An Invincible Summer (Wyndham Beach), Mariah Stewart [best classic novels TXT] 📗

He knows Emma says it all the time.” Maggie turned onto the sand-and-shell road that led up to the art center. “Oh. The parking lot is full. I don’t see an empty spot. Looks like half the town is here already.” She turned to Liddy, who’d rolled down the window for a better look. “How ’bout I let you out here, and I’ll park on Bay Street and walk up?”

“Are you sure? I can walk with you from the street.” Liddy’s neck was craned to see who was getting out of the black BMW sedan that had taken the last spot.

“Go on in,” Maggie commanded good-naturedly, knowing how excited Liddy was about the showing. “I’ll only be a minute.”

“Okay. If you’re sure.” Liddy already had the door open and was on her way.

Maggie was glad she’d talked Liddy out of the severe black sheath she’d worn to the reunion and into the midcalf purple skirt that, over the years, had become almost her signature. Despite her efforts to push aside the hippie and dress—her words—“more like someone her age,” Liddy never quite looked herself without the ropes of beads around her neck and her hair flowing behind her or in a braid draped over one shoulder. At her core, Liddy was still a would-be flower child, albeit an aging one, and she was beginning to not only acknowledge but embrace her inner goddess.

“You’ve always had your own style,” Maggie had told her that morning. “I think you need to be true to it. Not that it isn’t a good thing sometimes to dress up. You did look smashing at the reunion dinner in that black dress, but this is an art event, and let’s face it, no one rocks that artsy look better than you.”

“True.” Liddy’d tossed the black dress aside without even watching to see where it landed. “So you think the purple skirt?”

The purple skirt combined with an ivory cashmere sweater, topped with acres of colored beads, paired with knee-high brown leather boots, was quintessential Liddy. Maggie sat and watched her friend hustle through the cold wind that blew in off the bay, her skirt billowing in the breeze, her brown puffy jacket clutched tightly around her as she made her way to the squat white building.

“You go, Lids,” Maggie murmured as she turned around in the parking lot and headed for the street. She found a spot not too far from the center, then walked back up the drive, crushed clamshells crunching beneath her feet.

Once inside the center, she found Emma in the midst of discussing a painting with a tall man with a receding hairline and what looked like a recent tan. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and a navy sport jacket with khaki pants, and he appeared to be totally engrossed in the conversation, or in Emma—Maggie wasn’t sure which. Either way, it had to be good, she told herself as she glanced around the room for Liddy. She found her standing next to a short balding man in a black turtleneck sweater and dark jeans, deep in conversation in front of one of Jessie’s largest canvases, the one Liddy had named Snowfall.

“The use of whites is remarkable,” the man was saying, the index finger of his right hand held as if instructing her. “The spatter of the lighter white upon the darker gives the illusion of a blizzard. I can see the flakes falling, falling, swirling around in the wind. Yes, I see them.” He was nodding. “Just so. Brilliant.”

Liddy turned when Maggie touched her on the back, and crossed her eyes before turning back to her companion.

“Go on, Darren,” Liddy told him with a straight face. “This is fascinating.”

“Yes, of course.” He nodded as if acknowledging his own importance and expertise. “Now, in this corner of the canvas, she’s added a remarkable touch . . .”

Maggie stifled a giggle. Remarkable must be the man’s word of the day. She wandered around the exhibit, pausing to listen to conversations here and there. Jessie’s paintings were well received, judging from the comments Maggie overheard.

Good, she thought. Good for Jessie, great for Liddy. Maggie knew how badly her friend needed to hear the accolades for her daughter’s work.

She wandered till she found herself standing in front of another all-white canvas, thinking while she didn’t completely get the whole white-on-white thing the way the art people seemed to be doing, she did find them soothing, when she felt a tap on her shoulder.

“Maggie? You are Maggie, aren’t you?”

Maggie turned to the voice and found herself face-to-face with Brett Crawford’s wife.

“Maggie, I’m Kayla. Kayla Crawford. We haven’t been introduced, but I know who you are.”

“Oh, well. How are you?” Maggie faked her most pleasant smile. “Enjoying the exhibit? Jessie did some remarkable”—heh—“work, don’t you think?”

“Brett and I are separated. We’re getting a divorce. I just thought you should know.” Kayla Crawford’s expression was unreadable.

“Why are you telling me this, Kayla?” Maggie lowered her voice and tried to move back, away from the displayed paintings, while trying not to appear stunned.

“Because you should know. You’re both free now.” There were tears in her eyes, and Maggie couldn’t help but feel sorry for her.

“Kayla, I don’t know what you’ve heard, or what you believe, or what you think you know . . . ,” Maggie began.

“I know he’s never loved anyone but you.” She spoke the words flatly, as if stating an accepted fact, no accusation intended.

“Why would you think that? He married you.”

“Only because he couldn’t have you. It’s always been you, Maggie. He told me. I heard your husband died. Now you can have mine back. He always belonged to you anyway.”

Before Maggie could respond, Kayla turned her back and left the building.

Puffing her cheeks as if trying to expel a deep breath and compose herself after the unexpected confrontation, Maggie stepped around the crowd to find her way to Emma’s office, in search of a few minutes of solitude to process what had just happened. She opened the door and stepped inside to