Patterns in the Sand by Sally Goldenbaum Page A

with maybe a slight sea breeze to cool the back of her neck.
     
     
Izzy and Sam Perry were sitting on a small bench just outside the Brewster Gallery. “Nell, your face is as red as a lobster,” Izzy said, patting the open seat next to her on the bench.
     
     
Sam stood and kissed her on the cheek. “Hi, Nell. We spotted you deep in conversation and didn’t want to interrupt.”
     
     
Nell hugged Sam. “You can interrupt me anytime. It’s good to have you back. Are you here for a while this time?”
     
     
“Probably most of the summer. I’ll be teaching another photography class at the kids’ art academy like I did last summer—the funds for the summer academy are a little low this summer and Aidan knew I was cheap.” Sam laughed. “Besides, Izzy missed me more than a lost shipment of organic cotton—or whatever it is she sells in that little shop.”
     
     
“In your dreams, Perry,” Izzy said, standing up and nudging Sam gently in the small of his back. “Believe it or not, Nell, Sam is looking for a place of his own in Sea Harbor.” She looked up into the face of the sandy-haired man who had been her renter for more than a year now—and a friend for nearly her whole life.
     
     
“You’re buying a house here?”
     
     
Sam nodded. “I’ve soaked up Izzy’s hospitality long enough. She needs to rent that apartment out permanently and not worry about me coming and going. I think that spot could use someone a little more dependable to keep an eye on things.”
     
     
“So you heard about Izzy’s late-night visitor.”
     
     
Sam nodded. “Sounds innocent enough, I guess,” he said. “But it could have just as easily been otherwise.”
     
     
“And what would you have done, had you been here?” Izzy asked, her brows lifting up into a mass of highlighted hair, damp with perspiration.
     
     
“You doubt that I could be your hero, Iz? Save the lady’s shop from looters and pillagers.”
     
     
“Like I have so many of those. Willow Adams couldn’t hurt a fly. She was just tired, that’s all.”
     
     
Nell could read Sam’s thoughts easily, and they weren’t that far from her own. Willow might be harmless—that was probably true enough. But just a year before someone had broken into the apartment above the shop and caused considerable damage. And what happened once could happen again—even in a peaceful town like Sea Harbor. Having someone in the shop apartment who actually lived and worked in the town might be a very good thing, indeed.
     
     
Ben walked out, then, a wrapped painting beneath his arm. He greeted Sam warmly. “I’m on my way to Peabody’s. He’s hanging on to a piece for me, and I want to make sure no one talks him out of it. Anyone want to come along?”
     
     
“His place is packed,” Izzy said. “Between the Fishtail and Rebecca Marks’ new collection of beads, the cove is rocking.”
     
     
“And hotter than hell,” Sam added. “Way too many bodies for me. Birdie’s holding down the fort at the Artist’s Palate. I think I’ll join the lady.”
     
     
“Keep an eye out for Willow,” Nell called after them as they disappeared into the crowd.
     
     
The black sky felt heavy to Nell as she and Ben wove their way through the crowds of people staving off heat with cold beers and icy fruit drinks. But Canary Cove was still a magical place, even with the humid salt air blanketing the shops and studios. People were everywhere, talking and laughing, energized by the art that surrounded them. Tiny white lights outlined trees along the road and the narrow lanes that wound back behind galleries to studios and small cottages. And beyond them, a perfect backdrop for the sea of art, was the real sea, its waves slapping against the shore.
     
     
As predicted, Aidan’s Fishtail Gallery was packed. Like most of the galleries along Canary Road, Aidan’s shop was small, but his property stretched back up beyond the studio and his small home, into a wooded area that filled the side of a steep hill. The extra land was the