"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.
"With lots and lots of lettuce," Carson assured her. "As much as you want."
Nick leaned back against the counter and folded his arms. "Maybe a couple of radishes, too," he promised.
She gave him that mysterious smile that left him in limbo. "I could hardly pass up an offer like that," she said. "It's a date."
Nick turned to Carson. "Guess we'd better hit Fulton's before they run out of the best lettuce."
"Okay." Carson whirled and rushed toward the door.
Nick looked at Octavia. "Thanks. He's dealing with his first-ever case of professional jealousy. Anne's picture of Zeb hit him hard."
"I noticed."
Outside, Jeremy drove his Nissan into the little parking lot. Nick watched him climb out of the car and start toward the row of shops.
"Carson realized right away that Anne's picture was much better than his," he said to Octavia.
"The art show isn't a competition."
"Yeah, I reminded him of that." He crossed the showroom to the open door. "But he's a Harte. He had an agenda when he entered his picture of Winston in your show. He wanted you to think his drawing was the best. Now he's worried that he's been outclassed by a better artist."
She nodded. "I understand."
Outside on the sidewalk, Jeremy had paused at the entrance to Seaton's Antiques. He glanced at Nick, his face impassive. Then he opened the door and disappeared into his grandmother's shop.
"I'm really glad to hear that you understand," Nick said softly. "Because I'm having a similar problem."
She leaned her elbows on the counter. "You're worried that you've been outclassed by a better artist?"
"Professional jealousy is tough to deal with at any age."
He went outside to join Carson.
At six that evening she stood on the top of the bluff with Carson and looked down at the five finger-shaped stones that thrust upward out of the swirling waters at the base of the short cliff.
"It's called Dead Hand Cove," Carson explained, cheerfully morbid. "Dad named it when he was a kid. On account of the way the rocks stick up. Like a dead hand. See?"
"Got it." The day had been pleasantly warm but there was a mild breeze off the water. Octavia stared down into the cove. "The stones really do look like fingers."
"And there's some caves down there, too. Dad and I went into them yesterday. We found some marks on the walls. Dad said he put them there when he was a kid so that Aunt Lillian and Aunt Hannah wouldn't get lost when they went inside."
"That's a Harte for you," she said. "Always planning ahead."
"Yeah, Dad says that's what Hartes do." Carson's mood darkened into a troubled frown. "He says sometimes all the planning doesn't work, though. He says sometimes stuff happens that you don't expect and things change."
"You mean stuff like Anne's picture of Zeb?" she asked gently.
He gazed up at her quickly and then looked away. "Yeah. It was better than my picture of Winston, wasn't it?"
