“How generous of her to give away her work. Family and friends, I’m assuming?”
“Well, yes, but I also think she didn’t want her husband to know exactly how many works she was producing. He didn’t approve of her painting, thought it was beneath the wife of a bank officer to take money for her little hobby.”
“The bastard.”
“Exactly.”
“So you’re going to be setting up this exhibit in St. Dennis. Preparing for the big reveal, as it were. Something splashy, well publicized and well attended, and very posh.”
Carly nodded. “Which means I’m going to be spending a great deal of time there. I’m going to need you to be totally in charge here.” She hastily added, “Not that you aren’t.”
“I understand completely. Your energies are going to be focused elsewhere. Not to worry,” he assured her. “I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t. And I’ll be available twenty-four/seven. Phone, email—”
“Skype. I love Skype.”
Carly laughed. “Anytime. We already have several showings on the schedule, so we’re set for a while. I can come back for the openings of the new exhibits here. Otherwise …”
“Otherwise, I’m in charge.”
“You are in charge, Enrico.”
“So then there are only two things left to discuss.” Enrico sat back in his chair and smiled confidently. “My raise, and whether or not I get to come to your grand opening.”
Chapter 9 
IT had cost Carly an extra day, but making the trip to Boston had been worth it. It had been several months since she and her managing partner, Helena Ramsey, had had time to sit and talk. Lately, it seemed Carly had done little more than make appearances to confer about upcoming exhibits and discuss staffing issues. She’d advised Helena ahead of time to block off a few hours to go over their projected exhibit schedule for the next six months, and to bring her up-to-date on anything she felt Carly should know, however small or petty it might seem.
Helena did small and petty very well. By the time their meeting ended, Carly knew more than she really wanted to know about their staff and several of their artists, but she did have a better feel for the gallery when she left on Friday night. Where the New York gallery was all Carly, Boston was more like 70 percent Helena and 30 percent Carly, who’d bought into it when she decided to expand her horizons. She’d met Helena on a buying trip three years ago, and they’d hit it off well enough that Carly agreed to provide some financial backing when Helena expressed an interest in buying some South End gallery space on Harrison Street before the subtle shifting of the Back Bay art scene from Newbury Street had begun. The artists who exhibited at Ramsey-Summit were younger, hipper, more avant-garde than those whose works hung in the New York gallery, which suited Carly just fine. Helena was the one who had the Midas touch when it came to New England’s contemporary artists, and Carly was just as happy to let her run that show.
Satisfied that the Boston gallery was in the very best of hands and would not suffer from Carly’s lack of attention over the next several months—she thought optimistically that perhaps two might be all she’d need in St. Dennis—Carly returned to her parents’ home and carefully finished packing the paintings she’d spent the last three nights wrapping securely. On Sunday morning, she loaded up her car with her belongings and headed south. For a moment or two, she’d questioned whether or not traveling alone on I-95 with a small fortune in artworks had been a smart idea, but her course had already been set. She breathed easier once she’d gone over the Delaware Memorial Bridge. She took Route 213 all the way to Route 50, and from there it was an easy drop to her destination. The thought of driving through all those pretty Eastern Shore towns along the way—Chesapeake City and Chestertown, Centreville and Wye Mills—had given her spirits a lift. As much as she loved the hustle and bustle of New York, she loved the ease of those small towns just as much. There was something soothing about stopping for lunch in a waterfront eatery, like the lovely place on the Chester River where she’d watched sailboats drift past on their way to the Chesapeake while she ate a fabulous crab salad. This time around, she’d skipped that stop. Best to drive straight through and deliver her cargo of paintings to their destination, which for now, once again, was Ellie’s attic.
She was famished by the time she arrived at Ellie’s house on Bay View Drive, and was disappointed to find no cars in the driveway and no one at home, not even Dune, the little dog Ellie had found on the beach the year before and had adopted. Had Ellie not gotten Carly’s voice mail? Carly sat on the steps of the front porch and dialed Ellie’s cell.
“Hey, where is everyone?” she asked when Ellie answered.
“Gabi has a tennis match,” Ellie replied. “I thought we’d be home by the time you got here, but she won her first match and now we’re sitting through the second.” Ellie lowered her voice. “Right now I’m supposed to be with Cam, finishing up a kitchen for Hal Garrity. His renters are arriving tomorrow, and we still have a few more hours of work to complete. I told Cam I’d be there by two, and it’s past that already and he’s called twice. But I can’t just walk out on Gabi.”
“Where are you?”
“At the courts at Sinclair’s Inn.”
“How ’bout I come over and stay with Gabi and you go on and finish what you have to do.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t mind?”
“Of course I’m sure. But the thing is, I have all the paintings in the back of the car. I’m not so sure I want to leave them there in the inn’s parking lot. Not that I’m looking for trouble, but you never know.”
“There’s a house key taped to the bottom of the gnome on the back porch. Leave the paintings in the house and come on over. I’ll wait for you.”
“Okay. See you soon.”
“Really? Under the gnome?” Carly muttered as she retrieved the key. “ ’Cause no one would ever think to look there.”
Key in hand, she proceeded to empty the car, carrying the paintings two at a time into the house and up the steps to the third floor, where she stood them against the wall. By the time she was finished, the packages completely lined the attic’s perimeter, and several more were propped up against a trunk that sat near the top of the steps. Carly ran downstairs, pausing only long enough to grab a bottle of chilled water from the refrigerator. Locking the front door behind her, she got back into the SUV and headed for the inn.
Once again, the inn’s parking lot was filled with cars. Carly had to park in the farthest corner, then walked to the end of the lot to look for the tennis courts. Spotted on the other side of a fenced-in playground, the courts were reached by following a path of crushed shells. Ellie was seated on one of a number of folding chairs to the right of the court on which Gabi lobbed the ball back and forth with a girl who appeared several years older. Not wanting to distract Gabi, Carly took the long way around to the seating area.
“Hey, she’s looking really good,” she whispered in Ellie’s ear.
At the sound of Carly’s voice, Dune sprang up from under Ellie’s chair and into Carly’s arms.
“She’s great. Way better than I have ever been.” Ellie turned in her seat and handed the dog’s leash to Carly. She stood so they could switch places, and when Carly was seated in the chair Ellie had occupied, the dog jumped into her lap. “Can you keep Dune with you? That way I can go right over to the job.”