Mariah Stewart - On Sunset Beach

Carly couldn’t help but beam with pride as she gazed upon the sidewall to the right of the front door, where Elvira Chesko’s work was displayed. The watercolors were gorgeous, every one of them, and it pleased Carly enormously that the young woman had fulfilled the promise she’d seen in her early works. Carly’s sixth sense had paid off in a big way when it came to Elvira, and Enrico had done a fabulous job placing the works.

An exhibit of works Carly couldn’t place hung opposite Elvira’s, and she crossed the floor to get a better look. A small white card affixed to the wall under the first of the works identified the artist as Peter Stillman, a name she didn’t recognize. Carly stepped back and studied the exhibit overall. The third and fourth paintings needed to be switched with the sixth and seventh, she decided. She dropped her bag on a chair and lifted the first of the four, standing it up against the wall while she removed another.

“Miss, please!” The dark-haired woman Carly had seen when she entered the gallery now flew into the room, alarm on her face and in her voice. “You can’t touch the paintings! You can’t just take them down! I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to just put it down or I’ll … I’ll call the police.”

“Well, I …” Carly stood up and turned to face the woman, who, close up, didn’t appear as young as she had at first glance.

“Carly! My sweet!” Enrico swept in through the front door, a bag from the trendy take-out establishment across the street in one hand. “You naughty girl! You didn’t tell me you were coming in today.” He turned to the woman who’d seconds earlier had chastised Carly. “I see you’ve met the boss.”

“Ah …” The woman flushed scarlet.

“Carly Summit.” Carly offered her hand. “You are …?”

“Ava.” The woman’s voice was barely above a squeak. “Ava Miles. I’m so sorry, Ms. Summit, I had no idea …”

“It’s Carly. And please don’t apologize for doing your job. I should have introduced myself, but you seemed to be involved with the gentleman …”

“Oh, my goodness. Mr. Lentz! I left him in the middle of a sentence.”

“Yours or his?” Enrico asked, but before she could respond, Carly shooed her back into the other room.

“You scared the living crap out of her, you know.” Enrico took Carly’s arm and tried to steer her toward his office, but she wasn’t finished in the gallery.

“Who is this artist?” she asked. “Peter Stillman.”

“He belongs to the co-op around the corner. Do you like?” Enrico gestured at the wall.

“I don’t know yet. Maybe.”

“The paintings haven’t come in yet from Georgina Jeffers and you know how I hate a blank wall. I hope you’re okay with it?”

“I’m okay, yes, but if I could …” Carly resumed shuffling paintings around until she was satisfied.

“I have to admit, this is better. I hadn’t considered hanging the streetscape next to the one with the tall trees, but side by side, the trees seem to echo the streetlights. I like it.”

“Good. Let’s go into the office, where we can chat.” She grabbed her bag from the chair where she’d tossed it. “What’s for lunch?”

“Lentil, pear, and walnut salad, a little blue cheese sprinkled over top. Turkey, avocado, and tomato on a croissant. One very large brownie. I’m happy to share.”

“I’m happy to hear it. Grab two forks and a couple of plates from the kitchen and meet me in my office.” She grabbed the bag out of his hands. “I’ll hang on to this.”

Carly turned on the light in her office and went straight to her desk, where she placed Enrico’s lunch next to her handbag. There was mail to be read and phone calls to return—those calls Enrico didn’t feel important enough to send to her cell phone. She could hear him in the hall, talking to Stephen, the gallery’s operations man, and she smiled. After she’d spent so much time alone with Carolina’s paintings, it was a joy to be back in this place that she loved with people she enjoyed.

Enrico appeared in the doorway, plates and knives and forks in one hand, two bottles of Perrier in the other.

“I thought you might like some bubbly water,” he told her as he lined everything up on her desk.

“That’s great, thank you.” She sat back in her chair and watched as he placed half of the sandwich on a plate, next to which he piled half of the salad, careful to divide the walnuts and pears evenly.

There were days when everything Enrico did made her smile. Thirty-eight years ago he’d been christened Richard but declared it lacked flair when he was nine and changed it to something that he felt better reflected who he was. Everything he did, Carly had learned shortly after hiring him, had flair. He passed a plate across the table to her, then followed it with a bottle.

“There aren’t any clean glasses right now,” he told her. “The dishwasher is still running. If I’d known you were coming, I’d have washed up a bit. On the other hand, I know you’re not above drinking out of a bottle now and then.”

Carly laughed. Next to Ellie, Enrico was her best friend. He’d been her first hire when she opened the gallery, and she’d missed his company for the week she’d been home with her nose in Carolina’s journals.

They chatted and gossiped over their food, but when they’d finished and Enrico had cleared away the remains, Carly rolled her chair closer to the desk, rested her arms on the top, and asked, “So tell me about Ava.”

“I did tell you about Ava. I emailed her résumé to you and told you that I thought she was the best candidate for the new receptionist and you emailed back and said ‘fine.’ ”

“I did?” Carly frowned. “When was this?”

He took out his iPhone and scrolled through emails, then turned the phone around so she could see the message and the date. The Saturday she’d been in St. Dennis. No wonder she didn’t remember.

“How’s she working out?” Carly decided not to try to explain why she’d been distracted.

“She’s doing great.”

“Any word from Jackie?” Their previous receptionist had simply failed to show one day.

“No. I did manage to catch her sister at her home one night last week. She said that Jackie’s having a hard time since breaking up with the guy she’d been dating and then wrecking her car.” He leaned a little closer and lowered his voice. “It sounded like a breakdown to me.”

“Have you tried her apartment again? Is there anything we can do for her?”

“She’s gone back to Illinois to stay with her parents. The sister seemed very embarrassed and surprised that Jackie had left without a damn word. Frankly, I was surprised, but you never know about people.”

“I was surprised, too,” Carly admitted. “If you hear from her, let me know. And give her sister a call in a few weeks, see if there’s anything we can do for her, then give me a call.”

“Give you a call?” Enrico narrowed his eyes. “Where are you going? Back to London?”

“No. This time, I’m going …” She hesitated. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Enrico, but she hadn’t really thought about discussing her plans with anyone just yet. “I’m going to be at my friend Ellie’s for a while. I don’t know how long.”

“Oh my God, tell me she isn’t sick.” Enrico’s hand flew to his heart.

“She isn’t sick. I’m just going to be lying low for a bit, working on a very sensitive project that I’m not announcing yet.”

“Oh, do tell,” Enrico whispered.

“You have to promise not to breathe a word, Enrico. Not to anyone.”

“Cross my heart.” He did.

“Ellie’s great-great-grandmother was Carolina Ellis.”

“No. The Carolina Ellis whose paintings of that old church we had here for, like, a week before they both went to auction last year for megabucks?”

“The same. Ellie inherited the house Carolina lived in, the house where she painted—and all of Carolina’s paintings that were hanging there and stashed in the attic.”

“For real?” His eyes widened. “Like, an entire cache of paintings …”

Carly nodded. “An entire cache of hitherto unknown paintings.”

“And she’s going to let you exhibit them. Here.”

“You’re half right. She has agreed to let me handle the exhibit—and the subsequent sale of any she decides to sell. I can see you’re already thinking about the commissions and the raise you’re going to ask for.”

“You know me all too well. But what part was half right?”

“The exhibit isn’t going to be here. It’s going to be in St. Dennis.” She explained everything that had gone on, from Curtis Enright’s bequest to the decision to renovate the carriage house.

“Still, that’s … well, is ‘once-in-a-lifetime opportunity’ overstating the importance?”

“Not at all. That’s exactly how I feel about it. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime chance to introduce the works of an artist who’d been thought to have only produced a handful of works.”

“How many paintings are we talking about?” he asked.

“Right now there are thirty-two that I’ve seen, and that doesn’t include the ones that Ellie doesn’t own. Apparently there are others in St. Dennis that I haven’t seen. I know they exist, because Carolina wrote about them in her journals, but she gave away quite a few, and sold a few on her own. We will be trying to track those down.”

“How generous of her to give away her work. Family and friends, I’m assuming?”

“Well, yes, but I also think she didn’t want her husband to know exactly how many works she was producing. He didn’t approve of her painting, thought it was beneath the wife of a bank officer to take money for her little hobby.”

“The bastard.”

“Exactly.”

“So you’re going to be setting up this exhibit in St. Dennis. Preparing for the big reveal, as it were. Something splashy, well publicized and well attended, and very posh.”

Carly nodded. “Which means I’m going to be spending a great deal of time there. I’m going to need you to be totally in charge here.” She hastily added, “Not that you aren’t.”

“I understand completely. Your energies are going to be focused elsewhere. Not to worry,” he assured her. “I won’t let you down.”

“I know you won’t. And I’ll be available twenty-four/seven. Phone, email—”

“Skype. I love Skype.”

Carly laughed. “Anytime. We already have several showings on the schedule, so we’re set for a while. I can come back for the openings of the new exhibits here. Otherwise …”

“Otherwise, I’m in charge.”

“You are in charge, Enrico.”

“So then there are only two things left to discuss.” Enrico sat back in his chair and smiled confidently. “My raise, and whether or not I get to come to your grand opening.”

IT had cost Carly an extra day, but making the trip to Boston had been worth it. It had been several months since she and her managing partner, Helena Ramsey, had had time to sit and talk. Lately, it seemed Carly had done little more than make appearances to confer about upcoming exhibits and discuss staffing issues. She’d advised Helena ahead of time to block off a few hours to go over their projected exhibit schedule for the next six months, and to bring her up-to-date on anything she felt Carly should know, however small or petty it might seem.

Helena did small and petty very well. By the time their meeting ended, Carly knew more than she really wanted to know about their staff and several of their artists, but she did have a better feel for the gallery when she left on Friday night. Where the New York gallery was all Carly, Boston was more like 70 percent Helena and 30 percent Carly, who’d bought into it when she decided to expand her horizons. She’d met Helena on a buying trip three years ago, and they’d hit it off well enough that Carly agreed to provide some financial backing when Helena expressed an interest in buying some South End gallery space on Harrison Street before the subtle shifting of the Back Bay art scene from Newbury Street had begun. The artists who exhibited at Ramsey-Summit were younger, hipper, more avant-garde than those whose works hung in the New York gallery, which suited Carly just fine. Helena was the one who had the Midas touch when it came to New England’s contemporary artists, and Carly was just as happy to let her run that show.