telling Caroline that she needs to overcome all that Southern belle breeding to work on her artistic arrogance,” Mike said on a hearty laugh. “She is, hands down, the best student I’ve ever taught. I’m trying to talk her into exhibiting at the annual boat festival for Harbor Days.”
“I’m certainly not at that level,” she protested.
“There she goes again. Underestimating herself.” The artist/entrepreneur shook his head. “That’s something we’re going to have to work on.”
As they smiled across the table at each other, getting lost in each other’s eyes—oh, hell—they could have been two teenagers in the throes of first love. Seth had no problem remembering that morning Zoe had walked into middle school class, their eyes had met and, at thirteen, he’d fallen like a stone rolling down Mount Olympus.
“Well, not that you asked me, but if Mike thinks you’ll be ready to take part in the exhibition, I think you should go for it,” Seth said. “As for your natural talent, you did, after all, attend the South Carolina School of Art and Design.”
“Only for two years. And I was studying fabric design, not painting, before I dropped out.”
To marry his father. No way was Seth going to go there. “Their loss. And you’ve always drawn the architectural renderings of the company’s projects.” Not just to promote the company on its website, but to give clients an idea of how their buildings would turn out.
“Those are only illustrations.”
“Only snobs draw a strict line between fine art and illustration,” Mike said. “Both forms need the same elements: successful lighting, color and composition. And while the argument will probably rage forever, because everyone’s definition of art is a personal one, if art is about communicating a message, then illustration is definitely fine art.”
They were getting over his head, but there was one thing Seth did know. “Blueprints don’t tell anyone who can’t envision them in three dimensions anything. But when clients see your illustrations, with the interiors, exteriors, even landscaping, they can imagine themselves living there. They see themselves on that porch swing, or playing with their children in the backyard. Or having summer dinners on the deck or patio. You bring the blueprints alive and allow them to keep the faith during all the hectic months of construction, which can be depressing for even the most optimistic buyer.”
All the years he’d been growing up, she’d carried around a sketchbook in her oversize purse so she could draw scenic sites around the peninsula. When had she stopped doing that?
“Your son,” Mike said, “just made my point. You’re definitely an artist.”
“My son is prejudiced.”
“Probably so. But that doesn’t mean he also isn’t right.”
“And hey,” Seth said, “when you’re a famous watercolor artist, I’ll be able to boast that your very first painting is hanging on my wall.”
Caroline laughed, then opened her menu—which, natch, boldly proclaimed to be printed on recycled paper—and began pointing out items that he’d enjoy. She’d always been a warm and caring person. But this laughing, happy New Age druid earth mother sitting across the wooden table reminded him of a bright butterfly newly emerged from a chrysalis.
Michael Mannion was a long way from a starving artist. Although Seth wasn’t into Honeymoon Harbor’s art scene, he knew Michael’s work must sell well enough to allow him to spend years traveling the world. And now he’d returned home to buy another of the abandoned warehouses rebuilt by one of Seth’s ancestors after the fire. Unlike the pub’s bricks, it had been built with rocks that had originally served as ship ballast.
A gallery, featuring not just Mike’s but other local artists’ and artisans’ work, took up the street level floor; his loft and studio took up the entire third floor. At the moment the second floor was vacant, but plans were for Harper Construction to turn it into a communal work space for Olympic Peninsula craftspeople.
The conversation, which Seth had admittedly not been looking forward to, flowed easily, covering the weather, always a topic in the wait-a-minute-and-it’ll-change Pacific Northwest; the pod of orcas they’d seen this morning, three calves breaching playfully; and the news that an award-winning woodcrafter from Seattle, who’d created artisan furniture for some of Seth’s wealthier clients, was close to becoming the first tenant to take space on the second floor of Mike’s building.
Since he’d been hired for the initial work, Seth had come to know both the building and the painter well. Remodeling, especially a building dating back to the late 1800s, was not for the fainthearted. Having been forced to be the bearer of bad construction news on more than one occasion, Seth knew Mike Mannion to be a patient and good man. One who’d treat his mom well.
Still, as he dug into his surprisingly not bad cremini mushroom meatloaf topped with cornbread made with organic cornmeal from Blue House Farm outside town, Seth realized that wherever this budding romance was headed, Caroline Harper might not be returning home. Which, as happy as he was to see his mother enjoying her life, meant that his already strained situation with his dad was about to get a whole lot worse.
ONE OF THE things Brianna loved best about her profession was that, on any given day, she never knew what was going to happen at work. Which typically was nonstop. She needed to be ready for any question, any request, because, as she’d discovered, any guest could ask her anything. This morning, as she arrived at her office, her assistant, Brad, was waiting with her coffee. Something she’d never requested, but since he’d started the habit his first day and was inordinately proud of his French press, she certainly wasn’t going to turn him down.
“The man called,” Brad said before she’d even sat down at the cluttered work desk guests never saw. Which, because she’d insisted she couldn’t work on something that looked as if Marie Antoinette might have chosen it, was simply painted a fresh, clean white. The Cape Cod style reminded her of her Honeymoon Harbor roots and helped keep things in perspective when she spent sixty hours a week in a gilded palace. “He asked to see you as soon as you got in.”
That, in itself, wouldn’t have triggered any concern. Hyatt Huntington, general manager of both the resort hotel and the casino, was even more of a workaholic than Brianna, often boasting that he had no trouble getting by on three hours of sleep a night. There were many days when she’d arrived early to find a stack of messages already waiting. She had, after several weeks of sleepless nights, convinced him that she didn’t have his superpowers and could do her job much better if he stopped texting her all night.
Still, she couldn’t miss the seeds of worry in Brad’s normally smiling blue eyes. “Sure. Would you let him know I’m on my way?”
“Of course.”
With his romance cover model looks, Brad could have made a bundle in tips if he’d chosen to work on the casino floor. But, as she’d once done, he’d opted to work his way up the ladder, learning the ropes at previous hotels before this one, that would hopefully someday earn him entry into the prestigious Les Clefs d’Or. It had been Brianna’s membership in the international organization of concierges at the pinnacle of the profession, along with stellar recommendations from previous employers, that had won her this job, which had been the most sought-after position in the city.
Grateful for the burst of caffeine before meeting with the high-energy hotel manager, she took a sip of the perfectly brewed coffee. Oh, yes, with his ability to anticipate every need, Brad had a successful career ahead of him.
“Did he mention what it’s about?” The general manager usually sent her a blizzard of messages every day. Ones that Brad, who had to triage them by importance, had taken to calling Huntington’s snowflakes.
“No. But he didn’t sound very happy.”
“Then