Summer in Eclipse Bay (18 page)

“Trust me, it is, perhaps, the best-kept secret in Eclipse Bay. If it ever got out that two gay men had used Eugene and Dwayne to mop out an alley, I doubt if the dynamic duo would ever be able to appear in public around here again.”

She propped her elbow on the table and rested her chin on her hand. “In other words, you threatened Eugene and Dwayne.”

“That's pretty much what it comes down to, yeah. Subtlety does not work well with those two.”

“Hmm.”

He looked up at that. “What?”

“If no one here in Eclipse Bay knows about Eugene and Dwayne's excellent adventure in Seattle, how did you learn the details?”

“Virgil Nash.”

“Virgil? What does he have to do with Eugene and Dwayne?”

“As little as possible, like everyone else. It's another long story but I'll give you the short version. Several years ago, back in our wilder days, a bunch of us used to get together with some other guys out on a road near the bluffs to race our cars.”

“I thought drag racing was illegal.”

“Hey, we were nineteen-year-old guys with cars. What else could we do?”

“Right. Guys with cars. Go on.”

“At the time, Eugene's pride and joy was a Ford that he boasted could beat anything else on the road. He was winning regularly but one night I beat him. He didn't take losing well, to put it mildly. After the race he followed me home. It was one o'clock in the morning.”

“Go on.”

“He had Dwayne with him, naturally. They probably egged each other on. At any rate, Eugene started playing games on the road that runs along the low cliffs just south of town.”

“I know it. There are a lot of tight curves. What kind of games?”

“Coming up fast from behind, nipping at the bumper of my car, pulling up alongside and swerving toward us just as we went into a curve.”

“Us?”

He shrugged. “Jeremy was in the car with me that night.”

“I see.” She looked thoughtful.

“We didn't know if Eugene was really trying to force us off the road or merely attempting to scare us. He was more than just annoyed because he had lost to me that night. He was crazy mad.”

“What happened?”

“I figured I had two choices; I could either try to outrun Eugene, which would have been dicey on those curves, or try to fake him out. I went for faking him out. Jeremy watched him while I concentrated on driving. When Eugene made one of his moves to pull up alongside, Jeremy gave me the word. His timing was right on the mark. I braked hard. Eugene kept going and lost control. His car went over a low bluff and down a short incline, and landed in some shallow water.”

“Whew. Well, obviously he and Dwayne weren't killed.”

“No. The only thing that saved them was the fact that the tide was still partially out. I stopped at the top of the bluff and Jeremy and I went down to see how bad things were. Eugene was slumped over the wheel. At first we thought that he was dead but then we realized he was just badly dazed. Dwayne was frozen with shock. There was no time to get help because the tide was coming in fast. Jeremy and I hauled them both out of the car and dragged them out of the water. We wrapped them in some blankets I kept in the back of the car.”

“In other words, you and Jeremy saved Eugene and Dwayne.”

“And neither of them ever forgave us for the humiliation,” Nick concluded dryly.

“Where does Virgil Nash fit into this story?”

“Virgil lives out near where the accident happened. After we got Eugene and Dwayne out of the car, we went to Virgil's house to get help. He was there when Eugene made some threats to Jeremy and me.”

“Threats?”

“Eugene was really pissed, like I said. Blamed us for wrecking his beloved car. But mostly he was just furious because he had screwed up and we'd had to rescue him. Anyhow, Virgil took us aside later and said that we should watch our backs for a while. We did, but Eugene never made any moves. The years went by and we figured everyone involved had forgotten about what happened that night.”

“But Virgil didn't forget?”

“No. Virgil's been watching Eugene ever since, and that means watching Dwayne, too, since for the most part they're inseparable. When they got into trouble last year in Seattle, Virgil heard about it from a colleague who runs a sex toy shop there. He e-mailed both Jeremy and me and told us the story. Reminded us that guys like Eugene don't change and that someday it might pay to have some ammunition on hand, just in case.”

“And today you used your ammunition.”

“You could say that.”

She watched him with an odd, unreadable expression. “For my sake.”

“Yeah, well, I didn't want them spreading that story around.”

“It's the kind of thing your hero, John True, would do.”

He should have been flattered, he thought. But for some reason it irritated him that she was making a connection between him and the character in his books. He wasn't John True. He was Nick Harte. He closed the menu a second time and looked at her very steadily.

“Don't,” he said grimly, “get me mixed up with John True. He's pure fiction. I'm real.”

The interesting expression on her face disappeared immediately behind a cool veil. She took her chin off her hand and sat back. “Got it. Trust me, I won't make that mistake.”

“Good.” He was more annoyed than ever now. What the hell was wrong with him today?

A young waiter appeared, saving him from getting too deep into the introspective thing. Octavia ordered a salad. Nick realized that he was hungry. The confrontation at the Total Eclipse had given him an appetite. He chose the oversized tuna sandwich and fries, knowing from past experience that it would do the job.

When the waiter had disappeared, Octavia looked at him.

“Don't get me wrong, I appreciate what you did today,” she said. “But do you think it was wise to threaten Eugene and Dwayne?”

“I'm not worried about those two,” he said.

“Okay, so what
are
you worried about? I can see that you've got something else on your mind.”

“Eugene and Dwayne are not the sharpest knives in the drawer, if you know what I mean.”

“I sort of got that impression. So?”

“So, while they are both the type to spread false and malicious rumors, neither of them has the brainpower to concoct the one going around about you.”

She elevated her brows. “I believe I see where you're going here.”

“When you stop and think about it, that story Eugene and Dwayne were spreading about you is a fairly sophisticated piece of gossip. They gave you motive and opportunity and they've added a few inside bits about how the art market works. Eugene even tried to use the word
provenance.
”

“Not the sort of word you'd expect a guy like him to have in his vocabulary.”

“No.”

“From what I've heard about those two, they aren't likely to know much about the art market, either.”

“Highly doubtful,” he agreed.

“Which means that they are probably not the source of the rumors.”

“Probably not.”

She was quiet for a moment. Her expression turned somber. “What do you propose to do next?”

“I'm going to try to find out who started the gossip about you,” he said. “I figure whoever is responsible for the rumors might have had a motive for implicating you.”

“Like, maybe, to cover up his own involvement in the theft of the painting?”

“Yeah.” He hesitated and then decided to give her the rest of it. “There's something else that bothers me about that elaborate story, too.”

“What?”

“It would have been a lot simpler to point the finger of blame at the Heralds. They already seem a little suspicious to most folks. Instead, whoever concocted it chose you for the fall guy.”

“You think this may be personal?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I do. I've come to the conclusion that someone isn't just looking for any scapegoat. Whoever took the painting wants to make you, in particular, look guilty.”

Anne came into the gallery with Gail the following morning. She clutched a carefully rolled-up sheet of drawing paper in both hands.

“I brought you my picture,” Anne said in her whispery little voice. She held it out to Octavia.

“Thank you.” Delighted, Octavia came around from behind the counter to take the rolled artwork. “I'm so glad that you decided to enter a drawing in the show, Anne.”

Before she could unroll the picture, Nick and Carson walked into the gallery. Nick carried a paper sack bearing the Incandescent Body logo. Carson had a cup of hot chocolate in one hand.

“Morning, Gail,” Nick said. “Hi, Anne.”

“Hi,” Gail replied. “Say hello to Mr. Harte, Anne.”

“Hello, Mr. Harte.”

“This is Carson,” Nick said.

“Hi,” Carson said cheerfully. He looked at Anne and then at the rolled-up drawing in Octavia's hand. “Is that your picture?”

“Yes,” she said.

“I did one, too. Miss Brightwell put mine in a gold frame.” He looked at Octavia. “We brought you some coffee and a muffin.”

“Thanks,” Octavia said. “That sounds good.”

“Let me see Anne's picture,” Carson said.

“I was just about to look at it myself, and then Anne can select her frame.”

Octavia carefully unrolled the drawing and put it down on a low table. She looked at the picture, ready with admiring words. Then she took a second look, awed by the remarkable talent displayed in crayon.

The form, color, shading, and expression were astounding, especially given the age of the artist. In some ways it was clearly a child's picture, but in others it vibrated with the raw power of a gifted and as yet untrained artist.

“Anne,” she said very gently, “this is a beautiful picture. Incredible.”

Anne looked thrilled. “Do you really like it?”

Octavia took her gaze off the picture with some reluctance and looked at her. “Yes.” She caught Gail's attention. “It is quite remarkable, to be honest.”

“I told you she was good,” Gail said with quiet pride.

“Brilliant is more like it,” Octavia murmured.

Carson was alarmed now. “Let me see.” He hurried closer and examined the picture with an expression of mounting outrage. “It's a
dog.
”

“It's Zeb,” Anne told him. “He's my dog. Well, partly mine. He belongs to Grandpa, but Grandpa says I can share him.”

Carson rounded on her. “You can't do a dog for the art show. I did Winston.”

“Carson.” Nick spoke quietly. “That's enough.”

Carson turned to him. “But, Dad she can't do a dog. I already did one.”

Anne started to look uncertain. She glanced from her mother to Octavia for reassurance and then glowered at Carson. “Miss Brightwell said I could make any kind of picture I wanted.”

“That's right,” Octavia said calmly. “No two dog pictures are the same, so we can have any number of them in the art show, just like we can have any number of house pictures and flower pictures.”

Carson was not appeased, but he obviously knew that he was fighting a losing battle. “It's not fair.”

“Take it easy, Carson,” Nick said. “You heard Miss Brightwell. No two dog pictures are the same, so there can be lots of them in the show.”

“Each one is special,” Octavia assured him. “Each one is unique. Your picture of Winston doesn't look anything like Anne's picture of Zeb.”

Carson's face tightened but he did not argue further.

Octavia smiled at Anne. “Come with me and we'll pick out a frame for your picture of Zeb. You have a choice of black, red, or gold.”

Anne brightened instantly. “I want a gold one, please.”

Carson clenched his hands into small fists at his sides.

Nick took Carson out of the gallery. They went across the street and walked out onto the pier.

Nick stopped at the end and braced a foot on one of the wooden boards that formed the railing. He peeled the top off his cup of coffee.

“You want to tell me what's wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing's wrong.” Carson took a desultory swipe at one of the railing posts with the toe of his right running shoe. “It's just not fair.”

“Why isn't it fair?”

“It just isn't, that's all. My picture was the only dog picture until now. That's why Miss Brightwell liked it so much.”

So that's what this is all about,
Nick thought. He took a swallow of coffee while he considered how to handle the situation. He understood Carson's position better than his son realized. Every time he thought about Jeremy and his artistic talent and how much Jeremy had in common with Octavia, he was flooded with a wholly irrational jealousy, too.

“Miss Brightwell made it clear that she likes both dog pictures,” Nick said.

“She likes Anne's better than mine,” Carson muttered.

“How do you know that?”

“Anne's is better,” Carson said.

It was a simple statement, uttered in the tone of voice of a guy who knows his hopes are doomed.

“Mind if I ask why you care so much what Miss Brightwell thinks about your picture of Winston?” Nick asked. “Is this just a simple manifestation of the Harte competitive instinct, or is there something else going on here?”

Carson frowned. “Huh?”

Sometimes he had to remind himself that Carson wasn't quite six yet. He was smart, but words like
manifestation
and
competitive instinct
could still throw him.

“Remember, the Children's Art Show isn't a competition. Miss Brightwell isn't going to choose a winning picture. All the drawings will be exhibited. There won't be any losers.”

“Doesn't mean Miss Brightwell doesn't like Anne's picture best,” Carson grumbled.

“Why do you care? I mean, let's face it, you've never shown a lot of interest in art until you decided to draw a picture for Miss Brightwell's show.”

“I want Miss Brightwell to like my picture best.”

“How come?”

Carson shrugged. “She likes artists. If she thought I was a good artist, maybe she'd like me better.”

“Better than what? Better than she likes Anne?”

Carson kicked the post again. The blow was not so forceful this time. More of a gesture of frustration. “I dunno.”

“She likes you a lot,” Nick said. “Trust me.”

Carson took another halfhearted shot at the post with the toe of his running shoe. Definitely losing steam now.
A little boy struggling to deal with complex emotions that he doesn't comprehend,
Nick thought.

They stood there in silence for a while, morosely watching the sunlight dance on the waters of the bay. Nick finished his coffee.

I want her to like me, too. I don't want her to think of me as therapy or business. I want her to want me, the way I want her.

He heard a crumpling sound and looked down, vaguely surprised to discover that he had crushed the empty coffee cup in his hand. Irritated, he tossed the remains into the nearest trash bin.

An adult male struggling to deal with complex emotions that he doesn't comprehend,
he thought. Well, at least he wasn't going around kicking fence posts. A definite sign of maturity.

“So,” he said, “what do you say we ask Miss Brightwell to have dinner at our house tonight?”

“Think she'd come?” Carson asked with sudden enthusiasm.

“I don't know,” Nick said, determined to be honest. “But we're a couple of Hartes. That means we go after what we want, even if we lose in the end.”

“I know,” Carson said, “she likes salads. Tell her we're gonna have a really big salad.”

“Good idea.”

“Salad, hmm?” Octavia said a few minutes later when they presented her with their proposition.

“With lots and lots of lettuce,” Carson assured her. “As much as you want.”

Nick leaned back against the counter and folded his arms. “Maybe a couple of radishes, too,” he promised.

She gave him that mysterious smile that left him in limbo. “I could hardly pass up an offer like that,” she said. “It's a date.”

Nick turned to Carson. “Guess we'd better hit Fulton's before they run out of the best lettuce.”

“Okay.” Carson whirled and rushed toward the door.

Nick looked at Octavia. “Thanks. He's dealing with his first-ever case of professional jealousy. Anne's picture of Zeb hit him hard.”

“I noticed.”

Outside, Jeremy drove his Nissan into the little parking lot. Nick watched him climb out of the car and start toward the row of shops.

“Carson realized right away that Anne's picture was much better than his,” he said to Octavia.

“The art show isn't a competition.”

“Yeah, I reminded him of that.” He crossed the showroom to the open door. “But he's a Harte. He had an agenda when he entered his picture of Winston in your show. He wanted you to think his drawing was the best. Now he's worried that he's been outclassed by a better artist.”

She nodded. “I understand.”

Outside on the sidewalk, Jeremy had paused at the entrance to Seaton's Antiques. He glanced at Nick, his face impassive. Then he opened the door and disappeared into his grandmother's shop.

“I'm really glad to hear that you understand,” Nick said softly. “Because I'm having a similar problem.”

She leaned her elbows on the counter. “You're worried that you've been outclassed by a better artist?”

“Professional jealousy is tough to deal with at any age.”

He went outside to join Carson.

At six that evening she stood on the top of the bluff with Carson and looked down at the five finger-shaped stones that thrust upward out of the swirling waters at the base of the short cliff.

“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.”