Mariah Stewart - On Sunset Beach

“Where have you been?”

For a moment, he looked as if he didn’t understand the question, as if he’d spoken without thinking. “Oh. Africa, mostly.”

“Where in Africa?”

“Central African Republic. Sudan. The Democratic Republic of the Congo. The Southern Nile Republic.”

“Why were you there?” She added sweetener to her iced tea and took a sip, added a little more.

“Who’s interviewing who here?” he asked.

“Sorry. Just curious. I don’t know too many people who have spent time in Africa lately.” She paused, then added, “Actually, I don’t know anyone who’s been there in the past five years.”

“There are a lot of hot spots, to be sure.” He glanced at the door as it opened, and a group of five or six came in. “Looks like the place is starting to fill up.” He turned his wrist to look at his watch. “Right on time, too.”

Carly’s curiosity was piqued, but she sensed that Ford had already said more about himself than he’d intended. “So. The article for next week’s paper.”

“Right. Well, last time we talked a little about you and your plans for the gallery space. Want to elaborate on that a little?” he asked.

“Sure. Our focus is going to be on artists from St. Dennis. Once the gallery is finished, we’re going to ask residents who’d like to exhibit their work to bring them in so we can take a look, see what we have. We know there’s a lot of artistic talent in St. Dennis, so obviously we’re not going to be able to show every work by every artist, but I’ll do my best to make sure that the exhibit is representative of the best the town has to offer.”

“So in other words, you’ll be picking and choosing what paintings you want to use.”

“Yes, but we can’t word it that way.” She lowered her voice. “I have it on good authority—that would be your mother—that there are some pretty poor specimens out there. Only a crazy person would set aside works from someone like Carolina Ellis to exhibit someone else’s paint-by-numbers. Or worse.”

“So how do we want to word that?”

“Exactly the way I said it.” She looked beyond the plate the waitress had just placed in front of her to glare at him. “You weren’t taking notes,” she said accusingly.

“I didn’t know I was supposed to.” He leaned back to let Mariel serve his burger.

“You’re a reporter.” Carly picked up her fork and prepared to attack her salad. “Reporters take notes.”

“I’m new at this.”

She put down the fork and reached out her hand. “Give me your notebook.” She paused. “You did bring your notebook.”

“I left it in the car.”

“I’ll wait.”

“Now?” Ford looked longingly at the burger on his plate.

“Now. I’m having furniture delivered this afternoon, so I have to be there on time. I don’t want to be sleeping on the floor this week because no one was there to let the deliverymen in with my bed.” She picked up her wrap and took a bite.

Ford sighed but got up and went out to the car. He came back empty-handed.

“I must have left it at the office. I could have sworn …”

Carly stared at him for a long moment, then started to laugh. “What kind of a reporter … oh, never mind.” She picked up her bag and rummaged through it until she found the long, thin notepaper she always carried with her.

“Pen?” she asked.

“I’ll ask Mariel if we can borrow one.” Ford got up again, walked to the counter, then back again, a pen in hand. He placed it in front of Carly before he returned to his seat, picked up his burger, and took a bite.

Carly proceeded to write for several minutes, then ripped the sheet of paper and handed it to Ford.

“Write it that way,” she told him, then turned her attention back to her lunch.

He skimmed the few paragraphs she’d written.

“I could have written this, you know.”

“Maybe. If you had notes to work from,” she said between bites.

“Sorry. I was in a hurry to get out this morning and I forgot the necessary tools. I’m not used to wielding a pen, you know? It’s not my usual weapon of choice.”

She wanted to ask him what was, but she could tell he was feeling really foolish, so she let it pass. She slid her notepaper and the pen over to his side of the table.

“So what else do you want to know?” she asked.

“Do you want to say anything about how many of Carolina’s works you’re planning on showing?”

“Uh-uh.” She shook her head. “Did Grace forget to tell you that we’re holding back the fact that the gallery showing is going to be all Carolina, and that the other St. Dennis artists are going to be exhibited in the mansion?”

“She didn’t mention anything about whose works would be shown where.”

“Because the conditions in the main house are unsuitable for showing works as valuable as Carolina’s, we’re going to make a big deal out of the fact that only selected works will be chosen to hang in the mansion.”

“Got it. But you want me to hold up on that part.”

“Please. In another few weeks, I will have a better feel for how many paintings I’m actually going to show, and I’ll have the book ready to go to the printer and I’ll have the catalog all worked out. Then we can throw it all out there. Right now I want people in town to be looking in their attics for works by local artists. We could find some real gems, who knows? And if we find more of Carolina’s works, so much the better. Actually, your mother was trying to help me with that—that’s the list she was working on—but it looks like she’s going to be tied up for a while.”

“Is that important to you?”

She nodded.

“I’ll talk to her about it, see what we can work out. In the meantime, we’ll use only what you’ve given me.” He held up the sheet of paper she’d written on. “How ’bout we go back to the carriage house and get some pictures, show the progress of the work there. Mom said each week she wanted to run updated photos so everyone in town can see how the gallery’s coming together.”

She looked at her watch. “We’ll have to do that pretty quickly. My furniture’s supposed to be delivered between two and five.” She looked up at him. “You do have a camera, don’t you?”

“It’s in the car.” When she raised a skeptical eyebrow, he laughed. “I just saw it.”

She finished her salad and started in on her veggie wrap.

“How is it?” he asked.

“It’s fabulous. I’m loving every bite.”

“As good as patlican dolmasi in old city Istanbul?”

“Almost as good as my patlican dolmasi.”

“Now you’re going to tell me you cook Turkish like a native.”

“Not quite like a native, but I am damned good.”

“That sounded slightly overconfident.”

“You can be my first guest when I get settled in my new kitchen, and you can judge for yourself. I can’t promise that lamb will be on the menu, though.”

“Eggplant and greens?”

“Maybe something a little more substantial. We’ll see.”

“I’ll bring the wine.” He looked pleased at the prospect, and her heart did a little flip.

“It’ll be fun. I love to cook for other people, and I am an excellent cook. Just ask Ellie or Cameron. I almost always cook when I stay with them.” She whispered conspiratorially, “Ellie never did get the hang of it, but you didn’t hear that from me.”

“My lips are sealed.”

“How are we doing here?” Mariel appeared at Carly’s elbow.

“Everything is wonderful. The salad, the wrap … delicious. I’ll definitely be back,” Carly told her.

“I’ll let Sophie know. I’m sure she’ll be pleased.” She removed the empty plates. “Dessert?”

“None for me. Ford?” Carly asked.

“No, I’m fine. Just the check, please.”

“I’ll be right back with that.”

Carly reached for her bag and took out her wallet, but Ford waved her away. “Business expense,” he told her.

“Thanks. And thank Grace for me.”

“I’ll do that. Just don’t tell her what a poor excuse of a reporter I was today.” He took the check that Mariel handed him. “I don’t know what I was thinking, leaving the notebook on the desk.”

“I’ll bet you don’t do that again.”

“I bet you’re right.” Ford rose, left the required cash on the table, then held Carly’s chair for her. “Looks like we’re leaving none too soon. There’s already a line for tables.”

They stepped out into the heat of midday, and drove back to the carriage house with the windows down to let the Bay breeze in.

“Let’s get some shots inside the mansion,” she told him when he parked behind her car. “Oh, snap. I don’t have the key. I’ll have to get it from Ed.”

“Look, it’s already one forty. Why don’t you go back to your house, call around for the key while you wait for your furniture to be delivered. Let me know when you find it, and I’ll meet you back here and we’ll get a few shots.”

“That’s perfect. Thanks for being so understanding.”

“Please.” He laughed self-consciously. “You’re talking to the reporter who showed up for an interview with nothing to write with and nothing to write on.”

“Good point.” Carly gestured in the direction of the carriage house. “I need to check on the guys’ progress from this morning.”

“Wait. Let me give you my number.” He read it off to her while she tapped the numbers into her phone.

“Great. Thanks. And thanks for lunch. I’ll give you a call after the furniture guys leave and we’ll see if you’re free.”

“I’ll be free. Call me anytime.”

Will do. She smiled as she slipped her phone into the pocket of her jeans. You can count on it.

HAD it been physically possible, Ford would have kicked himself in the ass all the way back to Grace’s office at the inn. Showing up at an interview with nothing to write on—or with—was about as dumb as showing up at a kayak race without a paddle. What the hell had he been thinking?

Apparently, he hadn’t been thinking at all.

There was more to this reporting thing than he’d thought there’d be. He’d gone to the carriage house expecting—well, he wasn’t sure what or who he’d been expecting, only that it would be a bit of a dry exercise, not very interesting but necessary, and no more difficult than remembering a few details, a quote or two, and finishing up with a little yada yada yada. All of which had proved to be wishful thinking on his part.

Ford searched his pockets for the blurb Carly had written for him to use. He unfolded the paper and read it over several times. Her handwriting was much like the woman herself, he decided, clear and straightforward, as easy to read as she was to talk to, as easy as she was to look at. He looked at his own scrawled notes. What, he wondered, did his half print, half script say about him?

Probably that he was easily distracted by a pretty face and a gentle laugh.

Carly was definitely a distraction. The pretty face aside, she made him not only smile, but laugh out loud. And she was passionate about her work. Ford had a weakness for women who were passionate about what they did.

Anna, again, he thought.

But why look for trouble? Carly didn’t strike him as the short-term type. The last thing he wanted was a reason to stick around St. Dennis, which seemed to hold few prospects beyond the Gazette and the inn, neither of which he saw in his future. Besides, as much as he admired passion in others, he was a man who was passionate about what he did in his own life, wasn’t he, and he just didn’t see any reason for passion when it came to running an old inn or writing for a small-town newspaper.