Summer in Eclipse Bay

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  He raised a hand in greeting. Carson waved madly. Arizona waved back, but she did not pause. A woman on a mission.

  That was the great thing about being a professional conspiracy theorist, he thought. You always had a mission.

  The pickup continued down the block and pulled into the parking lot in front of the Incandescent Body bakery.

  Edith sighed. “Expect you heard the news about old Tom Thurgarton’s will?”

  “Rafe said something about Thurgarton having left all his worldly possessions to Virgil Nash, Arizona, and the New Age crowd running the bakery.”

  “Yes.” Edith shook her head. “Of all the ridiculous notions. Just like Thurgarton to do something so bizarre. He was such an odd man.”

  Nick nodded. “Yeah, he was always a little weird, wasn’t he? A real recluse. He lived here in town all the time I was growing up but I doubt if I saw him more than half a dozen times a year.”

  “They say that Thurgarton’s phobia about leaving his house got worse as time went on. Everyone was so accustomed to not seeing him that no one even knew he was dead until Jake down at the post office finally noticed that he hadn’t picked up his mail in over two months. When Sean Valentine went out to see what was going on, he found Thurgarton’s body in the kitchen. Heart attack, they say.”

  “Wonder if he left anything valuable to Virgil and A.Z. and the Heralds,” Nick mused.

  “I doubt it.” Edith sniffed as they came to a halt in front of the door of Seaton’s Antiques. “The way Chief Valentine tells it, that old cabin was crammed with over forty years’ worth of junk. A real firetrap, he said. Old newspapers and magazines stacked to the ceiling. Boxes full of unopened mail. Cartons of things he’d ordered from catalogs that had never been unpacked.”

  “Going to be interesting to see what kind of conspiracy theory A.Z. will weave out of this,” Nick said with a smile. “She’s nothing if not inventive.”

  “I’m afraid A.Z. is one brick shy of a load, and hanging out with the crowd from the bakery isn’t improving the situation.” Edith turned the key in the lock and stepped into her shop. “Goodbye, you two. Good luck with your pictures, Carson.”

  “Bye, Mrs. Seaton.” Carson was struggling to be polite, but he was already edging off toward the neighboring shop door.

  “See you later,” Nick said.

  He and Carson continued on to the front door of Bright Visions. Instead of rushing inside, Carson paused.

  “Maybe you could stay out here on the sidewalk while I show my pictures to Miss Brightwell,” he suggested hopefully.

  “Not a chance.”

  Carson heaved a sigh, resigned. “Okay, but promise me again that you won’t say anything to make her mad.”

  “I already said that I’d do my best not to annoy her.” Nick glanced through the window into the gallery showroom. The Open sign showed through the glass, but he could not see Octavia. She was probably in her cluttered back room, he decided.

  He wrapped his hand around the knob and twisted. The now-familiar sense of anticipation sleeted through him.

  The door swung inward, revealing a universe of intense color and light. The artwork that hung on the walls ran the gamut from landscapes to the abstract, but the pictures were grouped in some inexplicably magical fashion that somehow managed to make the whole greater than the sum of its parts. A sense of connection and coherence pervaded the scene. The viewer was drawn from one to another in a subtle progression that took him deeper into the little cosmos.

  There was an art to displaying paintings to their best advantage, Nick thought. Octavia knew what she was doing. No wonder she prospered. It was hard not to buy a picture when you were in this gallery.

  Carson hurried inside, clutching his drawings in both hands.

  “Miss Brightwell?” he called. “Where are you? I’ve got my pictures.”

  Octavia came to stand in the open doorway behind the counter. The sweeping hemline of a long, full skirt in the palest possible shade of ice blue swirled around her shapely calves. She wore a matching silk blouse. A tiny blue belt studded with small chunks of clear crystal encircled her trim waist. Her fiery hair was held back off her face by a pale aqua scarf that had been folded to form a narrow headband.

  People in the art world were supposed to wear black, Nick thought. Until he’d met Octavia, he had always assumed it was a rule.

  As always, he felt his insides clench at the sight of her. He ought to be getting used to this sensation, he thought. But the appearance of the Fairy Queen never failed to steal his breath for a few seconds.

  When she met his gaze across the showroom, Nick could almost see the familiar, concealing veil slip into place. But when she looked at Carson, she was all smiles.

  “Good morning,” she said, speaking more to the boy than the man.

  “Hi, Miss Brightwell.” Carson blossomed in the warmth of her smile. “I brought my pictures to show you.”

  “You may have noticed that we’re here a little early,” Nick said dryly. “And we came without coffee and muffins. Carson was in a hurry.”

  “We’ll get you some coffee and a muffin right after you see my pictures,” Carson assured her, looking a little worried because of the oversight.

  “I can’t wait to see your pictures,” Octavia said warmly.

  “I brought three.” Carson tugged the rubber band off the roll of drawings. “Dad said I should let you pick. But I’m pretty sure you’ll like the picture of Winston best. I added some extra fur.”

  “Let’s spread them out and take a look.”

  Octavia led the way to a long white bench at the far side of the room. She and Carson unrolled the drawings and arranged them side by side.

  Octavia studied each picture in turn with rapt attention, her expression absorbed and serious—for all the world, Nick thought, as if she were considering the pictures for a real, high-profile, career-making show such as she had given Lillian a while back in Portland.

  “The house is very good,” she said after a moment.

  “That’s me and Dad inside,” Carson said. “Dad’s the big one.”

  Octavia gave Nick a fleeting glance. He could have sworn she turned a rosy shade of pink before hastily returning her attention to the picture.

  She cleared her throat. “Yes, I can see that.”

  “This is Dead Hand Cove,” Carson said, pointing to the next picture. “Aunt Lillian said I should include it, but I think landscapes are boring. Just rocks and water. Take a look at Winston.”

  Obediently Octavia moved to examine the furry gray blob with the pointy ears.

  “You’ve certainly captured the essence of his personality very well,” she said.

  Carson was pleased. “I told Dad you’d like this one best. I brought my crayon with me. I can add some more fur if you want.”

  “No, I think he has precisely the right amount of fur,” Octavia said decisively. “I’ll hang this one in the show.”

  Carson bounced a little with excitement. “Will you frame it?”

  “Of course. I’m going to frame all of the pictures in the show.” She looked at him. “You forgot to sign it.”

  “I’ll do it now.” Carson whipped out his crayon and went to work inscribing his first name in large block letters in the right-hand corner of the picture. “I almost forgot,” he added, not looking up from the task, “I promised Dad that if you liked my picture, I’d tell you that it was okay to go out with him.”

  A stunned hush enveloped the gallery. Nick looked at Octavia. Her veiled expression never flickered, but he saw something that might have been speculation in her eyes. Or was that just his imagination?

  Oblivious to the electricity he had just generated, Carson concentrated intently on printing the last letters of his name.

  “Sorry about that,” Nick muttered.

  “No problem,” Octavia murmured.

  There was another short, extremely uncomfortable silence.

  “So?” Octavia said.

&nbs
p; He frowned. “So, what?”

  “So, are you going to ask me out again?”

  “Uh—” He hadn’t been caught this far off guard since high school. He felt like an idiot. He could only hope that he was not turning red. Something had changed in the situation, but he was at a loss to know what had happened. Only one way to find out, he thought. “Dinner tonight?”

  She hesitated; honest regret showed on her face. He’d seen that look before.

  “You’re busy, right?” he said without inflection. A cold feeling coalesced in his gut. He couldn’t believe she’d set him up like that.

  “Well, I did promise Virgil Nash that I’d drive out to the Thurgarton house after I close the gallery this afternoon. He and Arizona Snow want my opinion on some paintings that they discovered stashed in one of Thurgarton’s closets. The thing is, I don’t know how long it will take me.”

  He relaxed. Maybe she hadn’t set him up, after all.

  “Forever,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’ll take you forever to even find the old Thurgarton place unless Virgil gave you really, really good directions. Thurgarton liked his privacy. There’s no sign on the road leading to the turnoff, and the drive is hidden in the trees.”

  “Oh.” Her fine, red-brown brows wrinkled delicately in a small frown. “Virgil gave me a little map.”

  “Forget it,” he said easily. “I’ll pick you up after you close the gallery this afternoon and drive you out there. Later we can go to dinner.”

  “I suppose that might work,” she said.

  She sounded so damn casual, he thought. As if the decision she had just made weren’t staggering in its implications. As if it weren’t going to alter destinies and change the fate of nations.

  Okay, he could deal with the world shifting in its orbit. What really worried him was the question of why it had done so. After six turn-downs in a row, the Fairy Queen of Eclipse Bay had agreed to go out with him.

  Lucky number seven.

  Be careful what you wish for.

  chapter 4

  The little girl with the glossy brown hair and the big, dark eyes was back.

  Octavia was discussing the merits of a charming seascape with a middle-aged tourist couple when she caught sight of the youngster on the sidewalk outside. This was the second time this week that the girl had appeared. On the first occasion she had been accompanied by her mother, a pretty but quietly determined-looking woman who wore the unmistakable cloak of single parenthood. The pair had wandered into the gallery and looked at pictures for a long time. The child had been as absorbed in the works of art as her mother—an unusual event. Most kids found the paintings boring in the extreme.

  The woman had greeted Octavia politely and made it plain that she was not there to buy, just to look around. She had clearly been braced for a cool reception, but Octavia had assured her that she was welcome to browse.

  The woman and her daughter had moved from picture to picture, talking seriously in low tones about some of them, showing little interest in others. They had been standing in front of a brilliant abstract when the woman had glanced at her watch, frowned in alarm, and hurried out of the gallery with the little girl.

  The woman had not returned, but her daughter was here again, standing on the other side of the glass staring at the colorful poster in the window that announced the Children’s Art Show.

  I’m not going to lose her this time, Octavia thought.

  “Excuse me,” she said to the couple contemplating the purchase of the seascape. “I’ll be right back.”

  She hurried behind the sales counter, reached down, and selected a large box of crayons from a carton that was nearly empty. She took a pad of drawing paper from the dwindling pile.

  Crayons and pad in hand, she straightened quickly and looked out the window. The little girl was still there.

  Octavia crossed the gallery, opened the front door, and stepped out onto the sidewalk. The child turned, looking a bit startled.

  “Hello,” Octavia said. “Would you like to enter a picture in the art show?”

  The child stared at her. She did not speak.

  “Every entrant gets a box of crayons and a pad of drawing paper,” Octavia explained. “The rule is that the picture has to be on a piece of paper the size of one of these.” She flipped through the blank sheets of drawing paper. “When it’s ready, bring it back here.”

  The girl’s anxious gaze shifted from Octavia’s face to the pad of drawing paper and the crayons. She put her hands behind her back, evidently afraid that she might lose control and reach out to grab the art supplies.

  She shook her head very fiercely.

  “Anne?”

  The woman who had accompanied the girl into the gallery a few days ago rushed out of Seaton’s Antiques. Her head swiveled rapidly as she searched the sidewalk in both directions with the slightly frantic look a mother gets when she turns around and realizes her offspring has disappeared.

  “Anne, where are you?”

  “I’m here, Mom,” Anne whispered.

  Her mother swung around. Relief flashed across her face. The expression was followed by stern exasperation.

  “You must not disappear like that.” She walked swiftly toward her daughter. “How many times have I told you not to run off without telling me where you’re going? This may not be Seattle, but the same rules apply.”

  “I was just looking in the window,” Anne said in a tiny, barely audible voice. She kept her small hands secured very tightly behind her back. “I didn’t touch anything, honest.”

  Octavia studied the woman coming toward her. Anne’s mother appeared to be in her late twenties but if you had only seen her eyes, you would have added twenty years to her age.

  “Hello,” Octavia said in her best professional tone. “I’m Octavia Brightwell. You were in my gallery the other day.”

  “I’m Gail Gillingham.” Gail smiled hesitantly. “I’m sorry if Anne was bothering you.”

  “Not in the least,” Octavia said cheerfully. “I noticed that she was looking at the poster featuring the Children’s Art Show. I thought she might like to participate. I have room for more pictures.”

  Gail looked down at Anne. “Thank you, but I’m afraid Anne is very shy.”

  “Who cares?” Octavia looked at Anne. “Lots of artists are shy. I’ll tell you what, why don’t you take these crayons and the paper home with you? You can draw your picture in private where no one else can watch you at work. When it’s ready, just ask your mother to drop it off here at the gallery.”

  Anne looked at the crayons and the paper as though they were made of some magical, insubstantial substance that might disintegrate if she were to touch them.

  Octavia did not say anything more. She just smiled encouragingly and held out the crayons and the paper.

  For a long moment, Anne did not move. Then, very slowly she untwisted her arms from behind her back, reached out, and took the supplies from Octavia. Clutching them tightly to her chest, she stepped back and looked at her mother.

  Surprise and a fleeting delight lit Gail’s face. An instant later her pleasure was marred by what seemed to be uncertainty. She hesitated and then seemed to brace herself.

  “How much do I owe you for the crayons and the paper?” she asked.

  “The Children’s Art Show has been underwritten by the Bright Visions gallery, which is sponsoring it,” Octavia said. “All the entrants receive the same basic supplies.”

  “Oh, I see.” Gail relaxed visibly. “Thank Miss Brightwell for the crayons and paper, Anne.”

  “Thank you,” Anne repeated in the barest of whispers.

  “You’re welcome,” Octavia said. “I’ll look forward to seeing your picture.”

  Anne tightened her grip on the art supplies and said nothing. She still looked as if she expected the crayons and paper to vaporize in her arms.

  At that moment, a familiar silver BMW pulled into the small parking lot at th
e end of the row of shops. Octavia’s stomach fluttered. She glanced at her watch and saw that it was almost five-thirty. Nick was right on time.

  Gail gave Octavia a grateful smile. “I don’t know if Anne will actually do a picture for your art show, but she loves to draw and paint. She will definitely use the supplies.”

  “Excellent,” Octavia said. She looked at Anne. “But I really hope you’ll make a special drawing for the show. If you do, you can choose the color of the frame.”

  “You’re gonna put it in a frame?” she asked in astonishment.

  “Of course.”

  “So it will look like a real picture?” Anne pointed toward the framed paintings hanging inside the gallery. “Like one of those?”

  “Yes,” Octavia said. “It will look like a real picture because it will be a real picture. Just like one of those inside my gallery.”

  Anne was clearly dazzled by the prospect.

  “Come along, Anne,” Gail said. “We have to stop at the store and then we have to go home to help Grandma fix dinner.”

  “Okay.”

  Anne and Gail moved off toward the small parking lot. Nick was out of his car now, walking toward the gallery. He wore a long-sleeved, crew neck tee shirt and a pair of jeans. The snug fit of the shirt emphasized the contours of his strong shoulders and flat belly.

  He paused to greet Gail and Anne with a friendly nod and a few words. When the short conversation was finished, Gail and her daughter got into an aging Chevrolet.

  Nick continued toward the gallery.

  Edith came to stand on the sidewalk next to Octavia.

  “Such a sad situation.” Edith shook her head and made a tut-tut sound when Gail and Anne drove past them down the street.

  Octavia waved at Anne, who gazed fixedly at her through the car window. Hesitantly the girl raised a small hand in response.

  “I assume you’re talking about Gail and Anne?” Octavia said, watching Nick.

  “Yes. Gail is the daughter of Elmore and Betty Johnson, the folks who run Johnson’s Nursery and Garden Supply. She was such a pretty girl back in high school. Bright, too. Went off to college in Seattle.” She paused and smiled at Nick when he came to a halt in front of her.