Heron's Cove

“I don’t think so,” Emma said.

“It’s very short. Of course, since it’s a fable.” Tatiana stood at the porch rail and watched a great blue heron swoop low to the water. “A cat catches a nightingale and taunts the poor bird to sing for her. The terrified nightingale can only manage pitiful squeaks, which remind the cat of annoying kittens. Disgusted, the cat eats the nightingale.”

“Charming,” Emma said with a smile. “What made you think of this particular fable?”

“My walk, maybe. Seeing all the birds here.” Tatiana sighed as the heron dipped past a sailboat, then out of sight. “The cat and the nightingale remind us that we can’t expect beautiful songs from a bird trapped in the clutches of a creature that can devour it. Their story tells us that fear isn’t always the best instrument to get us what we want.”

“Are you describing yourself, Tatiana?”

She turned, smiling enigmatically. “But am I the scary cat, or am I the terrified nightingale?” She waved a slender hand in dismissal. “It’s just a fable. It’s best in Russian, of course. Do you speak any Russian?”

“A few words,” Emma said truthfully.

“Heron’s Cove is very beautiful. I knew it would be, but I hoped to get here for peak leaves—that’s what you say?”

“Peak foliage.”

“That’s it.” Tatiana’s smile brightened. “There are still many orange and yellow leaves, but the reds are all on the ground. But I’m not here as tourist.” She spied the easel and frowned at Emma’s attempt at a watercolor wash. “Such a pretty blue, but watercolor is not so easy, yes?”

Emma groaned. “Watercolor isn’t easy at all.”

“A painter and an FBI agent. I suppose that’s not such a surprise since you’re a Sharpe.” Tatiana lifted the brush out of the jar and blotted it on a sheet of paper on the small chest of drawers that held Emma’s painting supplies. “My English is better when I concentrate, have you noticed?”

“Your English is fine. When did you arrive in Heron’s Cove?”

“This afternoon. I have a cottage just on the other side of the yacht club. I have it for a week but the owner said I can stay longer if I wish. It’s very small. Adorable. It’s one room on legs—stilts. We’re neighbors.”

“Why Heron’s Cove?” Emma asked.

Tatiana laid the rinsed brush on the dresser, so that its natural bristles hung over the edge. “You shouldn’t leave your brushes in water. They will last longer.” She picked up the tube of cerulean-blue watercolor paint and screwed the top back on, then set it back on the dresser. “A rare, valuable collection of Russian Art Nouveau jewelry and decorative arts is arriving in Heron’s Cove soon. Perhaps as soon as tomorrow. I’m afraid it’s another long, sad Russian story, but I don’t need to tell it, do I, Emma Sharpe? This one you already know.”

“I’ve learned in my work not to make assumptions.” Emma kept her voice neutral, despite her shock at mention of the collection. “Why don’t you tell me what you know?”

Tatiana sighed at the practice painting. “You didn’t wait for one color to dry before you tried another color. They bled together, and now you have mud.” She glanced disapprovingly at Emma. “You must not give in to the excitement of creative inspiration at the expense of craft. You must make the tension between the two work for you. That’s true mastery.”

“Tatiana…”

“You grow impatient,” she said lightly. “It’s the Rusakov collection. A dozen works of great beauty and artistry crafted during the last days of the Romanovs. You know it, yes?”

Emma nodded. “I know it, yes.”

“Twenty years ago, Dmitri Rusakov discovered the collection hidden in the walls of his Moscow mansion and hired your grandfather to help him understand it. Its history, its provenance, its value. We were just small girls then, you and I.”

Emma remembered her grandfather coming home from Moscow and reading Russian fairy tales to her and Lucas. Later—four years ago, when she dealt with Dmitri Rusakov herself—she had learned that each of the dozen works in the collection was inspired by some aspect of Russian folk tradition. Dmitri was a former army officer who had made a fortune in oil and gas in post–Soviet Russia.

He was also the trusted friend of the man who had called Emma last night with the Fort Lauderdale address.

“Dmitri Rusakov has never publicized his discovery of the collection,” Emma said. “How do you know about it?”

Tatiana pulled open the top dresser drawer and helped herself to a soft lead pencil, her dark hair hanging in her face as she continued. “Everyone in Russia knows about Dmitri Rusakov. I hear things in my work. Fabergé, Tiffany, Gaillard, Lalique—I study all the great designers of the late nineteenth century. It was a time when art met life, when an object as simple and ordinary as a cane knob, a picture frame or a cigarette case could become an artistic creation.” Tatiana smiled, a dimple showing in her left cheek. “I especially love Art Nouveau.”

“I do, too. Who is bringing the collection to Heron’s Cove?”

“Natalie Warren, the daughter of Rusakov’s American ex-wife.” Tatiana checked the tip of the pencil with her thumb. “Her mother died earlier this year in Tucson. I don’t think Natalie realized her mother had the collection, or perhaps even of its existence. That’s why she’s coming here. She wants to talk to the Sharpes.”

“My brother and grandfather are both in Dublin.”

“Ah. Well. Perhaps Natalie wants to talk to you.”

Emma noticed streaks of pale lavender high in the sky. It was dusk. Colin would be back in Rock Point soon after weeks of dangerous undercover work, after escaping certain death just hours ago. How could she tell him about Dmitri Rusakov?

About his connection to last night’s call?

She turned back to Tatiana. “Do you and Natalie know each other?”

“No, no. We’ve never met. She lives in Phoenix. I’m relatively invisible at my studio. I listen. I hear things. I heard about the collection.”

“That’s not all there is to it,” Emma said. “Why are you really here?”

Tatiana looked out at the water, gray now in the fading late-afternoon light. “I believe someone will steal the collection.”

“Who?”

“A villain,” she said, half under her breath.

“Tatiana, if you have specific information about an imminent crime, then you need tell the local police. I’ll put you in touch.”

She shook her head. “I have no proof of anything. I know you’re not with Sharpe Fine Art Recovery any longer, but can you help, Emma—Agent Sharpe?”

Emma considered her response, then said, “If the Rusakov collection arrives in Heron’s Cove, I’ll see what I can do.”

“Good.” With a few swift strokes of the pencil, Tatiana sketched a graceful great blue heron, incorporating Emma’s washes and muddy drips, so that suddenly they didn’t look amateurish and awkward. She stood back from the easel and appraised her handiwork. “You can go from here. I love grand blue herons.”

Emma smiled. “Great blue herons.”

The young Russian laughed. “Yes, just so. Thank you, Emma Sharpe. I appreciate your help.”

She skipped down the porch steps and back across the yard, her hair flying in the wind as she jumped from the retaining wall down to the pier.

Emma abandoned her painting and went back inside. Although she had been to the house a number of times since renovations had started, she still felt a tug of nostalgia when she entered the kitchen and saw the counters were now home to carpenters’ tools, rags, cabinet brochures, paint chips and an empty box of Hurley’s cider doughnuts. Most of the guys working on the place were from Rock Point. She had promised them she would clear out the rest of the kitchen over the weekend.

She stepped past a roll of insulation. Renovations had been a long time in coming and a joint family decision, but Lucas was in charge. The idea was to transform the small house into a modern base for Sharpe Fine Art Recovery while still retaining its Victorian charm and character. Lucas, who had his own house in the village, had asked the architect to include a guest suite for family and friends, or for their grandfather should he eventually return to Heron’s Cove.

Getting Lucas to acquiesce to preserving the porch had taken some doing. He had envisioned taking over that space for the interior and adding a stone terrace out back, but Emma had reminded him how much of their family life had centered on the porch, especially before their grandmother’s death, the fall on the ice that had relegated their father to a restless life of chronic pain and their grandfather’s relocation to Dublin.

Emma rinsed dried watercolor paint off her hands and saw she had a text message.

It was from Colin: I’m home.

She smiled as she typed her response: I’ll come to you.

She headed out through the front and got his message back: Yank just left. I’ll be at Hurley’s.

Emma got in her car. She would be in Rock Point in twenty minutes. That gave her at least a little more time to consider how to handle his questions about how she had found him in Florida, and what to tell him about Tatiana Pavlova.

* * *

Colin was alone at Hurley’s bar, a bowl of steaming fish chowder in front of him. He patted the stool next to him. “Have a seat, Special Agent Sharpe.”

Emma climbed onto the stool, taking in his broad shoulders, the thick muscles in his legs, the smoky gray of his eyes as they settled on her. He was so damn sexy, she thought. So incredibly physical and down to earth. He could handle deep-cover work because he was focused, decisive and independent. Yet he wasn’t a man easy to get to know. Maybe that made him good at what he did, too.

She noticed a purple bruise on his forearm, then met his eyes with a smile. “Welcome home.”

He winked at her. “Nothing says home like a bowl of Hurley’s fish chowder.”

“Your brothers aren’t here yet, I see.”

“On their way. Finian, too. Word travels fast in Rock Point.” He touched a hand to her cheek. “How are you, Emma?”

“Glad to see you back in one piece.”

“I came close to being eaten by alligators.” He tucked a few stray strands of hair behind her ear. “Yank says you saved my ass.”

“We all help each other.”

“Did he tell you to say that?” Colin turned back to his chowder. “As I pointed out to him, I had already escaped when the cavalry arrived. I do allow that if they hadn’t swooped in when they did, my new friends could have doubled back and thrown me to the gators.”

“That wouldn’t have been good,” Emma said.

“It would not. Then where would you be?” He picked up his spoon, dipped it into the milky chowder. “Sleeping alone in my bed again.”

She helped herself to an oyster cracker. She knew what he was getting at, had suspected it was coming. How much would she tell him about her source? How much could she tell him? She’d had a good chunk of last night and all day to prepare her response, but Tatiana Pavlova’s arrival in Heron’s Cove, with her talk of Dmitri Rusakov, had further muddled the situation.

“The call came to my cell phone. Not to your house phone.” Emma kept her tone even, without a hint of defensiveness. “Yank knew I was at your house because he asked and I told him. Father Bracken had organized a whiskey tasting.”

“What was your favorite?”

“I just know I don’t like the heavily peated ones.”

“An acquired taste.”

“Colin—”

“It’s okay, Emma.” His eyes softened. “It’s been a long month. You can sleep in my bed anytime.”

In other words, his questions about last night could wait.

“Were my brothers good to you while I was away?” he asked.

She nodded. “Mike’s not a big fan but we do all right.”

“Mike’s not a big fan of anyone.”

“He’s been down here more because of your family’s concern for you.”

Finian Bracken arrived, wearing his black suit and Roman collar today. He stopped short when he saw Emma. “Am I interrupting?”

“Not at all,” Emma said with a smile.

Colin eased off his stool. “It’s good to see you, Fin.” He clapped the priest on the shoulder in a warm greeting. “Mike, Andy and Kevin will be here in a few minutes.”

“They’re outside now,” Finian said.

“Then grab some glasses and pour the Bracken 15 year old.”

Finian glanced past him at Emma. “Wine for you tonight?”

“Nothing for me, thanks,” she said, standing up. “I’ll let you gentlemen enjoy your evening.”

“Good to see you, as always,” Finian said, then headed to his favorite table by the window.

Emma buttoned her jacket, aware of Colin’s gaze on her. His questions about the past twenty-four hours wouldn’t wait forever. He wanted answers. But she saw the cut on his right temple, the fatigue in his eyes and the stiffness with which he moved, and she knew this wasn’t the time or the place for a serious conversation.

He needed tonight with his brothers and his Irish priest friend.

He seemed to guess what she was thinking and slipped an arm around her waist. “Missed you, babe.”

“I missed you, too. Be with your family and friends.” She leaned into him, just for an instant. “I’ll see you soon.”

He patted her hip. “Real soon.”

Emma managed to get out of there without running into his brothers. It was colder, clearer than last night. She listened to the tide wash in on the sand and smooth stones. A bright star had come out above the harbor. She took in a deep breath. She could still feel Colin’s strength and warmth—as well as his questions, his doubts.

If Natalie Warren was bringing the Rusakov collection to Heron’s Cove, would Dmitri Rusakov be right behind her?

Would Ivan Alexander be with him?

“Your man is in danger.”

Emma put her own doubts and questions out of her mind as she watched Mike, Andy and Kevin Donovan walk up the stairs to Hurley’s. They were one reason Colin could bounce back from the dangers he faced. His resilience wasn’t just due to his training and experience, or even his nature. It was also due to his family and friends, the solid foundation he had in Rock Point.

A gust of cold wind propelled her into her car. She debated what to do. She could stay at her parents’ house in Heron’s Cove, Lucas’s house, with friends. At the Sharpe house. The state of renovations meant it wasn’t as comfortable as in the past, but she’d manage.

She could check on Tatiana Pavlova and see if she was in her rented cottage, working on sketches.

Emma started her car. She needed to get in touch with Lucas and her grandfather in Dublin.

Would her grandfather remember Dmitri Rusakov?

“Of course he would,” she said aloud.

Wendell Sharpe remembered everything.

She noticed the bag of Northern Spy apples on her front passenger seat. She’d bought them at her visit to the orchard that afternoon, before her attempt at a flat wash. They were perfect for pies.

Tough to bake a pie in the Sharpe kitchen.

Emma smiled and decided she might as well head up to Colin’s house after all.

4

FINIAN BRACKEN MARVELED at the camaraderie of the Donovans and the obvious, if unstated, relief and pleasure they shared at being together after the fear and worry of recent days. He had poured Bracken 15 year old for all four brothers and even a taoscán for himself.

“Did we run Emma off?” Mike asked, tasting his whiskey. “I think she peeled rubber getting out of the parking lot.”

Colin shook his head. “She would have stayed if she wanted to.”

“She’s as bullheaded in her own way as you are,” Kevin said.

Andy grinned but was quiet as the eldest Donovan swirled the whiskey in his glass. “What did you call this, Father?” Mike asked. “Not a dram. Some unpronounceable Irish word.”

“Taoscán,” Finian said.

Mike gave a mock shudder. “I’ll never get it right.” He set his glass down on the worn table. “The Sharpe house is torn up for renovations. Emma’s not driving back to Boston, is she?”

“She’s not picky,” Colin said. “She’ll sleep on the floor if she has to.”

Kevin reached for the water pitcher. “I have to remember she’s an ex-nun. She can tolerate spare conditions. Right, Father Bracken?”

Finian wasn’t getting into the middle of this particular discussion. “The Sisters of the Joyful Heart have a lovely convent. As a matter of fact, I just came from there. A young woman stopped me at the gate to ask about the sisters’ work in the arts and art conservation. She’s an artist herself. A jeweler in London.”

“Maybe she’s an ex-nun, too,” Mike said.

Finian suspected Colin’s brothers were ambivalent about his relationship with Emma less because she was an FBI agent and a Sharpe than because she had once come close to professing her final vows as a religious sister. Chastity, obedience, poverty. The profession of vows wasn’t as simple as it might seem and involved deep thought, study, prayer and reflection. Emma had come to the right decision for her.

All that was for her and the Donovans to sort out among themselves.

Finian continued with his story. “I don’t think the woman who spoke to me was a nun, or even considering the convent. She lives in London but she’s Russian. She has the most charming accent.”

Colin raised his eyes over the rim of his glass as he tried his whiskey.

Finian saw that Kevin, also a law enforcement officer, had noticed Colin’s alert expression, too. “A Russian jeweler in Heron’s Cove,” Kevin said. “Imagine that. What else did she say?”

“It was a casual conversation. I asked her name, and she told me it’s Tatiana and she had heard about the sisters’ work.”

“Did she mention Emma?” Colin asked.

Finian felt as if he had unknowingly just dived into shark-infested waters. “Not by name, no.”

Colin’s gaze narrowed on him. Next to him, Kevin had one hand on his glass on the table and his gray eyes likewise narrowed. Andy looked as surprised by their intense reaction as Finian was. Only Mike’s expression was impassive, impossible to read.

“What do you mean, not by name?” Colin asked.

“Well.” Finian now regretted having brought her up. “She said she’d run into an FBI agent in Heron’s Cove who used to be a nun.”

“That’s true,” Kevin said. “Where in Heron’s Cove did this Tatiana run into Emma?”

“She didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.” Finian wished he didn’t sound so defensive. “It wouldn’t occur to me to interrogate a young woman—a tourist—enjoying an autumn afternoon out at a convent gate.”

Kevin picked up his glass. “If that’s what she was doing. Sounds more like she was checking out Emma.”

“Or the convent itself,” Finian said. “The sisters tell me they’ve had a marked increase in visitors and curiosity seekers since Sister Joan’s death and the subsequent discovery of a Rembrandt in the attic.”

Colin drank some of his water. “Did this Tatiana give you her last name?”

“Not that I recall, no. Dear heaven, I’m starting to sweat. Did I do something wrong?”

“Not a thing.” Colin seemed to make an effort to smile. “You’re a good man, Fin. Bringing Bracken 15 tonight instead of leaving us to Hurley’s rotgut. I don’t know what arrangements you and John Hurley have made but I’m all for it.” He raised his glass. “Sláinte.”

Finian splashed more Bracken 15 year old into his own glass and raised it. “Sláinte.”

Mike finished his whiskey in one last swallow and stood, reaching for his canvas jacket as he glanced down at Colin. “One night we’ll break open another bottle of Bracken’s finest and you can tell us about the real nature of your work. I’m guessing it involves Russians. It’s good you’re back. Our sweet mother worried about you.”

That she had, Finian thought. He’d had more than one conversation himself with Rosemary Donovan about her fears for Colin—for all four of her sons.

“I warned her I’d be difficult to reach,” Colin said.

Mike grunted. “You couldn’t have sent her a postcard, put up something on Facebook? Sent a carrier pigeon telling her you were alive and well?”

“You know Washington. Crazy place.”

“Right. See you tomorrow.” Mike shifted to the youngest Donovan. “Come on, Kev. I’ll drive you home. We can talk about Russians.”

“There are millions of Russians, Mike,” Kevin said, getting to his feet.

“Only one showed up at the Sisters of the Joyful Heart this afternoon. Forget it. I should go back to the woods.”

Andy rose, too. “I have an early start. See you all later.” He gave Colin a curt nod. “Good to have you back.” Then he smiled. “You can help Father Bracken dig bean holes for his first-ever bean-hole supper.”

“Better than getting the shit beat out of you by Russians,” Mike muttered, then exited with Andy and Kevin on his flanks.

With his brothers gone, Colin eyed the Bracken 15. “I could empty this bottle but I’m not going to.”

“All things in moderation,” Finian said, appreciating the long finish of the whiskey he had overseen from distillation to laying down in the cask. “It’s good to be back with your brothers, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Colin said with a heavy sigh.

Finian pushed back an unexpected memory of hiking in Ireland with his brother on a sparkling autumn morning. He and Declan had just turned twenty and were filled with hopes and dreams. They had paused to appreciate the view of the Atlantic and the surrounding countryside and decided then and there they would do it; they would find a way to start their own distillery.

“Brothers are to be cherished,” Finian said. “Mike especially has good instincts about people.”

“Mike hates people.”

“‘Hate’ is too strong. He’s a loner. An observer. That’s why he lives the way he does. Being here in Rock Point helping your parents with their inn, with their worries, has worn his patience.”

“Have you been out to the Bold Coast where he lives?”

“Not yet, no.”

“It’s way down east on the Bay of Fundy. Strong tides, huge rock cliffs. Remote. Stunning scenery. Mike deals with people just enough to make a living, then spends the rest of his time on his own. He’s always been like that, even before he joined the army.”

“He came home from the military a different man?”

Colin shook his head. “Same Mike, just more so. What’s going on with him and Emma?”

“My assessment? She looks at him and wonders if she can fit in among the Donovans. He looks at her and wonders if he really knows his brother, perhaps wonders if he’ll ever have a relationship in his own life such as the one you and Emma have.”

Colin frowned, then grinned suddenly. “I think I actually understand what you just said.”

“This Russian woman, Colin…”

“Not your problem. Worry about your bean-hole supper. I’ll worry about Emma’s Russian.”

“She’s making pies for the supper.”

“The Russian?”

Finian sighed. Colin, of course, knew better. “Emma.”

Colin hesitated, just for a fraction of a second, but it was enough. Finian could see that his friend wasn’t so sure about his new love inserting herself into his life in Rock Point, perhaps less sure than he had been a few weeks ago in the heat of their first days together. It was only natural, Finian thought.

“I’ll clean up here,” he said. “You’ve had very little to drink. You’ll be fine to drive.”

“I walked down here.”

“But you’ll be driving to Emma in Heron’s Cove.”

“So I will.” Colin rose, a spark in his gray eyes. “Thanks for the whiskey. It’s good to be back.”

Finian studied his friend, noted the clear pain he was in, the depth of his fatigue. “How bad was it, Colin?”

“I’m here drinking whiskey with you, so it could have been worse.”

“Your brothers know you didn’t get your cuts and bruises in Washington.”

Colin grinned. “You don’t think I can convince them I tripped on my way to a cocktail party?”

Finian gave up and smiled. “Go, my friend. Be with your woman.”

“An excellent plan.” But as Colin pulled on his jacket, he pointed a finger at Finian. “If this Russian jeweler shows up again, you call me. Got that, Father Bracken?”