Page 20 of Tides of Redemption
I rubbed my temple, thinking of the email sitting in my inbox. “The timing is complicated. I’ve got that job offer from the Louvre. They need my answer soon.”
“I understand. Tell you what—give me two days to run some numbers and consider what I’m willing to ask for. Two days to talk to Joe, my accountant, my attorney. We’ll see if we can figure out if we can make this work before you commit to Paris.” Mary Anne’s eyes held mine, serious yet hopeful.
“Two days,” I agreed, even as anxiety churned in my stomach about potentially missing my deadline with the Louvre. But the thought of my own gallery, of building a life here with Mason—it was worth the wait. “I can give you that.”
“You’ll have your answer on Thursday.”
Two days. That would leave me just five days before Fontaine’s deadline. If she said yes, I’d have little time to speak to the bank and determine my chance of receiving a business loan. If she said no, I’d have no clear path to staying in Seacliff Cove.
“Thank you for considering it,” I said and tried to mask my anxiety.
After Mary Anne left, I locked the gallery and walked to the cliffs overlooking the ocean. The late afternoon sun cast golden light across the water, the beauty of it at odds with the turmoil inside me.
I pulled out my phone, my thumb hovering over Mason’s name. I wanted to tell him about this development, to share this potential path forward. But what if it fell through? What if Mary Anne asked for more than I could afford? I couldn’t bear to raise his hopes, only to crush them again.
I pocketed my phone without sending a message. The weight of uncertainty pressed down on me as I watched the sun begin its descent, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that reminded me of a watercolor hanging in the events room at Tides & Tales.
Two more days of limbo. Two more days of Mason’s guarded distance. Two more days until I would know if I had a future in Seacliff Cove.
I’d never wanted anything more in my life.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Mason
Four days. I’d managed to avoid Caleb for nearly four days since our discussion at lunch, though “avoid” wasn’t quite the right word. I’d answered his texts with polite brevity. I’d nodded when we passed on the stairs. I’d maintained the careful distance I’d promised myself I needed.
But God, I missed him.
The Friday crowd had thinned after the usual lunch rush, leaving only a couple browsing the travel section and a regular in the corner armchair, lost in a mystery novel.
“Emma?” I called to the back room. “Can you watch the front for a bit? I’m going to take a late lunch.”
She appeared, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Sure, no problem.” Observant as always, she studied my face. “You okay?”
“Fine.” I grabbed my jacket. “Just need some air.”
Outside, the breeze carried the scent of salt and seaweed. I had no destination in mind, but my feet seemed to know where they wanted to go. Before I could talk myself out of it, I was walking toward the Coastal Light Gallery.
Through the large glass door, I could see a few patrons examining Beaumont’s abstracts. And there was Caleb, his trim figure moving gracefully among the displays, answering questions.
My heart stuttered at the sight of him. Even from a distance, he was striking—the strong line of his jaw, his squared shoulders beneath a charcoal-gray suit, the way he gestured with those expressive hands when explaining a piece. He looked like he belonged there, among beautiful things.
Before I could lose my nerve, I pushed open the door. Caleb turned and froze momentarily when he saw me. Surprise registered on his face, followed by a cautious smile that made my gut tighten.
He excused himself from the patron he’d been helping. “Mason.” He stepped toward me, hesitant. “This is unexpected.”
“I was just…taking a walk,” I said lamely. “Thought I’d see what you’ve done with the Beaumont exhibition.”
His smile widened, genuine now. “I’d love to show you around.”
The next half-hour passed in a strange dance of professional courtesy and underlying tension. Caleb guided me through the exhibition, explaining Beaumont’s evolution as an artist, pointing out details of technique I would have missed. I found myself watching his face more than the artwork—the way his eyes lit up when discussing a piece he particularly loved, the subtle movements of his expressions.
We hadn’t been this close in days. Standing beside him, I caught the familiar scent of his amber and sandalwood cologne. The same scent that had lingered on my mother’s afghan after our binge-watch of the TV series. I had to resist the urge to lean closer and sniff.
“This arrangement is different from when I first saw it.” I gestured to a series of smaller works by another artist.
“I’ve been experimenting with groupings,” he admitted. “Mary Anne usually arranges by chronology, but I think thematic connections can be more powerful.”
