Anne sighed. “Probably not anytime soon.”
“That’s precisely my point. The museum is now at the stage where it needs to grow, or else it’s going to die.” Gina stabbed a tomato chunk.
“What sort of growth are you talking about?” Anne Garrett sounded doubtful.
Gina felt herself wavering. Maybe it would be wise to pull back a bit? Sometimes people who asked for the moon ended by getting nothing at all.
No, she thought. It was true, of course, that if she aimed too high, she might miss altogether. But if she aimed too low, she’d always wonder if she could have done better. And it would be the museum that would suffer. Essie Kerrigan’s precious museum. Gina couldn’t let that happen.
“I want to renovate the entire building,” she said firmly. “It’s been years since there has been any more than make-do maintenance—for instance, we’ve patched the roof, but it really needs to be replaced. Then I want to restructure the interior to provide real galleries instead of cramped spaces that will hardly hold a display cabinet.”
“I can’t imagine Essie would like seeing you do that to her house.”
“She wouldn’t be thrilled,” Gina admitted. “But she understood the need. She said herself that it was a shame we couldn’t have more wide-open space, and better lighting. And security, of course—you have no idea how difficult it is now to keep an eye on every visitor.”
Anne smiled wryly. “I thought it was lovely to have a private tour guide showing us around. Eleanor—was that her name? I never considered that she was really a guard, making sure we didn’t walk off with anything.”
Gina winced at her own lack of tact. “We don’t like to think of our volunteers as guards. But security is a problem, because we never have enough people on hand. I’d also like to build a couple of new wings for additional gallery space.”
“Where?” Anne sounded incredulous. “You don’t have room to build on wings.”
“Well, we don’t need a backyard. Or a driveway, for that matter.” Gina moved a slice of black olive to the side of her salad. “I want to make it clear, by the way, that I’m not asking you for the money.”
“That’s a relief,” Anne murmured.
“But it’s going to take some major fund-raising, and I hoped you might have some ideas.”
“And you’d like the support of the newspaper when you start your campaign, I suppose.”
Gina admitted, “That, too.” If the Chronicle were to endorse the idea of a museum expansion, the publicity would make raising the money much easier.
Anne stirred her lettuce with an abstracted air. “And I thought perhaps you’d asked me to lunch merely to invite me to join the board,” she mused.
Gina sat still, almost afraid to breathe. Afraid to interrupt.
As the silence drew out, her neck started to feel itchy again. The sensation of being watched had never quite gone away, though she’d tried her best to suppress the feeling so she could concentrate on the museum. She’d caught herself several times running a hand over the nape of her neck, as if to brush away an insect—or a bothersome stare.
She couldn’t stand it anymore. She had to look. If he was still sitting there staring at her…
But the stool at the end of the bar was empty. He was gone. Her feeling of being watched must have been merely a shadow, an impression which had lingered on because of the intensity of his gaze.
How foolish, she told herself, to feel just a little let down. She’d wanted him to stop looking and go away. Hadn’t she?
She gave up on her unfinished salad—the lettuce seemed to have kept growing even after it was arranged on her plate—and glanced around the room while she waited for Anne to gather her thoughts. Her gaze came to rest on a pair of men at a nearby table.
He hadn’t left after all. He’d only moved.
And of course, the instant she spotted him, he turned his head and looked directly at her, as if her gaze had acted like a magnet.
She couldn’t stand it an instant longer. Gina said abruptly, “The man at the third table over. In front of the fireplace. Who is he?”
Anne looked puzzled. “There are two men at that table,” she pointed out. “Which one are you asking about?”
“The one who looks like an eagle.”
“Looks like a what?”
“You know,” Gina said impatiently. “Proud and stern and looking for prey.”
Anne’s eyebrows lifted. “Well, that’s not a bad description. Especially the part about prey. I thought you’d know him, since he’s some kind of cousin or nephew of Essie’s. His name’s Dez Kerrigan.”
Gina knew the name, of course. Essie had been just as devoted to genealogy as to every other sort of history, and so Gina had heard a lot about the various branches of the Kerrigans. But she’d never met him; he obviously hadn’t been as interested in the family as Essie had been, or he’d have come ’round once in a while to visit his aunt or cousin or whatever Essie was to him.
And there was something else she should remember about him—something Essie had said. The memory nagged at the back of Gina’s brain, but it wouldn’t come out in the open. She clearly remembered Essie making the comment, because it had verged on sounding catty, and that wasn’t like Essie. But she couldn’t remember for the life of her what Essie had said.
“Now that’s interesting,” Anne murmured. “Why do you want to know?”
Sanity returned just in time. You’re an idiot, Gina thought, to call attention to yourself like that. Making a journalist wonder why you’re fascinated by a particular man…
“Just wondering.” Gina tried to keep her voice casual. “And what’s so interesting? That Essie’s nephew is having lunch here?”
“No. Who he’s having lunch with.” Anne put her napkin down. “I’m sorry, Gina. I must get back to the office.”
Gina put out a hand. “I understand that you may not want to commit yourself in any way just now. But—”
“But you want to hear my instant opinion anyway. All right. For what it’s worth, I believe you’re thinking on much too small a scale.”
“Too small?” Gina asked blankly.
Anne nodded. She pulled out a business card and scrawled something on the back of it. “By the way, I’m having a cocktail party Sunday night. You can meet some of your potential donors on neutral territory and size them up before you officially start asking for money. Here’s the address. And now I really need to run—but be sure you read the newspaper in the morning.”
Before Gina could ask what tomorrow’s Lakemont Chronicle could possibly have to do with anything, she was gone.
Gina was habitually an early riser, a habit ingrained from her upbringing. But on the following morning she was awake well before dawn, waiting to hear the distinctive off-key whine of the newspaper carrier’s car engine idling down the street while he tossed bundles onto front porches.
She’d never felt anything but safe here, even though the neighborhood, once an exclusive enclave, was now hemmed in on all sides by commercial and industrial development. She’d lived in a lot of places that were worse. Still, she couldn’t blame a parent for not allowing a kid on a bike to deliver