She gave the small crowd a polite smile and moved forward, weaving a path through the gauntlet of tables. It seemed a very long way to the counter, but she made it eventually.
“Good morning,” she said to the brightly robed Herald who waited to take her order. “Coffee with cream, please.”
“May the light of the future be with you today.” The Herald’s ankhs and scarab jewelry clanked gently when she raised her palm in greeting. “Your coffee will be ready in a moment.”
The door opened again just as Octavia handed her money to the Herald. She did not need to glance over her shoulder to see who had walked into the bakery. The fresh buzz of excitement said it all.
“Hi, Miss Brightwell,” Carson called from the far end of the room. “Dad said he saw you in here.”
She turned, cup in hand. A deep sense of wistful longing welled up inside her at the sight of Nick and his son together. In his matching black windbreaker, jeans, tee shirt, and running shoes, Carson was a sartorial miniature of his father. But the resemblance went so much deeper, she thought. You could already see in Carson the beginnings of the strength of will, the savvy intelligence, and the cool awareness that were Nick’s hallmarks. There was something more there, too. Carson would grow up to be the kind of man whose word was his bond because integrity was bred in the bone in the Harte family.
Like father, like son.
She squelched the sudden rush of emotion with a ruthless act of willpower. Nick and Carson had everything they needed in the way of a family. And she would be leaving at the end of the summer.
“Good morning,” she said to Carson. She looked at Nick and felt the heat in his gaze go straight to her nerve endings, setting off little explosions. “Hello.”
“’Morning,” he said.
There was an unmistakable intimacy in the low greeting, a dark, heavy warmth that she was certain everyone in the bakery had picked up on. She knew, with a certainty that was so strong she wondered if she’d developed telepathic powers, that he was thinking about that good-night kiss on her front porch.
Not that she had any right to complain. She was thinking about it, too.
Actually, she’d spent far too much of the night recalling it, analyzing it, contemplating every nuance and cataloging her own responses. She had examined that kiss the way she would have examined a painting that had the power to capture her attention and force her to look beneath the surface.
Her reaction had been over the top and she knew it. In fact, the all-night obsession with the details of that encounter on the porch had made her very uneasy this morning. You’d have thought it was her first serious kiss. And that made no sense at all. This was what came of being relationship-free for nearly two years. A woman tended to overreact when the long drought finally ended. She needed to get some perspective here.
Nick and Carson arrived at the counter. There was more than just amusement in Nick’s eyes. There was some sympathy, too.
He glanced around with mild interest. “Don’t worry about this. The news is out that you’re related to Claudia Banner and that we were seen together in my car last night.”
“Yes, I know. Hannah called me first thing this morning to warn me.”
“It’ll all blow over in a couple of days.”
She wasn’t so sure about that, but she decided this was not the time or place to argue the point. “Sure.”
“Give me a minute to grab some coffee for myself and some hot chocolate for Carson,” he said. “Then we’ll walk you over to the gallery.”
Before she could object or agree, he started to give his order to the Herald.
Carson looked up at her while they waited for the coffee and chocolate. “Have you framed my picture yet?”
“I’m going to do it this morning.” She smiled down at him. “Want to help?”
Excitement bubbled through him. “Yes.”
Nick collected the cups and a paper sack from the Herald and gave the bakery one sweeping glance as he started toward the door.
“Okay, you two,” he said out of the side of his mouth in the stone-cold accents of an Old West marshal. “Let’s get the heck out of Dodge.”
“Miss Brightwell’s gonna frame Winston today,” Carson announced. “I’m gonna help.”
“Cool,” Nick said.
Carson whirled and dashed ahead, completely oblivious to the thinly veiled curiosity that permeated the room.
“A Harte to his toes,” Octavia murmured.
“Oh, yeah.”
Outside, the remnants of the morning cloud cover were starting to dissipate. The day promised warmth and sunshine by noon.
The shops across from the pier had begun to open for the day. Octavia noticed that the lights were on inside Bay Souvenirs, House of Candy, and Seaton’s Antiques.
“Looks like I’m running a little late this morning.” She stopped in front of the door of Bright Visions and slid her key into the lock.
Carson and Nick followed her into the gallery and waited while she deactivated the alarm and switched on the lights.
“Where’s my picture?” Carson asked.
“In the back room with the others,” Octavia said. “But we have to finish our chocolate and coffee first before we start framing. Don’t want to risk spilling anything on the pictures.”
“Okay.” Carson went to work on his chocolate. He seemed intent on downing the contents of his cup in record time.
“Easy,” Nick said quietly.
There was no threatening edge to the tone of his voice, Octavia noted; no boring lecture on good manners. Just a simple instruction spoken with calm, masculine authority.
Octavia waited until all three cups were in the wastebasket before she opened the door of the back room.
“All right,” she said, “let’s see about getting Winston into a suitable frame.”
Nick followed as far as the doorway of the back room. He glanced at his watch. “The mail should be in by now. I’ll run down to the post office while you two work on the picture. See you in a few minutes, okay?”
“Okay.” Carson did not look around. His attention was concentrated on the matting and framing materials that Octavia was arranging on the workbench. “Are you gonna use a gold frame for my picture, Miss Brightwell? I think Winston would look good in a gold frame.”
“We’ll try gold and black and see which looks best,” she said.
“Obviously I’m not needed here,” Nick said. “See you later.”
The door of the gallery closed behind him a few seconds later. Octavia and Carson, absorbed in their task, barely noticed.
Mitchell Madison ambushed him when he walked into the post office.
“Heard you had a date with Octavia Brightwell last night,” Mitchell commented, looming in Nick’s path.
“Word gets around.”
“You went out to the Thurgarton place together, picked up some old painting, and then you went to her cottage. That right?”
“Yes, sir. You are well informed.”
“Now, see here.” Mitchell put his face very close to Nick’s. “I thought I made it damn clear to Sullivan that I wouldn’t stand by while you fooled around with Octavia.”
“Whatever arrangements you made with my grandfather are your business, naturally, but I should probably tell you that I don’t generally consult with Sullivan before I ask a woman out. I don’t think you can blame him for the fact that I had dinner with Octavia last night.”
Mitchell squinted in a malevolent fashion. “Is that so?”
“Also, just to set the record straight, I don’t call what Octavia and I did last night fooling around.”
“What the devil do you call it?”
“A date. Mature adults not otherwise involved in a committed relationship get to do stuff like that.”
“Sounds like fooling around to me.” Mitchell’s jaw tightened. “She tell you Claudia Banner was her great-aunt and that Claudia’s passed on?”
“I think the whole town is aware of
those facts by now.”
“I don’t give a damn about the town. I’m only interested in what’s going on between you and Octavia.”
Nick lounged against one of the old-fashioned counters, folded his arms, and studied Mitchell with morbid fascination. “Mind if I ask why you’re so concerned with the subject of my social life?”
“Because you’ve got a reputation for lovin’ ’em and leavin’ ’em and givin’ your girlfriends The Talk so they know up front that you’re not serious. I’ll be damned if I’ll stand by and let you treat Claudia Banner’s niece that way. That girl’s got no family around to look after her, so I’m gonna do it. You treat her right or you’ll answer to me. We clear on that?”
“Very clear. Can I pick up my mail now?”
Mitchell’s brows bristled, but he reluctantly got out of the way. “You know something, Harte?”
“What?”
“If you had any sense, you’d get married again. Settle down and give that boy of yours a mother.”
“The day I want advice on my personal life from a Madison, I’ll be sure to ask.”
In the end they went with the gold metal frame. Octavia privately thought that the black did a better job of accenting Winston’s gray fur, but Carson was entranced with the flashier look.
When they finished the project, she put the picture together with the others she had prepared for the show.
“Winston looks great,” Carson said, satisfied. “I can’t wait for the show. I was afraid maybe you wouldn’t want to hang my picture because Dad kept bothering you.”
“Are you kidding?” She ushered Carson out of the back room into the gallery and closed the door behind them. “I’d never let my personal feelings get in the way of hanging a beautiful picture like yours. Wouldn’t be good business.”
“Great-Granddad says all business is personal. People just don’t like to admit it.”
“Everyone knows that your great-grandfather is brilliant when it comes to business.”
“Yeah.” Carson looked proud. “He says I’m gonna be brilliant at business, too. He says that in a few years I’ll be running my own company.”
“Is that what you want to do?”
“Sure.”
She hid a smile. There was not so much as a flicker of doubt in the words. “Nice to know where you’re going so early in life.”
“Uh-huh.” Carson’s small brow puckered slightly. “Thanks for going out with Dad last night.”
“You’re welcome.”
“He’s been acting a little weird lately.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s not your fault.” Carson’s expression was intent and very serious now. “It’s just that everyone keeps telling him that he oughta get a new wife so I can have a new mom.”
“Pressure.”
“Yeah. That’s what Uncle Rafe and Uncle Gabe say. I heard Granddad tell Grandma not to put so much pressure on Dad, but she and Aunt Lillian and Aunt Hannah all say he needs some pressure.”
“Hmm.”
“They think Dad doesn’t want to get married again because he’s still sad about my mom being in heaven and all.”
“Well, that may be true,” she said gently.
“Maybe.” Carson was clearly dubious. “I don’t remember her, but Dad does. He says she was really pretty and she loved me a lot.”
“I’m sure she did love you very much, Carson.”
“Yeah, and everyone says Dad loved her. But I don’t think that’s the reason he doesn’t want to get married again. He told me once that if you lose someone, it doesn’t mean you won’t fall in love with someone else someday.”
This was dangerous territory, she thought. Time to change the subject.
“Carson, maybe it would be better if we talked about something else.”
He ignored that, intent on making his point. “I think Dad just hasn’t found a lady he really, really likes, you know?”
“Quite possible.” She went behind the counter and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Now, then, I’m trying to decide how to hang the children’s pictures. I’ve made a little map of the gallery. Want to help me choose a good spot for Winston?”
“Okay.” He scrambled up onto the stool. “What about you, Miss Brightwell?”
That gave her pause. “Me?”
“Have you ever found a man you really, really like and want to marry?”
“Not yet.” She picked up a pencil.
“Think you will someday?”
“Maybe. I hope so. I’d love to have a son like you someday.”
“Yeah?” Carson looked pleased. “You could have a kid of your own if you get married.”
“Yes.” Way past time to change the subject. She pulled the gallery floor plan closer so that they could both view it. “Now, then, the first thing we have to keep in mind is that the pictures all have to be hung at the right height so that people your age can see them properly.”
He studied the floor plan. “Not too high.”
“Right.” She sketched some pictures on a display panel. “I was thinking of grouping them according to the age of the artists, but I’m wondering if it might be better to arrange them by subject, instead.”
“You mean like put all the animal pictures together?”
“Exactly.” She made some more notations on the piece of paper. “In addition to your picture of Winston, I received a lot of pictures of horses and one or two cow portraits.”
“You didn’t get any other dogs besides Winston, did you?” he asked quickly.
“Not yet.”
“Good. That means mine will be the best.”
“I sense a certain streak of competitiveness here.”
“Huh?”
“Everyone knows that Hartes are very goal-oriented. They like to win.”
“Great-Granddad says winning is a lot better than losing.”
“I’m not surprised to hear that. I suspect it’s a family motto. And there’s certainly some truth to it. But that viewpoint overlooks the fact that not all situations have to be viewed in terms of win-lose.”
“Huh?”
She smiled. “Never mind. I was just thinking out loud. The point is, the Children’s Art Show is not a competition. There won’t be any prize for the best picture.”
“Oh.” He shrugged and let it go. “Mind if I ask you a question?”
“What is it?”
Carson looked up from the floor plan. “Do you like my dad, Miss Brightwell?”
She was amazed when she did not miss a beat in her response. “Yes, I do.”
“A lot?”
“I like him enough to go out with him,” she said cautiously.
“He likes you, too. A lot. That’s why he called you so many times. He didn’t mean to make you mad or anything.”
“Carson, I really don’t think—”
“He never, ever asked a lady to go out so many times after she turned him down once or twice.”
She wrinkled her nose, amused in spite of herself. “I suspect that I may have unwittingly aroused those Harte competitive instincts we were just talking about.” Aroused might not have been quite the right word under the circumstances, she thought. “Make that triggered.”
“Huh?”
“That attitude about winning that we discussed a moment ago. It’s possible that your father decided that persuading me to go out with him was a sort of game. He wanted to win, so he kept calling me until I said yes.”
“Oh.” Carson gave that some thought and then shook his head. “Nah. I don’t think that’s how it is with him. Dad says he doesn’t like people who play games.”
“Neither do I.” Resolutely she turned back to the floor plan. “I think that the house pictures would look good on the two panels in the center of the room. What do you think?”
The door of the gallery opened. She looked up quickly, expecting to see Nick returning from the mail run. But it was Jeremy Seaton who strolled into the showroom.
&n
bsp; He was good-looking in an angular way. His light-brown hair was cut in a close, conservative style as befitted a member of the institute staff. His clothes were left over from his days in academia: khaki trousers, an open-throated, button-down shirt, and expensive-looking loafers.
“Good morning, Jeremy. Something tells me you’ve heard about the Upsall.”
“Yep. Couldn’t resist coming by to see it for myself.” He gave her a quick, easy smile and then looked at Carson. “I know you. You’re Nick Harte’s son, right? You’re looking more like your dad every day. I’ll bet you don’t remember me. We haven’t seen much of each other in the last couple of years. I’m Jeremy Seaton.”
Carson shook his head. “I don’t remember.”
“Figured you wouldn’t. Well, it doesn’t matter. Your dad and I used to hang out together a lot in the old days.”
Carson looked intrigued. “You knew Dad when he was a kid?”
“Sure did. We played some baseball together. And when we got a little older we also played a little pool down at the Total Eclipse.”
“What else did you do?” Carson asked eagerly.
Jeremy stroked his jaw, looking thoughtful. “As I recall, we spent an inordinate amount of time cruising up and down Bayview Drive on Friday and Saturday nights showing off our cars and trying to get girls to look at us. Wasn’t a whole lot to do here in Eclipse Bay in those days.”
“Still isn’t, as far as I can tell,” Nick said from the doorway. “Hello, Jeremy. Been a while.”
Octavia could have sworn that the temperature in the gallery plummeted at least twenty or thirty degrees. There was a definite chill in the air.
Jeremy lowered his hand and turned around with a deliberate air and a politely bland expression. “Harte.” His tone remained civil, but all the warmth had leached out of it. “Heard you were in town for the summer.”
“Heard you’ve taken up full-time residence and got yourself a job at the institute,” Nick said in a voice that was equally lacking in inflection. “Giving up the academic life for good?”
The gallery was flooded with toxic levels of testosterone. Nick and Jeremy might have been good friends in the past, Octavia thought, but something had gone very wrong somewhere along the line.