Mariah Stewart - On Sunset Beach

Diary ~

Well, this is certainly a fine kettle of fish I find myself in. Note to self: When asking Alice to intervene, be more specific. Giving her carte blanche—i.e., “I’d do anything …”—should come with a caveat. And I know Alice’s hand was in this—literally. I swear that I saw her right before I took that tumble, felt a little nudge right between the shoulder blades. Which is interesting because in her life here on earth, Alice never set foot in the inn. An agoraphobic, she rarely went into her own backyard except to tend to her herbs, and then only because there was no one else to do that for her. Nice to see she’s getting out more these days.

When I said I’d do anything, had I said, “I’d give an arm and a leg …?” I can’t recall.

I suppose I shouldn’t complain too much, since the end result is what I was looking for. Ford has taken over for me at the paper. Of course, I’m going to have to milk this thing for all it’s worth. If he finds out I have voice-recognition software on my laptop, he’ll be wanting to drop off his notes so I can write the articles myself, and that simply won’t do. I need him to work on his skills so he can feel confident in his ability to take over for me permanently. Between you and me, his first two attempts were far better than I let on—but I know my boy, and I know how he reacts to challenges. If he has to work at something, he puts his whole heart into it, but if it comes easily to him, he loses interest. He’ll make a fine newspaperman, as fine as his grandfather and great-grandfather in their day. The St. Dennis Gazette is his destiny, as the Inn at Sinclair’s Point is Dan’s. I just need to find a way to make that as clear to him as it is to me. I know this is where he’s supposed to be just as surely as I know that Carly Summit is the one for him. Stubborn boy! He’s been to interview her twice already and he’s barely even mentioned her name beyond the article.

But something is going on with him. The light surrounding him isn’t as dark as it was when he arrived home. Perhaps he’s finding some peace. He’s spent a lot of time out on the Bay, and when I ask him, he says he’s revisiting places he used to go. I suspect he means places he used to go with his father. Daniel always made a point to do things with Ford, who, as the youngest, seemed to be left behind by his older brother and sister. They had a special bond, and I believe that he, of the three children, suffered the most when Daniel died.

Whatever it is that is haunting him now, whatever the cause of the darkness, I sense the same sort of grief that emanated from him when his father passed. I have tried to rely upon my own powers to see into his heart, but as always, my powers fail me when it comes to Ford. I’m hoping that he’ll find a way to put that sadness aside. I would hate for him to go through life carrying so great a burden.

~ Grace ~

AT ten minutes after eight on Thursday morning, Carly’s phone began to ring. From her own experience, she knew that nothing good ever came from a call before nine A.M. or after midnight.

“Carly, Ed Lassiter here. Sorry for the early call, but I wanted to get in touch with you as soon as I could, give you the news before someone else did.”

“What’s that, Ed?” Carly’s stomach began to knot with dread. She had a feeling she already knew where this call was headed.

“The council met last night to discuss how to proceed with the Enright property, and the vote was unanimous. We’d like to dedicate the new community art center on the Saturday of the town’s three-day Discover St. Dennis weekend.”

“That’s August,” she said flatly.

“Right. The end of August.” Then, as if to tell her something she didn’t already know, he added, “That’s next month.”

When she did not respond, he went on as if he hadn’t just dropped a bomb in her lap.

“We know how hard you’re working and we know you can make it happen.”

“Thanks for the heads-up.” She hung up without protesting. What good would it do? The decision had been made, and made without her input.

Her emotions veered wildly between anger and panic.

As if she didn’t have enough to stress about. How could she accomplish everything in less than a month?

Breathe, she demanded. One long breath followed by another until her head cleared and rational thought returned. She had a to-do list. She’d follow it and somehow she’d find a way. There was no choice in the matter. The building had to be ready and the book had to go on sale in two weeks.

The book. How was she going to get it into the marketplace to make the kind of splash she’d envisioned? That was the purpose of the book, wasn’t it? To introduce the art world to Carolina, to make everyone who was anyone flock to St. Dennis for the opening of the exhibit? Without the book, what were her chances of doing justice to Carolina’s work? In her New York gallery, this wouldn’t be as much of a problem. Many of the people she wanted to draw to the exhibit were in New York—well, those who hadn’t left the city for the summer, anyway. But here, in this tiny town on the Eastern Shore, she wasn’t as certain that even if the book went on sale tomorrow, she could generate the kind of interest in the gallery that she’d been hoping for. She’d have to call in a lot of favors.

And she needed to talk to her editor … now.

Before she could make that call, the phone rang again.

This time it was Cam, calling to let her know the HVAC guys were on the job and expected to finish by tomorrow. Okay, she told herself after she hung up. There’s something big to check off that list. That was good, right?

The third call was from her mother, who wanted to let Carly know that her parents had returned home and ask when she would be coming back to Connecticut. “And by the way, I loved the book. I’m so proud of you, Carly.”

“Thanks, Mom. But it’s going to be a while before I can leave St. Dennis,” Carly told her. “Let me bring you up-to-date …”

“Oh,” Roberta exclaimed when Carly had finished. “Let us know when you get a firm date, and we’ll make every effort to be there.”

The fourth was from Tony Rosetti, Ford’s friend, returning her earlier call. She explained what she was doing and what she needed. He already had a system in mind based on what Ford had told him, he said, and offered to drive to St. Dennis the following day to meet with her and look over the carriage house. They agreed on an eleven o’clock meeting. Carly hung up the phone and sighed with relief. If they could get the security installed on time, she had a good chance of meeting the deadline Ed had given her that morning.

One other big item would be checked off the list.

Actually, soon there would be three items, she reminded herself. With the heating and cooling and the painting completed, the interior of the building would be ready. Get the security up and running, and she could move the paintings from Ellie’s to the gallery. She began to calm a little. Unless something unforeseen happened, at the very least, the building would be ready.

Now, if she could only finish the catalog …

She went back to the dining room table to assess her progress. In Carly’s mind, that project was already done. She knew exactly how she wanted it to look, and now that she had the order of the paintings worked out in her head—if not on paper—she needed only to photograph each of the works. She had finished rereading the last of the journals the night before, but found nothing really new that would change the narrative Carly had already begun. She’d used index cards for the salient points that she wanted to make, then put the cards in order of how the paintings would be listed in the catalog. She already had quotes from Carolina to correspond with the paintings, so she found herself further along than she’d thought. Good news, with the opening now painfully close. She gave herself until Sunday to finish the catalog so that on Monday, she could take it to the graphic designer she’d contacted in Annapolis.

Next on her list of things to do was a call to the freelance editor she’d hired, Gail McAfee, whose service included formatting the manuscript. Gail assured her that she was on top of the project and that she’d meet the deadline with time to spare. With luck and hard work, the book would be available—albeit in electronic form only—the week before the opening. A print edition could come later if she decided to go in that direction, Gail had pointed out, and while Carly wished she could have sent both formats into the marketplace simultaneously, now that the town council had changed the timetable, there simply wasn’t time.

With any luck, Gail told her, the book would generate enough interest that a print publisher would come looking for her instead of the other way around. In a perfect world, Carly might have followed a more traditional publishing route—submitting the manuscript to an agent to shop to publishers for her—but in her world, time was ridiculously short.

And one more big item on that list would be checked off.

Now, how best to call the attention of all the right people in the art world to the exhibit?

Invite them. She could have invitations made to send out … something that would catch the eye. Maybe if she could design something quickly and get it to a printer …

The ringing phone brought her back to reality. She glared at it before reaching for it, but once she saw the name on the caller ID, she smiled.

“Enrico, I was just thinking about calling you.”

“You’re not going to believe what just happened.” Enrico was on the verge of hyperventilating. “Barely ten in the morning, and my day—my week, my month, perhaps my entire year—has been made.”

“Calm down.” It could be anything, Carly knew. Enrico wasn’t one to hide his enthusiasm. Ever. “What’s going on?”

“Well, you remember Taylor Radell? The dealer from West Chester who brought us those lovely Michael Jarrett charcoals a few years ago?”

“Of course. What about her?”

“She just brought in two … oh my God, I still can’t believe it …”

“Enrico! Focus!”

“Right.” He took a deep breath. “She brought us two Lewis Mitchells. Two! Two that haven’t been on the market since, like, the seventies.”

“Really?” Carly frowned. “How did she …?”

“Provenance is all I know. I already told her we needed to see the paper trail. She promised to messenger everything to me today if you’re interested.”

“Have you seen the works?”

“OMG, have I ever. Did I leave out that part?” Enrico sounded close to hyperventilating again. “Gorgeous, truly, Carly. Two of the best I’ve ever seen. Early watercolors. Muted colors, very romantic. Almost Monet-ish.”

“What do you think?”

“You’re kidding, right? It’s Lewis Mitchell, Carly.”

“I’d like to know where they came from.”

“Taylor said the owner is a longtime client of hers. He bought them years ago from Dunbower Galleries. She has copies of the receipts.”

Carly chewed a fingernail that was weeks overdue for a manicure. Over the past fifteen years, Lewis Mitchell had become a Very Important Artist of the twentieth century. Carly had only ever had one of his paintings in her gallery, and that one had sold within twenty-four hours of her hanging it on the wall.