"We should eat," she said. "By all means."
He chose a popular Caribbean restaurant on Haight. It was crowded, noisy, casual—the sort of place where intimacy wasn't an option. They were led to a small table in front of the window, people all around them. The boxy, cinder-block building might once have been a garage or gas station. Now, with its deep, rich island colors, potted trees, and festive music, it pulsated with fun and energy.
Annie frowned over her menu while she waited for the margarita she'd ordered even before they'd sat down. Garvin suggested they share tapas, the restaurant's version of appetizers. She agreed, and they decided on three: fried calamari with a spicy sauce, red potatoes and onions with a couple different sauces, and steamed mussels in a broth of scallions.
When her margarita arrived, Annie took a sip and licked a bit of salt from the rim of her glass, aware of Garvin's eyes on her. He had ordered a beer but hadn't touched it yet. "Maybe I've been too hard on you," she said. "It can't have been easy for you seeing Sarah after all this time."
"It wasn't."
"She's changed a lot?"
He took up his beer and drank. "Yes."
"I met her about two weeks ago. She came to my gallery one day. She wasn't as eccentrically dressed as she usually is, but, still, you can see why she wasn't recognized. Apparently she liked what she saw and called and asked me to come see her, saying she had a business proposition. So off I went. Then when I saw her work—"
"You were hooked."
Annie sipped her margarita; it was strong and tangy, and she only felt a twinge of guilt for leaving Otto alone in Garvin's car. "So much so I didn't ask half the questions I should have when she suggested I represent her at the Linwood auction."
"You didn't wonder why she wanted that particular painting?"
"Of course I did. But it was easy to assume she was just being eccentric, and maybe it was convenient on my part. I'd like to represent her in my gallery. If I'd ever dreamed I'd get caught up in two unsolved murders, stir up so many awful memories for people, I'd probably have turned her down and tried another way to earn her trust."
Their food arrived, effectively changing the mood of the conversation—and the subject. Annie eyed the fried calamari dubiously but took one onto her plate with a dab of sauce. "They're tiny little suckers, aren't they?"
"What about your social life?"
Annie dipped another mussel onto her plate, glad to have a reason not to meet his eyes. "This was small-town Maine, Garvin. It wouldn't have been easy for someone like me, the director of a local museum, well known in town, to shack up with a guy even if I didn't live with my grandmother."
"But you did have men in your life," he persisted.
"I had a romance or two." She spooned some of the rich, oniony mussel broth onto her potatoes. "To be honest, I wasn't much interested in most of the men I knew. They were more like brothers to me."
Garvin leaned over the table, the music loud in the background, people laughing, dishes clattering. He seemed to hear none of it. "I'm not interested in being a brother to you."
"Good," she said lightly, "because I'm not interested in having you for a brother."
He sat back. "Your grandmother—her death must have been difficult for you."
"She was ninety-one. She'd lived her life on her own terms, which isn't to say it didn't have its fair share of tragedies. She was sick for about three months."
"You nursed her."
She nodded, remembering their quiet nights together on the bay, just listening to the tide wash in over the rocks. "It wasn't a sacrifice on my part. She was a wonderful woman, and she was all the family I had left. I could never get that time with her back. It's gone now forever."
"I don't doubt you, Annie." His eyes had taken on a warm intensity. "And then after she died and your cottage was lost, you headed west."
"Yep." She smiled, sitting back. "And here I am."
Garvin ordered strong coffee for them both. Annie wasn't worried about being up all night. She wouldn't sleep, no matter what she drank.
Neither, she suspected, would he.
"Annie," he said at length, "Sarah Linwood's not your grandmother."
"No, she's not. For one thing, Sarah's just in her fifties, and she's a Linwood. Gran seldom left her peninsula and I don't think left Maine more than a dozen times in her entire life. She was a fisherman's daughter and a fisherman's wife, and yes, she was a painter. A wonderful painter. But I'm not looking to replace my grandmother. I know perfectly well loved ones can't be replaced."
Garvin nodded, saying nothing.
"That doesn't mean I can't let new people into my life," Annie went on passionately, more so than she intended. "I know life's pretty much a here-today-gone-tomorrow proposition. But I've learned I can't be afraid of being disloyal to the ones I've lost. Otherwise I'll be lost too."
"Annie—"