Carousel Sun Read Free Page B

sawhorses, a bandsaw in close attendance, and a couple eight-foot boards propped against the window of what had four days ago been one of those empty storefronts that had recently been exercising my mind.
    As I approached, I heard voices inside the place, echoing, and the sharp report of a nail gun.
    I dodged the sawhorses and walked up the slight ramp, pausing with the toes of my sneakers at the line of the door, so that I was technically not trespassing, in case anybody cared.
    Not one of the busy beavers inside even noticed me, so intent were they on their work.
    Two young fellas in jeans and T-shirts were covering the scarred walls with honey-colored paneling. Another pair were boxing the concrete support posts with the same honey-colored wood. At the back left corner of the space, a girl on a ladder was dealing with the kraken of wires spilling out from a hole in the drop ceiling.
    An empty glass showcase was set up as a barrier in front of the back wall; a thin figure bent over it, writing or sketching on a pad of paper.
    I had a sense of movement behind me, unthreatening, and turned just as another young fella in jeans and a tool belt came up the ramp.
    “Help you, miss?” he asked respectfully. He had a slight, not-Maine accent, a pleasant, apple-cheeked face, and serious hazel eyes. Under the Home Depot gimme hat, his hair was light brown, curling softly below his ears.
    “Just wondering what you’ve got going in,” I said, and added, by way of explaining why I cared, “I run the carousel down Fun Country.”
    His eyes widened as he smiled. “We’re putting in an art gallery,” he said.
    I blinked. “Art gallery?” I repeated, and didn’t add: In Archers Beach, blue-collar vacation spot as it was?
    He nodded. “Would you like to meet the owner? She’s right there.” He nodded toward the figure still bent, rapt, over her pad of paper.
    “I’d be pleased,” I said, and followed him into the store, up to the counter.
    “Ms. Anderson?”
    “Yes, Kyle?” She didn’t look up.
    “Ma’am, here’s the lady who runs the carousel come to introduce herself.”
    She did look up then, her eyes the blue of a fog-bound ocean, set deep in the well-used face of a woman past her first youth.
    “Good morning,” she said, her voice smooth and calm. Her accent was New England, but not necessarily Maine. Massachusetts, maybe.
    “Good morning,” I answered. “I’m Kate Archer—Fantasy Menagerie Carousel.” I smiled. “I saw you were fixing the place up and wondered what was going in. An art gallery, Kyle tells me. It’s been a lot of years since Archers Beach had an art gallery.”
    “In fact,” she said with a faint smile, “it’s been just shy of a hundred years. You hear all about how the Great Fire took the hotels and the eating places, but you hardly ever hear that two art galleries and an art museum burned to the ground that night, too.”
    She held out a hand. “I’m Joan Anderson. Pleased to meet you, Ms. Archer.”
    “Likewise,” I said, meeting her hand. We shook.
    “I’m curious what made you choose Archers Beach as a location for your gallery,” I said carefully.
    Her smile grew more pronounced.
    “I grew up here. Moved to Massachusetts when I got married. Taught school, raised kids, got a divorce. The kids are grown, the school system laid me off, and I decided it was time to come home and do what I always said I was going to do.” She raised her arms, showing me the space and the busy workers.
    “This gallery is going to feature Maine artists only—paintings, pottery, jewelry, furniture—I’ve already got fifty artists on my list, and the word’s just starting to get out.”
    I glanced down when she said “list,” but she’d been sketching on that pad, not listing. The sketch was of a horse, mane-tossed and galloping. She followed my eyes and turned the pad around so I could see it better.
    “For the sign,” she said.
    “Nice horse,” I answered. “What’s the