Page 70 of Just Beachy

“Beach! Beach! Beach!” Grand’s art class chants.

Before I can come up with a better argument, her students grab their easels, form a line behind Grand, and follow her outside.

Book club members steal peeks at me as Myra ushers them to the other side of the room and begins to pull the divider closed between us.

Once I get the children settled, I try my hardest to lose myself in Hans Christian Andersen’sThe Ugly Duckling.I’ve loved this story since I was a child, but it’s hard to stay focused while my brain continues to contemplate all the worst-case scenarios that might still befall Grand.

First, I worry that not all the bad guys are in jail or under guard. Then I worry that if the bad guysareall in jail or under guard, even badder guys might be sent to go back into her town house and continue their search forThe Madonna.

Finally, I manage to remind myself that I’m an actress and that no matter how bad or frightened I feel, I cannotshare that fear with the children. The “show,” aka story time, must go on.

When book club finally breaks up and the art class returns from the beach chattering happily, I wrap up story time and hand my charges over to their mothers, glad that I can finally stop smiling and acting.

Then I do what I should have done as soon as Grand told me that she, and not Phillip Drake, had paintedThe Madonna. I pull up Google. Thirty seconds later I discover infrared examination and something called ultraviolet luminescence: scientific techniques that could be used to reveal Grand’s signature beneath Phillip Drake’s. Then I call the nearby Dalí Museum to ask whether there’s anyone on staff or affiliated with the museum who can perform these scans.

As I wait for a response about the scans, I realize that the very technology I’ve just learned of could have been the impetus for the Drake family’s determination to findThe Madonna. Back in the day, it would have been Grand’s word against the prominent Phillip Drake and his family. But once the science existed and Phillip was ill and talking about admitting that Grand had paintedThe Madonna, the family clearly became desperate to destroy the painting or at least make sure it stayed hidden.

• • •

Luke shows upat the bookstore at six, waits while we lock up then double-checks every door and window. Grand and Myra drive back to Casas de Flores together. Luke andI stroll over to Paradise Grille for a quick bite before I report to Harley’s.

“What kind of plans do you have tonight?” I ask once we’ve devoured our burgers and fries.

Luke smiles. “My plan is to escort you to Harley’s, where I will hang out with you until you’re done for the night. After which I’d like to take you back to your grandmother’s, where I plan to spend the night providing you with as many orgasms as possible.”

I tingle at the thought. “I’d love for you to spend the night. And, of course, no woman in her right mind is going to turn down multiple orgasms.” I tingle again because I know this is not an idle promise. “But I really don’t think we need a bodyguard anymore.” As the sun slowly sinks into the Gulf, I tell him about the techniques I’ve discovered and how they can prove that Grand paintedThe Madonna.

“That’s sounds great,” Luke says. “But until Grand’s signature has been revealed, and the proof that Grand paintedThe Madonnais formally announced to the world, and especially the art world, you’re both potential targets. Which means there’s no way I’m going to leave you alone at Harley’s or your grandmother’s now that the security detail has been pulled and the press is gone. I have someone watching Grand’s place tonight, but he can only stay until one a.m. So Iwillbe sleeping over. But we don’t have to have sex if you don’t feel up to it.”

I roll my eyes. There’s pretty much no way I’m going to turn down sex with Luke, and his grin indicates that he knows it.

“I understand what you’re saying, but the scan is set for Monday, and I’ve reached out to a friend from college who covers ‘Arts’ for theNew York Times. I’ve given her an exclusive as long as it comes out in the Tuesday morning edition. She’s confident the story will be picked up by the wire services and on social media, so theoretically we just have to keep ourselves alive for four or five more days.”

“Fine, but I’m sticking to you like white on rice until the news has spread far enough to keep you and Grand safe.”

I stop arguing. I’m not stupid. There are way worse things than having Luke glued to my side and spending the night in my bed.

“Fine.” I try to sound put out, but this arrangement seems like a win-win even if it’s not necessary.

“Come on.” Luke reaches for my hand. “Let’s get you to work. And while we’re at it, I’ll make sure A.J. gives you a proper drink.”

“No need.” I heft my bag onto my shoulder and pull an airline-size bottle of vodka out of it. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of this sooner.”

When we get to Harley’s, A.J. rings the cowbell he keeps behind the counter and shouts, “Let’s hear it for Cassie! Our hero! Hip hip…”

The entire bar shouts, “Hooray!”

This goes on long enough to leave me blushing and oddly touched. After the rousing greeting, A.J. pours Luke a scotch on the rocks. He brings me a tonic water over ice with a twist of lime. I raise my glass in toast and take a sip.Then I excuse myself and head to the ladies’ room, where I lock myself in a stall and add a shot of vodka from the mini bottle.

I’m working and I need to keep my wits about me, but even one vodka tonic is better than none. Plus, multiple orgasms have been promised. The evening is definitely looking up.

• • •

I wake upthe next morning with a smile on my lips and a body that’s totally satisfied. If I were a cat, I’d be purring.

“Hey, sleepyhead.” Luke walks through the bathroom door and into the bedroom. His skin is damp from the shower. A towel is wrapped around his waist.

“I made a few calls earlier this morning,” he says as he sits down on the bed. He’s close enough for me to reach what’s no longer hidden beneath the towel, but given the serious look on his face, I manage to keep my hands to myself.

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