Page 17 of Footprints in the Sand (Coleman #13)

Chapter Fifteen

D imitra’s phone rang a few minutes after three in the afternoon. Dimitra was at the kitchen table, hunched over a journal entry, and she considered ignoring the call. At the last second, she decided to check who was trying to contact her.

“Eva?” she answered, incredulous. “Is everything all right?”

Her brain went a million directions: maybe something had gone wrong, maybe Eva had burned the house down or gotten into a fight with a neighbor or was so homesick that she needed to come back to Martha’s Vineyard.

But in the video on Dimitra’s screen, she saw a very tanned and beautiful young woman, her big eyes shining as she said, “Dimitra, I’m so sorry to bother you! I’m in your studio, painting, and I have a question.”

Dimitra had told Eva to use whatever she could find in the studio, to get messy with it if she wanted to make art. Dimitra was terribly pleased that Eva had dared to go into that unorganized space, to unleash her soul onto a canvas.

Eva’s question involved mixing a particular color, one that was similar to ocher but deeper and warmer. Dimitra gave her a few pointers on mixing new colors and then dared a bigger question. “How is it going in Aliki?”

Eva laughed. “It’s been life-changing so far. That’s for sure.”

“Tell me more!” Dimitra cried. She could smell her studio’s scent, and it made her ache, missing her space. She hadn’t painted much in Martha’s Vineyard. She wasn’t sure why.

Eva tilted her head back and forth. “I don’t know if I should tell you this, but I sort of made out with your nephew, Nico.”

Dimitra belted with laughter. “You didn’t!”

Eva winced. “Bad idea?”

“Nico’s a sweetie,” Dimitra said. “But he’s a little bit of a party boy, I guess. I think he dates a lot.”

“I got that impression, too,” Eva said. “But the thing is, I’ve never dated. Finn was basically my first boyfriend. I never imagined I’d have to wade through these waters.”

Dimitra smiled, remembering her years of dating pre-Kostos. She’d gotten her heart broken time and time again. It had been essential to her spiritual growth. Or maybe it had just been annoying.

“Don’t worry,” Eva said, as though she could read Dimitra’s mind. “I’m not going to fall in love with him.”

“You sound like you have your wits about you,” Dimitra said.

“And you?” Eva asked. “Mom said you sold a ton of paintings to some hot-shot guy in Manhattan?”

Dimitra blushed, remembering the penetrating eyes of William Cottrill.

“That was an intense day.” She went on to explain that after the party at William’s, he’d insisted on taking Oriana, Meghan, and Dimitra out for cocktails so they could talk more—about art and about everything else, a tireless discussion that seemed to go every direction.

Eventually, Oriana and Meghan had left for the night, getting the hint that William wanted to spend the rest of the time alone with the artist he’d “newly discovered.”

Ever responsible, Oriana and Meghan had made sure that Dimitra felt okay about being left behind.

Dimitra had said of course. She’d proceeded to spend the next couple of hours with William, dark and gorgeous hours in the city that famously never slept, a time during which they’d exchanged a few of their secrets and fears.

Dimitra had even told William that Kostos had passed away, that he’d left for a fishing trip and never returned. “They say he was lost at sea.” It was an expression she hated because it almost felt too poetic for what it was.

William had taken her hand over the table and said, “Oriana showed me photographs of some of your pieces already. I can feel what you’re going through in the work. I can feel how powerful your soul is.”

Dimitra hadn’t known what to say.

William had had his driver drop Dimitra off at the hotel at three in the morning, and the following day she’d slept till nearly noon.

At twelve thirty, Oriana had come banging on the door, her eyes shining as she announced that William had bought all of the paintings they’d brought with them to Manhattan.

It was one of the biggest sales of Oriana’s life.

It had made Dimitra wealthy overnight.

More than that, her name was already on the lips of many art dealers and collectors in Manhattan and beyond.

She was fielding emails left and right, requests for art shows and commissioned works.

She’d been written up in not one but four art blogs and been featured on one art-related podcast. When it rained, it poured.

It was the art career she’d always dreamed of. It was the art career Kostos had told her she couldn’t possibly have. He’d wanted her to cater to tourists. He’d wanted her to shut down her soul and think about commercial appeal.

Dimitra didn’t like remembering that.

“I can’t believe swapping lives has resulted in all of this,” Eva said now, mystified.

Dimitra snapped her fingers. “That reminds me. Your mom said you lost your job. I’m so sorry to hear that. But it’s actually great timing for me. Now that my art is gaining traction, I need help with my social media. Would you be willing to work freelance for me?”

Eva’s eyes widened. “What? Of course! I’d be happy to! Did Aphrodite tell you I’ve been doing Jean-Paul’s work as well?”

“She didn’t say! But Aphrodite isn’t very good at keeping in touch,” Dimitra said.

“She lives in the moment,” Eva agreed. “She’s trying to teach me how.”

“It’s the Greek way,” Dimitra said.

Dimitra had only met the secretive French marble sculptor Jean-Paul a few times. Kostos hadn’t liked him, but she couldn’t remember why. Maybe Kostos hadn’t told her.

Then again, not everyone on Paros was keen on foreigners. It seemed like they’d taken to Eva so far, thankfully. But they all knew she was headed off the island soon. It wouldn’t be forever.

Dimitra was invited to Estelle and Roland Coleman’s Fourth of July celebration over on Nantucket Island.

Instead of traveling to Nantucket with Meghan and Oriana’s families, however, Dimitra decided to stay on Martha’s Vineyard till late afternoon so she could finally, finally sit down in her studio and paint something.

Although she had a big backlog of paintings and other artworks that she could share with her new fans, she needed to focus and present more pieces, for both her upcoming show in Athens and for William Cottrill, who’d said he wanted to come out to Martha’s Vineyard soon to see her studio and her works in progress.

Meghan made her promise that she wouldn’t bail. “We want to show you a proper Fourth of July celebration!” she said on the phone.

Dimitra said she wouldn’t miss it for the world.

During that afternoon before the ferry, Dimitra tried her best to immerse herself in her art.

She tried to capture the magic she’d once felt when she was alone with her materials, drawing and painting and sculpting, collecting stones and sticks and flowers outside and bringing everything together in a strange and exhilarating piece that transcended genre.

But each time she reached the brink of being in a flow, she found herself imagining William Cottrill in the studio, examining what she was making, and her mind slammed shut.

“Come on, Dimitra,” she said to herself in Greek. “You’re not making this to impress him. Art is about the conversation you want to have with the world, not with one single, very wealthy and handsome man.”

But she couldn’t shake William Cottrill from her mind.

Her output was horrible. But she reminded herself that back on Paros, it hadn’t been much better.

She’d been entrenched in the misery of losing Kostos; she’d been grieving for more than a year.

She’d hoped that coming here would knock out the cobwebs.

Maybe it had, a little. She’d sat down to paint, after all. That was a good sign.

As Dimitra got ready for the party, she received a text message from Eva with a photograph of the painting she’d made in Dimitra’s studio. It was strange and abstract and, well, not very good.

EVA: I tried! Ha ha. I don’t think painting is my medium. Aphrodite says I have to keep looking! Thanks for the chance to experiment.

DIMITRA: It’s your first painting!! Why stop when you’ve only just begun?

EVA: I have to stop before I destroy the art world forever.

Laughing to herself, Dimitra left for the day, driving her rental over to the ferry, where she was able to get right on board.

It was mostly empty, presumably because most people had already begun celebrating the Fourth of July wherever they were.

When she parked, she got out and walked to the top, marveling at how beautiful the island was when you were hovering just above and away from it.

That was when she spotted the sailboat.

It was coming alongside the ferry, its sails whipping.

The man who sailed had sandy hair, broad shoulders, and a smile that told her he saw her and hadn’t forgotten.

Directly beside him was his trusty dog, Cash.

Cash barked a friendly bark at her, and Dimitra laughed with happiness. She couldn’t believe it was him.

“Where have you been?” she called out to him.

“I’ve been asking myself the same thing about you!” Harry answered, his hands around his mouth to project. “Where are you going?”

“Nantucket!” she called back. And then, because she couldn’t resist the magic of this moment, she added, “Meet me at the harbor!”

With that, the ferry growled away and into the Sound that bisected the two islands.

But Harry and Cash were hot on the heels, sailing across the open water, looking lithe and free alongside the big and frumpy ferry.

Dimitra couldn’t stop laughing, especially when Cash got overexcited and Harry put him on a leash to keep him from leaping overboard to get to her.

She was pretty sure she heard Harry calling out, “I don’t know what to do with you, buddy! ”

The ferry between the two islands took no more than sixty minutes.

When the ferry was tied up and ready, Dimitra drove her rental down the ramp and parked in the nearby lot.

Harry tied up his boat and headed over, Cash bouncing along behind him.

Dimitra hadn’t seen him since the reading, but he looked tanner and happier and lighter on his feet.

She had the strangest sensation that she wanted to run over to him and throw her arms around him.

I’m not a woman in a romance novel , she reminded herself.

But when he reached her, he kissed her cheek. She shivered and smiled at him.

“This is fortuitous,” he said. “Cash and I didn’t know what to make of today.”

“We’ll make of the day together then,” Dimitra said.

“My Greek myth!” Harry said.

Together, they got into Dimitra’s car and drove the short distance to the Coleman House. Dimitra asked Harry what he’d been up to, and he said, “I had to head back where I grew up for a little while. It’s why I haven’t had a chance to call you. I’m sorry about that.”

Dimitra wondered again if Harry had a wife somewhere. She decided to ask him point-blank, just to see what would happen. “Are you married, Harry?”

Harry laughed gently. “I used to be.”

“Where’s home? I mean, where were you?” Dimitra asked.

“I was down in South Carolina,” he explained. “My mother’s been sick, and Cash and I went down to take care of her. She’s doing a little bit better now.”

Dimitra’s heart pounded. Was he really a kind-hearted American cowboy?

“And you?” Harry asked. “Have you been married before?”

Dimitra cleared her throat. “Yes. I mean, I was. He died.”

Harry’s sizzling attitude stalled. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

Dimitra shrugged and cursed herself for killing the mood. She wanted to celebrate the Fourth of July with this handsome stranger and her transplant family on a beautiful island in the Atlantic Ocean. She didn’t want to think about Kostos, for once.

She didn’t want to think about how Kostos hadn’t believed in her art career.

Kostos, why didn’t you believe in me?

They reached the Coleman House, parked, and carried the groceries Dimitra had brought—traditional Greek stuffed grape leaves, Greek wine, Greek cheese, and a few sesame-based snacks.

“I feel bad I didn’t bring anything,” Harry said.

“You brought Cash,” Dimitra said. “He’s the life of the party.”

“True.” Harry looked like he was floating.

Dimitra knocked on the door and prepared her heart for what awaited her.

She knew that Oriana and Meghan wouldn’t let her forget about how she’d met Harry.

Like good friends, they’d tease her about it relentlessly.

She also knew that Oriana would mention William Cottrill, the intensity that had brewed between Dimitra and William.

But for the first time in twenty-plus years, Dimitra was a single woman, trying out different stories.

Maybe Harry wasn’t the right story. But gosh, he looked good beside her, waiting to be let into this massive American house.