Free Patterns in the Sand by Sally Goldenbaum Page B

could pursue it, the echoing screech of a microphone hushed the crowd into silence.
     
     
Father Northcutt stood at the mic, looking more priestly than usual in his pressed black suit and stiff Roman collar.
     
     
“Good evening, everyone.” Chairs shifted at the echoing words and faces turned to face the familiar voice.
     
     
“Our thanks to Hank and Merry Jackson for letting us all gather here at their restaurant tonight.” The microphone screeched and Father Lawrence Northcutt frowned at it, then backed up a step.
     
     
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Ham said quietly. “Good old Father Larry. If the funeral won’t come to you, then you go to the funeral. Good man.”
     
     
The gray-haired pastor, a fixture in Sea Harbor for decades, waved his hand over the crowd as if bestowing a blessing or sprinkling holy water. Nell suspected the black suit wouldn’t be intact for long. As soon as his blessing was finished, the jacket would be hung over the back of his chair and the collar would come off while the night was still young.
     
     
“We’re not here to mourn a tragic death. Aidan would come down and curse us all if we did that,” the amiable priest continued. “We’re here tonight to celebrate a colorful, rich life.”
     
     
“He’s right about that,” Ham murmured and the group smiled.
     
     
“Our friend Aidan Peabody was a champion of the arts and I’m sure you all have stories to share.” Father Larry went on to invite the crowd to pick up the microphone when the spirit moved them, to toast their friend, to share a story or two. And above all, he urged them to follow their dear departed friend’s wish that they eat, drink, and be ever so merry.
     
     
Nell looked out over the crowd as the priest talked on about his relationship with Aidan and the generous donations the artist had made to the Our Lady of Safe Seas children’s center and food pantry. The deck was packed with artists, gallery owners, townspeople, many friends of Aidan’s, some associates, and a handful of people who were curious and enjoyed a festive gathering, whatever the reason for it.
     
     
Billy Sobel was there with his new wife, Natalie, and a large table filled with Canary Cove artists and shop owners. Billy was a stolid sort, with thinning hair and strong limbs. Nell liked him, though she’d never experienced firsthand his reported temper. Keep him calm and happy, was Ham’s advice when dealing with Billy. He seemed calmer, though, with this new wife. She was a carefully made-up woman, years younger than Billy, with a show business background, some said. A dancer in a New Jersey casino, Birdie had heard. That was where they’d met.
     
     
Her husband’s gallery on Canary Road represented many New England artists. His recent acquisition of the lost James paintings, for all of Aidan’s protests, would benefit the whole art colony. Nell suspected that by summer’s end the paintings would be sold and Bill Sobel and his wife wouldn’t have to worry about money for a long time to come.
     
     
Across the table from Billy, Rebecca Marks sat in a flowing dress hand-dyed in oranges, reds, and saffron, the neckline low and accentuating her enviable figure. Rebecca was a work of art herself, Nell thought, her beautiful features and fiery temper somehow befitting an artist. She wondered what Rebecca was thinking tonight, sitting at a memorial service for a man she seemed to have developed a recent, intense dislike for.
     
     
And a man whose bed she had shared.
     
     
Nell felt sure Rebecca would soon stand up at the microphone and talk about Aidan in glowing, respectful terms, the way one did when someone died. She’d charm the group with stories about Aidan’s work in the colony, his colorful wooden carvings, his immense knowledge of all kinds of art. And she’d tastefully hide her contentious relationship with the artist behind a perfect smile and magnetic green eyes.
     
     
Ellen Marks sat next to her sister, quiet as always. Ellen was the