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rounded the desk and fairly floated toward him. Swathed in a caftan of emerald green, her silver hair was streaked with red—bright red—choppy to her shoulders. He wouldn’t dare pin an age on her, but she was definitely up there. Still attractive, in an aging movie star kind of way.
    “Just having a look,” he told her. “I remember when this used to be a liquor store.”
    “Do you now?” Her black-rimmed glasses glittered. “That was several years ago. You would have been just a teenager, I’m sure.”
    Nick grinned and nodded toward the front of the gallery. “That painting in the window. Who’s the artist?”
    “Oh . . .” The woman fiddled with her many bracelets. “Yes. She’s very good.” She sailed across the floor, pressed a button on the wall, and the platform, which held the painting, rotated.
    Nick stepped forward and nodded. “Something about it . . .” A memory, perhaps. “There’s no signature.”
    “No. Verity prefers not to sign her work.”
    “Verity?” Latin. Meaning truth, if he recalled correctly. Nick scratched his chin. “Does she have a last name?”
    The woman squinted. “Just Verity.”
    “Is she local?”
    “You could say that.” She smiled, relaxed again. “We don’t see much of her. You like that painting, I can tell.”
    “Yes. It’s quite . . . familiar.” Nick admired the fine detail and shadows. “I grew up here. I know that particular beach very well.”
    “I see. Are you interested in making a purchase, Mister . . .?”
    “Cooper. Nicholas.” He extended a hand and produced the smile he saved for good friends and his grandmother. Her confidence put him at ease.
    “Ah, Mr. Cooper. I’ve been wondering when we might run into one another.”
    “Have you?”
    She laughed as she moved to a long granite desk and busied herself with papers. Nick followed, catching a glimpse of the gold nameplate on the desk near the phone. Evy McIntyre.
    “We haven’t met before, have we, Evy?” He’d definitely remember if they had.
    She waved a hand, flashy rings covering her fingers. “Oh, no, darling. But your return has been quite the talk at the spa. And it’s Ev-ee, like Chevy.”
    “Okay.” Nick rubbed the back of his neck. He tried not to laugh. “Well, Evy like Chevy, how much is that painting going for?”
    Her eyes danced with certain mischief. “How much is it worth to you?”

    After they finished an early supper that night, Dad wanted to sit outside. Lynette followed him down the wide hall, her bare feet treading carefully over worn spots in the wood floor that might send up a splinter. Most of the hardwood on this level needed repair or refinishing. Long rugs used to cover the floors. They were probably rolled up in the attic, being eaten by mice or moths.
    She paused to pull a cobweb from the hanging brass lamp in the middle of the hall and noticed one of the three small bulbs had burnt out. A couple of the screws securing it to the wooden beam dangled rather dangerously out of place. She stood on tiptoe, tried to reach them, but couldn’t. She’d need to drag a ladder out for the job.
    Maybe tomorrow she’d get around to cleaning and doing the many chores she’d been putting off. If only Cecily hadn’t quit, drat the woman. But Lynette could hardly blame her. She wouldn’t be happy working and not getting paid either.
    The array of framed photographs on the wall caught her eye, Cecily’s round, cheery face jumping out at her, as though she’d been summoned somehow, to make her smile.

    “Lynnie, child, ain’t no reason to cry now. You’re safe and sound.”
    Lynette choked back a sob and buried her head in Cecily’s ample chest, comforted by the smell of fresh baked bread and talcum powder. “I hate those boys. They chased me and scared me and made me fall down.”
    “I know, baby.” Cecily shifted from her cross-legged position on the floor and peeked under the wet paper towel she held over Lynette’s scraped knee. “Looks like