An Invincible Summer (Wyndham Beach #1)(10)
“He’s coming to the reception tonight but not to the luncheon tomorrow, if you’re wondering.” Liddy followed Maggie’s gaze toward the street, then proceeded through the intersection.
“Oh, I wasn’t—” Maggie began to protest, but Liddy cut her off.
“Of course you were. But that wasn’t . . . the chief.” She smiled as she caught herself almost speaking the verboten name.
Maggie’s cheeks reddened as she tried to deny she’d been staring at the police car. As much as she hated to admit it even to herself, of course she was curious about Brett, and of course she’d known for years he was the Wyndham Beach police chief. On the one hand, she’d hoped to avoid him all weekend. On the other, thinking about seeing him—or not seeing him, she couldn’t decide which would be worse—caused a dull ache to settle in her chest.
God, I sound like a fifteen-year-old, she chastised herself even as she realized that was how old she’d been when she and Brett first met. It wasn’t easy, but she managed to turn off the memory button in her head when Liddy entered the parking lot at the art center.
Emma’s touch was everywhere in the art center, which was housed in a renovated white clapboard building sitting by itself on a spit of land overlooking Buzzards Bay. Exhibition space shared the first floor with two offices, and there were classrooms for painting, photography, sculpture, and children’s art housed on the second. A small outbuilding was devoted to pottery and metalcraft.
“I can’t believe you raised all the funds for the building’s renovation by yourself, Emma,” Maggie exclaimed. “You’re amazing.”
“The community has been very supportive, but most of the funding comes from Chris, to tell the truth. He paid for all the work in here and makes a monthly donation to keep the place heated in slow months,” Emma confided. “I think he thinks it excuses him from not coming home more often.”
“Or maybe it’s just his way of showing support for his mama,” Maggie said.
“Maybe,” Emma replied. “We have the makings of a nice little artists’ colony here. We’re starting slow, only taking a few members this summer because we don’t have living quarters to offer. There are no places in town for rent, so unless the applicants know someone who’ll put them up, they’re on their own until we can figure out something we can offer. I’d love to somehow get the Harrison family to open up that mansion of theirs. It’s sitting there, no one’s living in it, you know, and it would be perfect.” Emma’s eyes took on a dreamy glow.
“None of them have moved back to Wyndham Beach?” Maggie asked.
Emma shook her head. “Someone comes back to bring out the carousel every five years, plunks it out there in the park, lets all the local kiddies have a ride.”
“That was in someone’s will, right?” Maggie tried to remember the story. “They have to share the carousel with the town every fifth summer or the estate will be broken up and sold. Something like that?”
“Exactly. Harry’s father was executor of the last Jasper Harrison’s will. He was the one who bought the carousel back in the 1940s. After his father died, Harry cleaned out his desk and found a copy of the old man’s will, which he showed me. The wording was ‘no less than every fifth summer, preferably on the Fourth of July.’ But it’s never been brought out more than every five years.”
“So I take it you haven’t been able to track down the heirs yet?” Liddy turned her attention from a painting she’d been studying that hung in the foyer.
“Still trying. I have learned Owen Harrison inherited everything, but so far he hasn’t returned my calls.” She smiled slyly. “He can run but he can’t hide. I will find him.”
Maggie laughed. “My money’s definitely on you, Em. Track him down and drag him back by the scruff of the neck if necessary.”
“That’s the plan.” Emma took Maggie by the elbow and led her into the exhibition area. “Now, these are all works by local artists. Take your time looking around. I think you’ll agree we have some true talent in our little town.”
Maggie and Liddy spent almost an hour viewing and discussing the exhibited pieces, from the enormous freestanding hands sculpted from clay to the watercolor landscapes to the pottery that reflected all the colors of the bay beyond the art center. Liddy paused in front of a very large contemporary painting of muted grays and taupes, with sharp lightning bolts of red and gold slashed across the canvas.
“Wow, there’s so much energy there,” Maggie remarked. The swirls of color were almost electric. “The swashes of red and gold make such a bold statement against that subdued background.”
Liddy pointed to the name of the artist: Jessica Christy Bryant.
“Oh. It’s Jess . . .” Maggie’s voice faded away momentarily. Of course, she’d known Jessie had been an artist. She’d started designing greeting cards when she was in middle school. Never sold commercially, the cards had been sent to relatives and friends. Following her mother’s death, Maggie had cleaned out a desk drawer in the house on Cottage Street and found dozens of cards her mother had received from Jess over the years for various occasions. She’d taken them back to Bryn Mawr, and when Grace saw them, she mentioned she, too, had been the recipient of the wonderfully imaginative and colorful birthday and holiday cards. The Christmas card she’d received three years ago had been the last she’d gotten.