For the Longest Time (6 page)

“Well, you know, there's always talking to her like she's a human being you just don't know very well. I think you'd be surprised,” Jake said, his annoyance returning.

“By the way she looks? Yeah, sounds like maybe. But no matter what she looks like now, she was
weird
. That shit doesn't change. The Henrys are all wired that way to begin with. And let's face it, Jake . . . you're pretty normal. We all are.”

And there it was.
“We.”
He'd been a member of their
circle for so long, he'd almost forgotten what it was like to be outside of it. Sam's words echoed ominously in his ears:
“Nothing ever changes here.”
He found himself stubbornly determined to prove her wrong.

“You have your head up your ass, as usual. Emma's not weird,” Jake pointed out. “And Andi is a sweetheart.”

Shane rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on. Emma's trying so hard to buck genetics that she's gone too far the other way. Having actual fun would probably make her snap. And Andi's a complete hippie. Sure, she's nice. Pot makes everybody nice. That doesn't mean painting your shutters a different shade of the rainbow every week just to piss off your neighbors is normal.”

“She's not a pothead!”

“You don't know that,” Shane insisted. “Who knows what goes on at that house? They've got a ton of land. It's not like anyone goes sniffing around out there. They're scared of being caught and tie-dyed.”

Jake slowed to take a good look at Shane. He hoped he'd find some hint that his friend was joking, but there was none. They never talked about the Henrys—never any reason to—but Shane's family lived out on the Crescent. The small-town snobbery Jake often forgot was there was showing, and he didn't much care for it.

“Way to be open-minded,” he said flatly. Shane was unfazed.

“I'm not pretending to be. Not even telling you what to do. But the Cove isn't Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood. And you can bet Thea hasn't forgotten that Sam gave her a black eye right before she left for college.”

“I— What?” Jake nearly tripped over his own shoes.

Shane's expression was smug, and Jake took some small satisfaction in the fact that his friend was now
huffing and puffing to keep up. “Yeah, maybe you should ask Sam about that. It's dinner conversation, anyway.”

“Maybe I will.” Sam had
punched
Thea? How the hell had he missed that? Even more surprising was that Thea had never said a word about it to him.

“Uh-huh. And while you're at it, keep in mind that Cici's back in town, and probably coming Saturday night.”

Another surprise. Maybe it was good Shane had hauled ass out here after all. Forewarned was forearmed, and Cecilia Ferris definitely merited some warning.

“What, did someone light the Bat-signal for everyone to come back to the Cove? I haven't seen Cici since the Christmas before last. She was with that guy she married. Hedge fund manager guy,” he said.

“You mean douche. The guy was a douche, Jake,” Shane said, so serious that Jake started laughing. “I guess they split. I don't know what happened. But she's back in town. If she looks half as good as she did last time I saw her, you're going to want to be as single as possible.”

“We've been through that. Didn't work the first time. Wouldn't work now.”

“Why not?” Shane asked. “Be like old times.”

Jake shot Shane a beleaguered look. “No. Cici split right about the time she figured out I was serious about expressing canine anal glands for a living. We ended it friendly, but it definitely ended. It's going to stay that way.”

“So . . . you don't care if I hit on her, then?”

They looked at each other, and all of Jake's irritation evaporated as Shane waggled his eyebrows at him. Especially because he knew that Shane was dead serious. He was, for better or worse, basically a twelve-year-old with a law degree.

“Have at it,” Jake said.

Shane gave an exaggerated fist pump, hissing out a dramatic “Yesssss.” Then threw his head back, groaned, and announced, “Okay, enough exertion for me. I'm going home to my couch and a pile of paperwork. You have fun running in the dark. Watch it, though. You'll probably attract the Cove's lone mugger.”

“Tucker would eat him.” At the sound of his name, Tucker looked up at Jake happily, tongue lolling as he trotted along.

“Yeah, or something,” Shane said. “I'll catch up with you later this week.”

“You got it.” He watched as Shane lifted his hand for a single wave and jogged off, slowing considerably once he could set his own pace. Jake was just glad for the quiet. Shane made it sound like he was bringing a social outcast to the cool kids' table, not having dinner with an interesting woman. Hopefully that wasn't a sign of things to come. Especially because he had a feeling that reactions like Shane's were exactly what Sam would expect.

He didn't want her to hate it here. That was, for whatever reason, important to him. He wanted her to enjoy their dinner. And he really wanted to know about Thea's long-ago black eye. Simple enough requests, he thought. Even if nothing about all this seemed very simple anymore. The woman herself in particular.

The sky was a beautiful, deepening red now, and the lights atop the old-fashioned lampposts dotting the route glowed. Jake's breathing was rhythmic, his movements fluid. The scenery, both familiar and comforting, helped him find some balance again. Sam had thrown him off—in good ways, mostly, though he guessed the jury was still
out on what the end result would be. But things would smooth out again quickly enough, he told himself.

They always did.

With the memory of Sam's big blue-green eyes dancing through his head, Jake gave himself over to the run and found, after a while, a little peace.

S
am got up early Tuesday morning, dressing carefully in skinny black pants, spindly heels, and a long, loose black sweater with a little shimmer in the thread. A little mascara and gloss, a simple pair of silver hoop earrings, and a quiet argument with her hair later, she clicked downstairs for her coffee. A quick look at her phone revealed a text message that couldn't be from anyone but Jake.

Burgers? Sushi? Help me out here. I have planning issues.

The time stamp on the message was six a.m., an hour ago. Had he been thinking about her when he got up? The thought had her stomach doing a strange little dance. It wasn't helping with the nerves she already had going on this morning. She considered ignoring the text until later, but that lasted all of about thirty seconds. She took a sip of her coffee, tapped a finger on the counter, then wrote back.

We can figure it out on Saturday. It's not a big deal.

She pushed
SEND
, then wondered how the man could be up in arms about a dinner days away at this hour of the morning. She could barely think about food until lunchtime, at which point she'd be inhaling whatever she could find. Eating a granola bar was about all she could manage before then. But thinking about sushi before breakfast? Ew.

The buzz as the phone vibrated on the counter surprised her. She frowned at the lit screen where his return message waited. The butterflies in her stomach were joined by reinforcements. He'd been waiting for her to answer him. She was talking to Jake over her morning coffee. Somewhere deep inside, her sixteen-year-old self was making the sort of high-pitched sounds that could shatter glass.

Nope, no good. Need a plan.

Sam exhaled loudly through her nose, amused despite herself. She remembered this secret type-A side of his. It had surprised her then. Now, it was a useful way to twist his tail a little. She smirked to herself and texted back.

Then make a plan. I eat. That should be enough to go on.

This time her phone was silent for a couple of minutes, so she thought he might have given up. There was a pang of disappointment when the screen stayed dark, which she tried to shame herself out of. Then, just as she was getting up to make cup number two, there was another buzz. This time, she dashed back across the kitchen to grab it. What the hell, no one was looking. She couldn't
stop the burst of laughter when she realized he'd sent a picture of Loki's face, along with the message:

Don't make me play the “I have your kitten” card.

Sam sighed, and rubbed at her forehead. She remembered this, the good-natured teasing, his sense of humor. It had always been so easy to fall into conversation with him, even though he'd been talking to someone who was basically forbidden to him because of his social status, and she'd been overwhelmed that he was interested enough to risk the ridicule. Well, for a while, anyway.

It shouldn't be this easy to fall back into their old pattern. She needed to stay wary, proceed with caution. And she would. But . . .

Sam narrowed her eyes, considered for a moment, then texted him back. He wasn't the only one who could tease.

You just did. Vengeance will be mine.
After burgers.

She sent the message, only realizing afterward that she was grinning like an idiot. Not that she could really stop it. Sam stirred a little sugar into her coffee and scrolled through the morning news, just starting to get interested in an article when what seemed to be Jake's final word on the subject popped up.

I never said I was above blackmail.
Burgers it is. Good luck at work today.
P.S. The cat was in on it.

Sam smiled, even if her heart seemed to be beating too fast and she felt oddly light-headed. Wishing it was just nerves didn't change the truth. Jake was funny, and charming, and handsome as sin. Just like he'd always been. And she'd be willing to bet that he also ran with the same people and went the same places as he always had. That made it hard not to think that whatever his interest in her was, it couldn't be deep enough to overcome the fact that he was woven into the fabric of the Cove in a way she never had been, and never would be.

Still, the thought behind the messages was sweet. It was . . . well, it was something, anyway.

And she had a busy day ahead, Sam decided, picking up her mug and heading for the granola bars in the pantry. She'd figure all of this out later. After. Hopefully. But for now, the safest thing to do was to put Jake and his messages out of her mind.

Still, she found herself picking up the phone to respond one last time.

Thanks. You, too.
P.S. You only think the cat works for you.
Start sleeping with your eyes open.

Sam smiled to herself, satisfied, and went to rinse out her mug. Ready or not, it was time to start the day.

* * *

Zoe was lying in wait when she arrived at nine, and from then on out, Sam no longer had space in her head for anything but art. After the last few months, that was a state she was relieved to find herself in.

“We rotate the work monthly,” Zoe was saying, “to offer fresh perspective and showcase new pieces. We also
participate in First Fridays—I'll e-mail you the schedule—with a different theme each month.”

Sam looked up from tracing the fluid lines on a wooden rocker with her fingers.

“The Cove does First Fridays? Since when?” she asked.

“Since about four years now, from what I understand,” Zoe replied, looking bemused. “When you said you didn't get home much, I guess I should have believed you. I like to pick a theme for the evening, then have some of the artists come in and hang out with the public. We have hors d'oeuvres and things, and Grace Levrett—that's her work there, the nature photos— usually handles the music. It's been really successful. Makes the work much more accessible, and it always thrills people when they realize someone they know has a real gift.”

“Oh,” Sam said, liking the idea, even if it meant she might have to mingle. She could be social when she had to. Even here. It was probably a good thing she'd have the outlet, really, since she had complete confidence in her inability to cultivate a whirlwind social life here.

“October's is coming up this Friday, as a matter of fact. It'll be a nice chance for you to meet our artists. You'll like Zeke,” Zoe said, inclining her head toward the rocking chair. “He's a retired salesman who just happens to be a master woodworker. Mouth like a sailor and looks like one of those doomsday preppers, but as nice as they come underneath it all. And his work . . . well, you can see the quality.”

Sam nodded. Some people might look and see just a pretty, unique chair. She saw hours of work and finesse, an eye for simple grace with just a touch of whimsy, and a clear respect for the wood itself. It gleamed in the
filtered light, cherry and rosewood. She ran her hand over the curved back and could almost feel the love that had been poured into this.

Deep inside, she felt something that was almost inspiration, though it quickly twisted itself into despair.
I'll never feel what this artist felt again. It's gone.
Wallowing was counterproductive, though, so she pushed it aside.

“It's amazing,” she said, forcing her hand away from the silken wood.

She knew she'd sounded stiff, because Zoe tilted her head at her, speculation in her storm gray eyes. Sam found herself relieved when Zoe simply kept on with the tour.

“Here, let me show you some of our newest pieces. The sculptures over here are by an emerging artist named Aaron Maclean. He's getting some very nice attention, and so are we for having him here.”

Sam followed, enjoying herself as Zoe's voice, rich as warm cream, washed over her. After Gallerie Mona, which had exhibited only established artists—and only work that conformed to Mona's rather specific taste—seeing so much variety was a treat. She was walked through the work of artists who specialized in oil, in acrylic, in glass. There were two incredible photographers with very different interests, a silversmith, three potters and a jeweler who worked with natural stone and handcrafted polymer beads. In all, according to Zoe, there were twenty-five artists whose work was on offer at present, with several others on a wait list for when space opened up.

“We have a boilerplate contract, and a separate onetime contract for the artists who are only doing a show. That's more unusual, given that we're still getting
established and we're not exactly in the middle of everything, but I've been happy with the few we've done. We'll go over the terms of each contract so you're familiar with the specifics, but there isn't anything out of the ordinary. Standard fifty percent commission. Two Roads is also available for small events for no more than fifty people. Cocktail parties and things. It's been a good source of some extra income.”

“Nice,” Sam said. It was a beautiful space. She imagined it would lend itself well to small gatherings. Zoe had pursed her lips and looked like she was remembering something unpleasant.

“It is nice. Unless Al Piche is on the invite list. I didn't used to bother checking on specific people, but I finally had to make an exception. He's not welcome back unless someone promises to tie him to something.”

Sam winced. “Oh God. Big Al.” She wasn't surprised he was still around. She was afraid to consider what he might have decided on for a career, though. Not that he probably needed it. The family had money to burn. “Did he get naked?”

“No. He kept his fancy T-shirt—you know, one of those shirts that's supposed to look like a tux, with the bow tie?—on. Why, is getting naked on the list of things he does?”

“There aren't really a lot of things
not
on the list of things Big Al does,” Sam said. “He's like a Cove legend. If it's stupid and survivable, he's probably done it. Usually with an audience and someone holding his beer.”

“I guess we got off lucky with a few broken pieces of pottery, then. And a YouTube video of him doing the Pants Dance that I don't ever want to see again.” Zoe closed her eyes and shook her head. “Anyway, with the
tourism built in here, we get a lot of traffic and interest that we wouldn't otherwise,” Zoe said. “It's one of the reasons I picked this place.” Then she took a deep breath, looked around, and nodded approvingly. “There've been bumps, and I haven't made Harvest Cove the art mecca of New England yet, but so far we're making out.”

Sam's eyebrows lifted. “Just making out? I do know how to use the Internet, you know. Six months ago you had a great write-up in The Boston Globe. Not to mention that this place looks amazing.” It did, too, Sam thought. Zoe had managed to open the old house up and give it a more modern feel without sacrificing its original character.

Zoe lifted her shoulders, tipping her head from side to side in what seemed to be partial agreement. “Okay, the Globe thing was pretty incredible. One of their “Arts” writers has family here, and I guess we impressed him when he was visiting. I just always feel like I could be doing better. This place is my baby.”

“It's a pretty baby,” Sam said, and meant it. Two Roads wouldn't be competing with the opulent gleam of larger city galleries, but it pretty obviously wasn't meant to. There was a warmth to this place, and for all her mixed feelings about the Cove, she had to admit that Zoe had done an amazing job of evoking the best of her hometown. Everywhere she looked there was something that sparked a memory, and to her surprise, none of those memories were bad. A midwinter scene of a snow-covered field, oil on canvas, brought back images of her father pulling her and Emma in their old sled and singing a ridiculous song while they laughed. A glass sphere filled with undulating ribbons of color took her back to summers that had seemed endless—ice cream and
fireworks and pinwheels, bursts of flavor and color that were as pure as the days in which she'd first experienced them. Even the scent of the gallery, one Zoe had no doubt chosen with care, triggered a cascade of images that startled Sam with their clarity. She breathed in apples and cinnamon, and all she could think of was her mother pulling a pie from the oven at the holidays, all the warmth of home she'd convinced herself she didn't need.

The wave of crushing sadness that crashed through her said otherwise.

Dismayed at the sting of tears, Sam blinked rapidly and cleared her throat.

“What about the upstairs?” she asked, forcing herself to focus on more important things than the messy, happy kid she'd once been. That was then, this was now, and having some kind of weird emotional breakdown in the middle of her new place of employment was not going to fix the fact that it was no longer acceptable for her to make mud pies and wear overalls. “You own the whole building, right?”

Zoe nodded. “Mmm. You want to know if I have studio space.”

Way to start off your job by giving sage advice to the boss.
But she'd already blundered on in like a hippo in a tutu and there was nothing to be done for it, so she pressed on. “Well, from the outside it looks like you might have the space, but you didn't mention that you offered any and it doesn't look like you want people up there right now, so I just . . . wondered,” Sam said, glancing at the velvet rope hung between the posts at the bottom of the stairs.

Zoe didn't look the least bit perturbed by the question. Instead, she studied the stairs. “That rope won't be
up much longer. Apart from a little finish work, the studios are almost ready to go. It took some doing, though. Before I got the contractors in here, I didn't even like to set foot upstairs. I kept expecting to walk into a room and find the girl from The Ring. Or one of those things that looks like a person but has stretchy arms and legs and walks on all fours. And eats people's souls.”

Sam winced. She'd never been able to sit through horror movies. Her sleep was broken enough as it was. “Great. Um, maybe I'll wait until they're all finished before I have a look.”