On Sunset Beach

Chapter 13

“WHAT I want is for you to write your article and print it out for me,” Grace replied after Ford called to ask her what she wanted him to do with the notes from his interview with Carly. “And use fourteen-point font so that I can read it. And I want two copies. One single spaced, the other triple spaced.”

“Why—”

“So that I have enough room to correct your grammar.”

“What makes you think I don’t know how to write using correct grammar?”

“Well, since I hardly ever saw a letter from you, I don’t have much to judge by, do I?”

She’s on her way back, Ford mused as he hung up the phone. Almost herself again.

He wrote the article and printed it out as she had instructed, and took both copies to her in her hospital room. He was feeling pretty good about it, thinking he’d done a bang-up job on the article. It wasn’t something he’d particularly enjoyed doing—he wasn’t the writer in the family, and he’d never had any aspirations to follow in his mother’s footsteps, but still, he was pretty sure she’d be delighted with his effort. After all, he’d had a pretty special subject to write about. So he was unprepared for his mother’s reaction.

“Try again,” she said, waving the sheets of paper at him with her left hand.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Well, for one thing, it reads with as much verve as a phone book. For another, you need to learn how to properly use commas.” She sniffed. “We still use the Oxford comma at the paper, dear. Some feel it’s passé, but I prefer it.”

“What’s the Oxford comma?” He frowned.

“There’s a book on proper usage on the shelf in my office at the paper. Strunk and White’s Elements of Style.”

“Anything else?” He folded his arms and tried not to appear petulant, though he was feeling much like a chastised child at that moment. He couldn’t believe she was criticizing his work because she didn’t like the way he used commas.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, there is.” She adjusted her glasses on the bridge of her nose and glared at him through the lenses. “You say very little about Carly, and what you do say, well, you could be talking about anyone.”

“The article is about Carly.”

“Supposedly. But we get to the end and we don’t know her, and that’s the whole point of the article. We want the people in St. Dennis—the intended readers of the piece—to feel as if they know her.”

He stared at her blankly. “I’m sorry. I don’t get it.”

“I read your article three times. I don’t know what she looks like, I don’t know what her voice sounds like. I don’t know how she feels about the project. Is she enthused, or is she just going through the motions? You did give me some facts, but you didn’t give me Carly Summit. You didn’t even give me a photo. Try again.”

“Mom …”

“Oh, you can do this, Ford. Don’t look at me like that. If I thought you were incapable of writing the article we need the readers to see, I’d take your facts and I’d write the damned thing myself. But I don’t feel up to it, and you are capable, so I suggest you go back to the office and put this thing into shape. You have to get it to Mel in production by tomorrow afternoon, no later. There are a few pictures on my camera if you need to poach one of those. In the future, however, I suggest you take your own.”

He returned to the Gazette office on the second floor of the building on Charles Street—grateful that the paper had its own small parking lot, because the center of town was crawling with tourists—and sat at his mother’s desk. He pulled the article up on the computer screen and reread what he’d earlier written.

“You want more Carly, you’ll get more Carly,” he muttered, and started over again.

He read over the second draft and, trying to be objective, found it lacking something. He tried again.

Did his mother go through this process—this write, rewrite, write, rewrite—every time? He doubted it. She’d been writing for this paper for most of her adult life. She was a professional. Surely once you got the hang of it, the words would flow like water through your hands, wouldn’t they?

At this rate, he’d never get the hang of it. But that was okay, he reminded himself, because this was only a temporary thing. As soon as Grace was up and about, she could have her notebook, laptop, and office back, and he’d never have to go through this tedious exercise again.

He deleted the entire page, and started over. Again.

This time, instead of measuring his every word, he tossed out all his preconceived ideas of how newspaper people wrote and went with his gut. He wrote off the top of his head, his impressions of Carly, the way her eyes lit when she talked about the proposed gallery, and her plans to bring an important exhibit to St. Dennis. He described the gallery itself, the renovations being made to the carriage house, and the largesse of the man who’d donated the property to the community. He reread the piece several times, making minor changes each time, until he felt it was as right as he was going to get it. He scrolled through the photos on his mother’s camera and selected one that he thought might work.

He hit print, and while the copies were being made, he compared the way he’d described Carly in the article—“a cool, competent, petite blonde with ice-blue eyes and the sure confidence born of experience and education”—to the way he really saw her: a smoking-hot blonde with a killer body and the face of an angel. He’d been tempted to slip that in as a joke, but, well, his beta-reader was his mother and he wasn’t sure it would be wise, especially if she didn’t like this version any better than she’d liked the first.

But she did.

“Excellent.” Grace nodded her head when he delivered the finished product later that evening. “Yes, this is it exactly what I wanted.” She looked up at Ford and smiled. “Well done, son. I knew you could do it.”

“Thanks, Mom.” He was more pleased by her praise and more gratified by her smile than he would have expected.

Funny, he thought as he drove back to the Gazette’s office for the second time that day, but you never really outgrow your inner need for that pat on the back from your mom. He’d been away from his home for so long, he’d forgotten how good it felt to have your family—especially a parent—offer you praise and approval. He was whistling as he set up the file as she’d directed, and sent it off to the production department.

His first assignment, and he was a day early.

Before locking up the office and leaving for the inn, Ford printed out his mother’s notes relative to the gallery, the local artists, and the woman to whom St. Dennis was entrusting its art treasures. He’d study up for Tuesday’s interview, and by then, he’d know everything his mother knew about Carly Summit, but somehow, his instincts told him, that wouldn’t be quite enough. Whatever else he wanted to know, he’d have to discover on his own.

Carly couldn’t believe her good fortune. On Monday morning, she’d gone shopping for a bed, mattress and box spring, and one dresser, and ended up buying those pieces plus a sweet love seat that was on sale and would look great in the downstairs bedroom that she planned to use as a study, and a pair of leather club chairs to complement the living room sofa. She figured there was a good chance she could sell them to the next person who rented the house, but if not, there was always the newspaper and its classified ads.

She wondered what the Gazette charged for classified ads.

Thinking about the Gazette felt like license to think about Ford, which led her to thinking about her meeting with him on Saturday, which naturally made her think ahead to their appointment on the following morning.

She’d been so busy packing her things and driving back and forth between the two houses that she’d given little thought to what they’d talk about. She wondered if he was getting direction from Grace or if he was flying by the seat of his pants. A little of both, she suspected.

When she arrived at the carriage house on Tuesday morning, Carly found the HVAC crew already on the job. There was noise and dust and loud music playing, and several workers moving around the area where she normally worked. Ford appeared earlier than she’d anticipated, and he’d looked around at the chaos before trying to speak over the din. “We should probably go somewhere else to talk.”

She motioned for him to follow her outside.

“It is a little loud in there,” she agreed. “Sorry. I’d forgotten the heating and air-conditioning guys were going to be working here today.”

“We could go to the inn, though it’s probably not real quiet there right about now either, since it’s getting close to lunchtime and they’ve had all sorts of kiddie things going on this morning.” He paused as if considering the options. “Have you been to the new restaurant out on River Road? Blossoms? Sophie Enright’s place?”

She shook her head. “Ellie’s mentioned it, said it’s pretty terrific. She said it was named for her great-aunt Lilly, Curtis Enright’s late wife, Rose, and Violet Finneran, who worked for the Enright law firm. Blossoms, get it? Lilly, Rose, Violet?”

“Got it. Mom wrote an article when the place first opened, and she did mention that. How about we move the interview over there, kill two birds with one stone,” he suggested.

“Great. I haven’t had anything but coffee this morning since I overslept, so I’m famished. Anyplace that serves food sounds appealing. And besides, I’d like to support Sophie’s business, since she kindly arranged for me to take over her sublease.”

“You’re going to lease a place in St. Dennis?” he asked as they walked toward the driveway.

“I already did.” She stopped in front of her car. “Should I follow you?”

“Why don’t you ride with me? I have to move my car out of the drive anyway.”

“Okay. I’ll just let the guys inside know …”

She went back into the carriage house, grabbed her bag, and shouted over the whine of the power tools that she’d be back in a while. The foreman nodded and waved—message received—and Carly went back outside into the warm late morning.

“It’s almost impossible for me to work in there right now, but we really do need the climate inside the building controlled,” she told Ford as she hopped into the passenger seat of his car. “Heat and humidity are not the friends of fine art.”

“Damaging?” Ford watched in the rearview mirror for the last of three cars to pass before pulling out onto the street.

“You betcha. If we weren’t able to have this work done, there’s no way we could exhibit Carolina’s paintings in that building.”

“Good thing the town coughed up the money for it, then.”

“The town council did set some money aside for renovations, but I don’t know how much will be left when this stage has been completed.”

“It looks to me to be pretty much finished inside. What else has to be done?”

“We are going to need a top-notch security system, and that’s going to be a big ticket. So far, all of the security firms I’ve spoken with have admitted they aren’t set up to deliver a system as sophisticated as the one that’s needed here.”

“I might be able to help you with that.”

“Oh?” She turned in her seat to face him. “Are you a security expert?”

“Sort of.” A small smile played at the corner of his lips. “Actually, a friend of mine owns a security firm in Virginia. He specializes in custom work. Maybe you could give him a call.”

“I’ll do that. Thanks. I need to get an estimate quickly so I can get the shock over and done with as early as possible.”

“What shock?”

“The shock the town council is going to feel when they see what proper security is going to cost.”

“Did they give you a budget?”

“Not really. Cam worked up estimates for pretty much everything except the security, and they okayed the scope of the work, understanding that there would be additional costs to secure the building. I did try to explain to Ed that it was going to be expensive, but I guess it’s all relative. I’ve had top-notch security installed in all of my galleries, so I know it’s pricey. The cut-rate services that I’ve talked to just aren’t sufficient.”

“So what are you going to do if you get what you feel is an adequate number and the council won’t or can’t authorize the funds?”

“Then it comes out of the proceeds from the book I’m writing on Carolina Ellis. And if that isn’t going to be enough, I suppose it will come out of my pocket. Actually, I’ll probably have to front the costs and then repay myself what I can from what the book makes. I already told Ed I’d donate a portion of the sales to the art center.”

“You can take a hit that big?”

She merely nodded without elaborating on her financial situation.

The car turned onto the River Road, and Carly got her first glance of the New River as it flowed behind the houses built on its banks and toward the Chesapeake.

“It’s smaller than I’d thought it would be,” she commented. “More narrow.”

“What is?”

“The river. I guess I was expecting something bigger, more important-looking.” She turned to him and smiled. “After all, they did name a road after it.”

“Around here, they named roads after a lot of things that may or may not seem significant now.” He turned in to the parking lot next to a small stone building and parked. “The river had its place in St. Dennis history, even if it’s lost some of its muscle over the years.”

They both opened their car doors and got out at the same time.

“Now, you know you’re going to have to tell me more,” Carly said.

Ford opened the door to the restaurant and held it aside for her to enter.

“Wow, it’s really pretty in here.” Carly leaned closer to him to whisper. “So different. Look at that wall of old photos …”

The perky hostess met them just inside the door. “Will there be just the two of you?”

When Ford nodded, she asked, “Is a table near the window all right?”

“Could we maybe have the table closer to the photo wall?” Carly asked. “I’d love to get a closer look.”

“Of course.” The hostess smiled and led the way.

“Mom had great things to say about the food here,” Ford said as he and Carly were seated. “The place hasn’t been open very long, but apparently with Dallas MacGregor’s new film studio opening down the road recently, it’s a good place to celebrity-watch if you’re into that sort of thing.”

“I’m not,” Carly said, “but I can’t wait any longer. I have to look at those photos.”

She rose just as the hostess—who was apparently going to be their waitress—brought menus and a bowl of small tan-colored beads to the table.

“Roasted chickpeas,” she said as she placed the bowl in the center of the table. “What can I bring you to drink?”

“Unsweetened iced tea for me, please,” Carly replied.

Ford nodded. “Same for me.”

“All right, then, let’s look at these pictures.” Carly stood before the wall, her arms folded over her chest. “I wish I knew which one was Ellie’s great-great-grandmother.” She scanned the photos.

Ford stood behind, almost but not quite close enough to touch her, close enough that she could hear—but not feel—him breathing. She stood midway between the wall and his body, and she had to force herself to focus on the pictures in front of her.

“I can help you there.” Sophie emerged from the kitchen, a white apron tied around her waist and at her neck.

“Hey, Sophie.” Carly turned and smiled. “We were just admiring your decor. I love this idea.” She pointed to the photos. “It’s so different and so charming.”

“Thanks. The idea was to bring St. Dennis into the room without overplaying the whole Chesapeake Bay thing. You know, the blue claw crabs, the oysters, the crab pots. The stuff that half the restaurants on the Eastern Shore have done. I wanted the place to be more personal to the people who live here.”

“Have you met Ford Sinclair?” Carly asked.

“We have not.” Sophie extended a hand to him.

“But I know the rest of the family.” She smiled. “My brother had his wedding at the inn and I’m happy to count your mother among my friends.”

“Well, then, any friend of my family, and all that.” Ford shook her hand briefly. “Now, can you point out who’s who here?”

“This is my grandma Rose Enright, Lilly Cavanaugh, and Violet Finneran.” Sophie pointed to several faces in turn.

“The Blossoms,” Carly said.

“Right.” Sophie pointed out several other residents—some living, some not. “Oh, and here’s Ellie’s great-great-grandmother Carolina, the one you’re writing the book about.”

Carly grinned and stretched her neck to better see the photograph. Carolina was dressed in tennis whites and held a racket in both hands. At her elbow was a handsome man who appeared to be several years younger than she.

“I wonder who the man is,” Carly thought out loud.

“I have no clue. Someone else in town might know, though.”

“Is that a picture of my parents?” Ford pointed to a photo on the left side of the wall.

“On their wedding day, yes.” Sophie removed it from the wall and handed it to him.

“I’ve seen this one before. My mom gave this to you?” he asked.

“Your sister did. I’d asked Lucy for one so we could surprise Grace on opening night. She seemed very pleased to have it included. Look how beautiful your mother was at that young age. Not that she isn’t beautiful now,” she hastened to add. “Your parents look so happy together, don’t they?”

“They always were.” Ford handed the photo back to Sophie, who returned it to its place on the wall.

“So have you had a chance to look at the menu yet?” Sophie asked, and Ford and Carly both shook their heads.

“You might want to get your order in sometime in the next”—Sophie glanced at her watch—“five minutes or so. It’s almost time for the studio folks,” she explained. “They usually start to roll in around twelve thirty. I thought they’d be big on takeout but it seems they like the atmosphere here, so we get a crowd every day right around now.”

“I’m surprised the tourist crowd hasn’t caught on to that.” Carly looked around at the empty tables.

“It’s a little early for them.” Sophie grinned. “In another half hour, there will be a line out the door. Go ahead and look at the menus. Make sure you don’t miss the specials. Mariel—that’s your waitress—will take your order.”

“Look, Ford, even the menus are unique.” Carly held up the folded light blue paper. “There are little anecdotes about different early residents of St. Dennis.” She looked over the names. “There’s a Daniel Sinclair here …”

“My great-great-however-many-greats grandfather. He built the inn.” Ford appeared to be more interested in the food.

Guess he skipped breakfast, too, Carly thought, and turned her attention to the specials. When it came time to order, Ford went with the burger, and Carly ordered a grilled vegetable wrap.

“Can I get a small, side version of the strawberry, goat cheese, and walnut salad with that?” she asked.

“Of course.” Mariel smiled agreeably, took their menus, and disappeared into the kitchen.

“Did you say you were or you were not a vegetarian?” Ford asked.

“I am not, but I love vegetables when they’re done creatively, and I’m willing to bet that Sophie’s are terrific. I take it you’re a meatasaurus?” She sampled the chickpeas. “These are yummy. Crunchy and spicy.”

She passed the bowl over to him, and he popped a few into the palm of his hand.

“I’ll eat just about anything.” He held up the bowl. “Even these.”

Carly laughed. “Oh, please. They’re not that exotic.”

He popped a few into his mouth. “You’re right. They’re spicy. I like them.”

“I’m glad to see you’re adventurous about food.”

“Are you kidding?” He scoffed. “Where I’ve been, you eat what’s available and you don’t think too much of it. These”—he held up the small bowl—“would have been a delicacy.”

“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.