Charlotte, I’m the new tenant in Brodie’s Watch. You left your cookbook and this gorgeous scarf in the house, and I’m sure you want them back.

I’m a writer and I’d love to chat with you about this house and your experience living here. It may be useful information for the new book I’m writing. Is there any way we can talk by phone? Please call me. Or I can call you.

I add my phone number and email address and seal the envelope. Off it will go tomorrow.

That afternoon I putter away cleaning the stove, feeding Hannibal (again), and writing a new chapter of the book, this one about fish pies. As the clock ticks toward evening, that package for Charlotte keeps distracting me. I think of the various items she left behind. The bottles of whiskey (which I’ve long since finished drinking, thank you very much). The scarf. The stray flip-flop. The copy of Joy of Cooking with her name inscribed in it. That last item I find most puzzling of all. The grease-spattered cookbook was clearly a faithful friend in the kitchen, and I can’t imagine ever leaving behind one of my treasured cookbooks.

I close the laptop and realize I haven’t spared a thought for dinner. Will this be yet another long night hoping that he will appear? I imagine myself ten, twenty years from now, still sitting alone in this house, hoping for a glimpse of the man whom only I have seen. How many nights, how many years, will I be waiting here with only a succession of cats to keep me company?

I glance up at the clock and see that it’s already seven. At this moment in the Seaglass Gallery downtown, people are drinking wine and admiring art. They are talking not to the dead, but to the living.

I grab my purse and walk out of the house to join them.

Fifteen

Through the window of Seaglass Gallery, I see a well-dressed crowd sipping from champagne flutes and a woman with a long black skirt who sits plucking a harp. I don’t know any of these people and I haven’t dressed up for the occasion. I consider climbing back in the car and driving home, but then I spot Ned Haskell standing among the crowd. His name is on the list of featured artists posted in the gallery window, and although he’s wearing blue jeans as usual, he’s spiffed himself up for this event with a white button-down shirt. Seeing one familiar face is all it takes to draw me into the gallery.

I step inside, pluck up a champagne flute of liquid courage, and make my way across the room toward Ned. He stands next to a display of his bird carvings, which are perched on individual pedestals. How did I not know that my carpenter was also an artist, and an impressive one? Each of his birds has its own quirky personality. The emperor penguin stands with its head rolled back, its beak wide open as if roaring at the sky. The puffin has a fish tucked under each wing and a fierce I dare you to take them from me scowl. The carvings make me laugh and suddenly I see Ned in a different light. He’s more than a skilled carpenter; he’s also an artist with a delightful sense of whimsy. Surrounded by this elegant crowd, he looks ill at ease and intimidated by his own admirers.

    “Only now do I find out about your secret talent,” I tell him. “You’ve been working in my house for weeks, and you never once told me you were an artist.”

He gives a modest shrug. “It’s just one of my secrets.”

“Any other secrets I should know?”

Even at fifty-eight, Ned can still blush, and I find it charming. I realize how little I actually know about him. Does he have children? He told me he’s never married, and I wonder if there’s ever been a woman in his life. He has shown me his skill as a woodworker, but beyond that, he has revealed nothing about himself.

In that way, we are more alike than he knows.

“I hear your carvings are sold down in Boston, too.”

“Yeah, the gallery down there calls it ‘rustic art’ or some such nonsense. I haven’t figured out if that’s an insult.”

I glance around at the champagne-sipping people. “This doesn’t look like a rustic crowd.”

“No, most of these folks are up from the city.”

“I hear Dr. Gordon has a few paintings here tonight.”

“In the other room. He’s already sold one.”

“I had no idea he was an artist, either. Yet another man with a secret talent.”

Ned turns and stares across the room. “People are complicated, Ava,” he says quietly. “What you see isn’t always what you get.”

I glance in the direction he’s looking and notice that Donna Branca has just walked into the gallery. She’s reaching for a glass of champagne when our gazes meet, and for an instant her hand freezes over the tray of drinks. Then she lifts a flute to her lips, takes a deliberate gulp, and walks away.

    “Donna Branca and Ben Gordon—are they, um, involved?” I ask Ned.

“Involved?”

“I mean are they seeing each other?”

He frowns at me. “Why do you ask?”

“She seemed a little peeved when she saw me and Ben together the other day.”

“Are you seeing him?”

“I’m just curious about him. He was kind enough to make a house call after I fainted last week.”

For a long time Ned doesn’t say anything, and I wonder if I, the outsider, have blundered into some forbidden topic. In a town as small as Tucker Cove, everyone knows each other so well that every romance must seem halfway incestuous.

“I thought you had a fellow down in Boston,” he says.

“What fellow?”

“I heard you talking on the phone to someone named Simon. I assumed…”

I laugh. “He’s my editor. And he’s married, to a very nice man named Scott.”

“Oh.”

“So he’s definitely not a prospect.”

Ned eyes me curiously. “Are you looking for one?”

I survey the men in the gallery, some of them attractive, all of them very much alive. It’s been months since I’ve felt any interest in the opposite sex, months during which all desire has been in hibernation.

“Maybe I am.” I pick up a fresh flute of champagne and head into the next room, weaving past women in little black dresses. Like them, I too am a summer visitor, but in this crowd I feel like an outsider. Neither a Mainer nor an art collector, but in a category all my own: the cat lady who lives in the haunted house. I haven’t eaten dinner, the champagne has gone straight to my head, and the room seems too noisy, too bright. Too full of art. I scan the walls, eyeing muddy abstracts and giant photos of old cars. I truly hope I don’t hate Ben Gordon’s paintings because I’m not a good enough liar to pull off a fake love your work! Then I spot a telltale red dot affixed to one of the frames, indicating it’s been sold and I understand at a glance why someone would pay $2,500 for this piece. The painting captures the sea in all its liquid turmoil, the waves wind-tossed, the horizon an unsettling smear of storm clouds. The artist’s signature, B. Gordon, is almost hidden in a swirl of green water.

    Hanging beside it is another B. Gordon painting, still available for purchase. Unlike the ominous seascape, this image is of a beach with calm water lapping at the pebbles. The image seems so realistic it might be mistaken for a photograph, and I lean in closer to confirm the brushstrokes. Every detail, from the tree with its tortuously twisted trunk, to the seaweed-clad rocks, to the shoreline curving to a rocky exclamation point of an island, tells me this is a portrait of a real place. I wonder how many hours, how many days he sat painting on this beach as shadows grew and daylight faded.

“Do I dare ask for your opinion, or should I just slink away now?”

I’ve been so enchanted by the painting, I didn’t notice that Ben is standing right beside me. Despite the press of people all around us, he is focused only on me, and his gaze is so intent I’m forced to turn away. I look instead at his painting.

“I’ll be absolutely honest with you,” I tell him.

“I guess I should brace myself.”

“When you told me you were an artist, I didn’t imagine your paintings would be this good. It seems so real I can feel the pebbles under my feet. It’s almost a shame you became a doctor instead.”

“Well, medicine wasn’t my first choice.”

“Then why did you go through all those years of training?”

    “You’ve been in my office. You saw the photos of my dad and my grandfather. It seems like there’s always been a Dr. Gordon in Tucker Cove, and who was I to break the tradition?” He gives a rueful laugh. “My father used to tell me I could always paint in my spare time. I wasn’t brave enough to disappoint him.” He stares at the seascape as if seeing his own life in those turbulent green waters.

“It’s never too late to be a rebel.”

For a moment we smile at each other as the crowd mills around us and harp music floats through the room. Someone taps him on the shoulder and he turns to face a trim brunette who’s just ushered an older couple to meet him.

“Sorry to interrupt you, Ben, but this is Mr. and Mrs. Weber from Cambridge. They’re very impressed by your piece View from the Beach and they wanted to meet the artist.”