Page 38 of The Shape of Night

I grab my purse and walk out of the house to join them.

Fifteen

Through the window of Seaglass Gallery, I see a well-dressed crowd sipping from champagne flutes and a woman with a long black skirt who sits plucking a harp. I don’t know any of these people and I haven’t dressed up for the occasion. I consider climbing back in the car and driving home, but then I spot Ned Haskell standing among the crowd. His name is on the list of featured artists posted in the gallery window, and although he’s wearing blue jeans as usual, he’s spiffed himself up for this event with a white button-down shirt. Seeing one familiar face is all it takes to draw me into the gallery.

I step inside, pluck up a champagne flute of liquid courage, and make my way across the room toward Ned. He stands next to a display of his bird carvings, which are perched on individual pedestals. How did I not know that my carpenter was also an artist, and an impressive one? Each of his birds has its own quirky personality. The emperor penguin stands with its head rolled back, its beak wide open as if roaring at the sky. The puffin has a fish tucked under each wing and a fierceI dare you to take them from mescowl. The carvings make me laugh and suddenly I see Ned in a different light. He’s more than a skilled carpenter; he’s also an artist with a delightful sense of whimsy. Surrounded by this elegant crowd, he looks ill at ease and intimidated by his own admirers.

“Only now do I find out about your secret talent,” I tell him. “You’ve been working in my house for weeks, and you never once told me you were an artist.”

He gives a modest shrug. “It’s just one of my secrets.”

“Any other secrets I should know?”

Even at fifty-eight, Ned can still blush, and I find it charming. I realize how little I actually know about him. Does he have children? He told me he’s never married, and I wonder if there’s ever been a woman in his life. He has shown me his skill as a woodworker, but beyond that, he has revealed nothing about himself.

In that way, we are more alike than he knows.

“I hear your carvings are sold down in Boston, too.”

“Yeah, the gallery down there calls it ‘rustic art’ or some such nonsense. I haven’t figured out if that’s an insult.”

I glance around at the champagne-sipping people. “This doesn’t look like a rustic crowd.”

“No, most of these folks are up from the city.”

“I hear Dr. Gordon has a few paintings here tonight.”

“In the other room. He’s already sold one.”

“I had no idea he was an artist, either. Yet another man with a secret talent.”

Ned turns and stares across the room. “People are complicated, Ava,” he says quietly. “What you see isn’t always what you get.”

I glance in the direction he’s looking and notice that Donna Branca has just walked into the gallery. She’s reaching for a glass of champagne when our gazes meet, and for an instant her hand freezes over the tray of drinks. Then she lifts a flute to her lips, takes a deliberate gulp, and walks away.

“Donna Branca and Ben Gordon—are they, um, involved?” I ask Ned.

“Involved?”

“I mean are they seeing each other?”

He frowns at me. “Why do you ask?”

“She seemed a little peeved when she saw me and Ben together the other day.”

“Areyouseeing him?”

“I’m just curious about him. He was kind enough to make a house call after I fainted last week.”

For a long time Ned doesn’t say anything, and I wonder if I, the outsider, have blundered into some forbidden topic. In a town as small as Tucker Cove, everyone knows each other so well that every romance must seem halfway incestuous.

“I thought you had a fellow down in Boston,” he says.

“What fellow?”

“I heard you talking on the phone to someone named Simon. I assumed…”

I laugh. “He’s my editor. And he’s married, to a very nice man named Scott.”

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