Chesapeake Blue
Page 9
"You've got too much class for that." He piled up the boxes, hefted them. "Thanks for the flowers."
"You're welcome." She came around the counter to open the door for him. "I hope your… sisters enjoy them."
"They will." He shot her a last look over his shoulder. "I'll be back."
"I'll be here." Tucking the sketch into her pocket, she closed the door. IT HAD been great to see Sybill, to spend an hour alone with her. And to see the pleasure she got from arranging the flowers in a tall, clear vase.
They were perfect for her, he concluded, just as the house she and Phillip had bought and furnished, the massive old Victorian with all the stylized details, was perfect for her.
She'd changed her hairstyle over the years, but now it was back to the way he liked it best, swinging sleek nearly to her shoulders with all that richness of color of a pricey mink coat. She hadn't bothered with lipstick for the day of working at home, and wore a simple and crisp white shirt with pegged black trousers, what he supposed she thought of as casual wear. She was the mother of two active children, as well as being a trained sociologist and successful author. And looked, Seth thought, utterly serene.
He had reason to know that that serenity had been hard-won.
She'd grown up in the same household as his mother. Half sisters who were like opposite sides of a coin. Since even the thought of Gloria DeLauter clenched his stomach muscles, Seth pushed it aside and concentrated on Sybill.
"When you, Phil and the kids came over to Rome a few months ago, I didn't think the next time I'd see you would be here."
"I wanted you to come back." She poured them each a glass of iced tea. "Totally selfish of me, but I wanted you back. Sometimes in the middle of whatever was going on, I'd stop and think: Something's missing. What's missing? Then, oh yes, Seth. Seth's missing. Silly."
"Sweet." He gave her hand a squeeze before picking up the glass she set down for him. "Thanks."
"Tell me everything," she demanded.
They talked of his work and hers. Of the children. Of what had changed and what had stayed the same. When he got up to leave, she wrapped her arms around him and held on just a minute longer. "Thanks for the flowers. They're wonderful."
"Nice new shop on Market. The woman who owns it seems to know her stuff." He walked with Sybill, hand in hand, toward the door. "Have you been in there?"
"Once or twice." Because she knew him, very well, Sybill smiled. "She's very lovely, isn't she?"
"Who's that?" But when Sybill merely tipped her head, he grinned. "Caught me. Yeah, she's got some face. What do you know about her?"
"Nothing, really. She moved here late last summer, I think, and had the store open by fall. I believe she's from the D.C. area. It seems to me my parents know some Whitcombs, and some Bankses from around there. Might be relatives." She shrugged. "I can't say for certain, and my parents and I don't…
communicate very often these days."
He touched her cheek. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. They have two spectacular grandchildren whom they largely ignore." As they've ignored you, she thought. "It's their loss."
"Your mother's never forgiven you for standing up for me."
"Her loss." Sybill spoke very precisely as she caught his face in her hands. "My gain. And I didn't stand alone. No one ever does in this family."
She was right about that, Seth thought as he drove toward the boatyard. No Quinn stood alone. But he wasn't sure he could stand pulling them into the trouble he was very much afraid was going to find him, even back home.
Chapter Three
ONCE DRU HAD RUNG UP the next sale and was alone in the shop again, she took the sketch out of her pocket.
Seth Quinn. Seth Quinn wanted to paint her. It was fascinating. And as intriguing, she admitted, as the artist himself. A woman could be intrigued without being actively interested. Which she wasn't.
She had no desire to pose, to be scrutinized, to be immortalized. Even by such talented hands. But she was curious, about the concept of it, just as she was curious about Seth Quinn. The article she'd read had included some details on his personal life. She knew he'd come to the Eastern Shore as a child, taken in by Ray Quinn before Ray died in a single-car accident. Some of the story was a little nebulous. There'd been no mention of parents, and Seth had been very closed-mouthed in the interview in that area. The facts given were that Ray Quinn had been his grandfather, and on his death, Seth had been raised by Quinn's three adopted sons. And their wives as they had come along. Sisters, he'd said, thinking of the flowers he'd bought. Perhaps they had been for the women he considered his sisters.
It hardly mattered to her.
She'd been more interested in what the article had said about his work, and how his family had encouraged his early talent. How they had supported his desire to study in Europe. It was a fortunate child, in Dru's opinion, who had a family who loved him enough to let him go—to let him discover, to fail or succeed on his own. And, she thought, who apparently welcomed him back just as unselfishly.
Still, it was difficult to imagine the man the Italians had dubbed il maestro giovane —the young master—settling down in St. Christopher to paint seascapes.
Just as she assumed it was difficult for many of her acquaintances to imagine Drusilla Whitcomb Banks, young socialite, contentedly selling flowers in a small waterfront shop.
It didn't matter to her what people thought or what they said—any more than she supposed such things mattered to Seth Quinn. She'd come here to get away from the demands and expectations, the sticky grip of family, and the unrelenting upheaval of being used as the fraying rope in the endless game of tug-of-war her parents played.
She'd come to St. Chris for peace, the peace that she'd yearned for most of her life. She was finding it.
Though her mother would be thrilled—perhaps, stubbornly, because her mother would be thrilled at the prospect of her precious daughter capturing the interest of Seth Quinn—Dru had no intention of cultivating that interest. Neither the artistic interest, nor the more elemental and frankly sexual interest she'd seen in his eyes when he'd looked at her.
Or, if she was being honest, the frankly sexual interest she'd felt for him. The Quinns were, by all reports, a large, complex and unwieldy family. God knew she'd had her fill of family.
"You're welcome." She came around the counter to open the door for him. "I hope your… sisters enjoy them."
"They will." He shot her a last look over his shoulder. "I'll be back."
"I'll be here." Tucking the sketch into her pocket, she closed the door. IT HAD been great to see Sybill, to spend an hour alone with her. And to see the pleasure she got from arranging the flowers in a tall, clear vase.
They were perfect for her, he concluded, just as the house she and Phillip had bought and furnished, the massive old Victorian with all the stylized details, was perfect for her.
She'd changed her hairstyle over the years, but now it was back to the way he liked it best, swinging sleek nearly to her shoulders with all that richness of color of a pricey mink coat. She hadn't bothered with lipstick for the day of working at home, and wore a simple and crisp white shirt with pegged black trousers, what he supposed she thought of as casual wear. She was the mother of two active children, as well as being a trained sociologist and successful author. And looked, Seth thought, utterly serene.
He had reason to know that that serenity had been hard-won.
She'd grown up in the same household as his mother. Half sisters who were like opposite sides of a coin. Since even the thought of Gloria DeLauter clenched his stomach muscles, Seth pushed it aside and concentrated on Sybill.
"When you, Phil and the kids came over to Rome a few months ago, I didn't think the next time I'd see you would be here."
"I wanted you to come back." She poured them each a glass of iced tea. "Totally selfish of me, but I wanted you back. Sometimes in the middle of whatever was going on, I'd stop and think: Something's missing. What's missing? Then, oh yes, Seth. Seth's missing. Silly."
"Sweet." He gave her hand a squeeze before picking up the glass she set down for him. "Thanks."
"Tell me everything," she demanded.
They talked of his work and hers. Of the children. Of what had changed and what had stayed the same. When he got up to leave, she wrapped her arms around him and held on just a minute longer. "Thanks for the flowers. They're wonderful."
"Nice new shop on Market. The woman who owns it seems to know her stuff." He walked with Sybill, hand in hand, toward the door. "Have you been in there?"
"Once or twice." Because she knew him, very well, Sybill smiled. "She's very lovely, isn't she?"
"Who's that?" But when Sybill merely tipped her head, he grinned. "Caught me. Yeah, she's got some face. What do you know about her?"
"Nothing, really. She moved here late last summer, I think, and had the store open by fall. I believe she's from the D.C. area. It seems to me my parents know some Whitcombs, and some Bankses from around there. Might be relatives." She shrugged. "I can't say for certain, and my parents and I don't…
communicate very often these days."
He touched her cheek. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. They have two spectacular grandchildren whom they largely ignore." As they've ignored you, she thought. "It's their loss."
"Your mother's never forgiven you for standing up for me."
"Her loss." Sybill spoke very precisely as she caught his face in her hands. "My gain. And I didn't stand alone. No one ever does in this family."
She was right about that, Seth thought as he drove toward the boatyard. No Quinn stood alone. But he wasn't sure he could stand pulling them into the trouble he was very much afraid was going to find him, even back home.
Chapter Three
ONCE DRU HAD RUNG UP the next sale and was alone in the shop again, she took the sketch out of her pocket.
Seth Quinn. Seth Quinn wanted to paint her. It was fascinating. And as intriguing, she admitted, as the artist himself. A woman could be intrigued without being actively interested. Which she wasn't.
She had no desire to pose, to be scrutinized, to be immortalized. Even by such talented hands. But she was curious, about the concept of it, just as she was curious about Seth Quinn. The article she'd read had included some details on his personal life. She knew he'd come to the Eastern Shore as a child, taken in by Ray Quinn before Ray died in a single-car accident. Some of the story was a little nebulous. There'd been no mention of parents, and Seth had been very closed-mouthed in the interview in that area. The facts given were that Ray Quinn had been his grandfather, and on his death, Seth had been raised by Quinn's three adopted sons. And their wives as they had come along. Sisters, he'd said, thinking of the flowers he'd bought. Perhaps they had been for the women he considered his sisters.
It hardly mattered to her.
She'd been more interested in what the article had said about his work, and how his family had encouraged his early talent. How they had supported his desire to study in Europe. It was a fortunate child, in Dru's opinion, who had a family who loved him enough to let him go—to let him discover, to fail or succeed on his own. And, she thought, who apparently welcomed him back just as unselfishly.
Still, it was difficult to imagine the man the Italians had dubbed il maestro giovane —the young master—settling down in St. Christopher to paint seascapes.
Just as she assumed it was difficult for many of her acquaintances to imagine Drusilla Whitcomb Banks, young socialite, contentedly selling flowers in a small waterfront shop.
It didn't matter to her what people thought or what they said—any more than she supposed such things mattered to Seth Quinn. She'd come here to get away from the demands and expectations, the sticky grip of family, and the unrelenting upheaval of being used as the fraying rope in the endless game of tug-of-war her parents played.
She'd come to St. Chris for peace, the peace that she'd yearned for most of her life. She was finding it.
Though her mother would be thrilled—perhaps, stubbornly, because her mother would be thrilled at the prospect of her precious daughter capturing the interest of Seth Quinn—Dru had no intention of cultivating that interest. Neither the artistic interest, nor the more elemental and frankly sexual interest she'd seen in his eyes when he'd looked at her.
Or, if she was being honest, the frankly sexual interest she'd felt for him. The Quinns were, by all reports, a large, complex and unwieldy family. God knew she'd had her fill of family.
