dip. Yum.

“Such as Captain Walt, and his wife, the lovely Rexana.”

“Did I hear right, that she’s a former showgirl?” Carly looked over her shoulder at Ford.

He nodded. “The story I heard my dad tell once, old Walt went to California to visit his brother. On the way back, he stopped in Vegas, met Rexana, and that was that. They got married in one of those chapels out there two days after they met and he brought her back to St. Dennis.”

“I wonder if it was an Elvis chapel,” she mused. “Anyway, so you’re going to interview them for the paper. Cute idea. Their restaurant is very popular, so I’m sure the summer people will love to read about them.”

“I’ll get to them after I talk to Lola. Seems she’s headed out on vacation next weekend, so I had to schedule to meet with her tomorrow afternoon.”

“That’s one interview I will not want to miss.”

“At the rate my mother’s going, I may never get out of St. Dennis. Not, at least, until she can use her hand again and get around. She’s started some modified physical therapy already, though, so there’s hope.”

“Would that be so bad, if you had to hang around for a while longer?”

“It hasn’t been bad so far,” he admitted. “I’ve kind of enjoyed getting reacquainted with my hometown again. Seeing people I used to know, going places I used to go …” He sighed. “No, it probably wouldn’t be so bad.”

He looked surprised to have said it aloud, so Carly let it pass without comment.

A few seconds later, he slapped his hands on his thighs. “I can’t sit here like a lump. Give me something to do.”

“All right. You can get the salads out of the fridge—they’re
already plated—and you can set the table.” She showed him where everything was located. “I’d have rather eaten in the dining room, but I still have the notes from the book and the catalog scattered about in piles. It’s like a postpartum reaction. I’m just not ready to file it all away yet.”

“This is fine,” he said as he put plates and flatware on the table. “I like this room. I like the view out the back there.”

“I like it here, too, now that the air conditioner is working.”

She finished preparing the yogurt dressing for the
manti
and set it aside, then removed the tray of tiny dumplings from the fridge and set it on the counter.

“I can’t believe you made all those.” He shook his head. “How did you know how?”

“A friend sent me her recipes. Actually, she sent all of the recipes for everything we’re having, so if you approve, you can send Elvan a thank-you email in the morning.”

The water for the
manti
was starting to boil, so Carly placed each one of the dumplings carefully into the pot. Ford had finished setting the table and had put the salads on top of the dinner plates.

“I think we can go ahead and start on those while the dumplings cook,” Carly said.

They sat across from each other and attacked the salads: chickpeas, grape tomatoes, thinly sliced red onion, black olives, feta cheese, tossed in a dressing of olive oil and lemon juice and spices.

“This is so good,” he remarked. “If I close my eyes, I could imagine we’re at one of those rooftop restaurants in Istanbul, overlooking the Bosporus.”

“I’ve been to one where you can see the Hagia Sophia in the distance.” She smiled, remembering the last time she was in that city, when Elvan and her relatives had taken her to dinner.

He was even more amazed when she served the
manti
.

“Oh my God, are you kidding?” he exclaimed after he tasted the dish, which she’d artfully prepared exactly as Elvan had instructed: the lamb-filled dumplings on the bottom, the yogurt sauce over them, and the red-pepper-infused olive oil over the yogurt.

She wished she’d taken a picture to send to Elvan before Ford dug in.

“This is amazing.” His eyes narrowed and he watched her from the other side of the table. “Fess up. You’ve done this a thousand times before.”

“Nope. First time.” She bit into a dumpling and had to admit she’d outdone herself. While she wasn’t happy with the fact that she was eating lamb, the little bit of nutmeg she’d ground to add to the mixture seasoned it perfectly.

“I cannot believe you did this for me.” He put his fork on his plate, his gaze on her face. “I may have to marry you.”

She laughed off the joke, tried to pretend that her heart hadn’t just jumped even though she knew he wasn’t serious.

“All kidding aside, Carly. You could get a job selling this. It’s just as good as anything I ever had in Turkey. The only difference is that the sauce isn’t quite as garlicky. But it’s just as good,” he hastened to add.

She smiled. She’d deliberately cut the amount of
garlic the recipe called for, figuring that you don’t overgarlic the sauce when you’re planning a big night.

And she was planning a big night. She’d thought over Ellie’s words a hundred times since Sunday, and she knew her friend was right. She had been overthinking, overanalyzing whatever it was that was going on between her and Ford. She needed to get out of the way and just let the relationship go where it was going to go. Whichever way that might be, she was ready for it.

But just in case, she’d left most of the garlic out of the yogurt sauce.

They finished the
manti
and Carly served the dessert—round scoops of ricotta topped with a sugary syrup, and while it wasn’t authentic, she added a few fresh blueberries to the bowls for color.

“I hope you won’t get upset if I’m still sitting here in the morning,” Ford said after he’d finished every last bite. “I don’t think I’ll be able to move until maybe Friday afternoon.”