Summer in Eclipse Bay

elbows on the counter. "You're worried that you've been outclassed by a better artist?"
    "Professional jealousy is tough to deal with at any age."
    He went outside to join Carson.
    At six that evening she stood on the top of the bluff with Carson and looked down at the five finger-shaped stones that thrust upward out of the swirling waters at the base of the short cliff.
    "It's called Dead Hand Cove," Carson explained, cheerfully morbid. "Dad named it when he was a kid. On account of the way the rocks stick up. Like a dead hand. See?"
    "Got it." The day had been pleasantly warm but there was a mild breeze off the water. Octavia stared down into the cove. "The stones really do look like fingers."
    "And there's some caves down there, too. Dad and I went into them yesterday. We found some marks on the walls. Dad said he put them there when he was a kid so that Aunt Lillian and Aunt Hannah wouldn't get lost when they went inside."
    "That's a Harte for you," she said. "Always planning ahead."
    "Yeah, Dad says that's what Hartes do." Carson's mood darkened into a troubled frown. "He says sometimes all the planning doesn't work, though. He says sometimes stuff happens that you don't expect and things change."
    "You mean stuff like Anne's picture of Zeb?" she asked gently.
    He gazed up at her quickly and then looked away. "Yeah. It was better than my picture of Winston, wasn't it?"
    She sat down on a nearby rock so that their faces were level. "Anne has a marvelous talent. If she decides to work hard at her drawing and if she has a passion for it, I think she could someday be a fine artist."
    "Yeah." He kicked at a clump of grass.
    "Different people have different kinds of talents," she said. "It's true that Anne has a gift for drawing. But the fact that you could see that her picture was so good means that you have another kind of talent."
    He glanced at her, still scowling but intrigued now. "What kind?"
    "It isn't everyone who can take one look at a picture and know that it is very good."
    "Big deal."
    "Yes, it is a big deal," she said matter-of-factly. "You have an eye for excellence, and that talent will be an enormous asset to you in the years ahead."
    "How do you know?" he grumbled.
    "Because it's the same talent I've got."
    That stopped him for a few seconds. Then he looked appalled. "The same kind?"
    "Yes."
    "But I don't
wanna
run an art store. I wanna run a big company like Granddad Hamilton and Great-Granddad Sullivan. Dad says that's probably what I'll do on account of it's in my genes or something."
    "The talent to recognize quality and beauty when you see it will be useful to you no matter what you do with your life," she said.
    "You're sure?"
    "Positive."
    "Cause I don't wanna have to run a little art gallery like yours."
    "Don't worry, I doubt if you'll end up doing that for a living. But you may decide to buy art to hang in your home or on the walls of your office someday, and with your talent you'll be able to buy really excellent art. You won't have to pay a consultant to tell you what's good and what's not so good. You'll be able to make your own decisions."
    "Huh." But he was clearly somewhat mollified by the prospect of making decisions.
    "Who knows?" she said. "Maybe someday you'll be in a position to buy one of Anne's paintings."
    "I'm not gonna buy any pictures of her dumb dog, that's for sure."
    Dinner went well, Nick thought later. He was unaccountably relieved, even pleased. It had, after all, been a new experience for him. Not that he couldn't do salad and boil a pot full of some of Rafe's ravioli stuffed with gorgonzola cheese, spinach, and walnuts. He had, after all, been cooking for himself and Carson for quite a while now.
    But when he had resumed a social life a year or so after Amelia's death, he had consciously or unconsciously confined himself to women who, he was fairly certain, would not have been comfortable sitting at a kitchen table with a precocious kid.
    Maybe the women of the Harte family had been right all along, he thought. Maybe he just hadn't wanted to see any of his dates in a domestic light. You looked at a woman differently after you'd seen her hanging out in your kitchen, carrying on an intelligent conversation about dogs and dinosaurs with your son.
    Whatever the case, one thing was certain. When he looked across the old kitchen table this evening, a wooden table that had been scarred and scuffed with the marks of three generations of Harte family meals, it had hit him