Heron's Landing

His mother’s obvious concern, along with that casual mention of him spending personal time at the apartment she’d moved into, as if they might already be a couple, was yet more indication that she’d moved on. While meanwhile her husband continued to insist that his wife had merely gone menopause crazy and would return home any day.

“What do you mean, at your age?” Seth asked, determined to stay out of his parents’ personal lives as much as possible. “You look as terrific as you did back when I graduated high school.”

“And isn’t that exactly what a dutiful son is supposed to say,” she said, dimpling prettily. He’d heard it said, down at Oley Nilsson’s barbershop, that when Caroline Lockwood had hit town, there’d been a stampede of single men vying to pass time with the pretty Georgia peach. But for some reason he’d never figure out, his gruff, uncommunicative contractor father had won not just Caroline Lockwood’s hand, but apparently her heart, as well.

Until recently.

As he slipped into the booth next to Mannion, she turned toward him, her smiling eyes turning as serious as a heart attack as they moved over his face. “How are you?”

“Fine.” Another thing that might be in his Harper DNA was that the men in their family would rather have their fingernails pulled out with a pair of needle-nose pliers than ever talk about their feelings.

He’d never cried over Zoe. Not even when he’d insisted on seeing inside the polished wooden casket that didn’t carry her body, because it had been blown to pieces, but merely an empty starched green uniform carefully pinned to the sheet and blanket inside which, he knew from reading up on the topic online, carried a plastic bag with what little searchers were able to find of his wife after the explosion. Some caring soldier—who had to have one of the toughest, most unappreciated assignments in the military—had shined the buttons to a bright glossy sheen, never knowing if anyone would see them. It was, Seth had recognized, even through the cloud of pain, a matter of respect.

He hadn’t cried when he’d placed her wedding band, which had been recovered and delivered to him in person, along with some rescued uniform patches, into the casket. Although the heat of the blast had turned her ring into a metal lump, since she’d never taken it off from the moment he’d slid it on her finger during their Crescent Lake ceremony, he’d felt it belonged with her. And truth be told, he wasn’t about to let her parents see it. They probably had the same horrific images in their mind as he did in his and the least he’d felt he could and should do was spare them this one piece of pain. He did, however, save out the Purple Heart and Bronze Star he’d received, knowing the Robinsons would want them. As far as he was concerned, they were of no comfort and he wouldn’t mind never seeing them again.

He hadn’t so much as misted up when the uniformed officer had handed him the flag that had seemed to take freaking forever to fold. Nor during the ceremonial volley performed by a team of eight volunteer soldiers who’d shown up from Fort Lewis-McChord to honor one of their own.

All around him, people, even men, had been sniffling. Others, like his mother, had openly wept, while Helen Robinson, Zoe’s mother, keened in a way that had him afraid she’d throw, prostrate, herself over her daughter’s casket. Brianna Mannion, Zoe’s best friend, who’d flown in from Hawaii, had had silent tears streaming down her cheeks.

Burke, Brianna’s older brother, who’d gone on from being a high school quarterback to play in the NFL, had flown in from a spring skiing vacation in the Swiss Alps, arriving in town minutes before the funeral due to flight delays. Even he’d been uncharacteristically somber and had bitten his bottom lip during the gravesite military ceremony.

But not Seth. He’d felt as if he’d turned as dry as dust. As dry as that damn violent, fucked-up country that had killed her. His only emotion was a low, seething anger that Zoe hadn’t just taken out a student loan like any normal person.

It wasn’t like he didn’t have a good job, he’d told her during their many heated arguments over her decision. With his income from the construction company, and her earning a civilian nursing salary, they could have paid off the damn loans. Sure, it would’ve taken time. But they could have done it. Together. Unfortunately, that same tenacity he’d always admired had a flip side. She was, hands down, the most stubborn person he’d ever met. And once Zoe Robinson decided on something, heaven and earth couldn’t have budged her.

Now, as a line furrowed his mother’s forehead, he dragged his thoughts back to their conversation and ratcheted up his blatantly fake response. “Seriously, things are going great. We’ve got a lot of work lined up, which is always good. Seems everyone wants to be ready for summer.” And punching holes in other people’s walls kept him from abusing the ones in his and Zoe’s house.

Another furrow etched its way between her eyes. “You work too hard.”

“When you love what you do, it’s not work.” Terrific. Now he was talking like that motivational desk calendar his insurance agent had sent him at Christmas.

“Yet it’s necessary to have downtime,” she scolded him gently. “Silence is important. We need it to connect with our inner selves. Which then allows us to make sense of the disturbances surrounding us.”

Seth had many words he could use to describe Zoe’s murder. Disturbance didn’t come close.

“You used to like to sail. And hike. Fish. Go over to the coast. Or the park.”

He used to like to do a lot of things. Some of those with the Mannion brothers. Others with Zoe. The first time he’d touched her bare breasts had been one sunny summer afternoon he’d dropped his boat’s anchor in a hidden cove rumored to have once been a pirate hangout. Two years later, they’d returned to that same cove and lost their virginity beneath a huge white moon.

But that was then and this was now and rebuilding other people’s houses was what was left of what had once been his life. Which was working for him just fine.

“I still make it up to the park.” Which he did every weekend, but she didn’t need to know why.

“Good.” She patted his cheek. “Because I worry.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Which shows how much you know. Mothers are genetically programmed to worry.”

Seemingly unaware she’d sent a dagger straight to her heart as he thought about that nursery Zoe had designed waiting behind the closed door for a baby that would never come, she reached down and retrieved a gift-wrapped package. “I brought you a present.”

“It’s not my birthday.”

“Well, of course not. I’m not so old and senile that I’d ever forget that day I took part in a miracle. This is a ‘just because’ gift.” Her smile wavered, giving him the feeling that she might be concerned about how he felt about whatever it was.

He untied the cord, sliced the tape and gingerly pulled back the brown kraft paper. “Wow. This is nice.” A huge whoosh of cooling relief came over him as he looked down at a misty painting of the Olympic rainforest that suggested at any moment fairies would come out from behind the moss-draped trees and begin dancing in a magic circle. It was, to his admittedly untrained eye, really, really good.

“It’s my first watercolor,” she said. “I’ve been taking Michael’s classes.”

Along with his real estate investments, and his own painting, Mike Mannion taught various art classes, charging only for the supplies. Seth’s father, unsurprisingly, claimed it was a ruse to meet women. Given that the artist had inherited the Mannion men’s black Irish looks, Seth was pretty sure he wouldn’t need to go to that much trouble to attract a woman. But why did the woman in question have to be his mom?

“Your mother’s got a natural talent,” Mike said.

“I don’t know about that,” she said, patting her newly streaked blond hair in a way that was as close as Seth had ever seen her come to preening. It also called his unwilling attention to the gold wedding band on her left hand. At least she hadn’t taken it off. Yet. That was something, right? “It’s more that Mike is a marvelously patient teacher. And so inspirational.”

“I keep telling Caroline that she needs to overcome all that Southern belle breeding to work on her artistic arrogance,” Mike said on a hearty laugh. “She is, hands down, the best student I’ve ever taught. I’m trying to talk her into exhibiting at the annual boat festival for Harbor Days.”

“I’m certainly not at that level,” she protested.

“There she goes again. Underestimating herself.” The artist/entrepreneur shook his head. “That’s something we’re going to have to work on.”

As they smiled across the table at each other, getting lost in each other’s eyes—oh, hell—they could have been two teenagers in the throes of first love. Seth had no problem remembering that morning Zoe had walked into middle school class, their eyes had met and, at thirteen, he’d fallen like a stone rolling down Mount Olympus.

“Well, not that you asked me, but if Mike thinks you’ll be ready to take part in the exhibition, I think you should go for it,” Seth said. “As for your natural talent, you did, after all, attend the South Carolina School of Art and Design.”

“Only for two years. And I was studying fabric design, not painting, before I dropped out.”

To marry his father. No way was Seth going to go there. “Their loss. And you’ve always drawn the architectural renderings of the company’s projects.” Not just to promote the company on its website, but to give clients an idea of how their buildings would turn out.

“Those are only illustrations.”

“Only snobs draw a strict line between fine art and illustration,” Mike said. “Both forms need the same elements: successful lighting, color and composition. And while the argument will probably rage forever, because everyone’s definition of art is a personal one, if art is about communicating a message, then illustration is definitely fine art.”

They were getting over his head, but there was one thing Seth did know. “Blueprints don’t tell anyone who can’t envision them in three dimensions anything. But when clients see your illustrations, with the interiors, exteriors, even landscaping, they can imagine themselves living there. They see themselves on that porch swing, or playing with their children in the backyard. Or having summer dinners on the deck or patio. You bring the blueprints alive and allow them to keep the faith during all the hectic months of construction, which can be depressing for even the most optimistic buyer.”

All the years he’d been growing up, she’d carried around a sketchbook in her oversize purse so she could draw scenic sites around the peninsula. When had she stopped doing that?

“Your son,” Mike said, “just made my point. You’re definitely an artist.”

“My son is prejudiced.”

“Probably so. But that doesn’t mean he also isn’t right.”

“And hey,” Seth said, “when you’re a famous watercolor artist, I’ll be able to boast that your very first painting is hanging on my wall.”

Caroline laughed, then opened her menu—which, natch, boldly proclaimed to be printed on recycled paper—and began pointing out items that he’d enjoy. She’d always been a warm and caring person. But this laughing, happy New Age druid earth mother sitting across the wooden table reminded him of a bright butterfly newly emerged from a chrysalis.

Michael Mannion was a long way from a starving artist. Although Seth wasn’t into Honeymoon Harbor’s art scene, he knew Michael’s work must sell well enough to allow him to spend years traveling the world. And now he’d returned home to buy another of the abandoned warehouses rebuilt by one of Seth’s ancestors after the fire. Unlike the pub’s bricks, it had been built with rocks that had originally served as ship ballast.