Carson bounced a little with excitement. "Will you frame it?"
"Of course. I'm going to frame all of the pictures in the show." She looked at him. "You forgot to sign it."
"I'll do it now." Carson whipped out his crayon and went to work inscribing his first name in large block letters in the right-hand corner of the picture. "I almost forgot," he added, not looking up from the task, "I promised Dad that if you liked my picture, I'd tell you that it was okay to go out with him."
A stunned hush enveloped the gallery. Nick looked at Octavia. Her veiled expression never flickered, but he saw something that might have been speculation in her eyes. Or was that just his imagination?
Oblivious to the electricity he had just generated, Carson concentrated intently on printing the last letters of his name.
"Sorry about that," Nick muttered.
"No problem," Octavia murmured.
There was another short, extremely uncomfortable silence.
"So?" Octavia said.
He frowned. "So, what?"
"So, are you going to ask me out again?"
"Uh-" He hadn't been caught this far off guard since high school. He felt like an idiot. He could only hope that he was not turning red. Something had changed in the situation, but he was at a loss to know what had happened. Only one way to find out, he thought. "Dinner tonight?"
She hesitated; honest regret showed on her face. He'd seen that look before.
"You're busy, right?" he said without inflection. A cold feeling coalesced in his gut. He couldn't believe she'd set him up like that.
"Well, I did promise Virgil Nash that I'd drive out to the Thurgarton house after I close the gallery this afternoon.
He and Arizona Snow want my opinion on some paintings that they discovered stashed in one of Thurgarton's closets. The thing is, I don't know how long it will take me."
He relaxed. Maybe she hadn't set him up, after all.
"Forever," he said.
"I beg your pardon?"
"It'll take you forever to even find the old Thurgarton place unless Virgil gave you really, really good directions. Thurgarton liked his privacy. There's no sign on the road leading to the turnoff, and the drive is hidden in the trees."
"Oh." Her fine, red-brown brows wrinkled delicately in a small frown. "Virgil gave me a little map."
"Forget it," he said easily. "I'll pick you up after you close the gallery this afternoon and drive you out there. Later we can go to dinner."
"I suppose that might work," she said.
She sounded so damn casual, he thought. As if the decision she had just made weren't staggering in its implications. As if it weren't going to alter destinies and change the fate of nations.
Okay, he could deal with the world shifting in its orbit. What really worried him was the question of why it had done so. After six turn-downs in a row, the Fairy Queen of Eclipse Bay had agreed to go out with him.
Lucky number seven.
Be careful what you wish for.
Chapter 4
The little girl with the glossy brown hair and the big, dark eyes was back.
Octavia was discussing the merits of a charming seascape with a middle-aged tourist couple when she caught sight of the youngster on the sidewalk outside. This was the second time this week that the girl had appeared. On the first occasion she had been accompanied by her mother, a pretty but quietly determined-looking woman who wore the unmistakable cloak of single parenthood. The pair had wandered into the gallery and looked at pictures for a long time. The child had been as absorbed in the works of art as her mother-an unusual event. Most kids found the paintings boring in the extreme.
The woman had greeted Octavia politely and made it plain that she was not there to buy, just to look around. She had clearly been braced for a cool reception, but Octavia had assured her that she was welcome to browse.
The woman and her daughter had moved from picture to picture, talking seriously in low tones about some of them, showing little interest in others. They had been standing in front of a brilliant abstract when the woman had glanced at her watch, frowned in alarm, and hurried out of the gallery with the little girl.
The woman had not returned, but her daughter was here again, standing on the other side of the glass staring at the colorful poster in the window that announced the Children's Art Show.
I'm not going to lose her this time, Octavia thought. "Excuse me," she said to the couple contemplating the purchase of the seascape. "I'll be right back."
She hurried behind the sales counter, reached down, and selected a large box of crayons from a carton that was nearly empty. She took a pad of drawing paper from the dwindling pile.
Crayons and pad in hand, she straightened quickly and looked out the window. The little girl was still there.
Octavia crossed the gallery, opened the front door, and stepped out onto the sidewalk. The child turned, looking a bit startled.
"Hello," Octavia said. "Would you like to enter a picture in the art show?"
The child stared at her. She did not speak. "Every entrant gets a box of crayons and a pad of drawing paper," Octavia explained. "The rule is that the picture has to be on a piece of paper the size of one of these." She flipped through the blank sheets of drawing paper. "When it's ready, bring it back here."
The girl's anxious gaze shifted from Octavia's face to the pad of drawing paper and the crayons. She put her hands behind her back, evidently afraid that she might lose control and reach out to grab the art supplies.
She shook her head very fiercely.
"Anne?"
The woman who had accompanied the girl into the gallery a few days ago rushed out of Seaton's Antiques. Her head swiveled rapidly as she searched the sidewalk in both directions with the slightly frantic look a mother gets when she turns around and realizes her offspring has disappeared.
"Anne, where are you?"
"I'm here, Mom," Anne whispered.
Her mother swung around. Relief flashed across her face. The expression was followed by stern exasperation.
"You must not disappear like that." She walked swiftly toward her daughter. "How many times have I told you not to run off without telling me where you're going? This may not be Seattle, but the same rules apply."
"I was just looking in the window," Anne said in a tiny, barely audible voice. She kept her small hands secured very tightly behind her back. "I didn't touch anything, honest."
Octavia studied the woman coming toward her. Anne's mother appeared to be in her late twenties but if you had only seen her eyes, you would have added twenty years to her age.
"Hello," Octavia said in her best professional tone. "I'm Octavia Brightwell. You were in my gallery the other day."
"I'm Gail Gillingham." Gail smiled hesitantly. "I'm sorry if Anne was bothering you."
"Not in the least," Octavia said cheerfully. "I noticed that she was looking at the poster featuring the Children's Art Show. I thought she might like to participate. I have room for more pictures."
Gail looked down at Anne. "Thank you, but I'm afraid Anne is very shy."
"Who cares?" Octavia looked at Anne. "Lots of artists are shy. I'll tell you what, why don't you take these crayons and the paper home with you? You can draw your picture in private where no one else can watch you at work. When it's ready, just ask your mother to drop it off here at the gallery."
Anne looked at the crayons and the paper as though they were made of some magical, insubstantial substance that might disintegrate if she were to touch them.
Octavia did not say anything more. She just smiled encouragingly and held out the crayons and the paper.
For a long moment, Anne did not move. Then, very slowly she untwisted her arms from behind her back, reached out, and took the supplies from Octavia. Clutching them tightly to her chest, she stepped back and looked at her mother.