Fugitives of Love Page 3

There was no sand to speak of, which left the waves to break more dramatically against the boulders. Every few seconds, salt water spewed up in misty clouds and sea gulls gracefully veered one way or another to avoid them.

  Brenna climbed over a number of rocks and stopped halfway to the waterline. She looked around her and marveled at the geology of the beach. Of the few things she remembered from science class, she identified the rocks as granite. And if her science teacher was correct in saying that the name came from large mineral grains that fit tightly together, her immediate vicinity consisted of a gazillion, million grains.

  Dramatic streaks of white and black granite reached toward the sea as if trying to move in that direction. Crabs skittered in and out of the crevices, and empty lobster traps and fishing floats, in bright yellows and reds, littered the rocks and sand.

  To the south, the rocks were darker and more jagged as they made their way to the point which, Brenna presumed, was Pemaquid Point.

  She turned back toward the north to see a lone figure emerging from a small bend about a hundred yards down the coast. Even in the fading light, the shape was definitely female. Her movements were very fluid as she maneuvered around the rocks with the agility and familiarity of a local.

  Was this Sinclair? Not many others lived this far out, and a tourist probably wouldn’t be out there alone.

  Brenna climbed back to the staircase, thinking it would be a better meeting place than the slippery rocks.

  She waited for the woman to approach, watching her study the rocks as she hiked over them. Every so often, she’d stop and bend down to pick something up and inspect it. She placed several things in a satchel at her waist instead of the sack she carried.

  As she neared, Brenna could see that the woman was close to her own age and very attractive. When Kay had said that Sinclair didn’t like visitors, Brenna imagined a salty old woman, sallow from years of reclusion, with time bending her forward in a cantankerous curve.

  But the person walking toward her was beautiful and nimble, maybe five foot five, with a slender build and curly, golden-blond hair pulled back in a baseball cap. Her ponytail had swung over one shoulder and rested there like an ingot sparkling in the last remnants of the sun’s light. Her shorts revealed strong legs whose muscles reacted to each stride. Her broad shoulders looked as if she could carry a swimmer, fireman style, from the clutches of the ocean.

  A feeling, stronger than anything she’d ever experienced, suddenly washed over Brenna. She was immediately drawn to the woman walking toward her, and the attraction hit her with a potent mix of magnetism and desire. She wanted her, but the power of the unexpected pull perplexed Brenna.

  She didn’t even know her, but it was as if the woman was returning to her—to her life and her arms.

  The sound of the sea receded to a muffled rumble but her vision sharpened. If she were staring at an angel, she wouldn’t be any more overwhelmed.

  She lifted her hand to her chest because her heart began to respond to this strange experience with thumping urgency.

  When the woman was about twenty yards away she looked up and noticed Brenna. She paused slightly, which concerned Brenna, who’d begun to wonder whether she was single or if she liked romantic little bistros. Then the woman was upon her.

  “May I help you?”

  The voice was more probing than inquisitive, and if her green eyes hadn’t made Brenna clutch just then, the words would have.

  “Hi, my name is Brenna Wright and I—”

  “Are you lost?” The woman stepped past her and walked up the stairs.

  Brenna followed. “No…I came here to…are you Sinclair Grady?”

  When the woman stopped suddenly and turned, Brenna almost ran into her.

  “What do you want?”

  Brenna hesitated, her desires and fantasies suddenly slapped from her brain. The capricious bubble burst and she was back to reality, standing in front of a five-foot-plus vessel of rudeness.

  “I said, what do you want?”

  She was used to having artists eager to secure an exhibition in her gallery solicit her, not encountering unpleasant people who didn’t give her the benefit of the doubt.

  “I just bought a Sinclair Grady window.” She quickly pointed to her car and thankfully the bubble wrapping showed above the front seat. “I own a gallery in New York, and I’m very interested in showing your work. Or the artist’s work.” Was this the artist? The artist’s daughter?

  The woman, who still hadn’t confirmed her identity, studied her for what seemed like an hour before saying, “What’s the name of the gallery?”

  “L’Art de Vie.”

  Her eyes bore into Brenna’s and, though they smoldered, their effect was far from anything she might fantasize about.

  “I’ll be back.”

  Stunned, Brenna watched the woman step onto the back balcony of the white clapboard house, walk inside, and close the door.

  A cool breeze blew into Brenna’s open mouth and she quickly clamped her lips together. While she hadn’t assumed that the woman would be the Welcome Wagon, the borderline insolence shocked her. Yes, she had arrived unannounced, but how else could she find out about Sinclair? The artist didn’t have a phone that she knew of. She hadn’t even gotten a real address, just a yellow mailbox and some invisible turkeys.

  Her mood dimmed and the thought of being left to stand outside prickled. Just screw her, she thought. I don’t need this from a country newbie. She looked away from the house and shook her head. This could be a waste of a long drive.

  Why did she have to be bad-mannered? Brenna was used to her share of obstinate creative types; however, the talent never merited the attitude. No matter how successful someone became, they never had a license to be a donkey’s ass.

  She scanned the yard and then looked at her car. The bubble-wrapped window in the backseat made her pause. The work was spectacular and truly original. And probably unrepresented. The impetus to remain where she was proved strong. However, she was also curious to find out if the woman from the beach was Sinclair or someone else. The artist or the daughter, discourteous or not, she might be the key to obtaining the art.

  The possibility of a new and exciting exhibit made her refocus her thoughts

  I need this acquisition. Never give up.

  The French door finally opened and the woman said, “You can come in.”

  Chapter Five

  Keep your own attitude in check, Brenna thought. Coffee or not, there was no need for two snarky people in this conversation. She smiled as she wiped off her feet and stepped inside.

  “I’m Sinclair Grady,” the woman said, and held out her hand. “I needed to check the Internet and confirm who you are. You’ve got a lot of photos posted.”

  “I produce a lot of exhibits.” Brenna took her hand and nodded toward the computer. “Have a lot of art-dealer imposters visited you out here or something?”

  “One can never be too careful.”

  Brenna wasn’t convinced that her answer was completely truthful. She reached into her pocket and retrieved a business card. “Looks like you’ve already been to my Web site, but take this anyway.”

  Sinclair placed it on her table without looking at it. “So, you were saying before?”

  “Yes. I’m interested in showing your work at my gallery. More than showing, actually. I’d like to create an exhibition. I’m fortunate to have a rather extensive following. Art dealers, buyers, and such make my gallery a regular stop in their art pursuits.” She felt a bit awkward standing in the middle of the room. If she wasn’t being invited to sit down, her time might be short so she’d have to talk quickly.

  “You’ll find a list of our past exhibitions on the site. We’ve shown important works at L’Art de Vie and many artists have gotten their start there. Some are so popular now, their prices have quadrupled and more. What I mean to say is that we’re a heavyweight gallery with some serious chops. And now I’m interested in you.”

  Sinclair d
idn’t respond right away. It was as if she were analyzing every word Brenna had spoken.

  Was she not only mean but a little slow as well?

  Sinclair removed her baseball cap and blond hair fell about her shoulders. Unquestionably, she was attractive. Her cheeks were pink from the wind and her eyes, though vigilant and suspicious, were the green of rough-cut emeralds.

  She turned away, toward a diminutive kitchen just off the main room.

  Brenna scanned the room and focused on the bookcase she’d seen through the window. The titles were impressive, with subjects ranging from art history to philosophy and economics to quantum physics. Her selection indicated that while Sinclair might be mean, she certainly wasn’t slow.

  “I’m making some coffee,” Sinclair said from the kitchen. “Would you like some?”

  The heavens were opening up. “I’d love some.”

  *

  The woman standing on the rocks had startled Sinclair. Days would go by without seeing another human, and usually the ones she did see were out in lobster boats just offshore. Her chest seized when she realized the woman wasn’t just a beachcomber who’d wandered too far off the beaten path, but someone looking for her.

  She knew she’d been rude when they first met, but even the slightest indifference or carelessness could be hazardous. Still, looking up on her trek home to see an astonishing-looking woman standing by her steps had taken her breath away. Brenna was taller than she was and dressed in a light-green sweater and linen pants that didn’t do much to hide the shape of her long legs. The sea breezes played magnificently with her thick brown hair, tossing it about her shoulders. She stood there looking very self-assured and resolute, and Sinclair had almost completely dropped her guard.

  “Why my work?” Sinclair asked when she returned with two steaming mugs and invited Brenna to sit at the kitchen table.

  “No one’s ever asked me that question. Most artists challenge me with ‘why not’?”

  Brenna took a sip, and Sinclair wondered if her special clove-and-cinnamon blend had caused her slight smile.

  “Because, Sinclair, it’s unique. Because it evokes feeling. Because they’re one-of-a-kind pieces.”

  She seemed sincere. “How does an exhibition work?”

  Brenna laid her hand on the table and Sinclair studied her graceful fingers. A ripple of desire fluttered in her chest and she shook her head to expel it.

  “We procure…” Brenna paused, staring quizzically at Sinclair. “We procure your work. That is, you loan us the work.” Brenna picked her hands up and moved them gracefully through the air to emphasize her words. Sinclair forced herself to ignore the temptation again.

  “We exhibit it at my gallery in Manhattan and take care of everything. That includes the cost of shipping, the exhibition, opening night, all staff costs. It goes on and on.

  “You set the prices and we take a fee. Now, I must tell you that if you’ve never exhibited, the fee may appear high, but we’re making a huge investment in you, and most of our fee covers our costs.”

  Brenna opened her hands upward as if offering her something very special and delicate.

  Sinclair raised her eyes to meet Brenna’s, which were chestnut brown. Their peaceful expression bumped up against her uncertainty. She detected no pretenses, no tricks.

  “You love what you do,” Sinclair said.

  “Ah…ah…” Brenna stuttered.

  Brenna suddenly seemed transfixed. In that moment, she was saying something with her eyes but Sinclair couldn’t read it. It had to be important because her gaze was solidly concentrated, which worried Sinclair. Was she wrong about there being no tricks?

  She closed her hands together as if she was now protecting whatever she’d offered. Her smile came slowly and genuinely as she responded to Sinclair’s observation about her attitude toward her work. “I do.”

  Sinclair nodded, relieved and satisfied. “What’s the fee?”

  “The standard gallery fee is fifty percent. We take forty percent.”

  “That does seem high.”

  “Including the expenses I mentioned before, plus rent, insurance, and especially advertising, an exhibition costs around $10,000. We’d need to sell $20,000 to break even. But we create interest and develop a market. Based on the first exhibition, another one is scheduled within twelve or eighteen months. By then, the hype has usually spread and those who didn’t or weren’t able to obtain one of your works will jump on the popularity wagon. At least, that’s why we invest all this time and money. And it’s worked well for me so far. That’s why I can charge less than fifty percent.”

  “But if I just sell a piece or two at Breakers each month, I’m very happy with the amount I pocket, which is considerably more than fifty percent.”

  “I understand that. And it’s definitely your choice. But I’m offering an opportunity to branch out and become very much in demand.”

  “I’m not sure if I can produce pieces much faster than I do now.”

  “It’s not so much about quantity, Sinclair. This type of exposure allows you to charge more, based on demand. An exhibition could increase that demand. People wait months for artwork from some of the best-known artists. Having few pieces can make the existing ones even more desirable.” She looked at Sinclair, her face sincere and her words earnest. “I know you could charge four or five times what I paid for the one in my car.”

  “That would buy a lot of supplies.”

  Brenna laughed and Sinclair couldn’t help but join her.

  “Yes, that’s a lot of soldering wire.”

  “Have you made stained glass?”

  “No. But I’ve been around a little. I can speak linseed oil and Damar varnish with the best of them.”

  Sinclair liked this woman. She was intelligent and direct. And she seemed genuinely interested in her artwork. Her shoulders relaxed and she took her first deep breath since seeing Brenna on the beach.

  “Maybe we could talk about an exhibition, then.”

  “That’s fantastic. Thank you, really.”

  Brenna seemed delighted. She looked outside.

  A dark-purple haze descended on the rocks. Soon it would be too dark to see the waves and all that would be left was their continuous roar.

  “It’s getting late,” Brenna said, “so is it all right if I come back tomorrow? We have lots of things to talk about, and I’d like to see the rest of your work.”

  Sinclair needed to get to bed soon because low tide would come the next morning at 5:35. Spending more time with Brenna would be nice, considering she didn’t get to socialize that much. Though the confusing feelings she had for a woman she hardly knew might be risky, she really wanted to see her again.

  “How early can you get back here?”

  “Early, ah, what would be good for you?”

  “How’s six a.m.?” Sinclair said, thankful that, other than identifying her as an artist, Brenna didn’t know who she was.

  Chapter Six

  Only chickens and Wall Street brokers got up this early, Brenna thought as her feet hit the cold floor on her way to the bathroom. She shivered and swore while she ran the shower as hot as she could. Lucy had booked her at the Pine Cottages, just off Route 130. The place was as quaint as the name, but she wondered if it was as old as the evergreens that surrounded it. Everything from the floorboards to the bed creaked as if too tired to take on one more tenant. The hotel’s pipes groaned a little, but soon enough the shower was steamy and she was fully awake.

  It had rained quite hard the night before. She stayed awake until close to one listening to a grand concert of thunder and lightning. By morning, the storm had passed and nothing was left but a lot of wet trees and puddles.

  A place called the Seaside Stop, which looked like a bar and grill, sat across the street so she walked over to see if they had coffee. Her nerve receptors were calling out for some badly needed caffeine, and she’d eat the grounds from a spoon if nothing was brewing yet. The place was dark and the si
gn said they’d open at 6:00. It was 5:45.

  “Shit,” she muttered, looking around the small, darkened town. “The things I do to be competitive.”

  She didn’t want to be late so she drove around to see if she could find anywhere else to get a java fix. Why had Sinclair chosen such a wretched hour to meet?

  She had to admit, however, that she was glad to witness the Earth start a new day since she was usually asleep at this hour. The scenery was absolutely beautiful as she headed toward Pemaquid Point, and though she found absolutely nothing open at that time in the morning, the lowlying fog that hung on the road and the trees that dripped with moisture as the breaking dawn started to illuminate the flannel-gray sky deflected her craving for caffeine just a touch.

  She turned at the yellow mailbox and squinted toward a few hazy blobs in the middle of the road. The blobs jumped, making jerky motions as they began to scramble, and Brenna recognized the wild turkeys she’d been warned about. She slowed down but the turkeys had no appreciation since they’d already disappeared into the brush.

  The lights glowed amber in Sinclair’s home as she got out of her car. The thick aroma of pine trees and salty air refreshed her and she felt encouraged. A thin swirl of smoke rose from the chimney, making the place look like a welcoming cottage. Beyond the wet, ebony rocks of the coastline, the vast ocean was blue-gray as far as she could see. The scene was as charming as any storybook location she’d ever imagined, exuding warmth, romance, and enchantment.

  Sinclair opened the door and completed the picture as she looked radiant silhouetted against the glow from inside. She wore tan hiking shorts, a baby-blue sweatshirt, all-terrain tennis shoes, and short wool socks. She looked better than any model Brenna had ever seen in an outdoor-clothing catalogue. She recalled the day before when Sinclair had said, “You love what you do,” and her expression had been so intense and filled with, what? Hope? Brenna had been immediately thunderstruck, unable to respond.

  The green in Sinclair’s eyes had sparkled and the look of suspicion had vanished. Brenna’s chest felt heavy again and her mind went blank. Was she entangled in the storybook tale about a beautiful enchantress who spent her time casting spells on strangers?