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ETHAN TOOK NOTE OFhis daughter’s mismatched socks. One was a crisp white and matched the school’s navy and red tartan uniform while the other had a pink tinge to it—like it had gone through the wash with a red sweater. Which it probably had. Ethan thought about saying something, knowing the stringent adherence some of the teachers liked to pay to the school’s uniform policy.
He glanced at his daughter with her sweet rosebud lips, pink cheeks, and clear blue eyes—a surprise gift from his wife. She clutched the family Bible in her hands and stared straight ahead.
“Hey,” he said, “I’m sorry Gram or Gramps couldn’t be here today.”
“It’s okay,” she said in a tight voice without looking at him, letting him know that it was definitely not okay. “I understand.”
Ethan blew out a breath. “It’s so far for them to come.”
Hannah nodded. “I know. And they have so many grandkids that live in Rose Arbor, they probably have to go to Ancestor Day once a week.”
A ripple of guilt traveled down Ethan’s spine. If he lived closer to his family, Hannah would be surrounded by cousins, aunts, and uncles, not to mention his parents. He could have just as easily gotten a teaching job in Washington.
His phone buzzed and he tapped the icon igniting the blue-tooth.
“Ethan!” Desmond’s voice floated into the car. The fussy gallery owner always sounded on the verge of a breakdown, but today the panic sounded real.
“Good morning, Desmond. What can I do for you?”
“Hi, Dezi!” Hannah called out.
“Ah. Pumpkin, what are you doing in the car with your father?”
“We’re going to school, Dezi,” Hannah told him.
“Oh! Are you still doing that?” His voice carried equal helpings of scorn and surprise.
Hannah giggled. “Of course.”
“I think he was talking to me, button.” Ethan cleared his throat. “I like teaching.” And he needed the money if he was ever going to open his own gallery, but he couldn’t tell that to Desmond. “What’s up?”
“We had a break-in,” Desmond told him.
Ethan braked too hard at the stoplight, sending Hannah forward in a lurch. Instinctively, he shot out his hand to keep his daughter from bonking against the dashboard. “Was anything taken?”
“Small stuff, cash from the till.”
Ethan glanced at Hannah, bit back a curse, and pulled into the intersection. “Do you need me to come by?”
“Your paintings are all insured, of course,” Desmond said, trying to sound calm.
“I thought you said small stuff...” It took at least two burly men to carry most of his paintings. But then his heart sank. “Harold?”
“I’m sorry,” Desmond said in a strangled voice.
“Daddy?” Hannah asked.
“I’ll be there in a second,” Ethan said, searching for the next place to make a U-turn.
“But Daddy...” Hannah whined.
“I’m sorry, button. This should only take a minute,” he lied.
Hannah tightened her lips and glanced out the window at the town flashing past. A thick marine layer had settled during the night and had yet to burn away under the Southern California sun, leaving the town in a shadowy gray mist. Ethan pulled the car along the curb beside the Oak Hollow Gallery.
Desmond, one of his first fans, had started showcasing Ethan’s work even before his graduation from Pasadena’s Art Institute. Ethan’s early career had begun at Warner Brother Studios, where he’d worked in set design. That was where he’d met Allison. At first, their friendship had been about sharing paints and brushes—Ethan tended to lose pencils and Allie had always carried extra. He’d soon learned to depend on her for not only his drawing instruments but for everything. She’d been his world.
