Hidden Cove

by Meg Tilly

  Zelia tipped her head toward the clock on the dashboard. “We’d better head out. I do not want to be late after yesterday’s fiasco.” Humor laced her voice. “Thanks, Gabe, for listening. I feel lighter already.”

  He turned the SUV on and pulled back onto the road. “I was thinking, why don’t you turn your folks’ car into a driveway sculpture, like you did with that old bike at the end of your drive. Paint it—”

  “Plant it! With my mom’s favorite flowers. Oh, Gabe, you are a genius.”

  He grinned. “Far be it from me to try to talk you out of that erroneous misconception.”

  Fifty-five

  EVE HARRIS’S PAINTINGS did not disappoint. They were spectacular. There was a unique energy that radiated from her work. Her passion and colossal talent were evident in every brushstroke, in the way she used her palette knife, in her use and blending of colors. Even with everything that was going on, it had been impossible not to be swept away by Eve’s artwork.

  “Thanks again for being so understanding about yesterday,” Zelia told Eve as she zipped up her raincoat. “Words can’t express how excited I am to have the opportunity to represent your artwork. You’re incredibly talented. I’m going to mull it over, come up with a plan for the best way to launch you. I should have a contract ready later this week. One year to start. Does that work for you?”

  “Oh yeah. That works for me,” Eve said with a grin.

  “Great. We’ll see how it goes. We can renegotiate at the end of that time for a longer period if we’re both happy.”

  “I still can’t believe you are taking me on. Art Expressions Gallery! Never in my wildest dreams.”

  “Look, I’m honored to have the opportunity to hang your artwork in my gallery. Speaking of hanging, don’t get mad, but I’ll need you to remove your paintings from the walls of your café. We are going to try to create a mystique and buzz about your art. Having them hanging in a bustling, steamy café/bakery, where they are viewed more as wallpaper than art, isn’t the way to do it.”

  * * *

  * * *

  “HOW DID IT go?” Gabe asked when a sopping-wet Zelia landed in his front seat.

  “Great,” Zelia said. “Her paintings are superb, and the fact she’s a lovely person is an added bonus. Just gotta figure out the best way to present her. Thinking I might add a couple of her paintings to the batch I’m taking to Frieze in May.” She pushed back the hood of her raincoat and smiled at him. Little droplets of rain were clinging to the mass of curls around her face that hadn’t been protected from the elements. Tiny watery diamonds shimmered in her hair. He wanted to lean forward and taste the rain on her lips, the warmth of her mouth. To dive, once more, into experiencing a life lived fully instead of by observation. Lust. Yes, that was there, but the deep internal longing was even greater than the lust. He craved the sweet intimacy that had been building between them as they shared meals, their uncensored thoughts, and their bodies. He wanted her. Needed her like he needed oxygen. The feel of her hands entangling in his hair, the soft mewing noise she made in the back of her throat as she opened her mouth to allow him access.

  No. He turned his body to face forward. You are playing the long game. Gabe took a deep breath and slowly released it, then started the engine and headed back down the drive. “Where to?” he asked.

  * * *

  * * *

  ONCE BACK AT the gallery, Zelia was even more grateful to have Gabe at her side as she approached her office door. It looked odd. Cold. Like she couldn’t recognize the place anymore. Not only was the rug missing, but the police had removed a portion of the office baseboard, part of the flooring, and the desk drawer with the blood splatters in it as well. She exhaled shakily. At least the strings the police had put up to map the trajectory of the blood splatters had been removed.

  She stood in the doorway, her hands gripped tightly before her. “What am I supposed to do? Am I allowed to wipe things off? Sweep? Mop? Call a contractor to repair the damage?”

  “Let me talk to Rick,” Gabe said. “My impulse would be to leave it as is for a day or two in case they need to come back.”

  “But I have to work.” She exhaled again, trying to calm her breath, but slow breathing wasn’t working. “According to my phone there are now two hundred and thirty-one e-mails waiting to be answered, some important, some not, but all need to be sorted through. That huge shipment that came in yesterday right before we left needs to be unpacked and every single item entered into the computer. Advertising needs to be designed and sent out for the upcoming show . . .” Her voice was rising along with the panic quotient. “The show that I have done diddly-squat on needs to be designed and the artwork hung and labeled.”

  Gabe was silent for a second, his jaw set. “You’re right. You can’t work in here.” He stepped past her into the office. “I’m going to create a temporary workstation in another part of the gallery for you.” He reached for the computer.

  “No,” she said. She started to step forward but caught herself before the movement hit her feet. She swallowed, trying to rid herself of the nausea that had risen in her throat, her hand flying to her mouth. “Not the computer. I can’t. I think she was working on it when . . .” Her words trailed off.

  “Okay.” Gabe moved away from the desk, his voice calm, reassuring. “Not the computer. How about you borrow mine for the time being?” She felt his hand alight on her elbow and gently steer her through the small hallway to the coffee station. “We can set you up at this table. It will be nice and convenient when you want to refresh your tea. As a matter of fact, I’m going to put the water on to boil now.” He pulled out a chair and sat her down, gave her a gentle pat on the shoulder, and then moved to the drinks station and filled up the kettle.

  There was something about the calm, competent way he moved that comforted her. “Thanks.” She wasn’t shaking as badly now. “I don’t know what got into me.”

  “Not me.” Gabe held up his hands, palms out. Then a teasing smile chased across his face. “Much as I would have liked to,” he added ruefully.

  And just like that, her anxiety lightened and actual laughter bubbled forth.

  “That’s better,” he said, nodding with satisfaction. “The color is returning to your face.”

  Gabe had honored her wishes the previous night. They hadn’t made love, but he had remained, camped on the sofa. They’d talked until the wee hours of the morning, going over the photographer’s photo files from the Feinstein & Co. event that Mitch Clarke had hacked into. Clicking through photos of the gallery, the event the night that Alexus had died. Looking closely at the attendees milling about, trying to see if anything unusual stood out. They’d also looked through the PDF of the brochure of the event. It had been emotional work wading through it all. Finally Gabe had shut his laptop and lay back on the makeshift bed on her sofa. “Come here,” he’d said, opening his arms.

  “I don’t think it’s wise. We can’t—”

  “I know. You’re looking weary. Like you need a friend. I can be that friend.”

  “Totally platonic?”

  “I give you my word.” He’d waited patiently.

  She had been tired and heartsore as she’d eased her way down, the two of them precariously balanced on the narrow sofa. He tucked her under his arm, her head on his chest, her arm and leg draped over him to keep from tipping backward onto the floor. It felt comforting and right lying in his arms. Charlie claimed a spot, nestled on top of them, a warm, purring accent note of coziness. They talked quietly, until finally words got blurred, then started to peter out. “I’d better go to bed,” she said, wanting him to convince her to stay, but he’d opened his arms and released her, smiling a sleepy, tender smile.

  “Sweet dreams,” she’d heard him murmur as she’d forced herself to cross the room, all the while longing to race back into the warm comfort of his arms.

  Instead, she’d c
limbed into her cold bed alone and managed to grab a couple hours of sleep. And now, here they were, in the gallery, and even with all the worry, the wanting hadn’t dissipated.

  The kettle clicked off. Gabe turned and removed two mugs from their hooks, dropped a tea bag in each, filled them with steaming water, and then brought them to the table and sat down. “So, what I need from you is a list of supplies you’d like to make this a functioning workspace. Can you do that for me?”

  She nodded.

  “Good.” He walked to his satchel, which he’d left leaning against the wall by the back entry. She watched him remove his laptop, a cord, a power strip, a pad of paper and a pen. She liked the way he moved with such absolute competence, no fumbling or knocking things over. She tried to imagine Ned under this kind of pressure, and the image that came to mind made her smile.

  Ned was more like a lazy summer afternoon, drifting down a river in an inner tube, going where the water wanted to carry him. His easygoing approach to life was lovely and quite enchanting to a heartsick Zelia, who had just lost both of her parents in the blink of an eye. She’d envied his ability to live in the moment and not sweat the small stuff. However, Ned’s style in dealing with the practical matters of life had been a bit more challenging; like coming up with his portion of the rent or forgetting to transfer his share of the electric bill into their joint account. He had been a man-child. Would he have matured, learned how to be a responsible adult? Or would his lackadaisical approach to life ultimately have driven her crazy and them apart?

  Unfortunately, neither one of them had had the privilege of finding out.

  Gabe flipped to a blank page and placed the pad, laptop, and accessories on the table before her. He scribbled a series of letters and numbers at the top of the blank page. “This is the password to unlock my computer.” She could smell the clean male scent of him. She wanted to lean in, wrap her arms around his neck, and pull him to her. Run her tongue along the strong-corded length of it until her mouth reached his. She wanted, needed to taste the determination and aura of protection that surrounded him like a force field. She knew in her gut that this man would do anything, would walk through fire to protect and defend those that he loved, and that was such a turn-on.

  “Gabe,” she murmured. She wanted him to take her rough and hard to make her forget her friend was missing. Wanted him to mark her as his in the most basic way, longed for the burn marks the dark stubble that now covered his face would cause. Wanted him to bite her like an animal mounting its mate, to suck on her tender skin so intently that purple marks would arise. Wanted him to grip her hard while he fucked her, leaving fingerprint bruises in his wake like flower petals sprinkled on a lake, floating on the surface for a few hours, maybe days, before disappearing into a wispy memory that would one day fade as well.

  She didn’t have to say anything more, could see he knew.

  He stared at her, eyes dark, tortured, and then he stepped away, shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “I can’t,” he said, his voice strained, hoarse. “I made you a promise and I’m going to keep it.” He tipped his head toward the pad on the table before her. “Write down what you need.” He took another step back. There were four feet between them now, but she could feel the heat pulsing from his body. Could see the engorged state of things, even with his hands fisted in the pockets of his jeans. He exhaled slowly. Took another step back. “I’m going to”—he set his jaw—“do a sweep of the gallery to make sure it’s secure. Once your list is complete, you will lock the door behind me. I will be as quick as humanly possible making the purchases. You won’t open the gallery to customers until I return. Agreed?”

  She wanted to argue, but about what? Him honoring the promise she’d dragged out of him? The fact that he was unilaterally making decisions, never mind that they were good ones? It’s not like opening the doors a little later is going to affect business. Potential customers rarely wander in before eleven.

  She nodded, took a sip of her tea, and then picked up the pen and started to write.

  Fifty-six

  ZELIA HAD MADE pretty good progress on the design for flyers for the March show when she heard the rattle of someone trying to open the front door of the gallery.

  She froze.

  Knock . . . knock . . .

  Someone was rapping on the glass door.

  “Go away. We aren’t open,” she murmured.

  They knocked again.

  Damn. I should have turned the lights out back here. Put a note on the door.

  Knock . . . knock . . .

  “Zelia?”

  Wait a minute. She knew that voice. She got up from the table and rounded the corner. Could see the blurry slim figure of a man through the rain-spattered window, one hand cupped around his eyes as he attempted to see inside, a dark overcoat to keep the damp cold at bay, the other hand holding an umbrella that was still aloft. Zelia couldn’t place who he was. With the dark gallery space between them, her eyes were still adjusting from the bright computer screen and the overhead light in the kitchen area.

  “Yes?” she said cautiously, taking a couple of steps forward. “Who is it?”

  “Zelia?” the man called. “Is that you? It’s me, Tristan.”

  “Tristan . . . Tristan . . . Who the hell is Tristan?” she murmured to herself, combing through her mind, pulling up possibilities and then discarding them. And then a light went on. “Oh my God, Tristan!” She hurried to the door and unlocked it. “What are you doing here? Come in. Come in. Sorry about leaving you out there in the rain. I couldn’t see your face. Would you like a cup of coffee? Tea?”

  “A hot beverage would be appreciated,” he said in that funny formal diction he had. He shut his umbrella and secured it with the strap.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to see you.”

  “Me?”

  “I felt bad that I wasn’t able to let you into the back rooms of Feinstein and Company when you’d flown all the way to Greenwich. I’ve been thinking on it and—”

  “Oh, that,” Zelia said, trying to waft away the sudden guilt with her hand. “No worries. I totally understand.” Images of the night she and Gabe had broken in bombarded her. She could feel the heat rising in her face. “Oh my,” she said brightly. “What a beautiful umbrella, but then Alexus always said you had an eye for the unique.”

  He glanced at the umbrella in his hand, his thumb absentmindedly tracing what looked to be a twenty-four-karat gold knob from the Victorian era.

  “Well, come this way. I’ll put on a pot of tea and we’ll have a nice chat.” She briskly headed toward the back room, flicked on the lights in the gallery, and then turned back to him.

  Tristan had traveled a few steps deeper into the room, as if he’d been following her, but something had stopped him in his tracks. He had the umbrella slung over his shoulder like a batter stepping up to the plate. Both hands were wrapped around it as if he were gunning for a home run. The wet fabric from the umbrella was going to soak the shoulder of his cashmere overcoat.

  “There’s an umbrella stand by the door. You’re welcome to plop it in there to dry. I’m going to be opening the gallery late today, so you won’t have to worry about a customer absconding with it.”

  Tristan didn’t respond. He appeared to be frozen in place, staring at something just beyond her line of vision, almost as if he were in a trance.

  “Are you okay?”

  His mouth worked, but no words came out. He seemed stunned.

  “Tristan?” She stepped toward him, concerned. The mere fact that the poor man had traveled across the country to apologize for not letting her have access to Alexus’s back rooms spoke volumes about his troubled state. Zelia knew only too well the odd ways in which grief could manifest itself. He probably needed to talk, process what had happened with someone else who had also been close to Alexus.

 
“How are you holding up?”

  “That painting,” he asked in a hoarse whisper. “Where did you get it?”

  “Which one?” Zelia stepped beside him and turned to see what he was so transfixed by. “Oh.” On the wall in the nook hung the Dattg painting, full of rage and despair. Sometimes it seemed to Zelia as if the paint below the surface was seething, undulating like a living, breathing entity. “It’s quite powerful, isn’t it?”

  He whirled to look at her, the expression on his face intent. “You think?”

  “Mm . . . Yeah. The artist’s work affects me in a very intense, visceral way when I look at it. Obviously Dattg is amazingly talented—I would even say gifted, to get that much feeling and passion onto the canvas. I find it quite scary, to tell you the truth.”

  “Gifted?” he repeated softly, and then suddenly his shoulders caved inward, and he started to weep, his umbrella dropping to his side as if it had suddenly become too heavy to hold.

  “Here, let me.” She removed the umbrella from his slack grip and crossed the room, placing it in the umbrella stand, and then returned to his side. “Let’s get you out of that wet coat and get a nice warm cup of tea into your belly.”

  Fifty-seven

  GABE PULLED HIS SUV up to Art Expressions. The lights in the interior of the gallery were blazing. He jumped out of his vehicle and ran to the front door, leaving his purchases behind. The front door was still locked. He exhaled, trying to recenter himself before entering. When the cashier had been ringing up some of the items Zelia needed, a sudden sense of unease was reaching a crescendo within him. He felt impelled to return to the gallery and check on Zelia before continuing on to the electronics store.

  He dug the key she had given him out of the front pocket of his jeans and opened the door. “Zee?”

  “In here.”

  The knot in his belly eased a little at hearing her voice sounding healthy and well. He walked through the gallery to the back room, where he found Zelia ensconced with a pale-haired, slender, narrow-faced man who reminded Gabe of the priest that had presided over his elementary school’s morning service. He looks vaguely familiar, but from where? The man’s eyes were red-rimmed and his lashes clumped, as if he’d been crying.