On Sunset Beach: The Chesapeake Diaries Page 24

  He could protest all he wanted, but it was pretty clear to Carly that he was adapting to his reporter gig much better than he admitted. He seemed more comfortable with each of their meetings, not only with her, but with his role. Maybe he’d never accept that the St. Dennis Gazette was a good fit for him, which would be a shame, because he sure didn’t seem comfortable with the role he’d been playing these past few years, but it wasn’t her place to point that out to him since their relationship was so vague and undefined.

  Not that she wanted to put a label on it, of course, she reminded herself quickly. And yet last night … last night …

  She sighed and took a sip of coffee, which had grown cold while she played back most of the evening in her mind. The glint of approval in his eyes when she opened the door. The sweet way he’d held her hand while they walked to Lola’s. The look on his face when they talked over dinner, as if he listened to every word and cared about what she was saying.

  That interest in her—that ability he had to make her feel like what she had to say mattered—was something she’d been missing in her last two relationships. She’d always made a point to care about what other people said and felt and wanted—but she’d rarely found the favor returned when it came time to talk about her goals, her galleries, her wants. Especially with Todd. Todd, who became so enamored of his own success that after a while, he couldn’t talk about anything else. She’d actually been relieved when he told her he’d found someone else. Two years of her life down the tubes with that one, and she’d been glad to wave good-bye.

  Well, that’s how it went with relationships sometimes, she thought. You pay your money and you take your chances, as her grandmother used to say. There just weren’t any guarantees. Carly knew that, but why was it so hard to find the right one? And why had the one who seemed like the one turned out to be a dud, and why did you have to invest two years of your life before you realized that he wasn’t the one after all?

  She was still pondering these weighty matters when Ellie called.

  “What are you doing?” Ellie asked.

  “Staring at the mess on my dining room table and wondering why it’s so hard for me to toss out all my notes.”

  “How ’bout we get together for pancakes?”

  “What, you’re making pancakes? Seriously? You’re going to cook?”

  “Well, no. Actually, Gabi and I were hoping you were. Cam’s sailing this morning, so we thought it was a good time for a girls’ breakfast.”

  Carly laughed. “Sure. Come on over and we’ll christen my frying pan. Bring eggs. Oh, and maple syrup.”

  “You got it. See you in fifteen.”

  So, there goes the morning, Carly mused, and headed toward the bedroom to change, then back into the kitchen, where she made a second cup of coffee and began to get out the ingredients she needed for pancakes. Despite the fact that her family had always had a cook, she had learned early on that she had a talent for cooking. Ellie—not so much, although her family also had had the luxury of wealth and a professional cook.

  “We’re here, Carly!” Gabi announced from the side door.

  “Come on in.” Carly had just finished setting the table for three. “Oh, you brought Dune! Hi, pup!” Carly knelt to pet the little dog, who gleefully danced around her feet.

  “We picked up blueberries.” Ellie held up a bag. “And syrup.”

  “Thanks. You can put it all right on the counter.” Carly stood.

  “Your house is so cute, Carly.” Gabi wandered into the living room. “What’s upstairs?”

  “Two rooms and a bath. You can go look, if you’d like,” Carly told her, and the teenager took off up the steps, the dog at her heels.

  “I hope you don’t mind that we brought Dune,” Ellie said. “As soon as she heard your name, she went right to the door, wagging her tail. Gabi swears she understood ‘Carly,’ ‘pancakes,’ and ‘girls’ breakfast,’ and she assumed she was included.”

  “Of course I don’t mind. If I could, I’d have a dog.”

  “Why can’t you have a dog, Carly?” Gabi came back down the steps and into the kitchen.

  “Because I don’t have time to take care of one when I’m home. I travel a lot, I’m gone sometimes days at a time.”

  “You could leave it with us. We could take care of it when you go away.”

  “That would be a pain, driving the dog from Connecticut to St. Dennis every time I had a trip,” Carly told her.

  “Oh. I thought this was your house. That you were living here.” Gabi frowned.

  “Only till the exhibit is over, honey. Then I’ll go back to my old life.”

  “I like this life better,” Gabi said. “I like it when you’re here.”

  “I like being here,” Carly admitted.

  “I love your little house.” Gabi went to the back door. “Oh, your yard is fenced in. Can Dune and I go out and look around?”

  “Of course.”

  Gabi opened the door and Dune shot out. “Hey, wait for me …”

  “Make sure you clean up after her if she makes a mess,” Ellie called to her sister as the girl ran out after the dog.

  “Is there something I can do?” Ellie asked.

  “No, I’m good, thanks.” Carly rinsed the berries and set them aside to drain while she made the batter.

  “So how’s the book?”

  “Done and on its way to being formatted. It actually came together quite nicely.”

  “Why do you sound surprised?”

  “Because I’ve never written a book before.”

  “You’ve been writing about art and artists for years, Car.”

  “But not a book. I wanted to do Carolina justice.”

  “So do you have a copy of it that I could read?”

  “Help yourself. She’s your great-great-grandmother. See what you think. It’s that stack of papers on the left side of the dining room table.”

  Ellie left the room and Carly began making pancakes, pouring the batter into the hot pan and watching for just the right moment to flip them over.

  Ellie came into the room holding Ford’s jacket. “Whose jacket is this?”

  Carly turned to look. “Oh. That.” She turned back to the frying pan. “That’s Ford’s.”

  “Ford was here? Wearing a nice sport jacket?” Ellie grinned. “A nice sport jacket that he apparently then removed?”

  “We went to dinner last night.”

  “Do tell.” Ellie leaned against the doorway.

  “Not much to tell. We went to Lola’s. Have you had their scallops? They’re—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ve had the scallops. I don’t care what you ate. I want to know about your date and why you didn’t tell me you were going out with him.”

  “I meant to as soon as I had an opportunity.”

  Ellie took her phone from her bag and held it up. “Hello? Phone? Text? Email?”

  “Okay, I know. I should have called but I’ve been so immersed in trying to get the gallery ready to open. We finally got the HVAC straightened out, and the interior drywalled and painted …”

  Ellie wiggled her left hand so Carly could see the ring on her third finger. “Engaged to the contractor, so you can skip all that. Go straight to the good stuff.”

  “Oh. The good stuff.” Carly nodded. “That was pretty good.”

  “Hold that thought.” Ellie returned the jacket to the dining room and was back in the kitchen in a blink.

  “Spill.”

  Carly leaned against the counter, spatula in hand.

  “Best date I’ve had in … damn, I can’t remember when. The night was beautiful, the restaurant was beautiful, the food was perfect.” She sighed.

  “What did you wear?” Ellie leaned forward and rested her arms on the table.

  “Only the most perfect dress I ever owned. I got it at Bling on Friday.”

  “Vanessa has the most uncanny knack for picking out the most fabulous things, but we digress.” Ellie gestured for Carly to get on
with it.

  “So we walked down to the Bay after dinner, and we talked. We talked a lot, did I mention it?”

  “No, you did not.” Ellie made a face. “I hope that’s not the ‘good stuff’ you were referring to.”

  Carly laughed. “Well, it was really nice to talk to a guy who listened, who conversed.”

  “That’s important, of course it is, but right now what I’m interested in is what came after all the chatting.”

  “Best kisser on the planet. Hands down,” Carly told her solemnly.

  “Do tell.”

  “I hated to see him leave.”

  “Wait, he left?”

  “Yes. Things were starting to get a little heated, and I guess we both thought it wasn’t the right time to let them get out of hand.”

  “So, will there be a right time?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that. I don’t want to get in over my head with him if it’s just the grown-up equivalent of a summer fling. But you know, I’ve had this feeling about him since the first time I met him.”

  “How do you think he feels about you?”

  “I don’t think he knows what he wants or where he wants to be.” She thought for a moment, then added, “And then there’s me. I travel so much. I have businesses everywhere but here, or so it seems. I’m only in St. Dennis temporarily, remember.”

  “On loan, as it were.”

  “More or less.”

  “I think he’s sort of temporary, too.”

  Gabi came through the back door, Dune in hot pursuit. She stared in horror at the stove.

  “Are you trying to burn the pancakes?” She pointed to the pan. “ ’Cause if you are …”

  “Oh, crap.” Carly turned off the flame. “I forgot.”

  She dumped the burned pancakes into the trash and started over.

  “Sorry, sweetie. We started talking and I forgot what I was doing.”

  “That’s okay. Can I watch your TV?” Gabi asked.

  “Sure. I’ll call you when the pancakes are ready, and this time, I promise to pay attention.” Carly made the cross-your-heart sign on her chest.

  “Cool.” Gabi headed toward the living room. “Maybe I can catch the last few minutes of Meet the Press.”

  “Our budding pundit.” Ellie rolled her eyes. “She starts every day with Morning Joe and ends it with Jon Stewart.”

  “She’s a smart girl. She likes to be well informed.”

  Carly added blueberries to the mixture and poured batter into the pan. This time she positioned herself next to the stove.

  “Don’t distract me,” she warned Ellie. “I don’t have any more milk.”

  “I will say nothing more than this: If you really like him, and it appears to me that you do, and you feel that he cares about you just as much, you need to decide whether or not to go for it.” When it appeared Carly was about to reply, Ellie held up a hand to stop her. “You’re overthinking things. You need to stop it and go with your gut.”

  “What if my gut is wrong?”

  “What’s the worst that can happen?”

  When Carly didn’t respond, Ellie said, “Everything else—where you live, where he lives—all that stuff can be worked out. That can all change. But how you feel inside—that’s not going to change no matter where you are. So.” Ellie smiled brightly. “Do we get to eat now?”

  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 h
adn’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?”