13. Chapter 13 – Lucy
F acing Clay after nearly mauling him last night wasn’t my idea of a good time. Unfortunately, our schedule leading up to the show didn’t leave room for embarrassment. Telling myself I should be proud for calling a stop to something I wasn’t ready for lost power around two in the morning.
That was when the panic crept in. That I’d ruined something. That he’d leave. But Clay wasn’t like that. Not last night. He’d made no arguments and no complaints. There was no mention of hurting his feelings or making me feel like crap for being a bad date. Just easy acceptance.
He was nothing like Christopher. I actually believed him when he said “no rush.” It was me who kept giving mixed signals, charging ahead and then screeching to a stop.
My body kept getting ahead of my brain. Every time I tried to think clearly, the rest of me shut down, worried about how he’d react when he saw all of me.
I spotted Clay’s truck pulling up and bolted out to his truck before he could come to my door. He didn’t need to revisit the scene of our almost-crime.
He’d accepted my pause on our sextivities last night with grace.
And today was no different. He kept up a steady stream of chatter about the island, seeming unfazed by the unfinished business between us.
But the memories of last night, how good he’d made me feel, left me unable to focus on small talk.
I couldn’t ignore his big body next to mine.
The subtle scent of his soap filled the truck, drowning me in him. He flicked the turn signal. Even that casual gesture struck me as erotic. Strong. Sure. Confident.
Was it better to warn him in advance, or just dive into sex and steel myself for his response to my body?
Tell my mind to shut up and give him a chance?
I’d lived with my birthmark forever, but the fear of unveiling it never seemed to fade.
It covered most of my chest in a purple-red shape vaguely reminiscent of the Eurasian continent.
Christopher urged me to cover it up. He couldn’t quite hide his disgust. Over time, it had colored our relationship, leaving me feeling self-conscious about showing it to anyone new.
My worries made it difficult to focus on his easy patter as he drove.
The Island Muse Gallery was in Roche Harbor, about a fifteen-minute drive from Friday Harbor. The chic resort community was ninety-nine percent housing rentals or permanent homes, with the remaining one percent made up of high-end shops and restaurants.
Parking was almost always a pain, but we snagged a space in front of the gallery.
Clay backed expertly into the spot and dropped his tailgate.
We carried stacks of canvases inside, propping them against Chaz’s counter.
Today, the display near the register was filled with delicate jewelry crafted from shells and bits of stone.
Chaz himself appeared from the back room with a toothy smile. His silver-blond hair was expertly cut and styled. He tugged his shirt, straightening it beneath the cuffs of his jacket before smoothing down his lapel. “Lucy. Good to see you.”
I tipped my chin. “Chaz.”
Chaz extended his hand. “Chaz Underwood.”
He and Clay shook. “Clay Robertson. We spoke on the phone – I’m one of the park rangers.”
“Yes, yes. I’m happy to support the volunteers at the National Historical Park. I’ve started working with my graphic designer on posters for the Halloween event. My assistant, Janine, handled ticket sales. She made a deal with Harlow at the bakery and other vendors across the island.”
“Where is Janine?” I asked.
His use of past tense bothered me. The benefit was still weeks away. Janine should be handling ticket sales. My gaze flicked to the black curtain that marked the entrance to the gallery’s back room.
“She’s not in today,” Chaz said smoothly.
“Where would you like the canvases?” I asked, letting it drop. For now.
He rubbed his hands together. “Let’s take a look first.” He tapped the counter. “Show me what we’re working with.”
“We’ve got a range of ages participating. Our youngest artist is eight.” I spread the kids’ canvases across the counter. One rainbow lighthouse with unicorns caught Chaz’s eye, and he chuckled. “The parents are going to love these. What else do you have for me?”
Slowly, I spread the senior canvases, careful to tuck Gran’s nude masterpiece beneath a more innocuous lighthouse that had executed an improbable sunset well.
“Good. Good. And what do we have here?” Chaz arched a brow, tugging the orgy depiction from the stack. He held it out in front of him, squinting. “Good balance. They placed the scenes well, though some of my clientele are going to squawk over the content. Who’s the artist?”
“Barbara Fenwick.”
Chaz’s lips twitched. “I should have guessed that one. I’m going to need an adults-only corner to display it in.” He tapped a peachy very phallic-looking lighthouse. “Possibly with that one.”
He really had seen it all. He hadn’t so much as twitched over Gran’s NSFW subject matter. Good, because we needed someone unflappable.
“We didn’t guarantee that all items would be on display or for sale,” I said. Maybe he needed an out.
He waved a hand in the air. “It’s fine, Lucy. A little controversy is good for the show. I’ve got the perfect corner for this. It even has a curtain, so we can build a little mystery. Help me bring them to the back, and I’ll get them framed before the show.”
Clay and I each picked up a stack of paintings and followed Chaz into his back room.
Unlike the front of the gallery, which was pristine, his workspace was a disaster.
Jugs of acetone and cans of adhesive spray littered drop cloths on the floor.
Backing boards and acrylic glazing were stacked every which way along the walls.
A large table at the back held canvas pliers and a stretching tool.
Chaz gestured to the table, and we picked our way through the chaos, stacking our paintings there.
He led Clay and I back through the maze of art paraphernalia toward the front room.
My foot connected with something on the edge of the mess, sending it spinning.
I bent, trying to spot what I kicked. Chaz might not find whatever it was again if I didn’t retrieve it.
A black hard-sided case had spun, coming to rest in between a gap in a stack of large canvases leaning against the wall.
I narrowed my eyes. The carryall looked more like a boater’s waterproof equipment case or something you’d find in the military than anything meant to transfer artwork.
Curious, I flipped the latches. Locked. Turning it over, I spotted two letters etched in the plastic: J.D.
Frowning, I set it back in place, tucked next to Chaz’s desk.
If it was valuable, why was it out? Chaz did enough shows with jewelry and other precious objects to own a safe. Surely, that would be more secure than a case in his back room.
A flash of memory tickled, gone before I could grasp it.
Chaz ducked his head around the curtain. “You get lost back here?”
I forced a smile. “I’m not going to judge. You should see my storage room.”
His eyes darted to the case at my feet, his expression hardening. He licked his lips, meeting my gaze. “I know I’m a terrible slob. My wife is always giving me a hard time about it. Luckily, I keep most of my mess confined to the gallery.”
“Dr. Underwood does strike me as the tidy type.”
Chaz rolled his eyes. “You have no idea. I blame it on my ADHD, and she reminds me there are meds for that.”
As much as I wanted another look at that case, I kept my focus on Chaz, following him back to the display room.
Clay stood contemplating a large canvas done in blues, greens, and earth tones.
The artist had done an excellent job capturing Spieden Island, complete with exotic game.
I’d heard rumors that the private island was a hunting ground in the 1900s.
Maybe it was created from imagination or photographs, but the canvas made me believe the artist had managed an invitation.
“Ready?” Clay asked.
“We can drop off the next batch in a week or so,” I offered.
“Sounds good. I have a show next weekend, then I’ll start setting up for our Ghouls in the Gallery event.”
I nodded to a wall of abstract paintings. “Another showing from your anonymous artist?”
Chaz smiled. “Yes. A.A. is very prolific for us.”
“We’ll see you next week,” Clay said. He waved goodbye to Chaz.
“What’s your hurry?” I asked.
“Can’t a guy buy you ice cream?”
“There you go again with the questions.”
“And your answer is?” He extended his hand.
“Yes. What woman doesn’t want ice cream?” My palm nestled in his, his fingers tightening around mine. Even that innocent touch had me reliving our time on the couch. I wanted him to touch me. All of me. Soon. He seemed oblivious to the direction of my thoughts, captivated by people-watching.
We joined the line at the espresso stand. Clay ordered chocolate, and I picked honey lavender. The delicate herbal flavor shouldn’t have worked in the creamy base, but somehow it did. By silent agreement, we walked along the dock with our treats.
“You disappeared for a minute there at the end with Chaz. Everything okay?”
I nodded, swiping at a drip from my cone. I hid a smile when Clay’s eyes went hazy, his attention following my tongue. “I kicked a black case and stopped to put it back. It was a little odd.”
“How so?”
“I’ve never seen a case like that used for artwork. And it had initials etched in it: JD.”
Clay shrugged. “Maybe he uses it for tool storage.”
I shook my head. Something tickled at the back of my memory.
“It’s not that kind of case either. Not unless he’s doing authentication that requires more sophisticated analysis with a spectrometer.
But he usually does shows with local artists.
There’s no need for authentication.” I snapped my fingers.
“I know what it reminds me of – Rae has one on her boat.” I arched a brow.
“And didn’t Drew find something like it at the beach this spring? ”
“It could be just a coincidence that Drew had a similar case stolen from his truck the day after Jordan Dawkin’s death.”
“We never found out what was inside that case,” I said.
“But what are the chances Chaz nicked it? And why?”
I exchanged glances with Clay. “The sheriff still has questions about why Jordan Dawkins was on the cliffs that night. Could he have been bringing the case to Chaz?”
“And what, his second mate, Brandon Chen, finished the job?”
I tugged at my bottom lip. “Maybe. Not that we’ll have a chance to ask him. He’s still in jail after breaking into the Dawkins’ house.”
“I’m not sure we have enough to involve the sheriff.”
“Agreed.” I tilted my head. “But maybe you and I should go to Chaz’s next show?”
A broad grin stretched his cheeks. “Are you asking me on a date, Lucifer?”
“Is it still a date if it doubles as a stakeout?”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m counting it.” He clutched his hands to his chest, eyes twinkling. “You like me. You really like me.”
The truth? I did. But my insecurities were so loud, they drowned out all the reasons why I should trust him with my body. Letting him that close meant he’d see everything I’d tried so hard to hide.