The Inn at Angel Island

by Thomas Kinkade

  The Inn at Angel Island

  Thomas Kinkade

  Katherine Spencer

  The New York Times bestselling authors present a new series set on an island a stone's skip away from Cape Light…

  Welcome to Angel Island, not far from the shores of Cape Light. It's said to harbor angels that help guide the lost, that sometimes lead them right back to where they began…

  Liza Martin arrives on Angel Island to sell the inn she and her brother inherited from their aunt, so she can bolt back to her busy life in Boston. But back home awaits a broken marriage and an unstable career. The more time she spends on Angel Island, and with every local she meets, the more she finds herself enjoying the tranquility of the place. Her new friends don't want to see her sell the inn to developers who will ruin the island's charm. There is much for her to resolve before her departure- and it is going to take a band of angels to mend her broken wings and redirect her soul.

  Thomas Kinkade, Katherine Spencer

  The Inn at Angel Island

  The first book in the Angel Island Novel series, 2010

  Dear Friends,

  Some of my fondest memories from childhood are of summer vacations with my family. It was a long drive to the old Victorian inn that looked out on the ocean, and I couldn’t wait to arrive. I would spend my days on the beach, happily building sand castles, collecting shells, and chasing waves. When evening drew near, we would return to the inn to watch the sunset from the porch. All the guests would then gather around the oak table in the dining room for delicious, home-cooked dinners, prepared with fresh ingredients that were grown on surrounding farms or plucked straight from the sea. It was, I now realize, a kind of paradise. Back then I believed that something so perfect had to be a gift from the angels. It filled me with a love of the wild beauty in the natural world and a sense of the truly divine. It has been a constant source of inspiration for my paintings-a place of light that my mind returns to again and again.

  Even the sweetest things must one day end, and that particular inn, sadly, is no longer standing. In some way, I have been searching for it ever since. That is why Katherine Spencer and I have created The Inn at Angel Island, the first in the Angel Island series that captures the essence of that welcoming, homey inn-a place where all travelers find comfort and solace, a place to renew and restore one’s faith in oneself and in God.

  Come with me then and meet Liza Martin, who, along with her brother, Peter, has just inherited the Inn at Angel Island. For Liza, the inn is a far-from-welcome gift. She has too many conflicts in her own busy life-a high-powered job that may be at risk, an ex-husband who claims he still loves her, and a deep grief for the loss of her aunt Elizabeth. Her brother Peter comes to the island with his own troubles-precarious finances and an even more precarious relationship with his fourteen-year-old son, Will. The charming but dilapidated old inn seems to be a complication that no one needs, and Liza and Peter are determined to sell it-until Angel Island, with its white beaches, soaring cliffs, and quaint little village, begins to work its magic on them, opening their hearts to what they really need.

  All you have to do to is cross the land bridge from Cape Light to Angel Island. There you will discover a wild, unspoiled, romantic haven, a place to reclaim one’s dreams and one’s faith. I hope that, like me, you will often return to the Inn at Angel Island, where you will find a soft, cozy bed, a home-cooked meal, and a warm welcome. May it always be your home away from home.

  Thomas Kinkade

  Chapter One

  OF course, it was raining. Nothing about this trip was going to be easy. Liza Martin already knew that. Why should the weather cooperate?

  The drive from Boston to the north shore was hard enough at the end of a workday, the traffic easily making it two hours or more. But the timing couldn’t be helped. A client emergency had erupted at four, just as Liza was heading out of the office, trying to beat the commuter crush and the dismal forecast.

  So here she was, on a Tuesday night at the height of the rush hour, driving all the way up to Angel Island in steady rain. She had turned the wipers to high speed and slowed her car to a careful crawl. At least it isn’t snow, she reminded herself, which was not out of the question even in late March in New England.

  She hoped the skies were clearer beyond the city. On a night like this, heavy rain and high surf could wash out the land bridge that connected the tiny island to the town of Cape Light, making it impossible to cross the harbor.

  When Liza was a little girl, staying with her aunt Elizabeth and uncle Clive for the summer, visitors often came to the island for the day and were then stranded when a storm blew in. Aunt Elizabeth never paid much attention to weather forecasts and never failed to be delighted by these unexpected overnight guests. Those stormy summer nights, with so many interesting people milling around the old house, were among Liza’s fondest memories. Her aunt and uncle must have enjoyed it, too; Liza often thought those nights were what had inspired them to turn their rambling old house into an inn.

  Liza slowed for a light, letting the sound of the storm outside bring back those rainy nights on the island when her uncle would play the piano and everyone would sing. They would even move back the furniture in the front parlor and dance when the mood was right, often by candlelight when the power went out or with Aunt Elizabeth shining a flashlight on the keyboard, swaying the beam to and fro in time to the rhythm. There would be card games and ghost stories and shadow shows on the big wall in the front parlor, her uncle’s specialty.

  Liza recalled how she would always feel disappointed the next morning to see the sunshine and the clear blue sky. But other charms of the island would quickly distract her, like an early morning beach walk, where she would sift through the odd treasures the wild surf had tossed on the shoreline the night before. She and her brother, Peter, would race each other to the best shells, arguing over the vilest remains of some defunct sea creature. Her aunt would follow, laughing at them and playing judge and arbitrator with endless patience.

  How did Aunt Elizabeth manage to put up with us, Liza wondered. And do it so cheerfully? It couldn’t have been easy, though her aunt and uncle always acted as if their season with Liza and Peter was the highlight of their year. They had no children of their own, so perhaps it really was, Liza reflected.

  It was hard to believe her aunt would not be there tonight, waiting for her. It had been nearly two months since she had passed on. Liza had come up for the funeral and burial, of course. But she knew that the reality of the situation, the hard truth of it, had not yet sunk in. Some part of her still expected to see her aunt’s tall, willowy form, silhouetted in the doorway, watching and waiting for her.

  The memory made Liza feel sad. She knew that she should have come to visit more often. In some way it seemed pointless to go there now. Aunt Elizabeth was gone. It was too late.

  A buzz from her BlackBerry cut into her thoughts. Liza quickly answered, speaking through her wireless headset.

  “Hi, Liza, it’s Charlie,” a familiar voice replied. “Sorry to bother you, but something came up with one of your clients right after you left. I thought you should know.”

  Charlie Reiger, her former assistant and present office rival. She’d figured as much. A glance at the dashboard clock read half past seven. The office was empty by now with only the workaholics and mischief-makers left. Charlie fell into both categories.

  “What is it, Charlie? Which account?”

  “Berlinger Tires. Harry Berlinger sent back comments on the new ad proofs by messenger. He doesn’t like the colors or the type-face. The boards landed on Eve’s desk, so she passed them off to me. I put the art department on it, and we�
�re working up a new version for him.”

  “That sounds like a good plan,” Liza said in a reasonable tone, though she felt herself simmering. “You’ll e-mail the revised proofs to me first, so I can take a look before they go back to Berlinger, right?”

  “Sure thing. That goes without saying,” Charlie insisted.

  She nearly laughed at him. Right, Charlie. As if I believe that for a second. “Thanks. I’ll keep my eye out,” Liza answered. Charlie double-checked her address on the island, then said good night. Liza clicked off the call, fuming. She hated it when he got his sticky paws anywhere near her clients. It was like leaving a hungry dog alone with a roast beef.

  Did he really think he could cut her out of the loop so easily? She would call the client herself as soon as she could. And why hadn’t Eve just called her directly about the problem?

  Because that was the way their boss, Eve Barkin, operated. Eve liked to fan the flames of rivalry to get the best work out of her top two account executives. She had even been dangling a promotion between them for months now. Liza knew that she was the obvious choice. She had more experience, the most important clients, and far more creative ideas than Charlie. Everyone in the office said she would get it. But Eve liked to keep life interesting, treating Charlie like a valid contender.

  Eve had promised that nothing would be decided until Liza returned to Boston, but Liza hated leaving the office and giving her nemesis a clear field. She only hoped Eve could see through good old Charlie, with his five-hundred-dollar suits and two-hundred-dollar haircuts.

  And she hoped the ordeal on the island-settling her aunt’s estate and selling the inn-would be over quickly, so she could get back to her job and her life, which pretty much amounted to the same thing these days.

  Liza would only be gone two weeks, but she felt as if she would be away for months. She had definitely packed a month’s worth of work, stuffing her briefcase, a large knapsack, and a portfolio with layouts and sketches. Thank heavens for the Internet and all the high-tech contraptions she relied on. She only hoped the island had good reception.

  Sorting out the inn and everything in it was going to be a nightmare, but at least she didn’t have to do it alone. Her brother, Peter, would be here by tomorrow. He lived in Arizona now, a photographer with his own business, struggling lately to stay afloat. He had told her that he was taking on a lot of little jobs, the kind he used to sneer at in better days. These next two weeks were the only break in his schedule for months, which had determined the timing of their visit.

  It was probably better for both of them to just get this ordeal over with. There would never be a good time to travel back to Angel Island. To sort through her aunt and uncle’s belongings and put the gracious old Victorian up for sale. There was no good time to go back and be reminded of all the happy summers she and Peter had spent there as children.

  Maybe that’s why Liza had rarely returned. She didn’t want to remember. Those memories were bittersweet, even painful at times. Especially now, when her life was not turning out anything like she had expected.

  As she traveled farther north, the traffic thinned. Liza finally spotted her exit and turned off the highway, then headed onto a county road toward the village of Cape Light.

  She felt half-relieved the awful drive was almost over-and half wished the trip would take even longer.

  Except for her last visit, after her aunt died, Liza had not been back to the island in a long time. Maybe once or twice in the last few years? She had felt bad about that and did call her aunt every couple of weeks to stay in touch. She and Peter had lost their parents in a car accident when they were both in college. Her aunt and uncle had been the only close relatives left. Still, once Liza graduated from college and got busy with her own life, it was hard to get to visit them except on holidays.

  Once she really dug in at the advertising agency, Liza was always so busy; she almost never took vacation time. Work usually spilled over to the weekends, and her limited free time was always filled with other things. She had better things to do than travel out to this remote, barely inhabited little chunk of land. How her aunt and uncle managed to live here all those years-and seem so happy in this rough, primitive place-she’d never know.

  Sure, she had loved it as a child, but as she grew older and her tastes changed, it seemed too quiet and downright dull. There wasn’t even a good restaurant here-or any type of restaurant at all that she could remember.

  That seemed selfish, now that she thought about it. But it was true. After Uncle Clive passed away, Aunt Elizabeth seemed to accept Liza’s infrequent visits. She claimed to be busy, too, running the inn with just the help of one full-time employee, a woman named Claire North. Aunt Elizabeth was not the type to make Liza or her brother feel guilty about being inattentive to her. She had always been, and was to the very end, totally independent.

  Liza did feel guilty now. Elizabeth had passed on in late January when a bout of bronchitis that had lingered all winter suddenly flared up into pneumonia. Her once-robust aunt was not strong enough to fight it and passed away very quickly.

  Or so it seemed to Liza-as if there had been no warning at all. She had been very concerned when she heard that her aunt’s condition had worsened into pneumonia. Still, she fully expected her aunt to recover; Aunt Elizabeth had assured her that she would. Before Liza could manage to get over to the Southport Hospital, the next call had been the worst news of all and a great shock. Leaving Liza stunned… and full of regrets.

  There were so many reasons why it was hard to come back here.

  Liza suddenly decided to turn down a road that led to Main Street in Cape Light, though staying on Beach Road was a more direct route to the island. She wanted to see if there were any changes in the small town.

  Driving slowly and peering out the window, she did spot a few: signs changed over shops and a new fire station. But she had to look closely to notice the differences. For the most part, Cape Light looked very much the same as it had when she was a child.

  The lights were still on in the Clam Box, she noticed. The bright red neon letters “OPEN” glowed in a window alongside a faded poster that read, “Try Our Famous Clam Rolls and Blueberry Pancakes-Box Lunches to Go.” That poster had always been there, though Liza wasn’t sure the clam rolls were famous beyond the town limits.

  The town’s landmark eatery had been Aunt Elizabeth’s favorite dining spot. Liza didn’t recall the food as anything special, but as a kid, she had loved sitting on the spinning stools at the counter, feasting on hot dogs or hamburgers and fries-or on a hot afternoon, a big, drippy ice-cream cone. She bet the place still looked the same inside, too.

  It was half past eight and she was definitely hungry, but she didn’t stop. The rain fell lightly now, and Liza knew that if the bridge to the island was still open, it might not stay that way for long.

  When Liza arrived at the bridge a short time later, the yellow gate was up, signaling that it was safe to cross. The water on either side looked inky black and bottomless. The night sky was just about the same color, with thin, low clouds stretched like cottony threads across a glowing crescent moon.

  She steered her car onto the two-lane bridge, which had a rail and a paved shoulder, edged by large gray boulders, on each side. A few tall highway lights lit the way, but she still drove slowly down the narrow black ribbon of highway. From the middle of the bridge, she could see the coastline curving around to Cape Light’s harbor and the cluster of lights in the village.

  Waves crashed against the rocks on either side of the road, threatening to spill over, and Liza felt a stiff wind push against her compact SUV.

  Why the town didn’t build a real bridge to the island, she had never understood. Maybe they wanted to keep it private and challenging to reach. It kept people out. Or maybe it was sheer economics: Because so few people lived out there, or even visited, it didn’t seem an efficient use of taxpayer dollars.

  But that was all supposed to change-and very so
on, she had heard. Angel Island had just been designated a Historic National Seashore. Improvements were coming, including a ferry service from the nearby village of Newburyport, about ten miles north along the coast. The ferry would land on the beach at the north side of the island, which would be improved with bathhouses, a dock, and a boardwalk, all the amenities day-tripping tourists expected.

  Predictions were very positive. More visitors would come, and real estate values would rise. Liza wasn’t sure who would even be interested in coming here. The place still seemed so remote and out of the way. But that was another good reason to sell the inn now, while everyone was still so optimistic.

  Fortunately, her aunt had put Liza’s and her brother’s names on the deed while she was alive, so the property automatically transferred to them upon her death and was not part of the probate process. At least they had been spared that hassle. There would certainly be more hassles to come before it was all over; Liza was sure of it.

  The ride over the land bridge was brief, the winds stronger across the open stretch of water and just wild enough to hint at the island to come, which had always been rustic and untamed. Liza suddenly realized she hoped the island hadn’t changed much since her last visit.

  The inn was a short drive from the bridge. Liza found her way easily, though she had not made the trip in a long time.

  She felt strangely excited, driving slowly down the dark, narrow roads. She rolled down the windows, feeling the moist breeze on her skin and smelling the salty air, sensations that brought back a wave of memories.

  There weren’t many opportunities to get lost out here. But she was surprised at how clearly she remembered the route. Everything looked exactly the same: the high marsh grass on the roadside, the dark shadows of houses popping up here and there, even the bent old trees that stood like sentinels and served as landmarks, directing her way. Straight on Old Dock Road, veering right on Mariner’s Way, just past the huge willow at the crossroads.