After Caroline (15 page)

“I’m glad you like it, Joanna.” He was absently cleaning a couple of brushes with a paint-spattered rag as they talked.

She heard a slight note of constraint in his voice and thought it probably made him uncomfortable to hear his work talked about. According to what little she had read about him, Cain Barlow was one of those rare, amazingly gifted artists who painted to satisfy a creative demon inside him; he didn’t care about commercial success beyond being
able to earn enough to live on, and it was said that art critics respected him for not giving a damn about their opinions.

Or anyone else’s, probably.

Joanna took her gaze off the painting and looked at him, reminding herself that one of his paintings had appeared in the dream that had brought her here. So, what did he have to do with Caroline?

“Now you’re staring,” he said, a little amused.

“Sorry. Something just occurred to me. The painting at the wicker store … is the little girl Regan?”

“You’ve met her?”

“Briefly, the other day. Shook up both of us. Is it her in the painting?”

“She didn’t pose for it,” Cain replied. “But she gave me the idea when I saw her in a field one day. She was picking flowers for her mother.”

“I guess you knew Caroline.”

“Everyone did. Surely you’ve realized that by now.” He began putting away his brushes in a case, his movements methodical and unhurried. “It’s not only a small town, but Caroline could trace her roots to its beginning. That still counts for something in a place like this.”

Joanna nodded slowly. “I got that feeling. But, you know, it’s funny, a lot of the people I’ve talked to said that they didn’t really know her. Was she as shy as all that?”

“Shy? No. I’d call it repressed. She married right out of high school, and beyond being allowed to mother Regan however it suited her, I doubt she was given many choices in her life.”

Joanna was more than a little startled, both by his words and by a note of definite anger in his voice. Did it come from a purely benevolent interest in a woman who had touched something in him? Or had Cain Barlow known Caroline McKenna much better than the gossips in Cliffside had realized?

Before she could even begin to frame some kind of question, an interruption presented itself in the form of Amber
Wade, who came down the path from The Inn wearing her usual very short shorts and very high heels and swaying on the latter probably more than even she intended due to the uneven trail.

“Oh,” she said when she reached them, an uneasy and unfriendly glance at Joanna followed immediately by a glowing smile at Cain. “I thought you’d be alone, Cain.”

“Joanna stopped by for a visit,” he said casually. “Have you two met?”

“Not officially,” Joanna said. “But we’re both staying at The Inn. Hi, Amber.”

“Hello. I’ve seen you around.” Amber looked at Cain’s painting. “Oh, how pretty,” she said.

“Thanks,” said Cain with a faint smile.

“I wish you’d paint me. Oh, Cain, why won’t you?”

It occurred to Joanna that Amber said “oh” so often because the syllable pursed her lips as though she were ready to be kissed. It also occurred to her that Cain was being hotly pursued by a young lady with all the subtlety of a flamethrower.

Lightly, he told Amber, “I never paint anyone between the ages of thirteen and twenty.”

She looked confused. “Why not?”

“The growing years. Never the same from one day to the next—and it’s a hopeless task to try and get that on canvas.”

Amber was too young to be able to hide anything, including disappointment and a lack of comprehension. “Oh. But—”

“Why don’t I walk you ladies back to the hotel?” he suggested. “It’s getting late, and I’m supposed to meet Holly there anyway.”

Joanna thought about saying she wanted to walk farther up the coast before going back, but a quick glance from his vivid green eyes told her that Cain was asking for her help. Glad that she herself had survived being eighteen, she murmured that she’d be glad of the company and watched Amber fume silently.

“Give me five minutes to put this stuff away,” he told them.

“Need a hand?” Joanna asked.

“No, thanks, I’ve got it.” And he did, vanishing into his cottage with the painting in one hand and his easel and equipment in the other.

“He and Holly make a nice couple, don’t you think?” Joanna asked the younger girl, mildly curious as to whether Amber knew of the relationship.

“She doesn’t appreciate him,” Amber replied instantly.

“No?”

“No. She’s always busy and—and she frowns at him a lot.”

Joanna didn’t bother to remark that if Amber had seen those frowns, it was doubtless because she herself had been hanging around Cain—and probably too close for Holly’s comfort. Instead, she merely said, “Well, outsiders never really understand relationships between a man and woman, do they?”

“I’m very perceptive,” Amber told Joanna. “Psychic, even.”

Joanna kept her expression grave. “I see. And you think Cain needs a … change of girlfriend?”

Amber actually went red, and Joanna couldn’t tell whether it was because Amber had honestly believed her crush had gone unnoticed by others or because she didn’t expect Joanna to be so blunt. “I,” she said, chin lifting high, “would support and appreciate his artism!”

It was getting more difficult to keep a serious face, but Joanna tried, resisting the temptation to tell Amber that unless she believed Cain to be autistic and she meant to support and appreciate that, the word she probably wanted was “artistry.” Or just “art,” maybe.

Cain came back out of the cottage about then, sparing Joanna the need to come up with some kind of response, and the three of them started back up the path toward the hotel. The path was really too narrow for all of them to walk abreast, but Amber stuck close to Cain’s right side,
and since he directed most of his conversation to Joanna, she had to walk fairly close on his left.

At no time was he even slightly rude or condescending toward Amber, yet he managed to subtly demonstrate to the girl that she was out of her depth with both him and Joanna by launching a rather lively discussion on the current state of American politics. He and Joanna disagreed on a few points, which led to some spirited debate, and by the time they reached the hotel lobby, Amber wore an expression somewhere between stricken and frustrated.

“See you later, Amber,” Cain said, polite but unmistakably indifferent. “Joanna, how you can say that new bill is even remotely necessary—”

“Bye, Amber. Well, of course it’s necessary, Cain. The states can’t agree how to handle it, there must be a million different laws and all of them confusing. Without some kind of accord on the issue, we’re just going to have more of these ridiculous court cases dragging on for years ….” Joanna looked past him and added dryly, “She’s gone.”

He sighed. “I hated to do that. Holly says hearts break easily at eighteen.”

“They do,” Joanna agreed. “But rarely into a million pieces, and they tend to heal as easily as they break. God, she’s so
young”

“Even for eighteen, I know. Thanks, Joanna. That’s the second time the kid’s turned up at my place. The first time I was inside and just didn’t answer the door when she knocked.”

Joanna couldn’t help but smile. “I was glad to help. How much longer are she and her parents staying here, do you know?”

“Another week or so, I think. If this was summer, there’d be at least a few more kids her age staying here. But it’s October, she’s bored stiff, and she’s got it in her head—”

“Yes, I know, artists are such romantic figures,” Joanna finished with a soulful expression.

“The bane of our existence,” he confessed with a sad look.

“Yeah, right, I’m sure the burden is unbearably heavy,” she told him with spurious sympathy. “I’ll leave you to bear it alone, shall I? It was nice meeting you, Cain.”

“The pleasure,” he said, “was all mine, Joanna.”

She lifted a hand in farewell and headed across the lobby toward the elevators, thinking it was no wonder both Holly and Amber found the artist fascinating; he had charm to spare. But what she still didn’t know was why one of his paintings appeared in her dream, and what his relationship with Caroline had been. Friend? Or lover?

It was Saturday afternoon when Griffin found Joanna sitting on a bench in Cliffside’s town park with a cocker spaniel puppy asleep in her lap. There was a canvas tote bag on the ground beside the bench, a bat, a dirty softball, and three ragged baseball gloves piled on the ground nearby, and she had one raised foot propped on a huge pumpkin.

“Don’t tell me you bought
him,”
Griffin said, sitting down beside her.

“No, I’m only puppy-sitting,” Joanna replied gravely. “It seems that the regularly scheduled activities of the Cliff-side softball-playing, kite-flying, and pumpkin-carving club were interrupted by commerce. Mr. Webster stopped by with an offer of five dollars to the group if they wanted to rake his yard, and everyone decided to go. Since Travis here was deemed too young to attend, I offered to sit with him.”

Griffin, recognizing an apt description of the small group of children usually to be found in the park on Saturday afternoons, shook his head slightly. “The pumpkin isn’t carved,” he observed.

“Apparently, they were going to carve it—in practice for Halloween—until it was discovered nobody had access to a knife. Mothers being what they are. And nobody had a kite, hence the need for five dollars.”

“Ah. And how did you get involved?”

“I just stopped by to feed the birds and got drafted to be umpire. Has anybody paid attention to Jason Riordan’s pitching, by the way? That kid’s got quite an arm.”

“If I know Jason’s father, and I do,” he said casually, “Jason’s pitching will definitely be encouraged.”

She smiled faintly and looked down at Travis in her lap, idly toying with the sleeping puppy’s long, silky ears. “I like this town,” she said, not at all sure she did at the moment, but saying the expected thing.

“Not bored yet?”

“Not at all. I told you I generally lead a pretty quiet life even if I do live in a big city; this suits me very well.”

“Especially while the shopping is good? I hear you gathered a few more souvenirs yesterday.”

“And every one a gem,” she said lightly, wondering what his reaction would be if she described in detail her unnerving morning. Then again, he no doubt already knew.

“Including the doorstop?” He made his voice mildly curious. “I suppose every home needs a good doorstop, but I would have thought a foot-high cast-iron beaver would be hell to get on a plane.”

“I thought I’d ship it,” she murmured.
Yeah, he definitely knows
.

Griffin nodded with hardly a trace of a smile. “I suppose it goes with your decor back in Atlanta?”

“Absolutely.”

He would have kept up his assault on her dignity, but Cliffside’s kite-flying and pumpkin-carving club returned just then to reclaim their property, and it was some time before it could be decided who would carry the heavy pumpkin home. Griffin finally settled the matter himself by promising to see to it the future jack-o’-lantern was transported safely to their school on Monday morning, there to be carved under the supervision of a teacher.

“Very diplomatic,” Joanna commended him when the children had collected their belongings—including a still-sleeping
puppy—and rushed off. “Will you deliver the pumpkin yourself?”

“Probably,” he said.

Joanna chuckled, getting to her feet and picking up the canvas tote bag she seemed to be carrying in lieu of a purse. “And you’ll leave it here until then?”

“Might as well,” Griffin said, walking beside her as they headed toward Main Street. “Where are you off to, more shopping?”

“Not exactly. I’m heading to the hardware store to return that box of nails.”

“Wrong size?” he asked politely.

“Oh, I thought a box of washers would do just as well.”

“Do for what?”

She gave him an innocent look. “For the same reason I got the nails.”

Griffin found himself torn between a sigh and a laugh. “Joanna—”

“Are you on duty today?” she asked.

“On call, not on duty. Why? Need help picking out the washers?”

“No, I was just curious to know if the sheriff worked weekends.”

“Only when he has to.” Griffin looked at her, wondering why it was that jeans and a big sweater looked so good on her when the same outfit had made Caroline look childlike. It was the strangest thing. And strange how her eyes were so expressive when Caroline’s had been dark and quiet. In fact, he was beginning to believe the resemblance he and others had seen was not nearly as powerful as they had first imagined.

“My God, it
is
you!”

They had reached Main Street’s sidewalk, and both turned in surprise to see a man somewhere in his thirties, of medium height, with pleasant features and reddish blond hair walking toward them quickly. His eyes were fixed on Joanna, and it was clear he was startled.

Griffin looked at Joanna just as she sent him a quick
glance, and something tightened inside him. There was recognition in her golden eyes, and guilt.