The Emerald Tide

Book 6: Miramar Bay

by Davis Bunn

Genres: Christian Romance; Christian Suspense

Synopsis

A breathtaking new novel about letting go, taking chances, and embracing the healing power of love—from the international bestselling author of Tranquility Falls.
Just when he thought he’d buried his past and was moving on …
Four years after his wife’s death, art history teacher Derek Gaines has finally made a kind of peace with himself. He tries his best to stave off memories. His days are ones of familiar routine. Guarded against further pain, he keeps relationships at a safe distance. It’s all part of his necessary transition to surviving alone.
If anything is truly responsible for Derek making it back from the brink it’s his edifying work as a consultant for auction houses—and indulging a consuming sideline job: tracking stolen art. But Derek’s latest hunt will lead him toward challenges both professional and personal—that he’s not prepared to face …
He discovered the art of falling in love again …
Joining Derek on his quest is Kelly Reid, the new junior vice president at Christies Los Angeles. She is driven, ambitious, fiercely passionate about her work—and a fellow wounded kindred spirit. Bitterly immune to men’s promises, she’s never letting herself be vulnerable again. Yet even as trust and affection remain frightening
territory, a tenuous start to her partnership with Derek slowly builds toward something more. And soon, both will be tested beyond anything they could have imagined—in the deepening mystery of a lost painting, and in matters of the heart, which can be the greatest mystery of all.
With love comes risk in The Emerald Tide, a powerful and emotional novel about daring to take a second chance.

Release date: April 26, 2022

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 272

Sample

On the day his life changed forever, Derek Gaines rolled his road bike from the garage at half past five. He normally set off about then, a habit that his neighbors and few remaining friends assumed was Derek’s way of racing into the new day. Derek saw no need to correct them.

In truth, he no longer fled the dawn light. His days were not burdened with the pain of an internal vacuum. Four years since his wife’s death, he was beyond all that. To say he was restored was of course absurd. But he had healed. He had moved on. He had no choice in the matter.

Dawn rides were part of the daily routine. Routines shaped his existence. He gave the practice no more conscious thought than brushing his teeth.

Two years back, the last session he’d attended of his bereavement recovery group, the leader had asked him to describe his current state of mind. Derek had known the answer before the counselor had finished shaping the question. He replied that he had accepted the new normal with stoic grace. The new Derek got on with life. Or rather, with as much of life as he could.

Darkness still dominated the town of Miramar. The moonlight was so strong it cast the road in a pewter glow. His going was clear as he headed east toward the first faint light of day. Mornings like this, he relished the quiet. Birds offered him sleepy chirps as he rode Miramar’s empty main street. His tires whispered silklike past the town hall. His breath stayed measured and calm as the road curved along the rise marking the town’s border. The few cars he met passed with an almost apologetic air. Slow, quiet, another murmur of sound and they were gone, and the predawn was his once more.

Derek’s ride of choice was a Felt endurance frame with Shimano 105 mechanics and Campagnolo wheels. Many of Derek’s Iron Man buddies considered his bike nothing more than a decent step in the right direction. They spent more on wheel-sets than he had on his entire bike. Though Derek had little interest in what they classed as critical upgrades, he liked how their conversations never strayed from the ride, the workout, the next competition. It was one of the reasons why he felt safe in their company.

Derek was midway through his return loop when his cellphone rang. He always carried it when cycling alone, a justin-case emergency connection. But as he stopped and drew it from his rear pouch, he could not remember the last time it had rung.

The readout said it was Trevor Coomes, his boss. Derek answered with, “Did I forget something?”

“No. And I hope you were already awake. That’s me being polite. Actually, I’m too excited to care.”

A delivery truck rumbled up the ridge, heading for the supermarket on the outskirts of town. Derek pulled his bike over the verge and onto the grass. “What’s up?”

“I just received a call from Gwen Freeth.”

“Should I know the name?”

Trevor snorted. “You academics in your ivory towers.”

“Former academics. No tower within sight. Just your employee struggling to keep his home.”

“Gwen Freeth was married to Santa Barbara’s number-one bad boy. Which is saying a lot, believe you me. He passed away, leaving her a huge pile of debt, a gorgeous house she may soon be losing, and an art collection that has me positively salivating.”

Derek would have resented anyone else invading his morning quiet. But Trevor had been Erin’s best friend and the only other person alive who had fully known the extent of her illnesses. Right after Erin’s funeral, Trevor had offered Derek the position of managing his new Miramar Bay store. In the dark days when he was still busy crawling out of his own shallow grave, it had meant the world. Derek would do anything for the man. “What does that have to do with me?”

“She asked for you.”

“This woman I’ve never heard of before.”

“The only reason she’s willing to meet is because of you.” Trevor gave a theatrical sigh. “I suppose now is the point when you hold my feet to the financial flames. When can you get down here?”

Trevor’s Treasures was located on Anacapa, one block and a world removed from the tourists and grifters who now dominated Santa Barbara’s State Street. Anacapa was home to high-end restaurants and professional offices with enough clout to clear away panhandlers. Patrons were able to sit at the sidewalk tables and remain undisturbed, but only if they could afford to pay ten dollars for a cup of coffee. Most tourists found the area overly boring and overly quiet and far too expensive. Trevor’s antique store catered to the people who liked quiet. And paid to keep things that way.

Derek entered the municipal lot and took a space reserved for Trevor’s clients. He was supposed to park in the alley behind the shop, but the way was often blocked by delivery trucks. There was no telling what this mystery lady required. He assumed she wanted his help in valuing a painting without provenance. Since his life went through the unwanted overhaul, this work had become a major sideline. And one thing about Trevor’s Santa Barbara clientele: The rich hated waiting.

The Spanish Mission buildings lining Anacapa glowed in the morning light. Shops along Trevor’s side of the street were fronted by a broad raised sidewalk. The steel shutters over Trevor’s two display windows glinted bright as mirrors in the sunlight. Derek tapped on the glass-fronted door and exchanged greetings with the waiter setting up sidewalk tables at the restaurant next door.

Trevor’s face appeared in the glass. He was aged somewhere north of fifty-five. Slender and extremely well-groomed, hair frosted and trimmed to hide every feather of gray, perfect smile. Derek had liked Trevor from the first time they met. The quick wit, the snippy tone, the acidic comments about clients he disliked, all of these were matched by a brilliant mind and an impeccable eye for genuine antiques.

“Well, finally.” Trevor gave his feather-duster a frantic wave. “Grab the keys and get started!”

Trevor had a thing about clocks. Timepieces had been his passion since childhood and was why he had entered the highly competitive antiques trade. Selling one of his beloved pets—that was what Trevor called them, his pets—caused the man very real pain.

Derek had not been down to Santa Barbara in almost two weeks, so he did what Trevor both expected and wanted. He took the winding keys from the desk drawer, found a clean dustcloth, and began a slow circuit. Searching.

He found it on a French Empire side table near the front window. “This is new.”

Trevor was instantly beside him. “Yes, I’m rather pleased, if I do say so myself. Art deco, date stamped on the base, 1929. And the artist who carved the crystal was none other than René Lalique himself.”

The sterling silver timepiece was housed in a block of polished crystal, with two birds of prey forming the side pillars. “It’s magnificent.”

“I’ll probably take it upstairs, once I decide which item I’m ready to give up. Which could take months. Until then, my new pet should be happy here, don’t you agree?”

Trevor lived above the shop. His apartment reminded Derek of a Fabergé jewel box. “Dare I ask?”

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly assign this a price.” He adjusted its position a fraction of an inch. “Perhaps in a few years, to a buyer who convinces me they’ll give it a good home.”

“Gun to your head . . .”

“A steal at fifty thousand dollars.”

“Get out of town.”

Trevor’s response was cut off by a shadow passing in front of the display window. “Gwen is here.”

Gwendolyn Freeth wore a cashmere sweater set, a Hermès scarf, and pearls. At ten thirty in the morning. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, her cosmetics so precise as to go almost unnoticed. Derek had met any number of such clients. He neither liked nor disliked them, or their airs. The rich were different, no doubt about that. The rules that governed so much of their lives were baffling.

Gwen Freeth endured a few moments of Trevor’s nervous greetings, then asked if she might have a private word with Derek. She left the shop, clearly assuming both men would see her command for what it was.

Derek followed her along the sidewalk, held her chair at the neighboring restaurant’s first table, seated himself, and waited. Gwen Freeth took her time, building up to whatever had brought her out this day. She sipped her coffee, then asked for a fresh OJ and finished that too. Derek’s chair was angled so he could observe Trevor stepping into the shop’s sunlit window, pretending to adjust an article so he could check on their progress.

“Do you miss lecturing at UC Santa Cruz?”

Derek figured the question was mostly to show she had researched his past. “I miss the routine. Feeling like my life was set on a secure path. I liked that about university life. A lot.”

“My investigator claims you were also a very good teacher.”

She seemed genuinely interested, so he answered fully. “I focused on the few students who shared my passion for the history of art. The rest I tolerated because I had to.”

“And you researched. And you wrote. Six books in seven years. Two by mainstream publishers, the rest academic. All to excellent reviews.”

“It was good to find an outlet for my passion.”

“But you’ve developed a new passion, haven’t you. Since . . .”

He said it for her. “Since my wife died. Yes. I have.”

She surprised him by changing directions. “I suppose you’ve heard all the terrible things they’re saying.”

“Only what Trevor told me this morning. You were once rich. Now you’re not.”

“It’s so easy to claim Bernard was a late great louse. But the truth is not so simple. It was all his money to begin with. Which should make it easier to learn I’m almost penniless. But it doesn’t. I positively loved being rich, you see.”

“From what Trevor says about your art collection, you still are.”

Gwen’s head moved slowly, side to side, a sorrowful rejection. “You can’t imagine the debts that man left me. I am facing utter ruin.”

Derek had no idea what to say, other than, “I suppose that brings us to the point.”

“My attorney is Megan Pierce, a precise and intelligent young woman who has never failed to impress. I set her the challenge of Diogenes. I assume you know what I mean.”

“Diogenes of Sinope,” Derek replied. “Lived in the time of Alexander the Great. He stood at the gates of Athens, shining a lantern into the face of everyone who passed. Searching for someone honest.”

“I expected Megan to come back with some drivel about how I should go with one of the major auction houses. Instead, she told me about a fresh young man who gave up his position as professor of art history at UC Santa Cruz to care for his ailing wife. For two and a half years. Since she died, he’s struggled to make ends meet. Doing odd consulting jobs for the Getty and working for poor nervous Trevor.”

Derek made a mental note to call and thank the attorney. “Not so fresh. Nor young. Not anymore.”

“Yes, tragedy will do that to a soul.” She toyed with her empty cup. And surprised him with yet another shift in direction. “Can we ever fully heal? Start over? Change one life for another?”

He had never heard it expressed like that. Changing lives. But it was how he secretly thought of his existence. It suggested a bond between them. Derek had no idea how he felt about it. Which made answering very difficult.

He was aware of how the silence weighed on her, bringing the sorrow closer to the surface. “I never found any other way to move forward. I had to change to survive.”

“It’s all I think about these days. That and how my new existence could very well be shaped by debts I can’t pay. Bankruptcy. Even more shame. All the so-called friends who pretend to be concerned.” She slipped her sunglasses into her purse and studied him intently. “How did you manage?”

The woman’s evident need pushed him to reply, “At first I did it because it’s what Erin would have wanted. Her last request and all that. Later it became habit. Grief counseling follows the same course as AA. Taking it one day at a time. And then, like you say, I found a new passion. Which helped. A lot, actually. The loss doesn’t just vanish. Life isn’t the same. But it can still be good. Different. But good.” He probably should have left it there, but the act of revealing his innermost thoughts left him with a pressing need to finish. “The world has shifted on its axis. Sooner or later it settles into a new orbit. What we want and how we feel about it doesn’t change a thing. Either we find a way to make peace, or we don’t. That’s the only real choice we face. Move forward and heal as much as we’re able, or not.”

He felt like he had done a terrible job, trying to express his secrets, seeking to help this bereft woman. The longer she sat in silence, staring at the empty street, the more he wished he had not spoken at all.

Finally she breathed deep, cleared the edges of her eyes, and said, “Which brings us to the subject at hand.”

Derek saw Trevor step again into the display window, this time with butterfly flutters of both hands. “We should take this inside the shop.”

She stood and handed Derek her keys. “My Bentley is parked just there. Be a dear and fetch the item in the trunk.”

Derek escorted Gwen to where Trevor held open the shop entrance. Then he returned to the sky-blue Bentley and popped the trunk. Trevor held the door open, so eager he almost danced in place. Derek balanced the frame on the rosewood secretary Trevor used as his desk. He cut away the padding, taking his time, refusing to let Trevor’s nerves hurry him.

If Gwen even noticed the proprietor’s two-step, she gave no sign. Instead she sipped from a glass of water and told Derek, “I need the answer to one question today. Just one.”

Trevor fluttered closer. “Actually, there’s also the small matter of our commission.”

Gwen ignored him. “Can I pay off my debts and keep my home and my life? Yes or no.”

The quilting fell away, revealing a steel frame perhaps four and a half feet square. The backing was simply another sheet of glass. This permitted the examiner to study both sides of the artwork. This sort of casing was used by professionals—restorers, universities, and museums.

Trevor deflated with a soft, “Oh.”

The double glass held an unfinished painting. A middle-aged man looked down upon a woman seated in a high-backed chair. The woman held an infant. The woman and child showed no awareness of the man who observed them. Beyond the completed portion, the canvas was yellowed by time, the color of old bones.

Trevor took a step back, crossed his arms, and sighed. “Well.”

Gwen stared longingly at the unfinished artwork. “My late son Allen was an adventurous spirit from birth. He seldom stayed more than a few months in any one place, including our home. Did you know him?”

Derek felt an electric current build in his gut, spreading out to where it caused the fingers holding the frame to tremble. “We met a couple of times. I can’t say I knew him well.”

“At least my Allen was mostly sober, and mostly honest, and led a mostly respectable existence. All the attributes my late husband lacked.”

Derek said, “Hand me your glass.”

Trevor slid open the central drawer and pulled out an antique Celestron hand lens. Derek knew his boss was trying to hide a bitter disappointment. Having a wealthy woman like Gwen show up with a scarred unfinished painting set in an industrial frame suggested she did not consider Trevor’s shop worthy of the major items she would soon be forced to sell. Derek would correct his boss soon enough. But not yet. “And Allen died . . .”

“Ten months ago. According to the US embassy in Rome and the Italian police report they sent us, Allen was swimming off the coast of Sicily, near a smaller island called Lipari. His loss marked the beginning of my husband’s final decline.” Gwen cleared her eyes with an unsteady hand. “Allen always said he was born out of time. He acquired first editions of all the great explorers. Lord Burton was his favorite.”

Derek leaned in so close his hand holding the lens touched the frame. He gave it thirty seconds. No more. Then he straightened and did his best to keep his voice steady. “I need to know how this came into your possession.”

“What you see here arrived as a parcel from Syracuse.”

“Syracuse, as in Sicily.”

“Correct.” Gwen touched the drawing’s tattered border. “Allen included a brief note, telling me to keep it safe. Six weeks later, we received notice from the Italian police that he had died. His body was never recovered.” She took a very hard breath. “We performed last rites over an empty grave.”

He kept his voice as gentle as possible. “What exactly did Allen say in his letter?”

“It wasn’t a letter at all. Just a few sentences, telling me to preserve this at all costs. Preferably in a safety deposit vault. Allen urged me not to tell Bernard. He knew of his father’s habits, of course. Allen said if things ever became truly dire, this would restore our fortunes.”

Trevor’s gaze switched back and forth between Gwen and the frame, utterly flummoxed. “I suppose I could locate a collector interested in an unfinished and unsigned—”

Derek cut his boss off with, “Can I keep this for a couple of days?”

As Derek escorted Gwen back to her car, she asked, “Do you have any idea why Allen would put such value on an unsigned and unfinished painting?”

Derek found himself liking her. Gwen Freeth held herself well for a lady whose world had come crashing down. Derek had spent enough time in grief groups to know the difference between someone after attention and a woman close to the edge. He would not offer hope until he had a chance to check things out. So all he said was, “I think maybe it’s what the painting represents.”

“And that is?”

“Let me have a couple of days to do some digging. In the meantime, you should offer Trevor something to sell.”

“A commission for the merchant prince.”

“Trevor’s standing in the arts community is his most important asset. To represent the Freeth collection would be a major coup.” He hesitated, then added, “Plus there’s every chance we will need him on our side.”

“I’m sure I can find something that will tame your colorful friend.” She started to slip into the car, then stopped and asked, “Our side of what?”

“One day,” he replied. “Two at the most.”

Derek held her door, shut it softly, and stood watching as she pulled away. His. . .