Summer in Eclipse Bay

picked up an iron poker, and prodded the fire. The blaze didn't need prodding, but it gave him something to do with his hands.
    "I've enjoyed your books," she said. "I've got all four in the series."
    "I noticed." He put aside the poker, straightened, and glanced at the bookshelf where his novels were arranged between two heavy green glass bookends. "We authors tend to pick up on little details like that."
    The bookends looked expensive, he thought. Dolphins playing in the surf. One-of-a-kind pieces of art glass, not cheap, utilitarian bookends picked up at a rummage sale.
    There were other quietly expensive touches in the cottage. An exotically patterned carpet done in shades of muted greens and gold covered most of the hardwood floor in front of the dark-green sofa. The coffee table was a heavy sheet of green glass that rippled and flowed like a wave of clear lava. A couple of framed abstract paintings hung on the walls.
    Not the kind of furnishings you expected in a weekend or summer house, he thought. He had the feeling that she had deliberately set out to make a home here. And now she was planning to depart for good.
    "Tell me," she said, "was it difficult to make the decision to leave Harte Investments when you decided to write full time?"
    "Making the decision was easy." He sat down on the sofa and reached for his coffee mug. "Getting out of the family business was a little more difficult."
    "I'll bet it was. You were the firstborn and from all accounts you showed a talent for investments."
    He shrugged. "I'm a Harte."
    She gave him a fleeting smile. "There must have been a lot of pressure on you to take over the helm after your father retired."
    "My parents were very understanding and supportive." He took a swallow of coffee and slowly lowered the mug. "But Sullivan went off like Mount Saint Helens."
    "I believe it. Harte Investments was your grandfather's creation. Everyone around here knows what he went through to recover and build a new company after Aunt Claudia-" She broke off. "After Harte-Madison went under."
    He wrapped both hands around the mug. "Dad tried to shield me from the worst of the blast but no one could have suppressed that explosion. Sullivan and I went a few rounds before he finally realized that I wasn't going to back down and change my mind."
    "It must have been a difficult time."
    "Yeah." He took another sip of coffee. "But we got through it."
    "It's a tribute to the strength of your family bonds."
    "Uh-huh." He did not want to talk any more about that time in his life. It was tied up too closely with Amelia's death. He glanced around the room. "Looks like you planned to stay here for a while."
    She raised one shoulder in a tiny shrug. "Plans change."
    He couldn't think of anything to say to that so he tried another topic. "Heard you've been seeing Jeremy Seaton."
    "We've had dinner together a couple of times." She sipped her coffee.
    He looked at her. "Mind if I ask if there's anything serious in that direction?"
    She pursed her lips and tilted her head slightly. Thinking. "I would describe my relationship with Jeremy as friendly."
    "Friendly." What the hell
did friendly
mean?
    "Jeremy and I have a lot of interests in common."
    He nodded once. "The art thing. Jeremy paints."
    She gave him polite concern. "Is there a problem here?"
    "You tell me." He put his mug down with great care. "Is Jeremy going to have a problem with you and me having dinner tonight?"
    "I doubt it." She looked surprised by the question. "But if he says anything, I'll explain the situation to him."
    "How, exactly, do you intend to explain it?"
    "I'll tell him that we're just friends. He'll understand."
    "Just friends," he repeated neutrally.
    "What else?" She put down her own mug and looked pointedly at the clock. "Good heavens, it's getting late, isn't it? I have to go into the gallery early tomorrow to frame some of the children's pictures, and I'm sure you're anxious to pick up Carson."
    "Kicking me out?"
    "It's been a long day," she said by way of an apology and got to her feet.
    "Sure." He rose slowly, taking his time.
    She handed him his black windbreaker and opened the door for him. Smiling all the while. Friendly.
    He went outside onto the front porch. The squall was dying fast, leaving behind crisp, still-damp air.
    "Drive carefully," she said.
    "I'll do that."
    He pulled on his jacket but did not bother to fasten it. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and stood looking out into the night. He could