Summer in Eclipse Bay (3 page)

“And one of the things you two talked about was Eclipse Bay? Is that what you're saying?”

“Yes. She became increasingly obsessed with what had happened here. Said she didn't have a lot of regrets, but the destruction of Harte-Madison was one of them. She talked about how she wished that she could make amends.”

“She should have known she couldn't go back and fix something that happened so long ago,” Mitchell said.

“I know. But the subject became more and more important to her. Maybe because toward the end she became a serious student of New Age metaphysics. She talked a lot about karma and auras and such. At any rate, she asked me to come here after she was gone to find out how things stood. She wanted me to see if there was anything I could do to repair some of the damage she had done.”

“Well, shoot and damn.” Mitchell whistled softly. “So that's why you showed up here in town late last summer?”

“Yes. But shortly after I arrived, Rafe and Hannah returned and fell in love and made plans for Dreamscape. And then Gabe and Lillian started getting serious about each other. I turned around one day and you and Sullivan were having coffee together at the bakery.” She smiled slightly. “It has become very clear that the feud is a relic of the past. The Hartes and the Madisons don't need my help mending the old rift.”

“Huh,” Mitchell said again. Thoughtful now.

She cleared her throat. “So, I feel that it's time for me to go.”

“Just like that? You plan to slip out of town and disappear into the sunset?”

“It isn't that simple. As I said, I have to sell the gallery. And then there's the Children's Art Show.”

“Loose ends.”

“Yes.”

“I don't like it,” Mitchell said flatly.

“What don't you like?”

“Something doesn't sit right here.” He whacked his cane absently against the trunk of a tree and eyed her with growing suspicion. “You sure Nick Harte hasn't been making a pest of himself?”

“No.” Another quick dance step back. This was getting sticky. “Really.”

“Has he been calling you up since he hit town a couple of weeks ago? Asked you out?”

“Well, yes.”

“Hah. I knew it.”

“I hardly think that constitutes pestering. Besides, I declined his invitations.”

“Obviously.”

“Obviously?”

Mitchell grunted. “If you'd had a date with Nick Harte, the news would have been all over town in an hour. Question is, why'd you turn him down?”

She began to feel a little desperate. The last thing she wanted to do was instigate more trouble between the Hartes and the Madisons.

“I've been busy,” she said quickly.

“Bullshit. You're avoiding Nick Harte, aren't you?”

“Not exactly.”

“Exactly.” Mitchell looked fiercely pleased. “It's because you've got him figured out, isn't that right? You know Harte's got a reputation with the ladies. And you're too smart to fall for his tricks.”

“Look, Mitch, I've got to be on my way. I would love to stay and chat, but I have some things to do this evening. Business related.” She crossed her fingers mentally. She had gotten very good at inventing excuses lately. Aunt Claudia would have approved.

“Hold on here. I'll be damned if I'll let Nick Harte run you out of town.” Mitchell aimed the cane at her. “You stay right where you are down there at the gallery. If he gives you any more trouble, let me know and I'll handle it.”

“Sure. Right. Thanks, Mitch.”

She whirled and fled toward the car.

Damn it, Mitch was right, she thought halfway back to her cottage on the bluffs. In a way she was allowing Nick Harte to run her out of town. It was a humiliating admission to confront but it was the truth.

She was acting like a coward. Madisons didn't run from anything. Neither did Hartes. Aunt Claudia had never run from a risk in her entire life.

Maybe it was time she stopped running, Octavia thought. At least for the summer.

The ancient mauve Cadillac glided into the small parking lot with the majesty of a massive cruise ship coming into port. Nick had just switched off the engine of his own BMW. He admired the mile-long fins that graced the rear of the vehicle. Chrome gleamed on every curve and angle.

“They don't make 'em like that anymore,” he said to Carson.

From his position strapped into the backseat, Carson craned to see out the window. “That's Mrs. Seaton's car.”

“So it is.”

Edith Seaton's dome of severely permed gray curls was just barely visible. Nick wondered if she could actually see over the top of the wheel or if she had to steer looking through it. Then again, he reminded himself, she had lived in Eclipse Bay all her life. She probably knew her way around blindfolded.

He climbed out of the silver BMW, popped Carson out of the rear seat, and then went around the long, long fins of the Cadillac to open the door for Edith Seaton.

“Good morning, Nick, dear. My, you and Carson are here bright and early this morning.” Edith emerged from the vastness of the big car and dimpled up at him. “Enjoying your stay out at your folks' place?”

“Yes, thanks,” Nick said. “How's the antiques business?”

“As slow as ever.” Edith reached back into the front seat to collect a white straw purse. “Which is probably a good thing, because I've been so busy lately with my Summer Celebration committee work.” She reappeared, purse in hand. “One argument after another, you know. Right now the big issue is whether or not to put up a banner at the intersection where the Total Eclipse is located.”

“I take it some folks don't approve?”

“I should say not. There's a strong feeling in some quarters that placing a banner so close to the bar would make it appear that the Total Eclipse is somehow an official participant in the event.” Edith made a
tut-tut
sound. “And I absolutely agree. We really don't want the summer people and tourists thinking that dreadful place is considered a respectable business here in town.”

Nick smiled. “Come on, now, Edith. The Eclipse has been operating here since my grandfather's day. Hard to pretend it doesn't exist. Fred pays his taxes, like everyone else.”

“The Summer Celebration was never intended to promote that sort of tacky establishment and there will be no banner placed near it on my watch.” She turned to Carson. “What's that you've got there, dear?”

“I brought my pictures for Miss Brightwell to see,” Carson said proudly. He brandished the three rolled-up drawings he held. “She's going to choose one for the art show.”

“Ah, yes, the Children's Art Show event. The Summer Celebration committee is delighted to be including such a wholesome, family-oriented activity as part of the festival this year. The project is a wonderful contribution. We're all so pleased that Octavia is willing to sponsor it.”

“I did a picture of Winston,” Carson informed her.

“That's lovely, dear.” She winked at Nick as they walked toward the row of shops opposite the pier. “Do we have another budding artist in the Harte family?”

“You never know,” Nick said.

“Art makes a very nice hobby,” Edith said, laying a decided emphasis on the word
hobby.
“Everyone should have a recreational activity of some sort. Jeremy enjoys painting, you know.”

“He always did,” Nick said, keeping his voice neutral.

“That's true. He doesn't have much time for it now, of course, what with his new position up at the institute.” Pride glowed in Edith's face. “I'm surprised the two of you haven't had a chance to get together yet. You and Jeremy were such good friends in the old days.”

Nick smiled very casually. “Like you said, he's probably very busy settling into his new job.” And dating Octavia.

“I must say, your writing career appears to be going very well. I saw your latest book in the rack near the checkout counter at Fulton's the other day.”

Nick wondered if that was a gentle hint. “I'd be happy to sign a copy for you, Mrs. Seaton.”

“Thank you, but that won't be necessary,” she said airily. “I don't read that sort of thing.”

So much for knowing a hint when he heard one. “Right.”

“Who would have thought you'd be so successful with your book writing?” Edith continued, shaking her head a few times.

“Not a lot of folks,” he admitted. Amelia, for instance.

“And walking away from Harte Investments after your grandfather and your father had poured their hearts and souls into the business.” Edith clicked her tongue again. “Really, it was quite a shock to everyone. When I think of what Sullivan went through after that dreadful woman destroyed Harte-Madison all those years ago. I mean, one would have thought that you would have felt some sense of responsibility to the family firm.”

Nick realized he was clenching his back teeth a little too tightly together and forced himself to relax his jaw. It was Sullivan who had poured heart and soul into Harte. His father, Hamilton, on the other hand, had taken over the responsibility only because he had felt trapped by a sense of duty and filial obligation. Hamilton had known firsthand how much blood and sweat his father had expended to create Harte Investments. Early on in life he had accepted the fact that he could not reject the company without appearing to reject Sullivan and everything he had accomplished.

But Hamilton Harte had stood firm when it came to passing along the suffocating weight of obligation to his own offspring. He had refused to apply the kind of pressure that had been applied to him to coerce any of his three children into following in their father's and grandfather's footsteps.
Life is too short to spend it doing something you hate,
he'd told his wife, Elaine.
Let them find their own paths.

The best thing about the merger of Harte Investments with Madison Commercial, Nick thought, was that it had finally freed his father and mother to pursue their own interests. Hamilton and Elaine planned to endow and oversee a charitable foundation. They could not wait to get rid of the responsibility of H.I. And Gabe Madison, fortunately for all concerned, was more than willing to take the helm. Running a business empire came naturally to him.

Nick searched for a way to change the subject. He picked the one he was least eager to pursue, but which he knew was guaranteed to distract Edith.

“How's Jeremy doing up at the institute?”

Edith switched gears instantly, delighted to turn to the topic of her grandson. “Very well, indeed. He says he likes being back in Eclipse Bay again after all those years away in Portland. The divorce was very hard on him, you know.”

“I know.”

“But he's dating again, I'm happy to say.” She lowered her tone to a confidential level and winked broadly. “He's been seeing Octavia Brightwell.”

“I heard.” He had known this would not be his favorite topic, he reminded himself.

“Such a nice young woman. I think they make a lovely couple, don't you?”

He couldn't imagine a worse couple, Nick thought. Jeremy and Octavia were totally unsuited to each other. Any idiot could see that. But he didn't think Edith Seaton would appreciate being called an idiot, so he dug deep in search of logic and reason. He managed to pull up a vague memory of an article he'd come across in the course of researching his last book,
Fault Lines.
The plot had set his hero, John True, on the trail of a killer who had murdered his ex-wife.

“They say it takes a couple of years to recover from a divorce.” He tried to put the ring of authority into his voice. “The trauma, you see. Takes a while to get past it, and experts advise people not to make serious relationship commitments during that time.”

“Nonsense.” Edith snorted. “What do the so-called experts know when it comes to love and marriage? Besides, it's been a year and a half now, and I'm sure Jeremy doesn't need another six months to recover. He just needs the right woman to help him forget. I think Octavia is doing him a world of good. She's pulling him out of his shell. He's been a little down since the divorce, you know. I was worried about him.”

Under any other circumstances, Nick thought, he would have avoided the topic of Jeremy's divorce the same way he would have gone out of his way to sidestep a cobra in his path. But the fact that Edith thought that Octavia looked like a good candidate to take the place of Jeremy's ex was an irritating goad that he could not ignore.

“I'm surprised to hear you say that,” he began coolly. “Personally I wouldn't have thought they'd have much—”

He was interrupted by the blare of a horn. He glanced toward the street and saw a familiar battered pickup truck rumbling past. There was no mistaking the driver. Arizona Snow was garbed in her customary camouflage-patterned fatigues. A military-style beret slanted across her gray hair in a jaunty fashion.

He raised a hand in greeting. Carson waved madly. Arizona waved back, but she did not pause. A woman on a mission.

That was the great thing about being a professional conspiracy theorist, he thought. You always had a mission.

The pickup continued down the block and pulled into the parking lot in front of the Incandescent Body bakery.

Edith sighed. “Expect you heard the news about old Tom Thurgarton's will?”

“Rafe said something about Thurgarton having left all his worldly possessions to Virgil Nash, Arizona, and the New Age crowd running the bakery.”

“Yes.” Edith shook her head. “Of all the ridiculous notions. Just like Thurgarton to do something so bizarre. He was such an odd man.”

Nick nodded. “Yeah, he was always a little weird, wasn't he? A real recluse. He lived here in town all the time I was growing up but I doubt if I saw him more than half a dozen times a year.”

“They say that Thurgarton's phobia about leaving his house got worse as time went on. Everyone was so accustomed to not seeing him that no one even knew he was dead until Jake down at the post office finally noticed that he hadn't picked up his mail in over two months. When Sean Valentine went out to see what was going on, he found Thurgarton's body in the kitchen. Heart attack, they say.”

“Wonder if he left anything valuable to Virgil and A.Z. and the Heralds,” Nick mused.

“I doubt it.” Edith sniffed as they came to a halt in front of the door of Seaton's Antiques. “The way Chief Valentine tells it, that old cabin was crammed with over forty years' worth of junk. A real firetrap, he said. Old newspapers and magazines stacked to the ceiling. Boxes full of unopened mail. Cartons of things he'd ordered from catalogs that had never been unpacked.”

“Going to be interesting to see what kind of conspiracy theory A.Z. will weave out of this,” Nick said with a smile. “She's nothing if not inventive.”

“I'm afraid A.Z. is one brick shy of a load, and hanging out with the crowd from the bakery isn't improving the situation.” Edith turned the key in the lock and stepped into her shop. “Goodbye, you two. Good luck with your pictures, Carson.”

“Bye, Mrs. Seaton.” Carson was struggling to be polite, but he was already edging off toward the neighboring shop door.

“See you later,” Nick said.

He and Carson continued on to the front door of Bright Visions. Instead of rushing inside, Carson paused.

“Maybe you could stay out here on the sidewalk while I show my pictures to Miss Brightwell,” he suggested hopefully.

“Not a chance.”

Carson heaved a sigh, resigned. “Okay, but promise me again that you won't say anything to make her mad.”

“I already said that I'd do my best not to annoy her.” Nick glanced through the window into the gallery showroom. The
Open
sign showed through the glass, but he could not see Octavia. She was probably in her cluttered back room, he decided.

He wrapped his hand around the knob and twisted. The now-familiar sense of anticipation sleeted through him.

The door swung inward, revealing a universe of intense color and light. The artwork that hung on the walls ran the gamut from landscapes to the abstract, but the pictures were grouped in some inexplicably magical fashion that somehow managed to make the whole greater than the sum of its parts. A sense of connection and coherence pervaded the scene. The viewer was drawn from one to another in a subtle progression that took him deeper into the little cosmos.

There was an art to displaying paintings to their best advantage, Nick thought. Octavia knew what she was doing. No wonder she prospered. It was hard
not
to buy a picture when you were in this gallery.

Carson hurried inside, clutching his drawings in both hands.

“Miss Brightwell?” he called. “Where are you? I've got my pictures.”

Octavia came to stand in the open doorway behind the counter. The sweeping hemline of a long, full skirt in the palest possible shade of ice blue swirled around her shapely calves. She wore a matching silk blouse. A tiny blue belt studded with small chunks of clear crystal encircled her trim waist. Her fiery hair was held back off her face by a pale aqua scarf that had been folded to form a narrow headband.