“Heaven help me.” He couldn’t refrain from touching her, just to see. Then they were kissing again, reveling in each other.
All at once there was a flashing blue-and-red light behind them.
Faith pulled away from him and fumbled with the front of her dress. “Oh, my goodness. Oh, my goodness.” She sounded seventeen again.
Troy dragged a calming breath through his teeth, then stepped out of the car.
The young officer instantly paled. “Sheriff Davis.”
“Everything’s all right here, Payne.”
“Yes, sir. S-sorry, sir.” The kid was almost inarticulate in his desperation to escape.
“That’s fine. You were just doing your job.” “Thank you, sir.” The patrolman was in his car as fast as his feet would move. Within seconds, he’d driven away.
Opening the car door, Troy got back inside. Faith looked at him and they both dissolved into giggles.
Twenty-Eight
Maryellen Bowman was so excited she could barely contain herself. Two important phone calls had come that afternoon, each one bringing good news.
Nursing Drake while Katie sat next to her holding a book and pretending to read to her baby brother, Maryellen let her mind race with the possibilities for Jon and his future as a photographer.
Just a couple of weeks earlier, Maryellen had received news that had distressed her. The owners of the Harbor Street Gallery had definitely decided to close their doors. She felt as if the years she’d spent as the gallery manager, building up the clientele and forging relationships with local artists, had been for nothing. Apparently, without her there to oversee everything, sales had fallen off to the point that it was financially infeasible to continue the business. Lois Habbersmith, who’d assumed Maryellen’s role, felt dreadful and blamed herself. She’d never been comfortable in a managerial position and admittedly wasn’t as good with either the artists or the customers as Maryellen.
Still, Maryellen had hoped sales would pick up during the summer, but that hadn’t happened. Aware of her distress, Jon had suggested she return to work part-time. The owners had wanted that, too.
Maryellen had agonized over that decision, but in the end she knew she couldn’t. Not with a newborn and a toddler. Her primary concern had to be her own family. When she told Jon, she saw the relief in his eyes—but if she’d wanted to go back to work, her husband would have honored her decision. Thankfully, Jon desired the same things she did. Family came before anything else, even if that meant sacrifices.
The first call was from Will Jefferson, the brother of her mother’s best friend. Will said he was interested in buying the Harbor Street Gallery and asked if he could stop by later that afternoon to discuss it. Maryellen felt slightly uncomfortable about this; Will, after all, was the man who’d come between Cliff and her mother. But if he bought the gallery, he’d make a real difference to Cedar Cove, a positive difference, and she was grateful for that possibility. So naturally, she’d agreed to the meeting, although she’d made it plain that she wouldn’t be able to work for him.
The second exciting call followed within the hour. During a ten-minute conversation with artists’ agent Marc Albright, Jon’s financial future had changed. Marc wanted to represent Jon’s work. The opportunities, he said, were endless. Maryellen had researched artists’ representatives and e-mailed a number of the most reputable, then sent them samples of Jon’s photographs. It had paid off.
Now Jon would be able to devote all his working time to photography. While she was pregnant with Drake, he’d found employment taking school pictures. Maryellen knew how much he hated that, although he’d never complained. He was doing what he had to in order to pay the bills.
Her biggest fear was that the job would kill Jon’s love for photography. Until the fire that burned down The Lighthouse, he’d supplemented their income by working as a chef. With that fire had gone his employment. The restaurant had provided a steady—and reasonably good—salary, so they felt the financial loss immediately.
And yet, in unexpected ways, the fire had actually been a blessing.
If not for the arson, the rift between her husband and his parents might never have been settled. If not for the fire, Jon might’ve been content to work as a chef and keep his photography as a sideline business.
Behind a camera, Jon came alive. His photographs of the rainforest were so vivid, viewers felt that if they reached out and touched the print, their fingers would come away moist.
Until they’d started seeing each other, he didn’t often take photos of people. But after Katie’s birth and then Drake’s, he’d taken thousands of family pictures. Maryellen had to admit she was self-conscious about the photographs he’d done of her but when she looked at them objectively, she could see what other people did. A man’s love for a woman. A mother’s love for a child. Still, her favorite was a picture of his father gazing down at the infant in his arms. Joseph’s craggy face, juxtaposed against the smooth, soft lines of the infant’s, was so moving it could bring her to tears.
But Jon’s scenic work was where he truly excelled. One of his best-known was of an eagle in flight, wings in a graceful arc, poised above the blue-green waters of Puget Sound. Another was of a ferry crossing with Mt. Rainier in the background. An art gallery in Seattle routinely sold his work, as did the Harbor Street Gallery; unfortunately, the money he made as a photographer hadn’t been enough to support their family. That, however, was about to change.
Shortly after Drake was born, Jon had begun another job as a chef, working at Anthony’s Home Port in Gig Harbor. It meant he could quit his job with the photo studio, which was a plus, but the hours were a problem. Because he had the evening shift, Maryellen was alone with the children most nights. The benefit was that her husband could spend the mornings with Katie and Drake. Maryellen loved him all the more for the way he treasured their children.
She heard a car door slam and eased a sleeping Drake onto her shoulder as she went to the door. When she didn’t recognize the man who stepped out of the car, she assumed it must be Will Jefferson. As quickly as she could, she straightened the living room, collecting toys, cups, books and magazines, and rushing them to the kitchen. Katie attempted to help, but her efforts only added to the general chaos.
There was a knock at the door. She opened it, slightly out of breath.
“Maryellen Bowman?” the man asked.
She nodded and nearly tripped over her daughter, who grabbed hold of her leg. “Katie,” she chastised, moving the little girl out of her way. “Watch where you are.” Her reprimand had no effect. Katie wrapped her arm around Maryellen’s thigh and clung to her mother.
“You must be Will Jefferson,” she said, choosing to ignore the child hanging from her leg.
“I am.” Will smiled at Katie, who finally stepped aside. He came into the house.
Looking at the living room through his eyes, Maryellen felt compelled to apologize. “Please excuse the mess, but as you can see I’ve got my hands full here.”
“I understand. Don’t worry about it.”
They sat down on the sofa and when she offered him refreshments, Will declined. Just as well, because all she had was apple juice and graham crackers.
After some casual conversation, Will produced a pad and pen and asked a series of detailed, intelligent questions. Maryellen answered them to the best of her ability. Judging by the things he wanted to know about the gallery, the local artists and the sales when she was manager, Will Jefferson would do an excellent job—if he bought the place. The fact that he lavishly praised Jon’s work endeared him even more.
“I do hope you give this serious consideration,” Maryellen told him when he’d finished. “The gallery’s been part of this community for a long time. Everyone is upset that it’s going to