Authors: Mariah Stewart
Cam had looked up Clifford Chapman on Magellan Express, and after studying his face for a few moments, decided that Ellie favored her father in the looks department. Where Lynley was tall and willowy, Ellie was shorter and more compact. He’d never met Chapman, but he’d known Lynley better than he’d let on. Not that he’d known her well, but they were more than passing acquaintances. Once he’d gotten past the initial infatuation, he’d found her to be sensitive and thoughtful and caring. Their common bond was their love for Lilly. Lynley trusted Cam to look out for Lilly when she was away, and Cam had never let her down.
He parked his truck in his driveway, and before he went into the house, walked to the end of the blacktop to where the brown stalks of cattails bent with age and the season. The marsh grew right up to the
back of his property, and sometimes on nights like this, he stood at the edge and listened for the first of the night sounds. The hush of the wings of an owl on the hunt, the screech of its prey. The soft wind through the cordgrass. As much as he was looking forward to buying Lilly’s house when Ellie was ready to sell, he knew he’d miss this place.
Funny she seemed in no great hurry to sell it, but he supposed she had her reasons. Maybe she needed the time to connect with her roots. He wasn’t sure how much she knew about Lilly, or for that matter, Lynley. She seemed surprised to learn that her mother had spent so much time in St. Dennis.
He couldn’t help but wonder what Ellie would learn about her mother from reading the journals—and what she might learn about herself in the process.
“I
’ve been so excited about the paintings, I forgot that Thanksgiving is tomorrow,” Carly said when she called Ellie on Wednesday afternoon. “Throw some clothes into a suitcase and toss Dune into the car and drive up to my parents’ and have dinner with us. They just got home this morning and decided to do a big Thanksgiving and want you to come.”
“Thanks, Carly, but, actually, I have plans for tomorrow.”
“Don’t tell me you’re cooking a turkey.”
“Nope. Cameron invited me to dinner. Apparently a lot of St. Dennis folks go to one of the local inns for dinner on Thanksgiving.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“We’ll see. But please thank your parents for me.” Ellie paused. “You know, Car, I’ve been thinking. It’s not going to work for me.”
“What’s not going to work?”
“The book about Carolina and Lilly and Lynley.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve been reading the journals, Lilly’s and Carolina’s,
and they’re fascinating. I’ve learned so much about my family. But I’m not a writer, and I just don’t have the time or the ability to do their stories justice.”
“El, I spent two hours on Monday when I got home scanning the Internet for information about Carolina and found practically nothing. There were a number of articles about her work, but nothing about her personally. I think this book really needs to be written. People should know who Carolina was and her contribution to early-twentieth-century art.”
“And you’re just the person to tell them.”
Carly began to protest, but Ellie cut her off. “Look, I’m not an art historian like you are. I think you should take the journals and read them and write the book yourself. You can do it in such a way that it enhances what you’re going to do with the paintings. And besides, as much as I’d like to help you, as much as I understand the importance of what you’re doing, the bottom line is that I have an awful lot of work to do in five months. I’ve totally underestimated how much there is to do to get the house ready to go on the market by May. I’m going to need every penny I can get out of this house.”
After a moment passed, Carly said, “All right. I’ll do it if there’s no other way the book can be written. I feel so strongly that this is the perfect opportunity for Carolina’s work to get the recognition it deserves. So yes, as long as you don’t mind me taking the journals for a while.”
“You’re welcome to them for as long as you need them. I think you’ll find there’s a lot of information to work with.” Ellie opened the door to let Dune out.
“Besides, this way, when I start asking questions around town about Lilly, I can say I’m helping you research a book you’re writing about Carolina’s recently discovered paintings. People here met you and they know you work for a gallery and they won’t think it’s strange for me to be helping you out.”
“All true. Relieved that you won’t have to lie?”
“I am.”
“Then it’s settled. I do think that as Lynley’s daughter, Ellis Chapman should at least write a foreword but we can talk about that later.” Carly paused. “Oh, and before I forget, and speaking of Ellis Chapman, I got an e-mail from Jenny Wilson today. She wanted to know if I was still in touch with you, and if I knew how you were holding up and if you were okay.”
“What did you tell her?”
“Nothing yet. I thought maybe I’d forward the e-mail to you and you could respond directly.”
“I don’t know. I haven’t heard from her—or anyone else from school—in a long time.” Ellie bit the cuticle around her index finger.
“She doesn’t know how to approach you directly, El. She just doesn’t know what to say. I think there are a lot of people who feel that way, like they want to reach out but don’t know how.”
“Maybe. Would you mind just telling her that I’m fine and thank her for asking?” She thought for a moment before adding, “And yeah, forward the e-mail to me. Maybe I’ll get around to writing to her one of these days.”
“Will do.”
“So how are you doing with the paintings?”
Carly sighed. “The more I study them, the more stunning they are. It’s time-consuming, as I expected, but they’re cleaning up beautifully. I’m having one of the best times of my life.”
“I’d like to think your life has been a little more exciting than that.”
“I’ve had my moments, but this sort of thing transcends the everyday good time.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying them. Do you want me to send the journals to you?”
“If that wouldn’t be a problem for you, I’d love to be able to read through Carolina’s thoughts while I’m working on her paintings.”
“I’ll pack them up and mail them off. I’ve already gotten through all of Carolina’s and maybe half of Lilly’s.”
“Keep the ones you haven’t read yet,” Carly said. “You can send those along when you’ve finished.”
“Will do. Thanks again for inviting me for tomorrow.”
“I think you’ve had a better offer. You’ll have to let me know how it goes.”
“I will,” Ellie promised. “Give your mom and dad my love.…”
Ellie stood and stretched, her attention drawn outside, where the mailman was placing something in her mailbox.
“More junk,” she grumbled. “There has to be a way to opt out of all that trash mail.”
She grabbed a jacket from the front hall closet and slipped into it on her way out the front door, Dune racing ahead, chasing the shadows of the gulls that
swept overhead. Ellie opened the mailbox and removed a handful of paper circulars and two envelopes. One was from the electric company. The other was from prisoner number 524782.
“Thanks, but no thanks, Dad. It’s all still too raw. I’m not ready to deal with you yet.” She tucked the unopened letter into her jacket pocket and called to Dune, who, anticipating a walk on the beach, had raced to the edge of the sand and stood wagging her tail, waiting.
Ellie followed the dog along the waterline, where pale foam marked the level of the last waves to stretch onto the sand and Dune made a game out of chasing the receding water. The envelope seemed to vibrate against her hip but she ignored it. The last thing she wanted to think about right now was her father. Henry ran a close second.
She wanted to think about her house. She wanted to think about Cameron and how kissing him had been such a delicious surprise. She wanted to think about tomorrow’s Thanksgiving dinner at the inn and discovering family she hadn’t even known she had but who were becoming a part of her life through their words and through living beneath the same roof they’d lived under. She wanted to think about how it felt to spend hours doing hard but surprisingly satisfying work that wore her out physically but stimulated her mentally. She wanted to think about the time she spent walking the beach with Dune and Carly writing a book about the women artists in her family.
She wanted to think about a future that might outshine her past.
But no, thank you, she did not want to think about her father.
She pulled the envelope from her pocket and tossed it into the Chesapeake, where an incoming wave snatched it up. She watched the white paper roll toward the shore then retreat as wave after wave tossed it about. What could he have to say now that could be relevant to the life she was making for herself, the life that would take the place of the one he’d destroyed? She turned her back on the Bay and called for Dune, who’d taken off into the grass. She started back to the house, Dune catching up with her before she reached the driveway.
Tomorrow was Thanksgiving, a day to count blessings, to give thanks for all the good things in life. The past year had held precious little for Ellie to be grateful for, but since she arrived in St. Dennis, the tide of her life had seemed to turn and she was determined to ride it. The last thing she needed right now was a reminder of all the dark days that she was trying so hard to leave behind.
Thanksgiving morning was bright and clear but colder than it had been since Ellie arrived in St. Dennis. She stood in front of her closet and surveyed her meager wardrobe. She hadn’t planned on having much of a social life, so she’d left most of her clothes at Carly’s house, where she’d moved them once the feds gave her the green light to retrieve her belongings from the house she’d shared with Henry. Her pricey designer clothes and jewelry had been confiscated by the feds—not that she’d wear such fancy things here
in St. Dennis, but still, she wished she had something a little dressier than black pants. Maybe she’d ask Carly to bring some of her things the next time she visited.
Ellie tried on a number of tops with the black pants, but in the end settled for a dark gold turtleneck, an animal-print scarf, and black ballet flats. She wore her hair down and a pair of large gold hoop earrings she’d found in the corner of one of the dresser drawers in the back bedroom that she liked to think had belonged to her mother, though she had no way of knowing for certain. She spent more time on her makeup than she had in the last three months. She’d once been the master of the smoky eye, and she hoped she hadn’t lost her touch. The look on Cam’s face when he came to pick her up was her first hint that she hadn’t.
“You look great,” he said. “Really … great.”
“Thanks.” She smiled at his awkwardness and let him help her on with the black tweed blazer that probably wasn’t going to be warm enough but looked really good with the outfit and therefore trumped the warmer one. “So do you.”
And he did. Cameron did for khakis what he did for worn jeans. He, too, wore a sweater—his a dark blue crew that fit nicely over his shoulders and matched his eyes—under a soft tan suede jacket. He looked surprised by her compliment but tried to act as if he wasn’t.
“Thanks. Ready?”
“I am.” Ellie turned to Dune, who seemed to think she was included in the outing. “I’ll be back. I’ll see if I can sneak out a tidbit of turkey for you.”
“Turkey’s not really good for dogs,” Cameron told her as he held the door for her, then closed it behind them.
“I didn’t know,” she said. “I’ve never had a dog before. I guess I should get a book.”
“Sounds like you’re keeping her.” Cam opened the passenger door of the truck and Ellie climbed in.
“I guess I am. Grant seemed pretty sure that she was one of his rescue dogs. I took her over to his clinic yesterday and he checked her out,” she told him after he’d slid behind the wheel and started the engine. “He said she’s healthy and that she’s only a year or so old. There was some paper on her that the rescue group had brought up with them from the shelter where she’d been dumped but it didn’t have much information on it. Just what shots she’d had before she’d been loaded onto the transport that brought her here.” Ellie sat back against the seat. “I hadn’t thought about getting a dog, but she’s really grown on me. Grant said I could bring her in and he’d try to find a home for her if I didn’t want to keep her, but really, what kind of person would I be if I did that? I mean, she’s used to me. She’s already lost one home. How would she feel if she lost this one?”
“So what you’re really saying is you can’t part with her now because you really like her.”
“I really do.” Ellie laughed. “All of my rationalizing is just so much smoke. I’m really starting to love that dog.”
“Good. Everyone should love a pet at least once in their life. More than once, if possible.”
“Do you have one? Dog? Cat?”
“Not right now, though Grant keeps threatening to drop off one of his rescue dogs.” He reached over and took her hand as he spoke. That the gesture felt so natural took her by surprise. “I work crazy hours most weeks. There are days when I leave the house at six in the morning and don’t get back until well after seven. It’s not fair to an animal to keep it locked up all that time by itself.”
“But you’ve had a dog before?”
“Yeah, but that was a long time ago.”
He slowed as they passed the vacant lot toward the end of the street, his eyes flickering slightly to the right as if he were caught between wanting to look and not wanting to look. He sped up till they reached the stop sign at Charles Street, and they rode in silence to their destination.
The Inn at Sinclair’s Point was built by ancestors of Grace Sinclair’s late husband. Now run by her oldest son, Daniel, the inn had become one of the go-to places on the Eastern Shore. The parking lot was almost filled to capacity when Cameron and Ellie arrived. They found a spot near the cabins behind the inn and walked hand in hand along the flagstone path to the back entrance. Ellie stopped to take a long look at the building, then turned to look over her shoulder at the Bay behind them.
“Something wrong?” Cam asked.