"He's on the mend."
"Well, I hope he got a lick in before he went down. Look—I don't want to keep you two. I just wanted to make an appearance, make sure you were okay. Sarah got home all right last night?"
"She was tired," Garvin said, "but otherwise fine."
"What a weird evening. Jesus. Guess it's not really my problem, though." He raked a hand through his dark hair, pushed his glasses up on his nose. "Well. I just wanted to check in and make sure everything was all right."
Annie smiled. "Thank you. The police didn't find any useful evidence—no fingerprints or eyewitnesses—but Otto's doing well, and right now, that's enough for me. Really, there was nothing you could have done. The damage was already done when we arrived."
"But if whoever broke in had been waiting for you—if we'd arrived any earlier—"
"Moot points," Annie said graciously.
"I suppose." Ethan shifted from Annie to Garvin and then back again. He was jumpy, Garvin thought. Last night hadn't been Ethan Conninger's idea of the good life. Working for the Linwoods was supposed to be low on stress and high on perks. He rubbed the back of his neck. "Do the police really think Vic Denardo's involved?"
"They're keeping their options open," Annie said.
"The bastard. Christ, I think about it and—" He broke off with a heavy sigh and turned to Garvin. "This must be hell for you. If you want to go out on the water sometime to get away, forget all this, give me a yell."
"I will, thanks."
He gave Annie an encouraging wink, and departed. Annie finished closing up. Garvin watched her practiced movements and felt her satisfaction. She was doing what she loved. She wanted her gallery to succeed because she loved running it, arranging the artwork, keeping track of the finances, introducing people to new artists. She would relish even the dusting, the watering of the pots of pansies and cyclamen, the sweeping, and the fertilizing. Seeing her reminded him of his years in school, then in the financial district, when he'd absorbed every detail and nuance he could, loved even the mundane and the arcane aspects of his profession. It wasn't just ego that drove him, but a passion for the work itself.
Annie popped next door to say good-bye to Zoe Summer, then was ready. She pulled out her barrette and let her hair hang loose as they walked out to Union Street, crowded and well-lit early on a dead-of-winter evening. The mist remained unchanged, not developing into a steady rain or even a proper drizzle.
"We can see Sarah first," Annie said, "then Otto."
"Makes sense to me."
Her concentrated expression suggested it didn't matter to her if it didn't. A week ago she'd bought a painting she'd hoped would lead to her presentation of a major new artist. Instead, it had led her into the murky depths of two unsolved murders and into bed with a man she wasn't sure wouldn't run right over her to solve those murders.
Had warned her he would. Had warned himself.
She ducked into a coffee shop for a cappuccino and biscotti to go, and five minutes later they were heading out toward Market Street.
"About last night," Annie said, biting into her biscotti.
"Annie, if you want to forget last night—"
She fixed her gaze on him. "Is that what you want me to do?"
He cast her a brief look. "It's not a question of what I want."
"It's not, is it? Well, I'll have you know I didn't go to bed with you last night out of a sense of charity or confusion. I knew exactly what I was doing. If you've any regrets, they're yours, not mine."
He smiled. He couldn't help himself. "I've no regrets." He did, actually. He should have stayed with her and made love to her through the night. "Do you?"
She gave a tight shake of the head.
"Annie, when that storm took your cottage, what did you do?"
She frowned. "What do you mean what did I do? Garvin, what's this got to do with anything?"
"Did you get hopping, spitting mad? Scream, throw a fit, heave big rocks into the ocean? What?"
"I carried on."
"Ah."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. I'm just not surprised. You're a survivor, Annie. A stiff-upper-lip Mainer. But nature had dealt you a hell of a blow. Weren't you pissed?"
"Of course I was."
"So how did you deal with it?"
She squirmed. Such talk, Garvin could see, made her uncomfortable. She was accustomed to keeping her pain to herself, sharing it with no one. "I tried my best not to take my emotions out on my friends, my insurance agent, or Otto. What happened to my cottage wasn't their fault. So when I felt overwhelmed and self-pitying and furious, I'd—" She stopped, glanced at him. "Are you sure you want to know?"