She didn’t care. The money was nothing to her. She wasn’t even sure why she’d bought it at all, except she’d considered going to the lighthouse to take a picture of it. Now she didn’t have to. She’d take it back to either her New York apartment or her town house in San Francisco. She might hang it or she might not. She’d just take it with her, and the last thing she’d wanted was to haggle over the price.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said.
Angelo came back then, got her signature and promised to have the painting delivered to the Snug Harbor B&B later that day. “It’s a wonderful painting,” he said. “Sean is so talented, and so tortured.”
All Alegra wanted to do now was leave, so she thanked him and headed for the door. When she stepped out into the growing cold and failing light, Joe was right behind her. She didn’t have to look to know that, she could feel him close to her. Then he was at her side, falling into step with her. “Remind me to sell you some land in the Everglades.”
“I don’t buy swamp land,” she murmured on her way to the car.
“But you buy overpriced paintings?”
She bit back a whatever and said simply, “It seems so.” She unlocked the door, then grabbed the handle and turned to Joe. “It made Angelo happy.”
“And it made you happy,” Joe said.
No, it hadn’t. But it did make her feel as if something in her was completed. “I’ve got my painting, and Angelo can buy more tea and pastries.”
“And Sean has one of the biggest sales in his career.”
“Really?”
“As far as I can tell, he’s made some sales here and there, but nothing that’s made him a major name. Maybe if people know that he’s being collected by someone like you, they’ll take another look at his work.”
“I doubt that,” she said. “I think Angelo spotlighting him at the gallery gives him more prestige. A man with great taste believes in him.”
That made Joe laugh. “The reason I told you that Angelo wouldn’t give you any grief over your business if he knew who you were was because he wasn’t always Angelo Paloma, art dealer extraordinaire. He was Andy Peal in another life.” She knew the name immediately. “You’re kidding!” She knew it had been a while, but at one time Andy Peal had produced several over-the-top off-Broadway shows. In fact, she’d used a theme from one of his shows in a photo shoot for one of her first spring lines. “It’s a small world,” she murmured at the same time her cell rang.
“Go ahead and answer it,” Joe said, as if giving her permission to do what she would have done anyway. “And enjoy your painting. I’ll be in touch about the story for the Beacon.” With that he disappeared into his office.
Her caller was Roz, who proceeded to give her the details of a robbery in one of their new stores in St. Louis. Alegra just sat there in the car and listened. “You won’t believe what they stole,” Roz said. “All of our sequined and bejeweled bras, every last one.”
The bras bordered on being tacky, but they were big sellers. “I’m sure they’ll show up online any time now,” Alegra said.
Roz told her she was contacting the insurance company. “I thought it was sort of weird, though. No perfume, no panties, not even that new scented-oil line. Just the bras.”
“Let me know what the insurance company says,” Alegra said, then hung up and sank back in the seat with the phone resting on her thigh. At last she started the car and pulled out onto the street. She turned north, away from her cottage at Snug Harbor. She knew where she was going before the idea was fully formed. She was going to see the lighthouse.
WHEN JOE DID a name search on Alegra to get more background on her before starting his story, he could find no pictures of her and little information about her personal life, beyond that she was twenty-eight, both parents deceased—she was raised by her grandmother—and had homes in New York and San Francisco; one article mentioned that she’d graduated from a small city college with a degree in design. There were a lot of articles about her business, even one in Who’s Who in Business.
One thing seemed clear—Alegra was a driven woman who lived for her work and buried herself in the business. He’d known women like that before, had even married one—Jean, for whom work had been everything. But he couldn’t criticize her. Back then, work had been all-consuming for him, too.
They hadn’t been married six months when they both realized that marriage wasn’t for them. But before they could remedy it, Jean discovered she was pregnant. They had decided to stay married until the baby came, see if things changed. See if they could make it work. But alas, they couldn’t. His focus didn’t shift. Neither did hers. And so the marriage was over. Alex stayed with him and a string of nannies and Jean left.
When Joe left the office, around six, he climbed into his truck and headed north of town to the house where he’d grown up and the place he’d returned to when he’d come back to live on the island. Ten minutes later, he pulled into the driveway of the sprawling ranch-style bungalow perched on the bluffs and parked beside his father’s new car.
He took the steps to the wraparound veranda two at a time, went into the house and called out to his mother. Silence. Then he saw a note taped to the mirror of an umbrella stand near the front entry. Took Alex into town to watch them set up for the festival. Back by seven. He found a pen, wrote, Out walking, on the bottom of the note, then left by the back door.
He crossed the twenty-foot stretch of grass that separated the house from the top of the bluffs, went down the wooden steps his dad had built for beach access years ago and jumped the last two steps to land with both feet on the sand. He barely glanced at the choppy water before he set off. He knew where he was going, and finally saw the lighthouse high on the bluff rising into the darkening skies.
The structure looked strong and solid, despite its surface being faded and weathered. The glass at the top that protected the lights—the beam had been turned off years ago—looked as gray as the sky. He’d brought Alex here within days of returning to the island. It had given him a deep sense of continuity in this life. His father had played here as a child. He himself played here, and then he’d watched his son play on the rocks and sand. Peace about his decision to come home had settled on him right then, and he knew he’d done the right thing.
He trudged along, keeping clear of the surf, and finally reached an outcropping at the bottom of the cliffs that was the foundation for the soaring section of rock that supported the lighthouse—and then realized he wasn’t the only one who’d come here today. Sitting on a huge rock, her arms wrapped around bent knees, her head resting on those knees, was Alegra. Every nerve in his body hummed to life.
Joe watched her for a full minute, wondering about his reaction to seeing her here. In some inexplicable way, she’d gotten under his skin. A mainlander, a woman who’d be here only briefly. His feelings made no sense at all, and he shook them off.
He started for the rock, his feet silent on the packed sand. He saw Alegra slowly lift her head, raising her face into the growing breeze. Her chin was up, her eyes closed, and he was struck by how very beautiful she was. He reached the side of the huge rock before he called out a hello.
She turned quickly at the sound of his voice, and saw him. There was no smile in greeting, just those amber eyes wide. “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”
Without a word, she slid off the other side of the rock to the sand. He made his way around until he was near her, and watched her brushing any clinging grains of sand off her slacks. Then her actions stilled, and he saw her flex her fingers before she took an audible breath. “I came to see the lighthouse,” she said in an oddly flat voice, staring past him to the sound.
“So, what do you think of it?” he asked.
“It’s incredible,” she said. “It looks as if it’s going to be foggy tonight.”
“Fog is a staple around here,” he said, wishing she’d look at him.
She closed her eyes for a moment, th
en at last turned her gaze on him, but her long lashes shadowed the expression in her eyes. “Why isn’t the lighthouse beacon on?”
“It hasn’t been lit for years. It’s in bad shape, and the historical society keeps talking about restoring it or tearing it down. But they never seem to get around to raising the money to do either.”
“How much would be needed to restore it?”
He named a figure that had been bandied around.
“Well, it’d be a shame if it was torn down,” she said as she dropped to a crouch and picked up a handful of damp sand. She closed her hand tightly on the sand. When she opened her fingers, the sand was compressed into a tight ball, the dampness binding it together firmly. “Crazy sand,” she murmured. “I remember making a castle when I was young, just sand and water and an old drinking cup to fashion the turrets. It would have lasted forever if the waves hadn’t come in and destroyed it.”
“Where did you grow up?” he couldn’t help asking.
She let the ball of sand roll off her hand to hit the beach and refragment. Then she stood, dusted her hands and said vaguely, without making eye contact, “Near the water.” She moved past him toward the shore.
He followed. “Which water? Lakes, streams or oceans?”
“The Pacific and then the Atlantic.”
This was like pulling teeth. “Any particular city on the ocean?”
“None you’d have heard of,” she said.
He copied her stare out over the sound to the city on the far shore, and decided to let it go for now. “We built castles,” he found himself saying. “And pirate forts some of the time, but no matter what we did to protect them, the tide came in and they’d be gone the next time we came down. We’d remake them. I can’t count how many times we did that, over and over again.” He chuckled softly. “The optimism of youth. Always believing that the next time would be the charm. Live and learn.”
“Kids always have hope, even when adults see things as set and hopeless,” she said softly.
He turned to look at her. He was talking about water and sand, but he sensed she was not. Her jaw looked set, and he saw her hand clenched at her side. He wished he understood what had been said to bring that tension on, but knew better than to ask. All he’d get was another maddeningly vague answer that would only leave him with more questions. So he asked something simple.
“Are you hungry?”
She blinked, then hugged her arms around herself before she looked up at him. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I am.”
He would love to see that tension leave her and a smile come to her lips. So he plowed on with an invitation that he didn’t even think about before offering it. “I’m hungry, too, so how about coming with me to get something to eat? We can talk about the article for the Beacon.”
He didn’t let himself think about why he shouldn’t be asking this woman to have dinner with him and why he should be asking her to come to the office for an interview. If he were honest, he knew he wanted more than dinner with her. That was the truly foolish part. She was everything he didn’t need in a woman. A woman married to her job.
But maybe that was it. She was a mainlander who would go back to the mainland to carry on her business, and he’d do a story about her presence on the island. So she’d leave, and he’d still be here. It was that simple. He could spend some time in the company of a beautiful, intriguing woman, build a story, then that would be that.
Her cell phone rang. She took it from the pocket of her soft leather jacket and answered it. “Roz?”
As she listened, she stared down at the sand under her feet. “Sorry, I don’t know off the top of my head.” She shifted from foot to foot on the sand. “I know, I know, and I will. I’ll get the figures to you as soon as I can. Give me a couple of hours.” She closed the phone.
“Business calling again?”
“Business always calls, but I do have to eat,” she said. “Maybe there’s a fast-food place around where we can talk?”
“No fast food, but some good restaurants. How did you get here?”
“I drove and parked up there.” She pointed to the top of the bluffs to the south of where they stood. “There’s a clearing off the road and some steps down. You know where that is?”
Islanders knew about that spot, but if he was thinking of the right one, you couldn’t see it from the road. It was halfway between where they were and his house. He wondered how she’d found it, but he simply said, “Yeah, I do.”
“How did you get here?” she asked.
“I walked down the beach from my house.”
“Then why don’t we take my car?” she said.
He agreed and they began walking.
They were at the steps cut into the bluffs that would take them to the clearing above when her phone rang again. They both stopped.
“It’ll just take a minute,” she said.
She spoke to the same person again—Roz—and whatever was being said on the other end made Alegra frown deeply. Damn it, he wished she’d smile, but it seemed answering the phone usually made her frown. He watched her start to nibble on her bottom lip. “I know, I know, but…” She turned a little away from him as if for privacy. “Deal with the insurance, and tell Hank to cooperate any way he can.” A pause. “Of course, I understand. I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”
Joe watched her and took a step back. He didn’t want to eat between phone calls, and doing any sort of interview wouldn’t work with that kind of interruption. Maybe this was the time to walk away and regroup. He said, “We’ll do this later,” to Alegra’s back, and started off along the beach. He’d gone about fifty yards when he heard her call, “Joe, where are you going?”
He turned around to look at her, but kept walking backward as he shouted, “Take care of business, and we’ll meet up later for the interview.”
“I can do two things at the same time!” she insisted.
He turned and didn’t slow his pace. “Whatever,” he called over his shoulder, and kept going, building distance between himself and Alegra and knowing his actions bordered on childish. But he needed to get back to his own life, forget what he’d been thinking at the lighthouse. He’d do the article, and keep his relationship with Alegra on that ground.
He didn’t look back.
Chapter Five
Alegra was ready to hurry after Joe until he called out, “Whatever,” without even breaking stride. She started up the steps. “It was a phone call, for Pete’s sake, a frigging phone call,” she grumbled. “It was business!” she shouted to the empty air around her as she stepped into the clearing and headed for her car.
Fury was growing inside her. It was just a phone call, and he’d walked away like a kid who didn’t like the rules of the game and was going to take his ball and go home. Well, she’d find food for herself, and let him come to her if he really wanted to do the piece for the newspaper.
She put the car in gear and headed back toward town. Her plans didn’t depend on the damn interview. That was just icing on the cake for her. As she drove back to town, her anger began to fade.
If she were honest with herself, she’d sort of looked forward to having a meal with him, and talking and trying to figure the man out. But the fact was, he was an islander, and nothing outside of the island counted for anything to him. Just as well he’d walked away. Spending time with him would have been counterproductive. She certainly wasn’t looking for anything from him, beyond making sure he got a good slant on her before the last night of the festival. She certainly wasn’t looking for any sort of relationship. Not even a brief one.
Oddly though, without the anger, she was left with a sense of flatness, of disappointment. She remembered that feeling as a child when she thought something good might happen, then finding out that nothing good was ever going to happen.
She slowed on the main street, which now was alive with activity. More streamers were being put up, and when she neared the Snug Harbor, she saw that the park by it was al
most filled with booths, all displaying Jolly Roger flags. The statue of Bartholomew Grace at the entrance looked right at home.
She drove past the bed-and-breakfast, found a small coffee shop where she bought a cup of coffee and a large muffin to take out, then went back to the Snug Harbor and her cottage. Within ten minutes she was at her computer, nibbling on the muffin and sipping the coffee. She sent the information Roz needed to deal with the police, then answered the e-mails that had built up while she’d been out.
She was vaguely aware of distant voices and noises coming from the nearby park, and every once in a while, a burst of raucous laughter punctuated the other sounds. The girl from the main house called to ask about the dinner she’d said she wanted, and Alegra decided to pass on it. The muffin and coffee would tide her over. She went back to work, made decisions, took care of problems, and when she finally sat back with a deep, tired sigh, she was shocked to see that the room was dark, except for the lights that had come on automatically by the entry and the glow from the computer monitor.
A glance at the clock and she saw it was nearly eight—and she was starving. Her coffee and muffin were long gone. She regretted canceling dinner, and knew it was probably too late to reorder it. Besides, she needed to stretch her legs. She shrugged on her leather jacket, gathered up her wallet, keys and cell phone and left the cottage. The fog had arrived full force, wrapping around the land, blotting out lights and making blurred silhouettes of the other cottages and the main house. It even seemed to muffle the sounds still coming from the park. She heard music start, something that sounded like flutes, mingled with bursts of laughter.
She decided against driving, the fog was so heavy. So she walked out onto the street to find a restaurant. She didn’t know what was available now. In her childhood there’d been a choice of only two eateries—a breakfast place and a coffee shop. But with the influx of tourists, surely more had opened.
Alegra's Homecoming Page 5
