Cam nodded. “Just finishing up a few details. Hey, sorry to hear about your mom. How’s she doing?”

“A little better each day. We’re hoping she’ll be home by Monday or Tuesday.”

“Knowing her, I’m sure she’s getting antsy to get out.”

“I’m sure she will be once she isn’t sleeping as much. They have her on some pretty heavy meds right now for the pain.”

“Poor Grace.” Cam shook his head. “Give her our best, will you? Let her know we’re thinking about her.”

“Will do.”

“So what are you up to? Curious about what we’ve done inside?” Cam gestured toward the building behind him.

“My mom had an interview set up for this morning with the woman who’s running the gallery, and she was so upset to miss it … you know, afraid the paper wouldn’t get out, that sort of thing. Anyway, I said I’d do the interview for her.”

“Nice of you.” Cam grinned. “Your mom is going to make a newspaperman out of you yet.”

“Not likely.” Ford snorted. “This is just temporary, till she’s back on her feet.”

“Well, let’s hope that’s soon, for both your sakes.” Cam glanced at his watch. “I’m late. Ellie’s going to kill me. I promised I’d be back at the house by eleven.” He hoisted the toolbox he held under his arm. “Carly’s inside. I’ll see you around …”

“Right.” Ford opened the door and stepped inside and out of the heat and humidity. The cool air surrounded him and he closed the door quickly.

“Cam, did you forget some …” The woman stepped out from behind a partition that divided the room into two equal parts, and Ford’s breath caught in his chest.

He blinked to make sure the heat hadn’t brought on a hallucination.

But no. It was her.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“I’m Ford Sinclair,” he somehow managed to say.

“Yes, I know.”

“You do?” He frowned. “How do you know?”

“I was at your welcome-home party.” She leaned back against the end of the partition.

“You were?”

“Yes, don’t you remember? We met in the lobby. I was looking at—”

“A painting, the one behind the receptionist’s desk, yes, of course I remember that part.” He could have added that he’d been kicking himself in the butt ever since for letting her get away that night without finding out more about her. Like her name. “But I thought you were a guest at the inn.”

“I was staying with Cam and Ellie, and I think your mother probably invited me to the party because she was afraid they wouldn’t come if they had to leave me home alone. I went into the lobby because I felt awkward, since I hardly knew anyone, including the guest of honor.”

“You weren’t the only one who felt out of place.”

“What, you? The party was for you.”

“I’m afraid I’m not much of a party guy,” was all the explanation he offered.

“By the way, I’m Carly Summit.”

“I was hoping you were.” And he had been, ever since he opened the door and saw her standing there. He should have put it together right away—the pretty blonde who’d shown such intense interest in the painting in the lobby would, naturally, be the art dealer. For days, he’d been wondering if he’d ever see her again, and now here she was, compliments of his mother.

Apparently, it was true: no good deed goes unrewarded.

“I’m so sorry about your mother’s fall,” Carly was saying. “I think it must have happened right after she left here.”

“She was here on Wednesday?”

Carly nodded. “She stopped by to go over a list that she was working on for me.”

“A list?” Grace hadn’t mentioned a list that morning.

“People who may have inherited paintings by a local artist. The same artist, incidentally, who painted the picture I wanted to look at in the inn.”

“Just say the word, anytime you want a closer look.”

Carly smiled. “So, Ford Sinclair, what can I do for you this morning?”

“You can give me those few minutes you were going to spend with Mom.” When Carly raised an eyebrow, he explained, “My mother asked me to interview you in her place. She was really worried about the series of articles she wanted to do for the paper not getting done, so I told her I’d take over until she’s recovered enough to do her thing.”

“That’s nice of you. You’ve done this before?”

“Not really,” he admitted. “But she did tell me what she wanted and she gave me the questions she’d planned on asking …”

Carly nodded. “I see. Well, then, where would you like to begin?”

Ford took the notebook out of his back pocket and opened it.

“She thought we should start with introducing the community to you. You know, where you’re from, where you went to school, that sort of thing.”

“I’m from Connecticut—I still live there—and I went to Rushton-Graves Prep in Massachusetts from sixth grade on. Grad school at Penn, some art-history courses at the Sorbonne, art conservation internship at Winterthur, that sort of thing.”

“So you’d categorize yourself as an art historian … conservationist … dealer? What?”

“All of those things, actually, and I own galleries in New York, Boston, and Chicago. I also have invested in one in London and another in Istanbul …”

“You have art galleries in all those places?”

Carly nodded.

“You get around.”

She shrugged. “It’s business.”

“Which is your favorite?”

“My favorite gallery? After New York, the one in Istanbul, I suppose, although I’m thinking of selling my interest in it. I don’t really get there often enough to justify holding on to it, and the woman who runs it really wants to buy me out.” She grinned. “She promised me visitation rights, though.”

“What do you like about it?”

“I love the city. The architecture. The views from the rooftop restaurants. The history. The artists. And of course, the food.”

“The doner kebab.” He nodded knowingly. “The manti.”

She shook her head. “I don’t eat lamb.”

“How do you eat in Turkey if you don’t eat lamb?” He frowned.

“Oh, please.” She laughed. “Patlican dolmasi. Biber dolmasi. Hamsili pilav.”

“Let’s see, that would be stuffed eggplant, stuffed peppers, and you’re going to have to help me with that last one.”

“It’s a rice dish with small fish.” She was grinning.

“You’re a vegetarian?”

“No. I just don’t eat baby animals.” Before he could comment, she said, “So you’ve been to Turkey. Vacation?”

He shook his head. “It was just a stopover from one place to another.”

“You should go back when you can spend some time there. The city—Istanbul—is one of the most remarkable places in the world. A friend of mine described it once as being the perfect convergence of the old and the new. That’s certainly true of the art scene there. The museums and the galleries are packed with vibrant contemporary works. They’re world class, really.”

“Including your own, of course.”

“Of course. But I can’t take credit for its success. My associate there, Elvan Kazma, is responsible for the exhibits. She has an amazing eye for talent.” Carly pointed to the paper squares and rectangles that hung on the wall and on the partition. “But it’s this exhibit you’re here to talk about, right?”

“Right. I think the residents of St. Dennis might want to know how you came to be interested in working here. You know, why someone who owns galleries in all those places would want to spend time working—unpaid, if I understand correctly—in a little place like St. Dennis.”

“I’ve been friends with Ellie since sixth grade, so when she moved here, of course I came to visit. I am falling in love with the town, I don’t mind saying it. It certainly has its charm, and it’s a place where people seem to care about each other. I’ve met some terrific people here.” She hesitated. “What exactly did your mother tell you? About the artwork, I mean.”

“She didn’t really have much time to tell me much,” he admitted.

Carly seemed to be debating with herself. “There are some things you should probably know that you can’t put into the article. At least, not this article. Not yet.”

“O-kay,” he said.

“Let me tell you about a St. Dennis artist named Carolina Ellis.” Carly told him everything, about how Carolina was Ellie’s great-great-grandmother, how her husband had tried to stifle her talent, how she’d painted so many works that had been stored in Ellie’s house and had even given some away to friends and family members. How a few of Carolina’s works had made their way into regional museums before Carolina had been recognized as a great talent, and how, eventually, a few of her paintings had gone to auction and fetched some hefty dollars, enough that the art world began to take serious notice.

“So few of her works were available, and so little was known about her,” Carly told him, “but her paintings were so strong, and her talent so incredible, that the few pieces that were available were prized.”

“I’m afraid I’ve never heard of her. Then again, I don’t know a lot about art.”

“There are a lot of people who haven’t heard of her, but that is going to change, once this exhibit opens. The paintings we found in Ellie’s house …” She shook her head as if she still couldn’t believe what they’d found. “You have to see them to believe it. Once this exhibit opens and the art world sees what we have here, Carolina Ellis will be recognized for the great artist she was.” Carly smiled, somewhat ruefully, and added, “I had hoped to be able to introduce her—and her work—at my gallery in New York. Manhattan’s the hub of the art world—well, one of the hubs, anyway—and the thought of being the one to bring this woman’s work out of the shadows—or more accurately, the attic—was the sort of thing everyone dreams of doing. You know, like an athlete hopes to play that game that people will talk about forever, or a writer hopes to write that one book that shakes the literary world. That’s how I felt when I thought about being the one who would …” She shook her head again.