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Then hed closed it and put it away.
Thea drew back. "Is something wrong?"
He was saved by a sudden noise. People streamed into the restaurant in a buzzing, chattering throng.
"Damn. " She eased away from him, smoothed her hair. "Im staying at the St. Regis, Presidential suite. Im listed as Scarlett OHara. Come see me after the party. "
He wanted to say yes.
Were separated, for Gods sake. And at Birdies insistence. That gives you carte blanche, Jacko, said his bad side, the part of him that had been quiet for years.
But he knew.
He knew. Some boundaries remained.
"I dont think so, Thea. "
"What do you mean, you dont think so?" She sounded harsh, as if she hadnt been denied something in a long time.
"I cant. "
"There she is!" someone cried out as the crowd pushed toward them.
As Thea went to greet her fans, Jack got the hell out of there.
Because if he stayed, hed finish that Scotch, and then drink another and another, and sooner or later, hed forget the reasons not to go to Theas suite.
TWENTY-TWO
The newest art gallery in Echo Beach was on the corner of First and Main. A scrolled ironwork sign above the door read: ECLECTICA.
Only a few weeks ago, the Flying High Kite Shop had inhabited this space, but the new owners had obviously gone all out in refurbishing the site. Espresso-colored shingles covered the exterior; freshly planted flower boxes graced the area beneath the front window.
That window was blank now, covered from end to end by a sheet of black paper. A small sign was tacked to the glass. It read: no peeking. were doing the window display and youre going to love it.
Elizabeth glanced down at the piece of paper Daniel had given her. This was the place.
Just go see her, hed said over coffee; shes new in town and could use a little help.
Elizabeth had wanted to decline, but when Daniel looked at her with those incredibly blue eyes, shed automatically nodded.
Now, she wished shed been firmer. Most of the so-called art galleries in Echo Beach carried knickknacks--coasters made out of polished driftwood . . . Christmas ornaments made of that ugly Mount St. Helens ash that looked like a jumbled swirl of chocolate and vanilla ice cream . . . crocheted doilies . . . dried sand dollars in brown mesh netting, that sort of thing. She stayed away from most of them.
Still, a promise was a promise.
She opened the door and went inside. At her entrance, a bell tinkled overhead and a bird squawked loudly.
"Hello?"
There was no answer. She looked around.
To her left was a table filled with stunning wood sculptures. Most of them were women--nudes--from neck to hips. The wood was unbelievably rich and beautiful, the color of well-aged red wine, polished to silken perfection. She couldnt help touching one of the statues; her finger glided down a delicately curved shoulder.
On the next table was an exhibit of black-and-white photography. Each print was extravagantly matted in black suede and framed in gold. The photographer had masterfully captured the spirit of the coast in a series of strikingly original shots: a beach at low tide on a windy day . . . a misty, ethereal image of the lighthouse called Terrible Tilly . . . a haunting, nighttime picture of Haystack Rock, rising out of the surf like some ancient monolith.
On the back wall were several paintings. Enough, but not too many. There was a watercolor collage of open umbrellas. A multimedia abstract work that suggested a spinnaker puffed out with wind. The largest piece was a spectacular oil painting of Orca Point.
"Amazing," Elizabeth said softly to herself.
