"What?"

"It would have been a lot simpler to point the finger of blame at the Heralds. They already seem a little suspicious to most folks. Instead, whoever concocted it chose you for the fall guy."

"You think this may be personal?"

"Yeah," he said. "I do. I've come to the conclusion that someone isn't just looking for any scapegoat. Whoever took the painting wants to make you, in particular, look guilty." Chapter 15

Anne came into the gallery with Gail the following morning. She clutched a carefully rolled-up sheet of drawing paper in both hands.

"I brought you my picture," Anne said in her whispery little voice. She held it out to Octavia.

"Thank you." Delighted, Octavia came around from behind the counter to take the rolled artwork. "I'm so glad that you decided to enter a drawing in the show, Anne."

Before she could unroll the picture, Nick and Carson walked into the gallery. Nick carried a paper sack bearing the Incandescent Body logo. Carson had a cup of hot chocolate in one hand.

"Morning, Gail," Nick said. "Hi, Anne."

"Hi," Gail replied. "Say hello to Mr. Harte, Anne."

"Hello, Mr. Harte."

"This is Carson," Nick said.

"Hi," Carson said cheerfully. He looked at Anne and then at the rolled-up drawing in Octavia's hand. "Is that your picture?"

"Yes," she said.

"I did one, too. Miss Brightwell put mine in a gold frame." He looked at Octavia. "We brought you some coffee and a muffin."

"Thanks," Octavia said. "That sounds good."

"Let me see Anne's picture," Carson said.

"I was just about to look at it myself, and then Anne can select her frame."

Octavia carefully unrolled the drawing and put it down on a low table. She looked at the picture, ready with admiring words. Then she took a second look, awed by the remarkable talent displayed in crayon.

The form, color, shading, and expression were astounding, especially given the age of the artist. In some ways it was clearly a child's picture, but in others it vibrated with the raw power of a gifted and as yet untrained artist.

"Anne," she said very gently, "this is a beautiful picture. Incredible."

Anne looked thrilled. "Do you really like it?"

Octavia took her gaze off the picture with some reluctance and looked at her. "Yes." She caught Gail's attention. "It is quite remarkable, to be honest."

"I told you she was good," Gail said with quiet pride.

"Brilliant is more like it," Octavia murmured.

Carson was alarmed now. "Let me see." He hurried closer and examined the picture with an expression of mounting outrage. "It's a dog."

"It's Zeb," Anne told him. "He's my dog. Well, partly mine. He belongs to Grandpa, but Grandpa says I can share him."

Carson rounded on her. "You can't do a dog for the art show. I did Winston."

"Carson." Nick spoke quietly. "That's enough."

Carson turned to him. "But, Dad she can't do a dog. I already did one."

Anne started to look uncertain. She glanced from her mother to Octavia for reassurance and then glowered at Carson. "Miss Brightwell said I could make any kind of picture I wanted."

"That's right," Octavia said calmly. "No two dog pictures are the same, so we can have any number of them in the art show, just like we can have any number of house pictures and flower pictures."

Carson was not appeased, but he obviously knew that he was fighting a losing battle. "It's not fair."

"Take it easy, Carson," Nick said. "You heard Miss Brightwell. No two dog pictures are the same, so there can be lots of them in the show."

"Each one is special," Octavia assured him. "Each one is unique. Your picture of Winston doesn't look anything like Anne's picture of Zeb."

Carson's face tightened but he did not argue further.

Octavia smiled at Anne. "Come with me and we'll pick out a frame for your picture of Zeb. You have a choice of black, red, or gold."

Anne brightened instantly. "I want a gold one, please."

Carson clenched his hands into small fists at his sides.

Nick took Carson out of the gallery. They went across the Street and walked out onto the pier.

Nick stopped at the end and braced a foot on one of the wooden boards that formed the railing. He peeled the top off his cup of coffee.

"You want to tell me what's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing's wrong." Carson took a desultory swipe at one of the railing posts with the toe of his right running shoe. "It's just not fair."

"Why isn't it fair?"

"It just isn't, that's all. My picture was the only dog picture until now. That's why Miss Brightwell liked it so much."

So that's what this is all about, Nick thought. He took a swallow of coffee while he considered how to handle the situation. He understood Carson's position better than his son realized. Every time he thought about Jeremy and his artistic talent and how much Jeremy had in common with Octavia, he was flooded with a wholly irrational jealousy, too.

"Miss Brightwell made it clear that she likes both dog pictures," Nick said.

"She likes Anne's better than mine," Carson muttered.

"How do you know that?"

"Anne's is better," Carson said.

It was a simple statement, uttered in the tone of voice of a guy who knows his hopes are doomed.

"Mind if I ask why you care so much what Miss Brightwell thinks about your picture of Winston?" Nick asked. "Is this just a simple manifestation of the Harte competitive instinct, or is there something else going on here?"

Carson frowned. "Huh?"

Sometimes he had to remind himself that Carson wasn't quite six yet. He was smart, but words like manifestation and competitive instinct could still throw him.

"Remember, the Children's Art Show isn't a competition. Miss Brightwell isn't going to choose a winning picture. All the drawings will be exhibited. There won't be any losers."

"Doesn't mean Miss Brightwell doesn't like Anne's picture best," Carson grumbled.

"Why do you care? I mean, let's face it, you've never shown a lot of interest in art until you decided to draw a picture for Miss Brightwell's show."

"I want Miss Brightwell to like my picture best."

"How come?"

Carson shrugged. "She likes artists. If she thought I was a good artist, maybe she'd like me better."

"Better than what? Better than she likes Anne?"

Carson kicked the post again. The blow was not so forceful this time. More of a gesture of frustration. "I dunno."

"She likes you a lot," Nick said. "Trust me."

Carson took another halfhearted shot at the post with the toe of his running shoe. Definitely losing steam now. A little boy struggling to deal with complex emotions that he doesn't comprehend, Nick thought.

They stood there in silence for a while, morosely watching the sunlight dance on the waters of the bay. Nick finished his coffee.

I want her to like me, too. I don't want her to think of me as therapy or business. I want her to want me, the way I want her.

He heard a crumpling sound and looked down, vaguely surprised to discover that he had crushed the empty coffee cup in his hand. Irritated, he tossed the remains into the nearest trash bin.

An adult male struggling to deal with complex emotions that he doesn't comprehend, he thought. Well, at least he wasn't going around kicking fence posts. A definite sign of maturity.

"So," he said, "what do you say we ask Miss Brightwell to have dinner at our house tonight?"

"Think she'd come?" Carson asked with sudden enthusiasm.

"I don't know," Nick said, determined to be honest. "But we're a couple of Hartes. That means we go after what we want, even if we lose in the end."

"I know," Carson said, "she likes salads. Tell her we're gonna have a really big salad."

"Good idea."

"Salad, hmm?" Octavia said a few minutes later when they presented her with their proposition.