On Sunset Beach

Chapter 21

FIRST thing on Monday morning, Carly checked in with her galleries. Enrico was all abuzz because there were not one, not two, but three buyers interested in the Lewis Mitchells, but other than that, things were relatively quiet, because “you know that everyone leaves New York on Thursday night in the summer.”

She called Helena at Summit/Boston and found that the showing of Mindy Mason’s pottery they’d planned for November was finally contracted—signed, sealed, and delivered. Helena also was in discussions to exhibit some new artists she’d met at a street fair in South Boston and thought they might plan a sort of indoor street fair over the winter to showcase the best of them. Colby in Chicago had nothing on the calendar that she didn’t already know about, but he reiterated his offer to buy her out. This time, instead of flat-out rejecting him, she surprised even herself by telling him she’d think about it.

And she would. As soon as she had time to devote some serious attention to what she could live without, and what she couldn’t. If she wanted to explore in-depth her interest in discovering and promoting women artists, she needed to face the fact that something had to give. She couldn’t possibly devote the amount of time and attention necessary to do justice to everything. She’d already pretty much decided to sell her holdings in the London gallery to Isabella, and that would free up some time. The others—well, she would have to make some choices. She knew she couldn’t give up New York—though she could give more responsibility to Enrico, who’d proven himself over and over to be totally reliable and worthy of a big promotion. Chicago … maybe she could come to terms with Colby, and Boston … she’d have to think about that.

The next and last call was to Elvan Kazma in Istanbul.

Elvan brought Carly up-to-date on the most recent sales and acquisitions—and of course, the latest gossip—and promised to email copies of the previous months’ ledgers. Their business concluded, Carly had one more thing on her mind.

“Elvan, that recipe you have for manti … do you think you could share that with me?” Carly asked.

“Since when do you have a taste for lamb?”

“I don’t, but someone I know … well, he likes Turkish lamb dishes and that’s the only one I can think of that you don’t put on kebabs and grill,” she explained. “I don’t have a grill here, so I thought maybe—”

“Oh, a man, eh?” Elvan laughed again. “I’ll send you a recipe that will have him on his knees.” She paused. “You can get fresh mint, yes?”

“I’m sure I can. It’s summer here, and there are lots of farms.”

“Watch your email. I’ll send you the recipe for the patlican salatasi—you need very fresh eggplant for that—and my mother’s recipe for lor tatlisi. It’s better than a love potion, never fails. Just make sure you buy the best ricotta cheese you can find.” She chuckled. “And promise to save a seat for me at the wedding.”

“I think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself.”

When the recipes arrived, Carly made a shopping list. She wasn’t so sure the little lamb raviolis would send Ford to his knees, but it was a fun thought. She checked the Internet hoping to find a Middle Eastern grocery, but no such luck. She was going to have to make do with what she could find at the supermarket and the farmers’ markets in and around town. If nothing else, preparing all those tiny dumplings for the manti would take her mind off the stress of trying to get the carriage house ready for the opening.

At least the design for the invitations was ready, and with Ellie’s approval, she’d photographed Stolen Moments to use as the logo for the event. The image on her camera phone wasn’t sharp enough, so she borrowed Ellie’s good camera and got a great shot. Hopefully, at some point over the next week—when she wasn’t cooking—she’d complete the photographic inventory of the paintings.

“Stress? What stress?” she mused as she drove to the market, list in hand. Cooking always did have a calming effect on her, and if nothing else, this dinner would be an adventure.

Ford arrived at Carly’s house promptly at six thirty on Wednesday. Instead of wine, he carried a six-pack of MadMac’s latest beer—Summer Breeze—and a big bouquet of blue hydrangeas.

“I wasn’t sure what you liked,” he told her. “But the woman at the flower shop said everyone likes these.”

“I do like them. Actually, they’re one of my favorites. Bring them on out to the kitchen.” She pulled his arm gently to bring him closer, and kissed the side of his mouth. “Thank you.”

She searched the cupboards for something that would make a suitable vase, and finally opted for the soup tureen. She hadn’t thought to buy a vase when she ordered all of her kitchen goodies online. It had been so long since anyone had brought her flowers, and it was something she rarely thought of doing for herself.

“It smells great in here. Can I help?”

“You can open a beer for me.” She slipped an apron over her head. She’d debated for far too long on her clothes for the occasion, and the last thing she wanted was tomato stains or olive-oil splashes on her shirt or her skirt. She’d hesitated on the skirt—she’d had no time to spend on a beach or near a pool this summer, and her legs were pasty white—but in the end, she went for comfort. Pants would have been too hot, shorts too casual. The skirt seemed like a good compromise and, paired with a short-sleeved, button-down shirt, seemed just right.

“Glasses?” he asked.

“Second cabinet on the left.” She grabbed a pair of kitchen shears from a drawer and cut the flower stems so they’d fit better in the tureen.

“There. Beautiful.” She placed them in the center of the kitchen table. “They make me think of summer days when I was a kid. My mom always had white hydrangeas growing along the side of the garage, and at night, we’d chase fireflies across the lawn and the hydrangeas would stand out in the moonlight.”

Ford handed her the glass of beer. “Sure I can’t do anything?”

“You can sit right there and keep me company while I cook. If I need an extra pair of hands, I’ll let you know.”

She placed the plate of muhammara on the table next to the flowers, the red of the peppers in bright contrast to the white plate.

“Wow. Look at that.” He raised an eyebrow.

“Pita for the dip.” She set a small basket of toasted pita wedges, two small plates, and a pile of paper napkins on the table. “Help yourself.”

“That’s incredible,” he said after he’d dipped pita into the dip. “It tastes just like the muhammara the last time I was in Turkey. You can taste the walnuts and the … what’s that spice?”

“Cumin.”

“It’s delicious,” he said as he went back for more.

She checked the flame under the large pot of water that was just starting to bubble. If she kept to her timetable—provided by Elvan—everything should make it to the table at precisely the same time.

“May I ask what you’re making? Other than this dip, and something with lamb, of course …” He spooned some more dip onto one of the small plates and added a few more pitas.

“Smarty. I am making lamb. I’m making manti.” She served herself some of the spicy dip. It was excellent, she had to admit. Hopefully everything else would be as good.

“Where’d you find them around here?”

“I said I was making them.” She couldn’t help but add smugly, “From scratch.”

“Seriously? All those little-bitty dumplings …” His jaw almost hit the table.

“Made them this morning. They just have to be cooked.” She turned back to the counter so that he wouldn’t see the grin on her face.

“It must have taken you hours.”

“All day.”

“I am impressed almost beyond words.”

“Oh, be impressed. I also made a chickpea salad and lor tatlisi for dessert. The only thing I didn’t make from scratch is the pita.” She turned to him and grinned. “You wanted Turkish, you’re getting Turkish.”

“When the woman said she could cook, she wasn’t kidding.” He dipped another pita, ate it, then took another sip of beer. “Did I mention that this was delicious?”

“You did. So now you know how I spent my day. Tell me how you spent yours.”

“I made the mistake of telling my mother your suggestion that I interview Lola. She liked the idea so much she started thinking that I should not only interview Lola, but I should plan on an entire series of interviews of some of the other local characters.”

“Such as …?” She helped herself to another bit of dip. Yum.

“Such as Captain Walt, and his wife, the lovely Rexana.”

“Did I hear right, that she’s a former showgirl?” Carly looked over her shoulder at Ford.

He nodded. “The story I heard my dad tell once, old Walt went to California to visit his brother. On the way back, he stopped in Vegas, met Rexana, and that was that. They got married in one of those chapels out there two days after they met and he brought her back to St. Dennis.”

“I wonder if it was an Elvis chapel,” she mused. “Anyway, so you’re going to interview them for the paper. Cute idea. Their restaurant is very popular, so I’m sure the summer people will love to read about them.”

“I’ll get to them after I talk to Lola. Seems she’s headed out on vacation next weekend, so I had to schedule to meet with her tomorrow afternoon.”

“That’s one interview I will not want to miss.”

“At the rate my mother’s going, I may never get out of St. Dennis. Not, at least, until she can use her hand again and get around. She’s started some modified physical therapy already, though, so there’s hope.”

“Would that be so bad, if you had to hang around for a while longer?”

“It hasn’t been bad so far,” he admitted. “I’ve kind of enjoyed getting reacquainted with my hometown again. Seeing people I used to know, going places I used to go …” He sighed. “No, it probably wouldn’t be so bad.”

He looked surprised to have said it aloud, so Carly let it pass without comment.

A few seconds later, he slapped his hands on his thighs. “I can’t sit here like a lump. Give me something to do.”

“All right. You can get the salads out of the fridge—they’re already plated—and you can set the table.” She showed him where everything was located. “I’d have rather eaten in the dining room, but I still have the notes from the book and the catalog scattered about in piles. It’s like a postpartum reaction. I’m just not ready to file it all away yet.”

“This is fine,” he said as he put plates and flatware on the table. “I like this room. I like the view out the back there.”

“I like it here, too, now that the air conditioner is working.”

She finished preparing the yogurt dressing for the manti and set it aside, then removed the tray of tiny dumplings from the fridge and set it on the counter.

“I can’t believe you made all those.” He shook his head. “How did you know how?”

“A friend sent me her recipes. Actually, she sent all of the recipes for everything we’re having, so if you approve, you can send Elvan a thank-you email in the morning.”

The water for the manti was starting to boil, so Carly placed each one of the dumplings carefully into the pot. Ford had finished setting the table and had put the salads on top of the dinner plates.

“I think we can go ahead and start on those while the dumplings cook,” Carly said.

They sat across from each other and attacked the salads: chickpeas, grape tomatoes, thinly sliced red onion, black olives, feta cheese, tossed in a dressing of olive oil and lemon juice and spices.

“This is so good,” he remarked. “If I close my eyes, I could imagine we’re at one of those rooftop restaurants in Istanbul, overlooking the Bosporus.”

“I’ve been to one where you can see the Hagia Sophia in the distance.” She smiled, remembering the last time she was in that city, when Elvan and her relatives had taken her to dinner.

He was even more amazed when she served the manti.

“Oh my God, are you kidding?” he exclaimed after he tasted the dish, which she’d artfully prepared exactly as Elvan had instructed: the lamb-filled dumplings on the bottom, the yogurt sauce over them, and the red-pepper-infused olive oil over the yogurt.

She wished she’d taken a picture to send to Elvan before Ford dug in.

“This is amazing.” His eyes narrowed and he watched her from the other side of the table. “Fess up. You’ve done this a thousand times before.”

“Nope. First time.” She bit into a dumpling and had to admit she’d outdone herself. While she wasn’t happy with the fact that she was eating lamb, the little bit of nutmeg she’d ground to add to the mixture seasoned it perfectly.

“I cannot believe you did this for me.” He put his fork on his plate, his gaze on her face. “I may have to marry you.”

She laughed off the joke, tried to pretend that her heart hadn’t just jumped even though she knew he wasn’t serious.

“All kidding aside, Carly. You could get a job selling this. It’s just as good as anything I ever had in Turkey. The only difference is that the sauce isn’t quite as garlicky. But it’s just as good,” he hastened to add.

She smiled. She’d deliberately cut the amount of garlic the recipe called for, figuring that you don’t overgarlic the sauce when you’re planning a big night.

And she was planning a big night. She’d thought over Ellie’s words a hundred times since Sunday, and she knew her friend was right. She had been overthinking, overanalyzing whatever it was that was going on between her and Ford. She needed to get out of the way and just let the relationship go where it was going to go. Whichever way that might be, she was ready for it.

But just in case, she’d left most of the garlic out of the yogurt sauce.

They finished the manti and Carly served the dessert—round scoops of ricotta topped with a sugary syrup, and while it wasn’t authentic, she added a few fresh blueberries to the bowls for color.

“I hope you won’t get upset if I’m still sitting here in the morning,” Ford said after he’d finished every last bite. “I don’t think I’ll be able to move until maybe Friday afternoon.”

“Too bad. I was thinking a little walk around the block might be in order.” She began to clear the table.

“Got a crane or some other piece of heavy equipment to get me out of the chair?”

She laughed and finished her beer. It had been the perfect accompaniment to the dinner.

“Come on.” She reached out a hand to pull him up, and he pulled her onto his lap.

“We could just stay right here.” He nuzzled her neck.

“I need to walk it off. I’m not used to eating so much at one sitting.” She ran her fingers through his dark hair, something she’d wanted to do since the first night she met him. It was thick and silky and felt exactly the way she thought it would.

“All right.” His hands on her waist, he lifted her and set her on her feet, then stood. “We’ll go for a walk.”

He glanced at the stack of dishes, pots, and pans on the counter and in the sink. “Still no dishwasher?”

“Still looking at ’er.”

“I’ll help you when we get back.”

“I’ll hold you to it.” She tugged at his hand. “In the meantime …” She pointed to the door.

They went out through the side porch and, hand in hand, walked together for several blocks, shoulders and elbows occasionally bumping, to the end of Hudson Street. The sun had set and the streetlights had come on and cast a hazy glow at the intersection.

“Did you deliberately choose this route so that you could check up on the carriage house?” He pointed straight ahead.

“No. I thought we were just sort of ambling along.”

They turned onto Old St. Mary’s Church Road and he headed across the street.

“Ever walk down to the river?” he asked as he led her down the driveway.

“No.”

“You mean to tell me you come here every day and you’ve never sat on the riverbank?”

She shook her head and he said, “Shame on you.”

They walked past the carriage house, picking their way carefully in the dark around the back of the building all the way to the river’s edge. Ford lowered himself to sit on the ground and pulled her down next to him.

“See what you’ve been missing?” he asked.

She looked across the river to the woods on the other side, barely visible in the faint moonlight.

“This used to be a favorite place of mine when I was a kid. One time Mr. Enright—Curtis—came to our school and gave us a talk about St. Dennis’s history, how before and during the Civil War, there’d been more than one stop on the Underground Railroad. This place used to be one of them. There was a tunnel from an old outbuilding that used to be over there …” He pointed across the lawn—to a house that stood at the corner of Hudson. “That house is gone now, and the old shed is, too, but the story made for some powerful images in my head. They used to say that if you were real quiet, at night the ghosts of the runaways would come up the embankment. I used to steal over here sometimes and sit in the dark and wait for the ghosts to show up.”

“Did they?” She rested back against him, and he put his arm around her.

“Nope. Still waiting.” His smile was wistful. “There are three huge rocks down there right at the riverbank. Those were the landmarks the runaways looked for when they came up the river. Mr. Enright told us how they’d see the rocks, and jump out of whatever boat or barge they were on, hop onto the rocks, and they knew they were safe. I think one of the reasons he gave the property to the town was so that all of it—not just the grand house—but the stories would not be forgotten.” He leaned back on one elbow on the grass and stared out at the river, and Carly could imagine him as a young boy coming here, sitting quietly in the grass, hoping to see the ghostly procession from the river to the shed.

She lay down next to him, and he pulled her to him, then kissed her, gently at first. His lips were soft as they grazed against hers, barely touching her. He nipped at her bottom lip, then kissed her again, full mouth to full mouth, his tongue seeking hers as the kiss deepened into a hot duel. She felt her body reach out for his, the longing for him growing with every second. There was no overthinking, no analyzing what to do. She fell onto her back and brought him with her, his weight on her hips. His hands were on her waist, on her face, on her breasts, and she rose with the sensation that flooded through her. His mouth trailed along her throat to the top of her shirt, his breath hot on her skin, his teeth on the top button of her shirt. With one hand, she began to release each button, his mouth following each inch of skin as far as her breasts. He took first one, then the other in his mouth, his tongue slipping under the soft lace of her bra, torturing her until she unfastened the hook at the back. She arched her back to him, silently demanding that he take more as a soft moan escaped her lips.

His hand ran the length of her thigh and up under her skirt, slipped under her panties, and caressed her until she wanted to scream. She tugged at his belt, her hand lowering to feel the length of him.

“Carly …?” he whispered.

“Yes. Yes.”

He rose on one elbow, and she heard the crinkling of the foil wrapper that he’d removed from his pocket. A moment later, he was above her, and she wrapped her legs around his, raised her hips, and pulled him closer. She could feel him just there, at the entrance to her body, and wanted only to feel him inside. When he slid into her, she exhaled a moan so soft that even she barely heard it. With her hips setting the rhythm, they moved together in the dark toward an explosion of sensation that left them both rocked to the core.

He lay with his head on her breast, his breathing still erratic, his hands holding hers next to her head. She tried to force a normal amount of air into her lungs, tried to ignore the pounding of her heart. She wondered if he could hear it.

“Your heart is beating like a kettledrum,” he whispered.

So okay, he heard it.

“Ummmm” was the best she could do at the moment.

A few moments later, when she felt she could trust her voice, she said, “Tell me that wasn’t your boyhood fantasy.”

“What, making love with a beautiful woman on a perfect summer night while the stars were twinkling and the river flowed quietly by?” He raised his head and smiled down at her. “Ya think?”

She laughed softly and looked around. “I wonder if they were watching.”

“The ghosts?” He glanced over to the spot where the old shed was rumored to have stood. “If they were, they got an eyeful.”

She pulled him back to rest against her again, closed her eyes, and listened to the night sounds. A loud group of kids passing by the mansion reminded her that they weren’t the only people out and about. She startled and he laughed.

“Relax. We’re about two hundred yards from the street, and it’s pitch-black out here.”

“Two hundred yards? That doesn’t sound like much.”

“Think the length of two football fields.”

Still, she felt uneasy, so he sat up and began to rearrange first her clothes then his own. She watched him try to button her shirt, then laughed and told him, “I’ll do it. You take care of your own business.”

Carly put herself back together and sat, staring at the pale strips of the river that were outlined by the moon’s light. When Ford finished dressing, he held her face in his hands and asked, “What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking I’m glad I wore a skirt …”

They walked back to the house lazily, and once they were back inside, he helped her turn off the lights, lock the doors, and then, without need of discussion, followed her down the hall to her bedroom.

“We lived out one of your fantasies,” she told him as she backed into the room and kicked off her sandals. “Now let’s try one of mine …”