Hidden Treasures

Meghan silently filled in the rest of the sentence Cade Halloway was too polite to finish.

Now what? She needed a legitimate reason to explain her extended stay on the island and not compromise her promise to stick to honesty.

The cry of a loon filtered through the open window and with a flash of inspiration, Meghan found her reason. “I know I’m here early, but I happen to be free this week.” Also the truth. “I’d love to photograph some of the wildlife.”

The lean fingers on both of the man’s hands made a series of tapping noises. Meghan realized Cade Halloway didn’t vent his emotions. He “drummed” them instead. “I have a lot of work to do. I thought I’d be alone on the island before the wedding chaos started.”

What a coincidence. She’d thought the same thing!

“You won’t even know I’m here,” Meghan added. In spite of his words, she sensed him weakening.

“Somehow I doubt that,” Cade said under his breath.

The telephone suddenly rang, saving Meghan from having to respond. Cade reached for it with a terse, “Excuse me,” and Meghan took that as a cue their interview was officially concluded.

She slipped out of the library, quietly closed the door and collapsed against the wall.

The Ferris was somewhere in the house.

Cade Halloway was in the house.

Meghan decided it was going to be a very long week.

Chapter Four

Meghan grabbed her camera—just in case Cade saw her—and stepped outside. Into wonderland.

Why hadn’t she seen this the day before?

Probably because the pelting rain had forced her to keep her head down. And because she’d been so taken with the house, she’d failed to notice the yard.

Meghan took a hesitant step forward and paused, not sure where to begin. The strange silhouettes she’d seen in the shadows while she’d tripped along after Cade Halloway came to life in the bright morning sun. Sculptures. But not the kind a person found in the gardening section of the local discount store.

Meghan’s gaze settled on a blue heron created out of angle iron and followed the elegant arch of its neck to the unblinking marble eye and the fish trapped in its beak.

To the right of the heron, a trio of baby raccoons clung to the trunk of a birch tree—their mother perched on a sturdy branch above them. They’d been soldered together with bits and pieces of discarded metal, but each of their masked faces somehow conveyed a different expression.

Automatically, Meghan’s feet moved toward a bald eagle, hewn right from the stump of the tree it sat on, poised for flight.

Incredible.

Some of the sculptures were larger than life, but others, like the whimsical turtle made from a clam shell that peeked out from under the broad leaves of a hosta, were so small a person could walk right by and not notice them.

They not only differed in size, they differed in design. Some were primitive, a simple sketch of an animal or bird created with minimal materials, while others were so detailed they looked as if they were about to come to life right in front of her eyes.

She’d studied the works of Joseph Ferris in the car on the way to Willoughby and wondered if she was within reach of one of his creations. Ferris had worked in several mediums but seemed to favor watercolor. And although he’d been a product of the pop art culture of the sixties, he’d been more influenced by the early Impressionists. Meghan guessed that was the reason why his work had gone unnoticed until after his death.

She wandered through the sculpture garden, looking for something that reflected the spare lines and luminous colors Ferris favored.

“Amazing, isn’t it?”

Meghan, who’d dropped to her knees to peer at a stained-glass replica of a dragonfly, started at the sound of a voice behind her.

“I didn’t see any of this yesterday.” Meghan’s heart resumed its natural rhythm and she smiled up at Bert, who stood several feet away with Miss Molly nestled comfortably in the crook of her arm. “And I’m not sure amazing describes it.” She reached out to pick up the dragonfly and then changed her mind. Maybe someone had instigated a No Touch rule.

“Go ahead.”

“Are you sure?” Without thinking, Meghan glanced toward the house.

“I’m sure.” Bert’s low laugh told Meghan she’d guessed the reason behind her hesitation. “Besides, the dragonfly is one of mine.”

Meghan picked it up and cradled it in the palm of her hand. “You’re an artist?”

“I work with stained glass.”

“It’s beautiful.”

Bert’s eyes sparkled at the compliment. “I have a few minutes. I’ll take you on a little tour of the island and show you the rest.”

“There’s more?”

A mysterious smile touched Bert’s lips. “Oh, there’s more.”

Cade put down the phone and blew out a sigh, wondering if a photo of his aunt Judith was being faxed to every landscaping business in the county. He couldn’t find anyone willing to come to the island and fix up the grounds before the wedding.

He walked over to the window but found his view almost completely obstructed by a hedge of fragrant arbor vitae desperately in need of a trim.

Without warning, a memory of his mother kneeling on a folded beach towel in the garden returned. While he and Parker had spent summer afternoons fishing for perch or catapulting themselves off the end of the dock, Genevieve had turned the island into an eclectic hodgepodge of gardens and objects d’art. A direct contrast to the formal decor of their house in Minneapolis.

He and Parker had grown up rattling around their father’s childhood home in a neighborhood where the air still carried the faint whiff of “old money.” Aunt Judith’s influence had prevailed even there in the subdued neutrals and the furnishings arranged with museumlike perfection. Genevieve didn’t so much as rearrange the jade statues on the mantel above the fireplace, but when Douglas purchased the island she’d practically designed the entire house, decorating it with airy fabrics and bright colors.

In Minneapolis, dinner guests were chosen from his father’s business associates and potential clients; the conversation around the table as carefully planned as the menu. On the island, people dropped by with no advance notice and stayed as long as they wanted.

Judith had visited Blue Key only once that Cade could remember. She’d hated the water and the sand, declaring the place a tasteless “amusement park.” And she’d never set foot on the island again.

Cade, who’d sensed the tension between his aunt and his mother even as a child, had a hunch Judith’s refusal to visit Blue Key was fine with his mother. In fact, it suddenly occurred to him that Genevieve had smiled and laughed more when they were on the island than she had in her own home.

The carousel just beyond the concrete fountain in the center of the courtyard was a testimony to Genevieve’s unusual taste. The painted horses had faded and patches of rust stained the metal canopy like a bad rash, but Cade remembered his mother’s excitement when she’d discovered it during one of her frequent trips to the salvage yard.

The next time they’d visited the island, there it was.

He’d spent hours playing on it—the horse he “rode” reflecting the adventure he’d chosen to pursue at that particular moment in time. When he wanted to be a cowboy, he jumped on the brown bronco with wild eyes and a lasso painted over the saddle horn. If he was a knight, it was the black horse with its armored headpiece and sword.

Parker always claimed the white horse with a flowing mane and tail. The garland of roses around its neck hinted it was a derby winner, but from Cade’s boyish perspective, flowers were flowers and he wasn’t going to have anything to do with them.

All the horses were carved out of wood, the paint on the saddles and bridles original. As a piece of American history, the carousel must have been worth a fortune, but Genevieve had let him and Parker scramble on it as if it had been purchased from the back lot of a discount store.

Cade shook his head, not sure why they hadn’t gotten rid of the thing years ago. Maybe he could donate it to one of the local museums. He’d been right to come back before listing with a Realtor. The rusted sculpture garden and the unusual objects his mother had collected might detract from the aesthetic value of the property.