Patterns in the Sand (2 page)

 

 

With a nod and a smile to the cat, she lifted up a battered duffel bag, shifted the backpack once more, and walked around to the side of the store.

 

 

A narrow alley ran between Izzy Chambers’ knitting shop and Archie and Harriet Brandley’s Sea Harbor Bookstore. At the end of the alley, beyond the granite rocks that kept the tide at bay, was the ocean. The young woman stopped short, as if paralyzed for a moment, her steps frozen. She stood still, listening to the sound of the night waves lapping against the seawall. Slowly, she breathed in the salty air, closing her eyes against the magnificent emotion. Her heart soared. And for reasons beyond her understanding, she felt that she was home at last.

 

 

When she opened her eyes, the feeling was muted, nearly gone. And for that, the woman said a silent thank-you. She had a task, a purpose. Emotion couldn’t play a useful part in why she had come to this small town, thousands of miles from home.

 

 

She turned her attention back to the shop. In addition to a flight of stairs leading to the second story, there were several windows on the first floor, too high off the alley to reach, and a side door.

 

 

The security lights on the side of the shop lit the alley, and she spotted her access easily. Climbing up several steps, she leaned over and examined a window.

 

 

This was too simple, or maybe one of those moments her mother used to call serendipity. The latch at the top of the window was jammed and didn’t close completely. She wouldn’t even have to break anything. With a few tugs, the latch shifted and the window opened a crack, then wider as Willow’s strong arms pried it up. She picked up the duffel bag from the step and pushed it through the open window, then listened as it hit the floor. The drop wasn’t much, a few feet at most. The backpack was next. With one smooth movement, she swung a jeans-clad leg over the sill, then the other, and slipped easily into the shadowy room.

 

 

The lights from the alley and along the back of the shop outlined a long table, bookcases, chairs, and at one end, a sitting area with a couch and fireplace. She frowned. The sign had said this was the Seaside Knitting Studio. But even in the shadowy light, this room looked more like a cozy family room, a place to kick off shoes and settle in. Settle in and knit, maybe that was it. But she couldn’t settle in. Not yet.

 

 

Faint light coming from the front of the store lit an archway. She picked up her backpack and duffel and walked through it, her Birkenstocks flopping softly on the wooden floor. She saw shadowy racks and cubbyholes filled with yarn and the outline of a checkout desk, then the window beside it, where streetlight poured in and cast long shadows on the wood floor.

 

 

She dropped her belongings to the floor and with a twist of narrow hips, wedged herself behind a display of soft baby hats and into the raised display window. Pushing aside a sign announcing a new shipment of organic cotton, she slid her whole body in beside the piles of yarn. Folding her legs beneath her, she settled in and smiled at the cat. Her heartbeat slowed.

 

 

It was nice not to be alone.

 

 

Purl came into her arms in an instant, as if they were coated with sweet cream. She curled up against the young woman’s worn yellow T-shirt, her purrs loud enough to bring in a security guard, had the shop owners taken the time to hire a new one. But they hadn’t, and Purl shared the warmth of the newcomer’s body in private.

 

 

The woman’s tired body relaxed beneath the comfort of the furry kitten, and in a short while, with Purl still purring against her chest, she curled up in a ball herself, and fell soundly asleep in the shadows of Izzy Chambers’ yarn-filled display window.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 2

 

F
riday nights at 22 Sandswept Lane were predictable. Deliciously predictable.

 

 

The only true surprise, Birdie Favazza liked to say, was the kind of fish that Ben Endicott sizzled on his oversized grill. And that was just jim-dandy with her. Although the silver-haired octogenarian usually loved change, the comfort of Ben’s martinis, a blanket of stars overhead, and the warm company of friends on the Endicott deck were constants she cherished.

 

 

And this Friday night had been no exception.

 

 

“This is my new favorite,” Izzy Chambers declared. She rested her head back against the Adirondack chair and looked up at the dusting of stars across the black sky. Then she closed her eyes and with deep satisfaction sighed into the soft breeze.

 

 

“You say that every week, Iz,” Ben said.

 

 

“And I mean it every week,” Izzy murmured. “Scallops and cucumber sauce—who would have thought? I didn’t even know I liked scallops.”

 

 

“Of course you did, sweetie.” Nell Endicott reached over and patted her niece’s tan knee. “Everyone likes scallops. At least the way we fix them here.”

 

 

“It’s great, Mr. and Mrs. Endicott,” Brendan Slattery agreed. After three helpings, Brendan had finally settled into the chaise with a contented smile on his angular face.

 

 

Nell smiled at the high school art teacher. He was still quiet in their company—a trait that wouldn’t last more than another time or two on the Endicott deck. Although he’d taught for years in Maine, Brendan had just finished his first year teaching in Sea Harbor and didn’t know many people in town. Friday night suppers were the perfect remedy for that, Nell had decided when she insisted he join them.

 

 

Ben picked up a bottle of wine from the makeshift deck bar. “If you’re going to hang around here, Brendan, you’ll have to get used to first names. It’s Ben.”

 

 

“Sure. Ben it will be.” Brendan nodded. “A leftover trait from very old-fashioned parents.”

 

 

“And Nell,” Ben added.

 

 

“And Cass,” Cass said, piping up from the other side of the deck.

 

 

The group laughed. No one ever called Catherine Mary Theresa Halloran anything but Cass, no one except Mary Halloran, of course, who prayed daily that her daughter Catherine would meet a nice young man and have a houseful of babies. And occasionally Birdie Favazza used the baptismal name when admonishing Cass about such things as refusing to rip out a lumpy row on a scarf or not washing her lobster gear thoroughly. But calling her “Ms. Halloran” wouldn’t even get a turn of Cass’ head.

 

 

“Well, no matter what you call Cass, we’re glad you’re here,” Birdie said. “Jane tells me that you’re spending your summer break helping out in some of the galleries.”

 

 

Brendan nodded. “Mostly Billy Sobel’s. But I help the Brewsters and Aidan when they need it.”

 

 

“And he’s invaluable,” Jane said. “Brendan knows a lot about art. We’re happy to have him.”

 

 

“Looks like you’re strategically placed to give us the scoop on those new paintings Billy just acquired.”

 

 

“The James paintings?”

 

 

Nell joined in. “Imagine, finding those paintings all these years after Robert James’ death.”

 

 

“Billy was fortunate to get them,” Rachel Wooten said. “That man has more connections than anyone I know.” An attorney in the county office building, Rachel was an infinite source of information, though she was always discreet in her conversation about things going on in the granite building. Rachel and her husband, Don, were among the handful of lingerers reluctant to leave the comfort of the Endicotts’ deck after enjoying platters of grilled scallops, Nell’s vegetable pasta, and icy martinis made with Ben Endicott’s secret touch.

 

 

“It came at the perfect time for Billy,” Jane Brewster said. “The Sobel Gallery needs a boost. It seems Billy is either riding high and leading the good life or desperately coming up with ways to bolster his bottom line, and right now he’d like to see a little more profit.”

 

 

“I think this new wife of Billy’s might need bigger coffers,” Ham suggested. He stroked his graying beard. “Natalie Sobel likes nice things.”

 

 

The others laughed. Billy Sobel was a colorful character in Canary Cove, the small artists’ community in Sea Harbor. He’d had a number of wives and lady friends, and as Ben, Nell, and their artist friends knew, his financial situation was often directly related to his love life. Or how well he had done in Atlantic City. Or at Foxwoods. His new wife was a powerhouse, and they had all noticed that Billy was marching to a different drummer since Natalie Sobel had entered his life.

 

 

And that wasn’t all bad, Ben had confided to Nell. Natalie liked to spend money, but she kept track of it, too—something Billy wasn’t always so good at.

 

 

“Billy always lands on his feet, though,” Ham Brewster continued. “He’ll be fine.”

 

 

As founders of the Canary Cove art colony, Jane and Ham Brewster were like parents to the artists and gallery owners who called the Sea Harbor neighborhood home, and though the Brewster gallery always did fine, Nell knew that “fine” for Jane and Ham happened only when the entire colony of artists was thriving.

 

 

“What about the Fishtail Gallery, Aidan? Anything new with you?” Nell looked over at Aidan Peabody, his long, lean body stretched out on a deck chair. “If Ben is a barometer, you’re doing fine. He’s brought home three of your carvings this summer.”

 

 

“Ben has excellent taste.” Aidan’s slow smile softened the lines of his face.

 

 

“I find that I can communicate with your art, Peabody,” Ben said. “It speaks to me.”

 

 

The group laughed. Aidan’s imaginative woodcarvings of everything from craggy-faced, life-sized fishermen to sea urchin mirrors always drew a crowd of visitors.

 

 

“He won’t sell me the mermaid, though,” Ben said. “And I have fallen head over heels in love with her.” The small wooden carving of a mermaid sat next to a vase of flowers on the desk in Aidan’s studio. And no matter how many times Ben suggested he take her home to live a lifestyle more suitable to her charm and beauty, Aidan refused to part with her.

 

 

Nell looked over at Ben. When she smiled, the deck lights reflected off her cheekbones and the lines in her face disappeared. She was twenty-five again, and in love with her college suitor all over again. “I’m only a bit jealous, Aidan,” she said, her eyes on Ben.

 

 

Aidan rested his head back against the chair and tilted it toward Nell. “And you’ve no need to be, lovely Nell. I have my mermaid . . . and Ben has his.” Aidan took a drink of wine and his eyes half closed. He breathed deeply, his chest rising and falling. “I don’t quite know what I’d do without this Friday time on your deck. There’s magic in whatever you two do for us.”

 

 

“The magic is probably in Ben’s martinis. But you do look like you need a break tonight.” Nell pulled her chair closer to Aidan’s chaise while others moved off to refresh drinks and reload the CD player. She’d noticed how quiet Aidan had been for most of the evening. He’d arrived late, and then had spent most of the evening nursing a martini or talking quietly with Ben.

 

 

Jane caught the end of the conversation and turned her chair toward Nell and Aidan. “I’ve noticed the same thing. What’s up?” She looked over at her husband and motioned him over. “Ham mentioned it, too. Not that we want to butt in, but if we can help . . .”

 

 

Aidan took another drink of wine and set the glass down on the table beside the chaise. “Don’t worry about me, my friends. Life is good.”

 

 

“I hear you and Billy Sobel seem to be at each other’s throats,” Ham said. “What’s that about? He claims you’re interfering just a tad too much in his business—that being chair of the arts council has gone to your head. Any truth to that?”

 

 

“Nah. Billy will be fine. We’re working something out between us. He’ll see it my way soon.” Aidan looked up at Ham with a crooked smile. “You know I’m always right, don’t you?”

 

 

“You’re being cryptic, not right. And you’re usually more outspoken when it comes to colony affairs. . . .” Jane swirled the wine around in her glass, her eyes on Aidan.

 

 

Aidan rolled his head on the pillow and looked over at Nell. “What our good friend Jane is really saying is that I am way too outspoken concerning Canary Cove affairs.”

 

 

“I wouldn’t say outspoken—” Jane began.

 

 

“Oh, sure she would,” Ham interrupted. “You can be a real SOB, Aidan. But you keep people on their toes. And that’s not all bad. Those art council meetings were mighty dull until you took your turn as chair. Watching you and Billy go at each other is almost as exciting as a Patriots play-off game.”

 

 

“Thanks, buddy,” Aidan said, sitting up in the chaise and swinging his long legs to the side. “SOB may be the nicest thing I’ve heard all week. But, hey, it is what it is. We all have our opinions on the best way to take care of our little neighborhood of shops.” He forced a laugh. “Let’s just hope Billy doesn’t bring his buddies from Jersey to lean on me.”

 

 

They all laughed. Billy Sobel owned a gallery in New Jersey as well as one in Sea Harbor, and he represented dozens of artists’ work. Rumors were always spinning around the cove about some of the more colorful—and shady—aspects of his life. Nell remembered when he first came to Canary Cove and the joke around town was that a
Soprano
had settled in
Canary
Cove—and could the two fly together? But Nell knew Billy to be generous—and even gentle under the tough exterior and gravely voice.

 

 

“Speaking of opinions,” Jane said, “D. J. Delaney seems to have taken quite an interest in our artists’ neighborhood of late.”