CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Quinn~
The Mystic Bay High School auditorium was decorated for the Fourth with red, white and blue bunting and crossed American flags. This was his moment of truth. The five judges sat in a row on the stage. Robin was at the podium, elegant and dispassionate as she welcomed the judges and introduced them to the audience one by one.
It was standing room only in the packed auditorium. A number of art critics had swelled the throng of residents and visitors. Quinn was sitting in the front row with the other artists. He wished he could be beside Moira. But Robin had decreed that when the winners were announced, they should be accessible. He resisted the impulse to turn around and locate her.
The judges stood as the mayor spoke their names. Robin finished her speech with a request for the envelope containing the winners’ names. As the spokesperson for the judges, Patricia Wong handed it to her with a flourish. Robin slowly opened the envelope milking the suspense for all she was worth.
“Third prize goes to Cecily Mandel for her Bust of a Young Girl.” Quinn thought that any of Ted Fisher’s pieces were more imaginative. But Cecily had the edge in technique. And her bust was a lovely object executed in terracotta.
There was hearty applause and middle-aged Cecily stumped up onto the stage to collect her check. She thanked Robin for giving her a place in the colony, and the town of Mystic Bay for the opportunity, and stumped off waving her prize money.
“Second prize goes to Ray Cornish for his Return of the Fishers.” That prize was richly deserved. Return of the Fishers was a masterpiece of light and color depicting the fishing fleet returning to the Mystic Bay harbor.
Ray collected his check to thunderous applause and Robin took out the third slip of paper. She smiled at the audience. The room held its breath.
“First prize belongs to our own Quinn Drake. As you all know, the Drakes have been summer residents on the island for decades. Quinn’s Soul Emergent-Number One has taken this year’s grand prize. Let’s have a round of applause for our first-place entry.”
He had done it. Although he could have done without the public announcement of his true name. His trip to the stage was accompanied by as much whispering as clapping. He could see his father and mother sitting in the audience. They had collared Moira, for she was sitting between them. A buttercup about to be crushed by two icebergs. Shift. He had better rescue her.
He had to make a speech. And shake hands with all the judges. The applause went on forever. Moira’s dainty hands beat a tattoo. So did his parents’, although he didn’t think either Mom or Dad looked truly pleased. Well, he had not thought getting their approval would be easy.
He tried to catch Moira’s eye as he returned to his seat in the front row, but she was speaking to Mom. Robin’s closing remarks seemed to go on and on. But eventually she invited everyone to go next door and look at the entries – and buy them. The judges trooped off the stage to more applause. Robin whisked herself behind the back curtain, and the ceremony was over.
As one the audience stood and tried to leave. He could see over the heads of the crowd to the doors where Babcock and his minions were keeping order. Moira was crushed between his parents moving in the mass. He and the other entrants could go nowhere for the press of hands to be shaken.
It appeared that the Art Fair had done what Robin had wanted and made a name for itself. Just being in the show was going to be enough to give careers a boost. Of course, he had yet to sell a single painting. Moira had insisted on an unbelievable price for all of his entries. He thought she had priced him out of this market.
By the time he got to the Community Center, all five of his paintings had a discreet red dot indicating that they were sold. Moira was standing before Soul Emergent between his parents. His father especially was radiating displeasure.
“Of course, I’m prejudiced,” Moira said briskly. “But I think his vision speaks for itself. And the quality of his technique merely enhances that vision.”
“Hmph,” Anthony snorted. Quinn’s mother laid a warning hand on her husband’s forearm.
Quinn rested his hands on Moira’s shoulders hoping to reassure her. She grinned up at him. “Told you so,” she said motioning toward his first-place ribbon.
“So you did. What do you think, sir?” he asked his father.
“That you’re a braver man than I am to trespass in the Old Forest.”
“I had the permission of the Old Ones.”
Anthony looked skeptical, but he didn’t say anything. Quinn’s mother smiled at him. “I was just telling Moira that we hadn’t seen you all summer. We should mingle a bit more, look at the other entries, and then I think a little supper is in order.”
Moira looked amused. In her flouncy yellow dress she looked more like Marilyn Monroe than ever. Mom was wearing one of her trademark white summer outfits. She looked cool, elegant, and sophisticated. Dad matched her in a white polo shirt and pale gray pants. They clearly thought they had Moira under control. Just as clearly she was not intimidated.
Quinn cleared his throat. “Are you free to join us, Moira?”
“Oh, yes.” Her voice was a dangerous tinkling of silver bells, but her eyes were a clear blue-green.
“That’s settled then,” Dad said. “You can tell us about these next paintings.” He bore Moira off, leaving Quinn with his mother.
“Your father is naturally upset,” Lorraine Drake murmured. “But I have always wanted a daughter.”
Oh. Of course they had noticed that Moira was a dragoness. Naturally. He grinned at his mother. “You’re going to love her, Mom. But we can’t discuss this here.”
“No?” she hissed. “Your father has already been accosted four times by members of the Council demanding to know if you intend to fool around with Ms. Fairchild indefinitely. And we would also like to know.”
Just what he needed. Irate parents. He spared a glance at Moira who was holding forth on the seascapes she and Dad were inspecting. “We’ll hash everything out this evening, Mom. Come tell me what you think of this.”
He led her to Ted Fishers’ Sunrise over the Forest. The wide, twisted and spired yellow bowl had streaks of bottle-green and rose-pink running through it. Ted had captured the essence of the Old Forest at dawn.
“It’s lovely.” Lorraine peered at the price tag. “Gracious me. Who priced this art?”
“Moira.”
“Indeed?”
Quinn chuckled. “You can afford it. It would look great in the sitting room at Shoreside, wouldn’t it?”
Lorraine shook her head. “Dining room. Seattle. We don’t need reminders of the Old Forest at Shoreside.” She looked around for one of the volunteers.
Wally Babcock drifted over, spruce in his uniform. A small forest of gadgets swung from his belt, although he had left his truncheon at home. “Can I help you?”
“Mom, you remember Walter Babcock, don’t you?”
Lorraine held out her hand graciously. “Of course. How are you today, Mr. Babcock?”
Caught between two hunters, Wally’s pink nose twitched, but he unhesitatingly took Mom’s hand. “I’m good. You interested in this beauty, Mrs. Drake?” He jerked a thumb at the bowl.
Mom glanced at Quinn. “I want to buy it.”
“Excellent choice,” Wally said agreeably. “You write out a check for Ted Fisher, Mrs. Drake, and I’ll put a red sticker on the card.”
“To Ted?” asked Mom.
“The Art Fair is not taking a cut on the artists’ sales. Every penny goes to the creator,” Walter said proudly.
“The Tidewater Art Fair is a little different,” Quinn said.