He hesitated for a moment and took a deep breath. “I guess I am.” What? Was he crazy? Did he really want to do this?
Amanda’s skepticism was replaced with a glimmer of hope in her eyes. “Do you have time tomorrow to go through pieces for the art show? I need to figure out a way to display them all. We’re going to have the show at the large pavilion at the park. And we’ll save an area for some of the historical items to be displayed too.”
“I could do that.” A sense of begrudging resolve settled over him.
“They’re all at my cottage.”
“I’ll come over in the morning and we’ll look through them.” His offer lent a hint of purpose that he didn’t even know he’d been lacking.
No, his life was fine the way it was now.
“Thank you. I really appreciate it. I’m sure I’ll need some easels for paintings and I’m not sure what all else.”
“We’ll figure it out.” We? We? How did he get involved in this whole festival thing? He could only blame his sister’s phantom pokes and her words echoing in his mind, urging him to open up and quit being such a recluse.
Amanda finished her piece of pie and stood up. “I don’t want to keep you. But thanks for asking me to join you. I’m glad you liked the pie.”
“Pretty great, if you ask me.” He stood, his chair scraping lightly against the wooden floor. He collected their plates and set them in the sink with a soft clatter. As he escorted her to the door, the gentle scent of jasmine wafted in. A familiar scent that seemed to follow in Amanda’s wake.
“I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks for offering to help.” She slipped out the door, giving him a parting smile.
A smile that stirred something deep inside him, long hidden. But he ignored it as he softly closed the door, already warring with his decision to help. Hadn’t he told her repeatedly he liked his solitude?
And did he want to get involved with anything dealing with the art world again? No, he didn’t. He knew that answer deep in his soul with unwavering certainty.
But he’d help her this one time, a reluctant concession to Megan’s nagging. And he’d tell Megan about it too. That should give her—and him—a temporary reprieve.
Yet, even as he agreed to help this one time, he braced himself for the inevitable onslaught of encouragement that would accompany Megan with her impending return in a few short weeks. Her determination to coax him out of his shell and prod him into sharing his art with the world would undoubtedly resurface when she returned.
He knew his sister was just worried about him. She cared about him, he knew that. But sometimes she pushed him a bit too much.
He picked up the stack of Brooklyn’s books and put them back in the guest bedroom. He couldn’t believe the amount of books and toys he’d accumulated over the years for her visits.And that didn’t even count the ones he sent home with her. Oh well. What’s an uncle for if not to spoil his niece?
CHAPTER 13
The next morning, Amanda was up early, sorting through various items for the upcoming art show at the Heritage Festival. Paintings, sculptures, and other local artworks were scattered across her living room, waiting to be organized. She hummed softly to herself as she examined each piece, trying to envision the perfect arrangement. A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts, and she went to the door, half surprised that Connor had kept his promise to help her.
“Come in.”
He stepped inside and swept his eyes around the room, taking in her organized chaos.
“There is kind of a method to my madness. At least I thought there was.” She looked at the items placed on the table and set on the couch. “Or… maybe not.”
He crossed over to the table and picked up a hand-thrown pottery vase, examining it closely. “This is nice work.” His voice carried a tone of genuine appreciation.
“I think it’s pretty.” She picked up a framed picture. “And this is an original illustration from Heather Parker. She’s local to Moonbeam Bay. A lot of her work is printed commercially on t-shirts and mugs and things like that.”
Connor scowled and turned around but not before she would swear he muttered, “That’s unfortunate.”
He picked up a hand-sewn quilt, tracing a finger along its even stitches. Then he sorted through a stack of framed photographs of different landmarks on the island.
“That’s from a local photographer. She does good work, doesn’t she?” she asked, trying to gauge his reaction.
“She has a fairly good eye,” he admitted, though his tone suggested reluctance.
He picked up a sea glass necklace and held it to the light.
“That’s a local too. She makes all sorts of items from sea glass.”
