Chapter 14

 

It had certainly been an eventful morning on the ball diamond. After the dickhead coach incident, there’d been another nasty mess to sort out with that poor kid on the mound who got hit with the line drive. Ry had managed to calm the wailing boy down as he stanched the bleeding with a towel. When he told the kid his own nose had been broken four times, the little guy had bucked up and even asked if he could get his autograph. A few minutes later, paramedics arrived on scene and carted the boy and his mom off to the hospital in Brunswick.

The final incident had taken place during the second game, when another visiting coach had berated the hapless umpire with a relentless volley of insults that had the home crowd booing again. Ry had intervened with a threat to remove the man from the field, for his own safety as much as anything.

Seeing people get so worked up at a kids’ ball tournament in a quiet backwater like Brides Bay was surreal. Then again, he couldn’t really blame the locals for getting pissed off when out-of-town coaches acted like asshats. It reminded him all too painfully of his father’s behavior at hockey arenas and ball fields.

Around three o’clock, he took a break and asked Carter Pierce to step in for him. The timing wasn’t completely coincidental—the festival art competition was on. The competition involved finishing a painting in no more than two hours.

Who knew that art could be a spectator sport?

Not that he had any intention of sticking around to stare at Claire as she worked. That would probably just make her nervous. Besides, he didn’t want to be away from the tournament for too long. Mostly he just wanted to give her a thumbs-up after kind of giving her the cold shoulder for the past couple of weeks. She probably thought he was irritated at her for being so judgmental about his plans for the house, or because she’d managed to get him to dredge up so many ugly old memories.

Building the new house had become a priority, since it looked like Brides Bay wasn’t going to be the place where he should put down roots after all.  He just wasn’t finding the kind of solitude he’d hoped for here, so it was making more and more sense to build a new place and then sell it. While Claire had joked about him acting like a hermit, and it was an exaggeration, he did value his privacy. He didn’t want to get dragged into community life, not even when it was a hot concierge who was doing the dragging. Like just about everybody else, Claire couldn’t really understand why he felt such a need for solitude.

Ry had given up hope long ago that people would understand. If that meant being labeled as anti-social or just plain weird, well, he could live with that.

A small crowd had gathered around a ringed area adjacent to one of the big white festival tents down by the waterside. Ry counted sixteen artists busily slapping paint on canvasses. Claire’s seat was at a right angle to where he was standing, so he wasn’t able to see what she was working on. To fix that, he tacked to his left and inserted himself just behind Meg and Cassidy.

Meg glanced up. “I heard you kicked some stupid coach’s ass this morning. Figuratively, of course. Well done, pal.”

“Just about everybody’s talking about it,” Cassidy added.

“How’s Claire doing?” Ry had no intention of talking about the incident. He craned to get a better look at her canvas. “Hey, is that the view from my bluffs that she’s painting?”

“Uh, yeah,” Meg said. “You clearly have less than stellar eyesight, my friend, if you had to ask.”

His eyes were perfectly fine. He’d recognized the view, even though the painting was half done at most. Claire’s rendering was clear and vivid. He was so surprised to see she’d chosen that scene that he’d just blurted out the question.

Was it just her familiarity with the scene that had made her select it for this competition? Or could it be yet another indication of how much his place still meant to her? Seeing her working on it stirred up all kinds of feelings—feelings he didn’t want to have.

Like guilt, and something a lot like regret.

“Some of the others look like they’re way ahead of her. If she doesn’t get it done by the deadline, she’ll be disqualified, won’t she?”

Meg nodded. “Yeah, but don’t worry about Claire. As long as she finishes within the two-hour time limit, speed doesn’t matter. The prize goes to the most accomplished work, not the fastest to finish.”

“She’s really good, isn’t she?” Ry didn’t know much about art but figured he could at least tell a pro from a rank amateur. He was sure some of the works she’d shown him at her apartment would have fetched good money at a gallery.

Meg shot him a look that said she thought he was clueless on the subject. “Ry, that woman has so much natural talent it’s ridiculous. It’s a damn shame she can’t paint full time. That was always her dream, until…”

“The accident?”

Meg gave him a grim nod.

“Hey there, Mr. Griffin,” someone said from behind him. “Is there any chance of you backing off and giving us little people a chance to see what’s going on in that ring?”

Ry turned around and stared down at the top of Pam’s head. Standing beside her, Tammy cast an apologetic look at him.

“Pam, I keep telling you to call me Ry. And as for backing off, I guess you should have shown up earlier if you wanted a front row seat,” he said with a grin.

Pam bobbed up and down on her toes, trying to see past him. “I hope you’re just joshing me, Mr. Griffin…I mean Ry. I’ll have you know I wanted to get here early, but I had some important business to attend to just now.”

Tammy sighed. “That business was buttonholing Carling Middleton over by the hot dog truck. I told my sweetie it wouldn’t be right to tear a strip off the poor lady at the Lobster Festival, but oh, no. Pam never likes to let an opportunity pass her by, do you, darlin’?”

Ry had only met the president of the Promise Island Homeowners Association once. When he moved in, Mrs. Middleton had dropped by after a couple of days to introduce herself. He’d learned later from Derek that the sixtyish widow was from old New England money. She lived in one the biggest mansions on the island, had full-time staff, and drove a very sweet black Bentley. She was also the initial promoter of the motion to gate off the community.

“Heck, no,” Pam said. “I love the island folks—most of them anyway—but that snob of a woman just gets up my nose something fierce. And now she’s behind this nonsense about putting up a damn Berlin wall at the bridge. Well, as far as I’m concerned, that’s just plain un-American.”

“It’s not a wall, Pam, it’s just a gate,” Meg said. “Not that I disagree with you on the larger issue, of course.”

Pam waved her hand. “Wall, gate, fence—it could be a damn moat full of alligators if that island royalty gets its way. The whole point is that those high and mighty folks don’t want us on their fancy pants island anymore. Except to clean their houses and cut their grass, of course.”

Ry couldn’t really argue with her position, even though the idea of fewer people traipsing around Promise Island was pretty appealing to him. At a party Derek had dragged him to, he’d learned that quite a few island folks thought pretty much the way Pam had just described. Some of them were snobs, and he hadn’t liked them any more than she did.

He stepped to the side and ushered Pam into his place. Meg followed, allowing Tammy to squeeze in too. “Good enough? Or do you want me to hoist you up on my shoulders?” he said to Pam, hoping to lighten things up.

“Oh, would you?” Pam said, her eyes brightening. “That would be just…spectacular!”

Ry couldn’t believe she’d taken him seriously. Live and learn.

Meg and Tammy looked at each other and rolled their eyes. Cassidy turned away to hide her suppressed laughter.

“Well, I guess that’ll teach me to make a joke,” he said as he looked up at the sky and then back down at Pam. “Okay, get up here, Pamela.”

Pam gave him toothy grin just before he dropped into a crouch, turning his back toward her. With no hesitation, the petite woman clambered onto his shoulders and clasped his head in her wiry hands. Her grip was strong enough that Ry felt like he’d stuck his head into a vise.

“Jesus, Pam, you don’t need to squeeze my head like it’s a freaking lemon. Trust me, I’m not going to let you fall,” he said as he came up from the crouch.

“Well, just see that you don’t.” Pam slightly eased her iron grip. “I feel like I’m sitting on a skyscraper up here, and Tammy’s way too young to be left a widow.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Meg dig around in her purse for a couple of seconds before pulling out her phone. “This is too good not to preserve for posterity.” She aimed the phone at him. “Smile, Pam. Smile, superstar.”

Ry managed what surely must have been an almost feral grin. “Meg, promise me I’m not going to see that photo in next week’s Advocate, okay? Otherwise, I’m afraid I’ll have to confiscate your phone.”

“Dude, isn’t it going to be kind of hard to catch me when you’re carrying all that weight?” Meg grinned as she stuffed the phone back into her bag and took off at a fast walk before he could get out another word. “Don’t worry—I’ll only use it for blackmail purposes,” she called over her shoulder.

“Go, Claire, go!” Pam shouted a moment later. Her shrill cry practically ruptured Ry’s eardrums. Who the hell cheered like a high school kid at an art competition, for God’s sake?

Tammy sighed again. “Y’all will have to forgive my dear wife. I’m afraid she played too close to the high voltage lines growing up, bless her heart.”

Ry gave up all control of the situation and laughed. Sometimes you just had to go with the flow.

* * *

Three out-of-towners were judging the quick draw contest. Two were artists, the other a curator from the Portland Museum of Art who’d grown up not far from Brides Bay. Claire had met them all and knew they liked her work, though the same could be no doubt said for several other entrants in the competition.

Her nerves jangled like wind chimes as she watched the judges peruse each of the paintings. She’d managed to finish hers with five minutes to spare, which she supposed was testimony to how often she’d practiced painting that particular scene. This time she’d added a few differences, including a somber, windswept, and dramatic sky over Brides Bay.

She’d agonized over whether to go with a sunny summer vista or a bleakly reflective fall scene and had finally settled on the more sober version. She hoped it would tap into the judges’ emotions more than a bright, cheery scene. But her choice also had something to do with the melancholy that plagued her whenever she thought about the impending demise of her beloved old house.

Her fellow artists and several dozen spectators were gathered around the judging ring. Meg and Cassidy were there, talking to the PamTam ladies. Ry had also shown up briefly during the competition. She’d turned when she heard somebody shriek out her name, then practically fell off her chair when she saw Pam perched high on Ry’s broad shoulders. It seemed like a weird but welcome signal that he was starting to settle into the community and perhaps even enjoy himself a little.

Maybe one of these days, the Hermit of Promise Island would even hang up his CFA hat for good.

“You’re a little nervous, I’m guessing,” a deep voice said from behind her.

Claire jerked around. Speak of the devil…

Ry smiled at her from a few feet away. She stared up at him, momentarily losing herself in his magnetic gaze.

“Well, that’s normal when you really care about something. Weren’t you nervous before the start of your hockey games?”

“All the time. This contest means that much to you?”

“More than it should, I’m afraid. I’m not exactly sure why.”

He moved to stand beside her. The judges had finished their examination of the paintings and were now comparing notes. “Maybe you’re just a naturally competitive person. I sure as hell was.”

“I understand it in your case. From what you’ve told me about your childhood, you obviously had a lot of natural talent and drive. Then you started competing really early.”

“I bet you had a lot of talent and drive from an early age too.”

She gave a little shrug. “My mom’s always been pretty laid back. Dad not so much. He liked to think he was the best lobsterman to ever fish out of Brides Bay, or maybe even all of Maine. He was competitive at more than fishing too. He entered the lobster boat races every year and usually finished at or near the top of his class. He was always tinkering with his diesel to squeeze out a few more horsepower.” She had fond memories of spending mornings on his boat, talking to him as he worked his mechanical magic.

“Your dad sounds like my kind of guy.”

“The problem was he liked to walk too close to the line, and it got him in the end.”

Ry looked as if he were weighing whether he should counter her grim response. Finally, he gave a barely noticeable shrug. “I know that was really rough on your family, At least he lived and died doing something he loved.”

As far as she was concerned, that was a crappy and selfish philosophy of life. “Tell that to my mom.” She waved a careless hand when he grimaced. “Sorry. I get where you’re coming from. But enough of that dreary stuff—how’s the tournament going? Any more catastrophes?”

“It’s all good over there. Carter’s keeping an eye on things while I’m gone.” He turned again toward the judges. “I just wanted to come over and see how you were doing. And get a closer look at your painting. It was a bit of a surprise to see your choice of subject.”

She’d figured it would be. Maybe that factor had even played a small role in her choice. “It was a no-brainer, really. That scene speaks to my heart. Besides, I’ve painted it so many times that I could do it in my sleep.”

Ry’s attention came back to her. “I can tell it’s stirred up some emotions too.”

“I think this will be the last time I paint it,” she said softly. “My mother keeps telling me I’ve got to stop romanticizing the past. That it’s time to move on and make new memories.”

He rested a big hand gently on her shoulder. His warmth penetrated the thin cotton of her shirt. “Claire, you don’t—”

He stopped when the crowd started to buzz.  Riley O’Flynn, the contest chair and a Spy Hill B&B owner, picked up the microphone from the judges’ table and turned it on. Claire crossed her arms over her chest and said a little prayer for either victory or the grace to cheerfully accept another defeat. After all, it was just a fun local competition. No biggie.

Yes, biggie.

“I’ve got my fingers crossed for you.” He lifted up his other hand to show her.

The silly gesture made her smile. “Thanks. But do both hands, please. I need all the help I can get.”

“Done.” He held up both hands with the fingers crossed.

“Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention.” Riley didn’t really need a PA system but he loved using it, speaking with ponderous gravity. For what seemed like an eternity, he proceeded to thank the judges, the volunteers, and the entrants, throwing in a couple of jokes that drew tepid laughter from the crowd. Then he said, “Our distinguished judges just told me that they have rarely seen such a fine collection of paintings emerge from a quick draw contest. So, each and every one of you talented artists is to be congratulated.”

“Oh, just get on with it, Riley, for heaven’s sake,” Pam shouted from behind him. “Moss is already starting to grow on me.”

“I agree with Pam,” Ry said under his breath.

“Riley can be a bit of a windbag,” Claire said, “but he’s always the first to volunteer when something needs to be done.”

“Hey, I thought you were always the first. Not only that, you volunteer me too.”

“Hush, now. Riley is going to start naming the winners.”

He snapped a quick salute. “Yes, ma’am. Sorry to distract you.”

He was joking with her, but the truth was that he could be very distracting. Still, she didn’t want to think about that problem right now. She’d been focusing far too much lately on her sexy, infuriating client. It was time to get back to basics, and that included a recommitment to her art.

“Ladies and gentlemen, our judges have awarded third place in the competition to…” Riley inhaled a deep breath, pausing a couple of moments before booming out, “Cassandra Winthrop from Bar Harbor!”

Cassandra had finished third last year too, and she didn’t look particularly happy as she stepped into the ring to take her plaque from the Portland museum judge.

“Now for second place,” Riley intoned a moment later as Claire was practically pitching forward in anticipation. If she didn’t finish second, then it would either be first place or the humiliation of being shut out.

“All right, let’s give a warm round of applause for…Andrew Duckworth of Lebanon, New Hampshire!”

Claire blew out the breath she discovered she’d been holding. Duckworth, a middle-aged man she didn’t know, strode up to the judge with a big smile. It was his first time competing in the Lobster Festival contest, so he had every right to be pleased with such a high finish.

“Okay, now we’re down to the last at bat,” Ry said. “Time to go big or go home.”

“Any more clichés you’d like to trot out from the Wide World of Sports?” Claire muttered.

“Just trying to break the tension, champ. Your jaw is so tight you’re liable to crack all your teeth.”

“Sorry,” she said sheepishly.

Quick draw or not, a big chunk of her soul had gone into that painting. Her worries, her sadness, and most of all, her cherished memories of her father and her life with him had poured from her hand through the brush and onto the canvas. That scene meant more to her than any she’d ever painted. Her heart was out there for everyone to see—or at least she hoped so. If not, then she suspected she’d never be anything but a fairly talented amateur, painting only as hobby.

Time to find out.

“Now for the big one, folks. Numero uno. The best of the best.” When Riley took the piece of paper the Portland judge handed him and read it, his eyes popped out like a shocked cartoon character. “Oh, my goodness, my friends, I think you’re going to love this one.”

Ry reached over and took her hand. Her heart in her throat, Claire was comforted by his warm, strong grip. It felt like a lifeline, and his strength seemed to flow straight into her.

“The winner of this year’s Lobster Festival quick draw contest is none other than our very own Claire Maddox!”

Claire was vaguely aware of a lot of cheering, but she’d barely begun to process the announcement when she found herself grabbed around the waist, lifted effortlessly off her feet, and spun in a circle. Ry was laughing as he looked up at her, his gaze open and happy.

When he put her down, her ears stopped buzzing and her brain finally kicked into gear. She managed a wave to the spectators, who were clapping and cheering. Pam was whooping it up and stomping around in a funny little dance of joy. Tammy was wiping tears from her eyes.

“You did it!” Ry crowed. “You won the whole damn thing.”

“Claire, Claire, Claire!” The chanting, no doubt led by Meg and Cassidy, washed over her as she stared up into his beaming face. He seemed happier than she was. Between Riley’s announcement and that exuberant spin, she was still so stupefied that she stood there like a dope as people swarmed her.

Ry gave her a little push in the back. “Better grab that award before they decide to give it to somebody else.”

All at once it became real, and joy cascaded over her like warm summer rain. “They’d have to fight me for it first,” she said, smiling back at him.

Inside the winner’s circle, she took the impressive glass plaque from Riley and posed for photos with the judges. Then the Portland Museum of Art curator took her aside and told her that her painting exhibited both superb technique and remarkable emotion.

“Your work was truly impressive for one created in less than two hours,” the curator said while giving her a warm hug. “I intend to keep a close eye on you from now on, Claire.”

Claire managed—just barely—not to break into cartwheels. She thanked the judge profusely and then made her way over to Meg and Cassidy, who mobbed her. Ry was standing right behind Cassidy, still smiling and looking, well, proud of her. It felt odd but wonderful that he seemed so pleased, especially after the awkwardness between them these last few weeks.

As she chatted with her buddies, she felt her phone buzz in her pocket. When she checked it, she saw the call was from a New York City area code.

She held up a hand to her friends and took a couple of steps away before answering. “Hello, this is Claire.”

“Claire, it’s Cole Ford. I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I’ve got some real bad news.”