Love Finds You in Martha's Vineyard (17 page)

Then she put their picnic bundle in her bike basket, and they headed over to Owen Park Beach a couple of blocks away. Naturally, the beach was crowded. But they locked up their bikes and found a good spot where they set out their picnic and dined in style.

“I think food tastes better when eaten outside,” Waverly observed.

“And these sandwiches are awesome,” Sicily proclaimed.

“I must agree.” Waverly grinned. “Who knew that peanut butter was better with sweet pickles?”

“This is the best day I've had since I came to Martha's Vineyard,” Sicily told her after they'd finished up and were out wading ankle-deep in the cool water.

“Me too,” Waverly confessed. “Thanks for sharing it with me.”

They wandered up and down the beach, looking for shells and sea glass until they finally realized someone was calling their names.

“Hey, that's my dad.” Sicily pointed over to where a man was standing at the edge of the sand and waving wildly toward them. “Guess we better go, huh?”

“I think so.” Waverly put the last shell she'd found in her cargo pants pocket, patting to see if her cell phone was still there and wondering why he hadn't simply called.

“Hey, Dad,” Sicily said cheerfully, “what's up?”

His expression grew stern. “What's up is that I've been looking all over for you.”

“Why didn't you call—”

He shook his phone at her. “I did call. About a hundred times.”

Sicily pointed to her backpack by their bikes. “Oops, I guess I forgot my phone in there.”

“I guess so.” He shook his head.

“Didn't Rosie give you my cell phone number?” Waverly asked as she bent over to unlock their bikes.

“No, Rosie did
not
.”

“Sorry, I asked her—”

“Never mind,” he snapped. “We have to go, Sicily.
Now.
Get your stuff and come on.”

“What's the hurry?” she asked.

“Janice is driving, and she needs to get home for some big dinner shindig tonight.” He reached for Sicily's backpack. “Come on, Sis.”

“But it's not even five o'clock yet,” Waverly pointed out.

He locked eyes with her now. “I'm well aware of what time it is, thank you very much!”

“Dad,”
hissed Sicily, “don't be such an old grump!”

“If I'm grumpy, it's only because I've been worried about you, Sicily. For starters, you weren't at The Gallery. Rosie said you'd gone to the beach, but I had no idea which beach or where you were, and I've been looking all over the place.” He pointed to the water now. “For all I knew, you could've been drowned.”

“I'm not drowned.” Sicily shook her head as she unlocked her bike.

“Whose bike is that?” he asked.

“Mine.” She grinned at him.

“What?”
He looked from Sicily to Waverly with a confused expression.

“I thought she told you—”

“What on earth made you think it was okay—”

“I paid her an advance,” Waverly calmly explained. “So that we could—”

“If my daughter needs a bike, I will buy her a bike—”

“Dad!” Sicily scowled at him. “Be nice!”

He pressed his lips together and his face, which was already red—probably too much sun—got even redder. “We'll work out the details of this—this bike later,” he growled. “But for now, you will have to deal with it, Waverly. Because, as you must know, there is not room in your little cousin's car to hold a bicycle.” He grabbed Sicily by the hand now. “Come on,
let's go!”

“Bye, Waverly,” she called as her father tugged her up the beach toward the parking lot where a horn, probably Janice's, was honking loudly and obnoxiously.

Waverly struggled to walk the pair of bikes across the lumpy sand. Once she was on solid ground, it became a little easier but was still awkward. As she wobbled along, she felt increasingly irked for having to spend her day off towing two bikes through town. Her anger wasn't directed toward Sicily, since the little girl would've gladly ridden her bike back to The Gallery. But Waverly's fumes were aimed at Blake and his impatience. And she felt aggravated with Janice too. Really, what was wrong with those two? They only seemed to think of themselves.

“Looks like you could use a hand,” called a man's voice.

She looked over to see a sandy-haired man crossing the street toward her. “It's a little tricky riding two bikes at once,” she told him as he fell into step with her.

“Can I be of help?” he offered.

She looked into his brown eyes and wondered if he could be tricking her. What if he was really a bike thief?

“I'm Reggie Martin,” he told her. “I own The Skye.”

She stopped walking. “You
own
the sky?”

“It's an art gallery,” he explained with a nice smile. “Not the real sky, although I do have my pilot's license. But I mean the art gallery on Main Street.”

“Oh.” She nodded. “The Skye. Yes, I've seen the sign, and I've been meaning to go in there. A real art gallery.”

He laughed. “A real art gallery? As opposed to what?”

“It's a long story.” She studied him closely. “And I'm from Chicago. I've been here less than a week, so I guess I'm still a bit wary of strangers offering help.”

“Well, if you're worried I'm about to steal your bike, don't. I'm not into girls' bikes so much.”

“Thanks. I'd appreciate a hand.” She told him her name now, letting him have Sicily's bike to roll along. “I'm guessing you're not part of a Vineyard crime ring.”

“In fact, the Vineyard has a very low crime rate,” he said as they navigated past a group of pedestrians who weren't budging from where they were photographing an old building.

“So I've heard, but I'm still keeping my doors locked.”

He nodded. “Probably not a bad idea during tourist season. So are you just visiting?”

“I'm not sure,” she admitted as they turned onto Main Street. “I thought I was relocating.” She shook her head with a rueful smile. “I also thought I was coming here to run a real art gallery.”

“Oh, that's the real art gallery story?”

“Yes.” She pointed to the arcade just down the street from them. “My mom and aunt bought The Gallery and brought me out here to manage it. I thought it was an art gallery—not a video-game arcade.”

He threw back his head and laughed loudly. “That must've been a shock.”

She briefly explained her background in art and her desire to reinvent herself, then finally paused in front of The Gallery. “So now I'm running this place.”

He looked down at the small pink bike. “And who belongs to this? A daughter?”

“No. A young friend of mine.”

He pointed to the art gallery a couple of blocks down. “Have you considered doing any consultations here? I could use the opinion of a real art conservationist.”

“A real art conservationist?” she teased.

“Yes. A real one. Are you interested?”

“Absolutely,” she told him. “Do you mind if I clean up some? I'm kind of sandy and—”

“Tell you what,” he said, “you clean up. Then come over and give me your opinion on a particular painting that's been concerning me, and perhaps you'll let me pay you by taking you to dinner?” Now he looked uncertain. “Unless you're involved or married or engaged or something, although it didn't look like it.” He pointed to her wedding ring finger. She'd removed her wedding rings during her cleaning spurt this past week and had totally forgotten to replace them.

“No, I'm not married. Rather, I'm widowed.”

“Oh, I see. I'm so sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks. It's been three—actually, almost four—years.”

Hope glimmered in his eyes again. “So, how about it then? Interested in working a deal? A few minutes of work for a meal? I really do need a professional opinion on an old piece of art. Of course, I'll gladly pay you in cash if you'd prefer. I simply thought I'd give it—”

“Dinner sounds divine.”

A smile lit up his face. “Great. See you in a while then? I usually close at six on Sundays.”

“I'll be there before six.”

Blake felt like a jerk all the way home. It didn't help that Sicily was treating him like he was about to win the title “World's Worst Father” either. As Janice drove too fast down the curvy road, he replayed the scene on the beach with Waverly and Sicily and regretted every word he'd spoken—to both of them. Why had he allowed Janice's little temper tantrum to undo him like that? Who cared if Janice was late for her big dinner date? It had been her choice to linger at the beach. Even after he'd gotten a cryptic message from Sicily and expressed the desire to head back to Vineyard Haven, had that hurried Janice?

“You will be ready to go by 6:30,” Janice said as she turned down their road.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

She made a disappointed face. “I thought you agreed to go with me. To dinner tonight. Remember?”

“I didn't understand,” he said. “I thought you were going alone.”

“Alone?” She looked like she was on the verge of tears as she pulled into their driveway. “Why would I want to do that?”

“I don't know. I just thought—”

“Go with her, Dad,” Sicily said sullenly.

“Listen to your daughter.” Janice stopped the car and turned to smile at Sicily. “And my mother and aunt have invited you to spend the evening with them. I hear there's chocolate and a good movie involved.”

“All right!” Sicily nodded eagerly as she reached for her backpack. “But I don't—”

“You are coming with me, Blake. You can't make me late like this and then refuse to go with me. Besides, did I tell you who's on the guest list? It's possible that James Taylor might even be there.”

“You're just saying that to—”

“Six-thirty,” she told him sharply. Then, turning to Sicily, her tone sweetened. “Don't let your daddy be late, okay?”

“Okay.” Sicily seemed to like this arrangement. “Do you think Waverly will be there too?”

“Where?” Janice asked.

“At Vivian and Louise's,” Sicily explained.

“Oh.” Janice cocked her head to one side. “Maybe so. I'll try to find out.”

“Cool!” Sicily threw her backpack over a shoulder and dashed into the house.

“Now you have two females who are depending on you,” Janice told him. Then she smiled prettily. “Please don't be late. Okay?”

Feeling trapped, he merely nodded. “I won't be late.”

“And dress is beachy casual, but that still means nice. Okay?”

Blake thought he was going to throw something if she said “okay” one more time. He nodded again. “Yeah, I think I can handle that.”

“And just walk over to Mom's house. We'll take my car. Okay?”

“Fine.” He gritted his teeth.

“See you soon!” Then, spitting gravel from her tires, she sped out of the driveway and on down the road.

As he went into his house, he felt like a complete wimp. How had it come down to this? Letting females bully him, having their way, with no consideration for his feelings whatsoever. What had happened to him? Or maybe he deserved what he was getting.

Trying to push negativity from his brain, Blake showered and even took the time to trim his beard before he carefully dressed in his nicest casual look. California style, of course.
Casually
pressed off-white pants, a Ralph Lauren shirt in a pale blue plaid, and wax-hide loafers, no socks. If that wasn't good enough for James Taylor, whom everyone knew was a casual sort of guy, someone could just throw Blake out. He didn't really care.

“You look nice, Dad.” Sicily smiled as he emerged from his room a little past six.

“You do too, sweetie.”

She frowned. “I'm wearing jeans and a T-shirt, Dad.”

“Even so, you do look nice.”

“Right.”

He wanted to tell her that the primary reason he was going on this forced date was so she could spend the evening with Vivian and Louise (and possibly Waverly) since it appeared obvious his daughter preferred the company of old ladies (and some not so old) to him. But he controlled himself. No sense in making a bad situation worse.

“Ready to go?” she asked.

“I guess.”

As they walked down the trail, she chattered to him about some of the things she'd done with Waverly that day, talking about this grown woman as if she were Sicily's new best friend. “I hope she wants to do some drawing tonight,” Sicily told him as they went onto the porch. “I've got some new ideas for the mural.”

“Hello there,” said Vivian as she opened the screen door for them. “Come right in.”

“Is Waverly here yet?” Sicily asked expectantly.