The Mighty Quinns: Tristan. Kate Hoffmann
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Ward and June Cleaver, either.”
Lily frowned. “Who are Ward and June Cleaver?”
“From Leave It To Beaver. Nick at Nite? It’s an old television show.”
“I think I saw that once.”
“Once?”
“Or twice. We didn’t have American television at boarding school. And the aunts never allowed a television here in the colony. I don’t remember beavers in the show.”
“No, that was the name of their son,” Tristan explained.
“They named their son Beaver? That’s just cruel. I hope he changed it when he got older. Although I suppose some might not mind it. Beavers are very intelligent and industrious animals. Finch’s spirit animal is a beaver. Mine is a wren. I suspect yours is probably a wolf.”
She started along the path again, but this time, Tristan didn’t let go of her hand. “I’m beginning to think you and I must have been born on different planets.”
“Are your parents aliens?”
This made Tristan laugh. “My father was.”
“Tell me about them,” she said. “They couldn’t have been worse than mine.”
“That’s a story for a different day,” Tristan said.
They had reached a small building, set on stilts, and Lily stopped. “This is my studio,” she said.
“Are you going to show it to me? I’d like to see your work.”
Lily hesitated, and for an instant, Tristan thought he might have won her over. But she stymied him again. “That will also have to be for a different day,” she said.
It was very clear from the look on her face that this was meant to be “goodbye,” but Tristan wasn’t ready to let her go. He needed some excuse to see her again. It unsettled him that he hadn’t quite gained her trust. “Do you have any plans for dinner tonight? We could drive into town and find a place.”
“I usually eat here,” she said.
“But you’re a nonconformist. Take a risk and have dinner with me.”
“I know we’re the only two people of our age here at the colony. And it’s only natural that we should hang around together. But I think it would be best if we just tried to be friends. We can sit together at the performance tonight, though, and I’ll treat you to a lemonade.”
Shakespeare and lemonade? Tristan couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such a chaste date. His usual dating itinerary consisted of drinks followed by no-strings sex. Or dinner followed by no-strings sex. Occasionally, lunch followed by— Tristan stopped himself. He suspected that he wouldn’t be adding Othello and sex to the list later that night.
“Othello would be interesting,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen it.”
“I assure you, it will be much better entertainment than that Beaver show you watch.”
“It’s a date,” he said, leaning in to steal one last kiss.
But Lily caught him before his lips met hers, pressing her finger against his mouth. “It’s Shakespearean drama. And that’s all.” She started up the stairs. “Oh, and if nudity is a problem for you, then you should probably stay locked in your cabin on Saturday nights after sunset. That’s when everyone goes for a skinny-dip. It’s a tradition when the weather is still warm.”
“Everyone?”
“Well, the older folks. I usually leave them to their fun. It can turn into a bit of an orgy. Of course, I’m sure the ladies would be thrilled if you joined in.”
Tristan gasped. “You don’t mean that literally, do you?”
“There’s a lot of sex that goes on here,” she said. “And none of it has to do with me.” With that, she spun and crawled up the steep stairs. “I know you’re looking up my skirt,” she said. “Stop it.”
Tristan turned away and started down the path toward his cabin, confused. He’d had a lot of experience with women, enjoyed a lot of different relationships. But what was going on with Lily was beyond his experience. One moment they seemed like intimate friends and the next, they were snapping and sniping at each other and she was pushing him away. It was the damnedest thing, Tristan mused. And he was determined to figure it all out before it drove them both over the edge.
* * *
THE LATE AUGUST sun had disappeared below the horizon by the time everyone started to gather for what Violet was calling a “petit divertissement.” Over the course of the summer and the early fall, the inhabitants of the Fence Lake artists’ colony produced all sorts of entertainments, from musical revues to modern dance spectacles to productions of classic plays.
For tonight’s performance, Lily played her part by standing at the door and passing out programs she had designed at Violet’s behest.
Tonight, Billy Chadwick-Farnsworth, an elderly British playwright and sometime actor, had planned to stage scenes and soliloquies from Shakespeare’s Othello. Billy had been coming to Fence Lake for as long as Lily could remember. During the winter months, he returned to England to live with his daughter in Bath. But this year, there was gossip around the camp that he might decide to stay and pursue a newfound romance with Violet.
Little romances seemed to crop up every summer. Usually they were short-lived, and Lily didn’t expect this one would last long. Violet, though passionate about love, was far too independent to handle living with a man for more than a few weeks. A month had been the longest Lily could remember her staying with a man, and that had been with a sculptor who did all the cooking and cleaning.
Lily smiled to herself as she remembered her first romance at the camp. A handsome young photographer had wandered in one day, looking for a place to stay as he traveled across the country. She’d been nineteen. The passion between them had been instant. He’d stayed for a month before walking out of her life forever.
The thought of him brought a flood of bittersweet memories, but she had never regretted the affair. When she had passion in her life, her artistic talents came alive. Her emotions were the fuel that produced stunning work that she never seemed to be able to replicate on her own.
Could she allow herself the same indulgence with Quinn? She was older and wiser now. As she approached her twenty-eighth birthday, she knew that the time for passionate affairs was beginning to end. Her aunts had always told her that passions waned as wisdom grew. The older one became, the more difficult it was to forget the past and trust in love.
What if Quinn James was her last chance to produce truly great art? Each of her aunts had experienced that kind of love and spoke fondly of the men who had served as their muses.
Her last lover had been a Frenchman, two years ago. The affair had fueled an intense period of work. It had been a memorable summer, but she’d never completely surrendered her heart to him. Even as he’d walked out of camp, she’d known that another man would appear someday.
What if Quinn was that man? The one who would finally allow her to call herself a true artist? Then again, she’d never had to worry that any of her previous lovers were actually snakes in the grass. Could she be Quinn’s lover without trusting him?
“What are you frowning about?”
He stood behind her and Lily felt his hands slip around her waist.
“Nothing,” she lied, turning to face him. “What are you smiling about?”
“I’m happy to see you again. I’ve spent all evening looking forward to this.”
Lily pressed a program into his chest, pushing him away. “I thought you came here to work. If you spend your time thinking about me, how are you going to get anything done?”
“Maybe