Page 148 of Secrets Hidden In The Glass

The wind kicked up again and Sanchez swore.

“Let’s go grab a cup of coffee,” Nate said. “I’ll introduce you to Callie.”

“She’s at the coffee shop?”

“Bakery and deli. She works with my sister.”

“How long has she been on the island?”

“Almost two months now.”

“Do you think it’s strange that she’s back here after all these years?”

Nate hadn’t thought about it like that. He was just glad she’d come in the first place. “Not really. She headed this way on vacation. She had no idea she’d visited the island as a child. It surprised the hell out of her when she found the picture at the library.”

“Heck of a coincidence,” Sanchez said with a shake of his head.

“It is.” Nate blew his hands warm. “I should probably mention Callie’s career.” He’d held off on saying much of anything about Callie’s adult life, wanting to make certain he had a good read on Sanchez before connections between Little Girl Lost and Callie Davis the artist were made.

“Go for it.”

“She’s from Manhattan—is represented by the Marion West Gallery. Callie works with stained glass.”

Sanchez frowned. “Is that relevant to the case?”

Nate’s lips curved slightly. Sanchez had no idea who Callie was. She was bound to get a kick out of that. “No. Not really. Or it isn’t if we can keep things quiet.”

Sanchez’s frown deepened as they turned the corner. “I’m not following you.”

“Callie’s art is known all over the world. So is her face.”

Sanchez’s brow reversed directions. “She’s famous?”

Nate nodded. “She’s beautiful and insanely talented. The press seems to have a fascination with her when they can find her.” Like they had this weekend.

Nate had been surprised when he’d found a picture of himself and Callie in the Saturday morning edition of The New York Times—walking hand in hand Friday night toward the gallery, moments before Callie had broken their connection and Valerie stopped them on the sidewalk. He’d been caught even more off guard when a group of paparazzi bombarded them on their way out of her apartment building Saturday afternoon, snapping photos and harassing Callie with questions until he’d finally hailed a cab and they were able to escape. Anytime they went somewhere after that, they’d had to use the back or side entrances and have Pierre call them a car.

When Nate had walked into his office this morning, he’d found the Times open to another article titled “Callie Davis and Her Mystery Hunk.” Speculation and pictures of the two of them snuggled up and laughing while they’d waited in line at the Empire State Building filled an entire half page. In three short days, he’d gotten a small taste of what Callie dealt with on a regular basis, and he hadn’t liked it. “Right here.” Nate opened the door for Sanchez.

“Thanks.”

Nate breathed deep as they stepped into the warmth and amazing smells of coffee and homemade bread.

Sanchez smiled as he pushed his hoodie back. “It smells great in here.”

“I think Callie said something about ham and white bean soup before we left this morning.”

Sanchez nodded his approval. “I’ll take a bowl of that back on the ferry with me.”

“You won’t be sorry.” But Nate didn’t like that it was so quiet—that he didn’t hear anything going on in the kitchen or Molly’s or Callie’s voices. He spotted the door to the side room open a crack and peeked his head in, seeing Callie hunched over a table, drawing something and looking cute with her hair styled back in a loose French braid while she wore a Carter Island Deli and Bakery sweatshirt with her snug blue jeans. “Ding, ding. You have customers,” he said, walking her way.

Callie looked up and grinned. “My favorite customer.” She stood straight and hugged him. “Hey, you.” She kissed his lips as she cupped his face. “Your cheeks are cold.”

“The wind’s brutal—getting worse as the front comes in.” He kissed her forehead and locked his arms around her waist. “Where’s Molly?”

“She ran over to the market. We’re almost out of milk. Her supplier didn’t deliver any on the truck today.”

“That’s a problem.”