Stargazey Point (35 page)

Marnie stood just inside, a colander of snap peas in her hand. She eyed them speculatively.

Abbie looked at Beau for a cue. Saw the indecision in his eyes and butted in. “Beau has made a wonderful carousel to help Cab reconstruct the order of the horses.” She hesitated.

“And I’m taking a painting down to Dom Gaillard to appraise,” Beau said.

“Painting,” Marnie asked incredulously. “Are you painting again?”

Abbie felt Beau draw back. “Just some old ones,” he said.

“No kidding. Meet me in front. I’ll go get the car.”

Beau and Abbie watched openmouthed as Marnie dropped the colander of peas into the sink and quickly washed her hands. “Get going, you two,” she said as she hurried for the door. “I’ll meet you out front.”

They were carrying the carousel and the painting out the front door to the Buick when Millie came around the side of the house.

“I thought I heard the car. What are you doing? Where are you going?” She spied the carousel and painting and began shaking her head. “What are you doin’, Beau?”

Beau licked his lips; Abbie held her breath. She really didn’t want to have to take the paintings back to the attic before Beau got his answer from Dominic Gaillard.

Marnie’s head appeared over the top of the car. “We’re taking Beau’s painting to get an appraisal.”

“You can’t,” Millie said, her fingers clutching at the skirt of her dress.

Beau started down the porch steps, Abbie by his side. As they reached the ground, Millie jerked to life. “You can’t.” She made a feeble grab at the painting Abbie was carrying.

“Millie, don’t you dare touch that painting.” Marnie rushed around the car faster than Abbie had ever seen her move. She stepped between her sister and Abbie.

Millie turned on her. “You knew about this?”

“About the paintings, no, but the fact that they might bring in some cash, I sure as hell hope so.”

Millie’s eyes darted from Marnie to Abbie to the painting she held. For a moment Abbie was afraid she was going to try to wrestle the painting from her.

“But Daddy would be so angry.” She turned to Beau. “You know he would.”

Abbie saw a flash of emotion pass across Beau’s face that frightened her. Then it was gone, and Beau was his normal placid self again; she wondered if she’d imagined the intense anger she’d seen there.

“Leave it be, Millie,” Marnie snapped. “Daddy is dead. Beau isn’t, and he’s waited a goddamn lifetime to show what he loves best. Leave it be.”

Beau was clutching the box that held the carousel in a death grip. Abbie sensed the moment when he caved. So did Marnie. He turned toward the porch steps, ready to put back what had been hidden for so long. Marnie grabbed him by the arm.

He shook her off. To their surprise, he walked straight up to Millie. “That’s enough, Millie.”

“Those paintings wrecked our family.”

“No, Millie, it wasn’t the paintings.”

“But Daddy said he’d rather kill you than let you paint.”

Beau just stared at her.

“I heard you, out in the gazebo, the night before you left.”

“You don’t know what you heard; leave it be.”

His voice never even modulated, but Millie jerked back as if he’d physically slapped her.

“Beau, no.” Millie clutched her chest.

“Go on in the house.” Beau lifted his chin toward the door. “Go on now.”

He turned away. “Get in the car, Abbie.” He opened the car door for her. She slid the painting into the backseat and climbed in after it. Beau sat in the front looking straight ahead.

Millie clutched at Marnie’s sleeve. “Sister, no! Don’t let him do it.”

Marnie pulled away. “Stop making such a fuss. You have your silver; let Beau have his life back.”

Millie’s chin quivered, but she lifted her head. “I’d rather never see the silver again if it comes from that.”

“Think before you speak. Now go inside like Beau told you to do.” Marnie got in the driver’s side and started the car.

Abbie looked out the back window as they drove away. Millie stood where they’d left her, one hand gripping the railing, the other clutched to her chest, looking frail and frightened and totally defeated.

They dropped Beau off at the carousel. He didn’t want to go with Abbie to the Gaillard Gallery. Abbie didn’t try to persuade him; she had all she could do to persuade herself that she was doing the right thing.

“You’re sure?” Abbie said as he got out of the car.

He nodded and carried his box into the carousel building.

Abbie scooted into the front seat. “Am I doing the right thing?” she asked Marnie.

“Yes, you’re doing the right thing.”

“But Millie was so upset.”

“She’ll get over it.”

“Are you sure Dominic Gaillard is a reputable dealer?”

“Yes. We’ve all known Dom for years. He loves art, and he’s honest and hardworking. Stop worrying.”

“What if he says he can’t show it or sell it? I don’t want to crush Beau’s expectations.”

Marnie laughed. It was a bitter sound. “Then it will go back in the attic or wherever Beau’s been hiding it all these years. And life will return to the travesty it was. Is this the only one?”

Abbie shook her head.

“How many?”

“I’m not sure. There were about seven renderings of the carousel that he was using to construct the miniature. He showed me several more landscapes and seascapes. Dom said he was looking for seascapes . . . so I thought . . . but I may have opened a can of worms for nothing. I don’t want this to come between the three of you.”

“Hell, Abbie, we’re an old Southern family; we have more skeletons, more unacknowledged scandals, more innuendos and power struggles than you can even imagine. Our father was a bastard, not in the literal sense, but you know what I mean. He drove me away, he drove Beau away, and he crushed any sense of spirit Millie ever had.

“She was a compassionate child, but she idolized our father, and he crushed her. It’s too late for her to change. I’m just glad Beau has found a champion.” She shot a quick glance over her shoulder. “Or that you found him.”

“But what about Millie?”

“It’s time for Millie to stop protecting the old rascal. Eighty years is enough. The man is dead. He manipulated us all while he was alive, and he still manages to manipulate Millie now that he’s dead.”

“Do you mind if I ask, what actually happened between Beau and your father? Millie said he used to paint in the gazebo, but ‘Daddy’ put an end to that. And today she sounded like it was something really dreadful.”

“I have no idea. Just part of the web of the past. ‘What happened in the gazebo,’ ” she intoned and chuckled. “My family is a cliché, Abbie, we have to accept that. It’s way too late to do anything about it. Except maybe let Beau fulfill his dream.”

Marnie stopped in front of the gallery. “You don’t mind if I don’t come in?”

“No.” Though Abbie would have appreciated the support.

“I talk a big game, but I still have my own issues with my family and the town.”

The Gaillard Gallery was a storefront with two wide glass windows backed in black velvet. An abstract painting was displayed in one and a seascape in the other.

Abbie thought the seascape she held in her arms was much better. She was about to find out.

As she came through the door a man entered through a curtain from a back area. She recognized Dominic Gaillard.

“Mr. Gaillard,” she began.

“Didn’t I meet you at Penny’s the other day?”

“Yes, Abbie Sinclair. I was hoping you could give me some advice about a painting I have here.”

Dom’s pleasant face went slack. “Yours?” he drawled.

“No,” Abbie said quickly. She didn’t want him to think she was asking for favors. He probably charged a fortune for appraisals, something she hadn’t thought of when she jumped into this. “I found it in an attic, and I’m not sure what I should do with it. I mean I like it, but I don’t know whether I should insure it or not.”

Dom eyed her speculatively. “I can take a quick look, if you want. But I wouldn’t be able to give you an accurate appraisal unless you left it. Of course, first we want to make sure it’s worth spending the appraisal fee. Is that it?”

Abbie nodded and handed it over.

He carried it to a glass case in the back corner. He sighed, took a cursory look. Paused. Picked it up in both hands and held it at arm’s length. Put it down and disappeared through the curtain. He came back seconds later with an easel that he set up alongside the counter and placed Beau’s seascape there.

He reached in his pants pocket and brought out a jeweler’s loop. Scanned the painting, resting on the lower-right corner where Beau had left his signature.

When he stood up and looked at Abbie, he was frowning.

Abbie’s heart sank.

“Where did you say you got this?”

“In an attic.”

“The Crispin attic?”

“Yes. And they know I was bringing it in for an appraisal. Marnie drove me here.”

“I see.” He leaned back over the painting, scrutinizing the signature once again. Then he stood up. “At the risk of sounding like the
Antiques Roadshow
, I’m pretty sure I’ve seen this artist before. And I’m also pretty sure one of his paintings recently went at auction for several thousand dollars. Caused quite a stir. No provenance and yet . . .”

“Several thousand—wow.”

“I don’t suppose you found any others?”

“Well, actually . . .” Abbie wound down; she’d seen the glint of anticipation in Dom’s eye. She didn’t want Beau taken advantage of. “Yes, there are some.”

He caught himself and now he became polite and slightly disinterested, though Abbie knew people and she could feel the hum of excitement beneath his calm. She was feeling her own.

“If the others are the, um, same quality as this, I might consider showing them as an exhibit, say, at the end of the month.”

“That sounds very exciting, but I’m not sure. What are your terms for representation?”

“I’m assuming the artist was a Crispin?”

“Yes. Is.”

Dom’s eyebrows lifted. “Is?”

“Beau painted them.”

Dom’s mouth literally dropped open. “Good God. But this wasn’t painted recently. Has he been storing these in the attic?”

“Evidently.”

“Do you think he would let me see the others?”

Abbie deliberated. “I don’t know. I had to convince him to let me bring this for an appraisal. I’ll talk to him.”

Dom’s eyebrows lowered until he was glowering at Abbie. “What’s your interest in Beau’s paintings?”

“Mine? I just think he should have a chance to show them. But he’s very sensitive about the paintings and, uh . . .”

“Let me guess. Miss Millie thinks it’s low class.”

“Well . . .”

“You don’t have to beat around the bush. I’ve known that family for years.”

“I’ll have to talk to Beau before we reach any agreement.”

“Of course. Why don’t you leave the painting here for a day or so in order for me to get a couple of additional opinions. I’ll give you a receipt.”

Marnie had said he was reputable, and though Abbie wasn’t sure how these things usually worked, she knew she should take the chance. “I guess that would be okay.”

Dom smiled slightly. “Then if things go as I expect, I’ll have a gallery agreement drawn up. You might want to ask Leslie Tuttle to advise you. She’s a local real estate lawyer, but she’ll be able to broker a deal that benefits both parties.”

It was all moving too fast. “I’ll ask.”

He retired to the back for an appraisal agreement, struck through appraisal fee and wrote complimentary, they both signed and Abbie was back on the street empty-handed.

She walked to the carousel trying to quell her excitement. A painting that might possibly be Beau’s had sold for thousands. Dom was willing to show the rest. This might, just might, make them enough money to pay their taxes each year, maybe even have a little left over for themselves.

She quickened her pace, anxious to tell Beau. Now if he would only agree to letting them go.

Abbie knocked, but she got no answer. She pulled the door open and saw Beau and Cab bent over the workbench with their heads together. They were so intent that they didn’t even hear her come into the carousel. She stood watching them for a moment, dark head against white. They could be two boys having just discovered something fascinating—a dead frog or a buried marble . . . or the key to restoring a carousel.

Cab finally looked up. His face was bright, eager. “Have you seen this?” he asked.

Abbie nodded and came to stand beside them. She smiled at Beau whose hands rested, quiet, on the table. She looked from him to the wooden miniature, even more beautiful in the bright work lights of the carousel building.

“What did he say, Abbie?” Beau looked eager and cautious, a mixture of vitality that she hadn’t seen before.

“He said . . .” She broke into a grin. “He said he wants to see them all if you will let him. He kept the seascape so he can get an official appraisal. And that if the others are the same quality, which they are, he might be interested in giving them a show at his gallery.” She stopped for breath. She didn’t want to get his hopes up, but she had to ask.

“He said he thought a painting by the same artist had sold at auction for several thousand dollars. Could it have been one of yours? You did say that you had sold a painting years ago.”

“I did sell one. Several thousand?”

“Yes, but Dom has to have it appraised.”

“If he can sell it, we could pay the taxes.” Beau couldn’t seem to take it all in.

He could pay more than back taxes. “Let’s not get too carried away until we hear from Dom. He said it would take a few days. But if it does sell, he’d like to see the others.”

“He wants to see them all?”

“If you’ll let him. And if he does think he can sell them, you could start painting again. You could be a working artist.”

She knew the minute the words left her mouth that she’d said the wrong thing. Beau’s fingers twitched. He reached for his pocket, fumbled the piece of wood out.

“Only if you want to. You don’t have to do any of this. I can tell Dom you’ve changed your mind. I can get the painting back.”