And in his experience, hadn’t it?
Had he always been the cynic that Carly had called him out to be? He couldn’t remember.
Maybe it had started on his fourteenth birthday, when he and his dad had planned a trip to Smith Island in his uncle’s skipjack. He’d been promised a Smith Island cake—thirteen microlayers of amazingness—but a storm had been brewing and the wind had been judged too much for a sail, so the trip was postponed for the following week. But Dan had come home from college to recover from a kick to the head he’d gotten in a soccer game, and it wouldn’t have seemed right to have gone off without him. So they looked to the next week, but his dad had gotten sick, and that had pretty much taken care of the trip to Smith Island.
If he were to be honest with himself—and he was trying to be—he’d admit that to have your entire life’s view colored by something that happened when you were a kid wasn’t real mature.
More likely, it started on the day he’d watched helplessly as Anna and three others were shot and left to die by a band of rebels led by a man who was now coming dangerously close to overthrowing the legitimate government. Seeing the woman you once loved shot in the back will go a long way to play with your head. Somehow, Ford knew, he was going to have to move past that. Not forget—he’d never forget—but move past. Ford was pretty sure that wasn’t going to happen as long as Raymond Nakimbe still was free to murder and spread his evil brand of terror among the very people he wanted to govern.
Ford had a feeling that if he wanted any kind of relationship with Carly—even one of friendship, which was probably not his first choice after kissing her last night—he was going to have to let in a little more light to push out some of the darkness. And he knew he was going to kiss her again, at the very next opportunity. He’d been about to kiss her when she’d kissed him, taking him totally by surprise. It had been a pleasant surprise, but a surprise all the same. He was used to being the pursuer, but he was all right with the way things worked out.
It had been a long time since he’d kissed someone for real. Oh, he’d kissed women after Anna, but his heart hadn’t always been in it. Last night, his heart had been there, all the way, and he supposed that simple fact was what had him in a turmoil today. He’d come to St. Dennis looking for some time with his family, a time to heal a little maybe, a time to get reacquainted with himself, nothing more. The last thing he’d expected to find there was a woman who carried so much light within her, she lit up a room when she entered.
None of his attempts at rationalizing could explain the effect that light had on him. He only knew it was true, and that light had touched him, and he was unable to look away. Where it was going to lead was anyone’s guess.
Chapter 17 
CARLY had barely gotten to the carriage house on Friday morning for her appointment with Tony Rosetti when she heard a firm rap on the door a mere second before it opened.
“Miss Summit?” A tall, somewhat gangly woman somewhere between fifty and seventy stood in the doorway, a large leather portfolio in her left hand.
“Yes, I’m Carly Summit.” She inwardly groaned. Somehow she knew what was coming.
“I’m Hazel Stevens. I was told I’d find you here.” The woman walked into the room, leaving the door to bang shut behind her. “Ed Lassiter’s wife told me I could bring my paintings down here for you to look at and you’d hang ’em in the great hall over there in the mansion.”
The entire time she was talking, Hazel was taking in the carriage house from the roof to the floor. She appeared unimpressed.
“Yes, we are looking for some works by local artists for the exhibit, yes,” Carly told her. “There will be a piece in the Gazette this week inviting people to bring there work down for me to—”
“I heard all that from Shelly—Ed’s wife—but I thought, why wait and take the chance that all the spots will be filled up?” She looked around for a flat surface and, finding none, moved two sawhorses close together and laid the portfolio open across them. “Now, I don’t know how many of these you’re going to want, but I know you’ll want at least three of them.”
She held up the first one, then another, then a third watercolor painting of—Grace had called it correctly—cats. Carly had nothing against cats. She liked cats. Hazel’s cats were scary, with large yellow eyes that leaped off the paper.
“Ah …” Carly searched for something to say, but no words came out.
“You’re speechless, right?” Hazel beamed. “I knew it. I knew you weren’t expecting to find talent like this in St. Dennis.”
Carly cleared her throat and took each painting in turn in her hands and held it up as if studying it critically.
“That’s Bitsy, that one there with the black face,” Hazel pointed out. “She’s my baby doll.”
Bitsy was perhaps the scariest of all. Surely the cat herself was a sweet animal. It was her owner’s portrayal that was eerie. Carly put the painting back on the open portfolio and turned the same critical eye onto the next one.
“Now this would be …?”
“Fancy Nancy. I called her that because I always thought calicos looked like they were all dressed up in fancy clothes.”
“I see. Yes.” Carly nodded. “I can see where you’d think that.”
Fancy Nancy was less scary than Bitsy but not by much. It was a shame Hazel wasn’t more of an artist, Carly thought. Her cats were probably very beautiful.
“Tiger, Tiger, Burning Bright,” Hazel said.
“Excuse me?”
“That’s the tiger cat in that last picture. That’s her name.”
“Oh. Of course. I get it.” No, she didn’t really. “Do you mind if I look at whatever else you have in your portfolio?”
“Oh, help yourself.” Hazel reached for her painting of her tiger cat and watched over Carly’s shoulder as the contents of the folder were viewed. She ran a commentary the entire time. “That there’s Milton, and that next one, Sherlock …”
“How many cats do you have?” Carly couldn’t help but ask.
“Oh, only the three right now, the first three I showed you. These others, they’ve all gone over the Rainbow Bridge.”
“The Rainbow Bridge?” Carly asked.
“Kitty heaven,” Hazel whispered.
“Oh. I’m sorry for your loss.” Carly corrected herself. “Losses.”
“Thank you, dear.” While Carly looked through the rest of the paintings, Hazel chatted away.
“You know, when we heard that the town was bringing in some New York art dealer to show our paintings and run our exhibit, well, we all thought for sure you’d be some stuck-up art snob. But Grace Sinclair said you were lovely, and she was right. You’re a very nice young woman.”
“Well, thank you, Hazel.” Carly went back and forth between several of the paintings, trying to decide which one was least likely to frighten small children. “You know, your work is very … unique, Hazel. I can honestly say I’ve never seen anything quite like it. But space in the mansion is very limited, and I did want to save what space we have there for living artists from St. Dennis, so you’d certainly qualify. But in all fairness to others who might want to bring in works for the show, I really can only accept one painting from each artist. I’m sure you understand.”