“Garcia. We made our share of double plays. But a kid—”
“I want to use kids for basketball, and your mom suggested using another, with Mom or Dad holding on to the back of a bike. Just lost the training wheels sort of thing. Speaking of Owen, is he coming today?”
“He should be here pretty soon.”
“Let’s make a deal.” She finished wiping paws, then cupped Trey’s face. “If, after your mother takes the shots, you honestly don’t like yours, I’ll think of something else.”
“I strongly dislike that’s fair.”
“Good. Now, where would you like to start?”
“Why don’t we head up, work our way down?”
She hung the vest and scarf on the mudroom hooks.
“We should wait for Owen…” Both dogs barked and took off toward the front of the house. “And I think the wait’s over.”
The minute she opened the door, Jones strutted in. He accepted the greetings, sniffed at Sonya’s shoes, and appeared to approve.
“Thanks for doing this, Owen.”
“Hey, who doesn’t like a treasure hunt?”
“No jacket?”
“Got one in the truck.” He stood in jeans with a flannel shirt open over a black tee. “It’s April.”
“We’re going to go up, work down,” Trey told him.
When they started up, the dogs charged ahead.
“Looks like we’ve got a whole crew,” Sonya commented.
“Where’s Lafayette?”
“In her studio. I should get her.”
Owen looked ahead. “I’ll do it. Attic first?”
“Meet you there,” Trey told him as Owen peeled off.
* * *
Owen made his way down the hallway to the small turret, then stopped in the doorway.
She had her back to him as she faced the easel, a paintbrush in one hand, a wooden palette in the other.
She’d set the place up, he thought, pretty much as he’d expected. Not really fussy, but definitely on the girly side of things.
She’d shoved her ton of hair mostly on top of her head and wore a faded, oversized shirt—as a smock or whatever, he assumed.
From her desk, her computer played whale song.
Then she stepped back, angled her head. And he saw the painting.
He could see it wasn’t finished, but what was went straight to his gut.
The mermaid sat on a rocky shore, half turned to sea, half turned toward shore. Her tail—it wasn’t green or blue or gold or red, but all of that and more—swept through the water.
He could see it move in his mind, trailing through the churning blue water and white foam.
Her hair, not quite brown, not quite red, showed streaks of pale blond as it tumbled down her bare back.
He saw something serene in her face, though the artist hadn’t finished her. But something serene as she looked out toward where what he thought might be a blue whale when completed sounded in the symphonic light of the setting sun.
He said, “Hey,” and she whirled around, the brush now held like a dagger.
“Jesus! You scared ten years off me.”
“You looked more armed than scared. They’re starting in the attic.” But as he spoke, he walked closer to the painting. “I thought you did drawings and stuff. Kids books, like that.”
“I do, and other things. I’m working on a book of mermaids—a coffee table book.”
“Right, you said that. You paint them first?”
“Yes, sometimes, but no. No, not like this. I have time to paint here, and she, well, came to me.”
“Blue whale?”
“Eventually. I’ll just clean up and—”
“What’s she holding? The way you have her hands, she’s holding something.”
“I’m not sure yet. I think a shell. Maybe a jewel. Probably a shell.”
“How much?”
“How much what?”
“How much do you want for her?”
“I haven’t thought about it.” Cleo shrugged as she cleaned brushes.
“I’ll buy her, so how much?”
Startled, Cleo looked back at him. “Are you serious? She’s not even finished.”
He shot her a look that wavered between impatience and amusement. “Have you ever sold a painting?”
All of a sudden, she felt he crowded her space. “Yes, but—”
“So how much?”
To flick him back, she grabbed a number out of the air. “Five thousand.”
“Okay.”
“Okay? No, stop. I just made that up. That’s gallery price—and inflated some at that.”
“What’s the difference? Gallery price?”
“If you show and sell at a gallery, they take a chunk. About sixty percent.”
“So direct sale’s more like two grand? Let’s call it twenty-five hundred.”
When Cleo just stared at him, Owen stared back. “I want her. I’ve got a place for her. Make a deal, Queen of the Nile.”
Cleo looked back at the canvas. She knew the instant sorrow of the sale. She’d felt it before, and knew it would pass.
“A deal. How much to build me a Sunfish?”
A different sort of interest flickered in his eyes. “You sail?”
“I’ve never had my own, but I rented a sweet little Sunfish a few times in the summer in Boston. I thought I’d do the same here, but I’d like my own.”
“You could buy a ready-made or used cheaper.”
“Then it wouldn’t be a wooden boat built by Poole for me to sail in Poole’s Bay, would it?”
Considering, he looked back at the painting. In his mind the mermaid was already his. “We can make a trade. I couldn’t start on it for a few weeks.”
“You haven’t asked me when I’ll finish the painting.”
“Will you finish faster if I bug you about it?”
“Absolutely not. In fact, I’d add time on just to spite you. I have a feeling you work the same way.” She held out a hand. “When the painting’s done, you can take her. When the boat’s done, I’ll take it.”
“Deal.” He took her hand, shook. “It’s a good trade.”
* * *
In the attic, Trey and Sonya removed any sheeting still in place.
“Do you think they got lost?”
She glanced over at Trey. “Cleo was painting, so it might take her a couple minutes to pull out. But maybe I should go check. It has been a while.”
“Let’s give them another minute. It’s quiet. The dogs are settled.”
“You mean you don’t think we’re going to find the mirror up here either.”
“Still gotta look.” When he reached the side wall, he tapped his way along it. “Maybe there’s a space.”
“Like a hidden door. Like the servant’s door. I did the same thing in the music room.” Willing to try again, she wound her way to the opposite side to tap.
“You said you remember standing in front of it. Nothing else?”
“Not about the where. I could see through it, through the glass. Movement, like shadows at first, then clearer. But the rest is blank, and frustrating. Because I notice details. It’s part of what I do. Does that sound hollow?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so either.” She reached for another sheet. The dogs’ heads came up, in unison. And she heard footsteps, then Cleo’s voice.
“We’re moving right along here,” Trey called out.
“Sorry.” Cleo brushed her hair back as they stepped into the attic. “We were making a deal. Apparently, Owen’s an art collector.”
Trey just frowned at him. “Since when?”
“I’ve got some art. Cleo wants a boat.”