Mariah Stewart - On Sunset Beach

It wouldn’t hurt to look.

CARLY propped up the painting—one of her favorites—on the counter in her parents’ kitchen where the lighting was best. Carolina must have painted it from memory, she thought, unless she’d managed somehow to paint it from a boat, as the perspective was one of looking inward from the water at a small cove and its narrow stretch of beach.

The sand had a yellowish cast and the loblolly pines that stretched along the left side were pale green in what looked to be the fading light of afternoon. On the beach, a couple sat upon a blanket that had been spread on the sand. A basket was placed on one corner of the blanket and a bottle of wine and two glasses topped the basket. Obviously a picnic on the beach, but it was clear that neither the man nor the woman had any interest in food or wine as they gazed at each other with such intensity. The woman was dressed in the style popular in the 1920s, the skirt fanned around her legs. Her dark hair was loose and fell in thick curls onto her shoulders, and her wide-brimmed hat lay forgotten on the sand as she gazed into the eyes of … whom? Her husband? Lover?

The title of the work had been written in a clear hand on the back of the painting: Stolen Moments.

A tickle went up Carly’s spine every time she looked at it. She couldn’t shake the feeling that those stolen moments had been Carolina’s. Could it be possible, she mused, that her artist had had an affair, and that the painting might be the evidence? It was highly unlikely that the man in the painting was James Ryder, Carolina’s husband, who’d made her life so miserable. For one thing, Carly couldn’t imagine Carolina would have looked at him the way she was looking into the eyes of the man in the painting with complete and total adoration. For another, the date on the back of the painting was 1927, and Carly knew from Carolina’s journal entries that James Ryder had died in 1924. And while the work lacked the kinetic energy of so many of Carolina’s works, there was a vibrancy surrounding the subjects that was impossible to ignore. She hadn’t mentioned it to Ellie, thinking that in this case, showing was definitely better than telling.

She was wondering if it might be provocative to use this painting for the cover of the exhibit catalog when the phone rang.

Carly’s heart beat a little faster when she read the caller ID.

“So what do you know?” she immediately asked. “What have you heard?”

“That the town council likes the idea of being the ones to introduce the art world to the body of Carolina Ellis’s work. They like the idea of you sharing revenue from the book proceeds with them to help pay for the work on the carriage house,” Ellie replied. “They especially liked that part.”

“Too bad you can’t see me. I’m pumping my fist in triumph,” Carly told her. “So what happens now?”

“One thing at a time.” Ellie laughed. “Don’t you want to know how the voting went, or what Grace said to convince the members of the council?”

“Nope. I want to know when we get started.” She corrected herself. “When you get started. You and Cam.”

“You were right the first time. As you and I discussed before, they definitely want you to be here to oversee it. Cam will, of course, take full responsibility for the work, but as someone pointed out, if it wasn’t done to your specifications, you could conceivably come back and make us do it over. So they want you here while the work is being done, and then they want you to prepare a timetable of when you expect to be able to open the exhibit. There’s a great deal of interest in making a big announcement about Carolina’s work. Grace mentioned it would bring in lots of additional foot traffic to town, and since everyone on the council has a business of some sort …”

“They’re all seeing dollar signs,” Carly completed the sentence.

“Pretty much.”

“I thought they wanted the exhibit to open in conjunction with some sort of holiday tour in St. Dennis.”

“That was before they started seeing the dollar signs. Now it’s ‘How soon can we get this off the ground?’ ”

“What did you tell them?”

“I told them it would depend on how soon you could put the exhibit together.”

“I don’t have a quick answer for that.”

“Of course you don’t. I didn’t expect you would. But I think it’s safe to say that you’ll be hearing from Ed at some point today. I just wanted to give you a heads-up. What you tell him is your business.”

“How soon can Cam line up an HVAC guy?”

“The guy he has in mind is new to the area and eager for work. He’ll be available to start as soon as Cam gives him the go-ahead.”

“I appreciate the heads-up. Hopefully by the time Ed calls, I’ll have some sort of timetable in mind.”

“Oh, who are you kidding?” Ellie teased. “You know how much time you’ll need.”

Carly laughed. “Sort of. What I won’t know until we get working on the building is how much exhibition space I’ll have, which translates into how many works I can include. Once I know how many of what size, I may have to start to cull the herd, so to speak.”

“Maybe you won’t have to. Maybe there’ll be room to hang them all.”

“Doubtful, but we’ll see. I don’t like to crowd the work. If they aren’t spaced properly, you won’t really be able to appreciate each one. You need to be able to see each painting as a work apart as well as part of the whole.”

“Car, you know that if you were a glass-half-empty person, you’d be totally bummed at having the chance to introduce Carolina’s work from your own gallery snatched away.”

“The way I look at it, the only thing that’s changing is the venue. I still have control and I still get to have my name on the exhibit. So what’s to be bummed about?”

“I thought you’d be more disappointed, that’s all.”

“Oh, I was at first, but I’m excited to put this together here, where Carolina lived and worked. I am determined that Carolina will make a huge splash. This is about her, you know, not about me.”

“You’re being very gracious.”

“I’m a realist. And besides, I am going to have a damn good time doing this.” Carly tapped a pen on the kitchen counter. “Now I’ll have to work out something with my galleries. I’d planned on going in to New York tomorrow anyway.”

“Well, just let me know when you’re coming to St. Dennis, and I’ll have the guest room ready.”

“Don’t you think you have your hands full already? I mean, with your sister and her friends, and the dog …”

“Gabi will adjust, and happily. She just loves having you around. And as for the dog, you know that Dune loves her aunt Carly.”

“I admit to being a big favorite of kids and dogs everywhere.”

“So get your ducks in a row there, pack a bag or two, and head south.”

“Will do. I’ll give you a call back after I hear from Ed.”

Carly hung up and did a little dance across the kitchen floor. She was still dancing when the phone rang again, and Ed gave her the good news.

“I’m delighted to hear this, Ed. St. Dennis will not regret the decision, I promise you.”

“We’re hoping you can start immediately. We’d like to move forward with publicizing the exhibit as soon as possible.”

“I’ll be down there by the beginning of next week to go over the job with Cameron,” she told him. “Ed, I’m requesting that you permit me to handle all the promotions and any announcements that are to be made in connection with the gallery in general and this exhibit in particular. I think we have to build expectations in the proper manner. I have a lot of experience in building a buzz for a showing.”

“I agree. I’m leaving it all in your hands. I trust you’ll be in touch once you and Cameron have worked out a timetable?”

“Absolutely. You should hear from us next week.”

“Excellent. I’ll let the other members of the council know. Oh, and one more thing. We’re thinking that there should be some sort of contract between us—the town—and you relative to your services, expectations of renumeration.”

“I’ve already told you that I’ll be donating my time, Ed, as well as some of the proceeds from the book, once it goes on sale.”

“And that’s all very generous of you, don’t think we don’t appreciate it. We just feel it should all be set out in writing so it’s all legal and so that everyone involved is on the same page.”

“It’s fine with me. Have the town’s attorney write it up and I’ll look it over.”

“Jesse Enright is working on it right now.”

“That’s fine. I’ll look forward to discussing it with him once he’s finished.”

Their business completed, Carly ended the call and began to work out her schedule for the rest of the week. She’d go in to New York tomorrow, as she’d planned, and hit Boston on Thursday. She’d fly back to Connecticut that same day and spend the weekend packing, making an inventory of the dozen paintings she had with her—size, subject, medium, and where in the course of Carolina’s career they fell—and preparing them for transport. Fortunately none of the paintings were overly large, so she should be able to fit most of them in the new Escalade she brought home on Monday. She’d also take Carolina’s journals, her notes for the book, and her laptop.

She’d just started going through the paintings when the title for her book came to her: Stolen Moments. It reflected not only that one painting and whatever story it told—would she ever find out?—but the time Carolina had to steal from her everyday life in order to paint. Pleased with the title and with herself, Carly went online to make a reservation for the train the following day and the flight on Thursday, then happily went about the task of measuring every painting.

The train into Grand Central on Wednesday morning was delayed twice, and accordingly took way longer than it should have. It was almost noon by the time Carly paid the cab she’d taken from the train station and walked into the gallery she’d opened eight years earlier.

Carly loved the renovated town house she’d bought in Tribeca, where she started her professional career as an art dealer and gallery owner. Over the years, she’d cultivated a number of young talents in the neighborhood, artists she met at street fairs and in the co-ops in and around the gallery. It was Carly who offered gallery space—however small—to artists who showed promise long before anyone else recognized their potential. Several of her early finds had gone on to become names in the art world, and they all remembered who gave them the thrill of seeing their work hang in a real gallery for the first time, or who brokered their first sale. For these early sales, Carly often waived her fee when she sensed an artist was about to break big-time, or if their financial situation was precarious. She offered advice and sometimes dinner or cab fare when it was needed, and never asked to be paid back. She gained the reputation of being a friend to struggling artists, of being totally honest, ethical, and generous. It was a testament to her that once-struggling artists who’d gained notoriety in the art world would still deal only with her—a fact that did not endear her to much of her competition, gallery owners and art brokers who resented that she somehow, uncannily, always seemed to know which artists would be the next big thing.

The bell over the door had rung lightly when she entered, but no one had greeted her. She could see into the next room, where a tall, dark-haired woman chatted with a short bald man. Where, she wondered, was Enrico, her gallery manager?