Heron's Landing. JoAnn Ross

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      Another furrow etched its way between her eyes. “You work too hard.”

      “When you love what you do, it’s not work.” Terrific. Now he was talking like that motivational desk calendar his insurance agent had sent him at Christmas.

      “Yet it’s necessary to have downtime,” she scolded him gently. “Silence is important. We need it to connect with our inner selves. Which then allows us to make sense of the disturbances surrounding us.”

      Seth had many words he could use to describe Zoe’s murder. Disturbance didn’t come close.

      “You used to like to sail. And hike. Fish. Go over to the coast. Or the park.”

      He used to like to do a lot of things. Some of those with the Mannion brothers. Others with Zoe. The first time he’d touched her bare breasts had been one sunny summer afternoon he’d dropped his boat’s anchor in a hidden cove rumored to have once been a pirate hangout. Two years later, they’d returned to that same cove and lost their virginity beneath a huge white moon.

      But that was then and this was now and rebuilding other people’s houses was what was left of what had once been his life. Which was working for him just fine.

      “I still make it up to the park.” Which he did every weekend, but she didn’t need to know why.

      “Good.” She patted his cheek. “Because I worry.”

      “You don’t have to.”

      “Which shows how much you know. Mothers are genetically programmed to worry.”

      Seemingly unaware she’d sent a dagger straight to her heart as he thought about that nursery Zoe had designed waiting behind the closed door for a baby that would never come, she reached down and retrieved a gift-wrapped package. “I brought you a present.”

      “It’s not my birthday.”

      “Well, of course not. I’m not so old and senile that I’d ever forget that day I took part in a miracle. This is a ‘just because’ gift.” Her smile wavered, giving him the feeling that she might be concerned about how he felt about whatever it was.

      He untied the cord, sliced the tape and gingerly pulled back the brown kraft paper. “Wow. This is nice.” A huge whoosh of cooling relief came over him as he looked down at a misty painting of the Olympic rainforest that suggested at any moment fairies would come out from behind the moss-draped trees and begin dancing in a magic circle. It was, to his admittedly untrained eye, really, really good.

      “It’s my first watercolor,” she said. “I’ve been taking Michael’s classes.”

      Along with his real estate investments, and his own painting, Mike Mannion taught various art classes, charging only for the supplies. Seth’s father, unsurprisingly, claimed it was a ruse to meet women. Given that the artist had inherited the Mannion men’s black Irish looks, Seth was pretty sure he wouldn’t need to go to that much trouble to attract a woman. But why did the woman in question have to be his mom?

      “Your mother’s got a natural talent,” Mike said.

      “I don’t know about that,” she said, patting her newly streaked blond hair in a way that was as close as Seth had ever seen her come to preening. It also called his unwilling attention to the gold wedding band on her left hand. At least she hadn’t taken it off. Yet. That was something, right? “It’s more that Mike is a marvelously patient teacher. And so inspirational.”

      “I keep telling Caroline that she needs to overcome all that Southern belle breeding to work on her artistic arrogance,” Mike said on a hearty laugh. “She is, hands down, the best student I’ve ever taught. I’m trying to talk her into exhibiting at the annual boat festival for Harbor Days.”

      “I’m certainly not at that level,” she protested.

      “There she goes again. Underestimating herself.” The artist/entrepreneur shook his head. “That’s something we’re going to have to work on.”

      As they smiled across the table at each other, getting lost in each other’s eyes—oh, hell—they could have been two teenagers in the throes of first love. Seth had no problem remembering that morning Zoe had walked into middle school class, their eyes had met and, at thirteen, he’d fallen like a stone rolling down Mount Olympus.

      “Well, not that you asked me, but if Mike thinks you’ll be ready to take part in the exhibition, I think you should go for it,” Seth said. “As for your natural talent, you did, after all, attend the South Carolina School of Art and Design.”

      “Only for two years. And I was studying fabric design, not painting, before I dropped out.”

      To marry his father. No way was Seth going to go there. “Their loss. And you’ve always drawn the architectural renderings of the company’s projects.” Not just to promote the company on its website, but to give clients an idea of how their buildings would turn out.

      “Those are only illustrations.”

      “Only snobs draw a strict line between fine art and illustration,” Mike said. “Both forms need the same elements: successful lighting, color and composition. And while the argument will probably rage forever, because everyone’s definition of art is a personal one, if art is about communicating a message, then illustration is definitely fine art.”

      They were getting over his head, but there was one thing Seth did know. “Blueprints don’t tell anyone who can’t envision them in three dimensions anything. But when clients see your illustrations, with the interiors, exteriors, even landscaping, they can imagine themselves living there. They see themselves on that porch swing, or playing with their children in the backyard. Or having summer dinners on the deck or patio. You bring the blueprints alive and allow them to keep the faith during all the hectic months of construction, which can be depressing for even the most optimistic buyer.”

      All the years he’d been growing up, she’d carried around a sketchbook in her oversize purse so she could draw scenic sites around the peninsula. When had she stopped doing that?

      “Your son,” Mike said, “just made my point. You’re definitely an artist.”

      “My son is prejudiced.”

      “Probably so. But that doesn’t mean he also isn’t right.”

      “And hey,” Seth said, “when you’re a famous watercolor artist, I’ll be able to boast that your very first painting is hanging on my wall.”

      Caroline laughed, then opened her menu—which, natch, boldly proclaimed to be printed on recycled paper—and began pointing out items that he’d enjoy. She’d always been a warm and caring person. But this laughing, happy New Age druid earth mother sitting across the wooden table reminded him of a bright butterfly newly emerged from a chrysalis.

      Michael Mannion was a long way from a starving artist. Although Seth wasn’t into Honeymoon Harbor’s art scene, he knew Michael’s work must sell well enough to allow him to spend years traveling the world. And now he’d returned home to buy another of the abandoned warehouses rebuilt by one of Seth’s ancestors after the fire. Unlike the pub’s bricks, it had been built with rocks that had originally СКАЧАТЬ