The Inn at Angel Island

by Thomas Kinkade

  “I came out and visited her once a week or so. I try to keep up with all the folks at our church who are shut-in for one reason or another. She didn’t leave the inn much once she caught bronchitis. Then the pneumonia set in,” he said in a somber tone. He looked up at Liza and caught her eye. “I will tell you that Elizabeth rarely seemed down or dispirited. She seemed to think it was just a passing thing, like a bad cold. Or at least that’s what she kept telling me.”

  “That’s how it was when we talked over the phone. That’s what she told me, too,” Liza replied. “Now I wonder if she knew more but didn’t want me to worry.”

  “I don’t think so. I don’t think Elizabeth ever believed anything was seriously wrong. Or that she wouldn’t be up and around by the spring, getting the inn ready for her guests again.”

  Liza took that in. Her aunt had never expected to die. So don’t beat yourself up if you didn’t come out here to visit in time.

  Liza blinked. She felt her eyes tearing up and wondered if it was the wind or simply the conversation.

  “Your aunt was a woman of great faith,” Reverend Ben continued quietly. “She lived a full life and felt satisfied. I honestly don’t think she feared death. I know that even at the very end she was resolved and at peace.”

  Liza swallowed hard to keep from crying. “Thank you for telling me that, Reverend,” she said finally.

  He gazed at her a moment but didn’t reply. Then he turned his attention back to the fishing pole, which he had stuck in the sand for safekeeping.

  “How long will you be staying at the inn?” he asked.

  “About ten or twelve days more. Depending on how things go, I guess. Fran Tulley is our real estate agent. She seems to think she can find a buyer quickly. The island has become a hot spot, she says, with all the improvements going on.”

  “A hot spot, eh?” Reverend Ben smiled. “Well, maybe for around here it would qualify. But the inn is a beautiful old building. I imagine there are many fans of historic houses who would be interested.”

  “I hope so,” Liza said simply. She yanked her gloves up a bit, so that they covered the cuffs of her pullover. The setting sun was almost touching the dark blue ocean, and the air had grown even colder. “I guess I’d better get back to the inn. Claire will be wondering what happened to me. It was nice seeing you, Reverend.”

  “Good to see you, Liza. Come by the church and say hello if you have time,” he added. “If I can help you with anything during your visit, please let me know.”

  He was gently offering her a chance to talk more about her aunt and her loss, she thought.

  “Thanks. Maybe I will.” Liza smiled at him, then she turned and started back in the way she had come.

  Reverend Ben was a nice man. She enjoyed talking with him, even though she had never been a big churchgoer. Her parents had not belonged to any particular church, only attending services on holidays like Easter or Christmas and choosing whichever church was most convenient. Her father liked the music and appreciated a good choir.

  When she and Peter came out to Angel Island in the summertime, her aunt often took them to the church on the green in Cape Light. Liza vaguely remembered Reverend Ben holding the services there, though there may have been another minister before him. She couldn’t recall now.

  Either way, she had never gotten to know Reverend Ben. She only spoke to him briefly when she and Peter had planned the memorial service. He was intelligent and easy to talk to; nothing like the impression she had of ministers-stuffy and even judgmental types. Even so, she doubted she would go out of her way to see him again, though it had been nice of him to offer.

  WHEN Liza returned to the inn that afternoon, the house seemed flooded with a warm, buttery scent, an appetizing aroma she couldn’t quite identify.

  Liza tugged off her gloves, scarf, and vest, and walked back to the kitchen. Claire had the oven door open and was checking her work in progress, wearing a big blue oven mitt on one hand.

  For some reason, Liza’s conversation with Reverend Ben had made her feel more appreciative of Claire’s presence. Claire didn’t have to stay on here and help dismantle the house, Liza realized, even though she was being paid for her work. The entire process had to be hard for her. Maybe even harder than it is for me.

  “What are you baking?” Liza asked. “It smells delicious.”

  “Chicken pot pie. Do you like that?”

  Liza smiled. “I haven’t had it since I was a little girl. But I did like it then. It was one of my favorites.”

  Her very favorite. Aunt Elizabeth would make it for her, even in the summer when such a hearty dish seemed out of season. She always used lots of vegetables from the garden; it was almost a vegetable pie, Liza thought.

  Liza knew Claire was a good cook but doubted anyone could match her aunt’s perfection of this dish. Her aunt seemed to use some secret ingredients to make it taste so good.

  “I was cleaning out a bookcase and found your aunt’s recipe book. One of her many recipe books,” Claire corrected herself. “I think they’re all over the house.” She pulled off the mitt and set it on the counter. “The pot pie recipe fell out, so I decided to try it.”

  Claire nodded toward a piece of lined yellowed paper that lay on the kitchen counter. Liza recognized her aunt’s handwriting immediately, a hurried, artistic scrawl. Thoughts always racing ahead of her pen; that was Aunt Elizabeth.

  Liza looked the recipe over; there were a few smudges and food stains blurring the words. A tiny note in the margin read: Extra carrots for L.

  That’s about me. I used to ask for extra carrots, Liza realized, feeling touched.

  Liza looked up. Claire had been watching her. Reading her thoughts, Liza guessed, from the expression on the housekeeper’s face. Liza suddenly felt self-conscious. Too close.

  “Do you need any help?” she asked.

  “I think we’re all set. Dinner is ready, whenever you are.”

  Liza suddenly realized that with everything going on around the inn-put dealing with Daniel Merritt on the top of that list-she had gotten so distracted, she hadn’t checked messages from the office since that morning. She hadn’t even brought her BlackBerry along to the beach. She must have a hundred messages by now.

  “Let me just run up to my room a minute. I’ll be right down,” she promised Claire.

  She found the BlackBerry on the small table near her bed and checked her e-mail. She scrolled down the addresses and subject lines quickly, guessing what most messages contained.

  She was looking for one in particular, some word about the logo sketches that were sent via Fran Tulley’s fax to the office yesterday.

  Liza had her fingers crossed that her ideas would be chosen over Charlie Reiger’s. If the prospective client, a national chain of discount shoe stores, preferred her take over Charlie’s, it would tip the scales in her favor in regard to who was named account manager-and who was promoted to vice president.

  If only she’d had a chance to send the ideas in as a more finished presentation. But that couldn’t be helped. Sometimes the best ideas just won out, even scrawled on a paper napkin.

  There was one message from her boss, and Liza quickly opened it. It was a question about some other project. No mention of the logos.

  That worried her a little, but Liza tamped down her anxiety. If she didn’t hear by tomorrow, she would send Eve a note and ask directly. Better to know than wait in limbo.

  Liza opened another e-mail, this one from Peter.

  Liza-

  I’ve worked out time off from school for Will, so we’re trying to get a flight out tomorrow. See you soon.

  Love,

  Peter

  Well, there was some good news. Liza shut down the device and put it in her pocket. Peter and Will were on their way. She would definitely see them by tomorrow night.

  That was a relief. For a while there, she had wondered if he was going to make it at all. She felt sorry now for doubting him. Peter could be scattered
at times, but he wasn’t going to let her down. They would get through this mess together.

  Liza washed her face and hands, and went down to dinner. She had read somewhere that certain scents affected your mood. Mint wakes you up, and cinnamon makes you feel more alert. Chicken pot pie must qualify, she thought. The mouthwatering smell was already making her feel more cheerful.

  In the kitchen the table was set for two, with the chicken pie sitting in between. There was also a green salad.

  Claire was at the sink, washing out some pans. She turned when Liza entered the room. “Everything’s ready. Just take a seat. I put beets in the salad. They’re also from the garden. I hope you like that.”

  “Sounds great,” Liza said.

  She sat down at her place, hoping she hadn’t kept Claire waiting too long. She had lost track of time, fussing over her e-mails and office dramas. Claire was an employee, but for some reason, it didn’t feel right treating her that way. Sometimes Liza couldn’t help feeling that she was merely a guest in Claire’s territory.

  Claire sat down and then closed her eyes and bent her head for a moment. She was saying grace, Liza guessed. She waited until Claire was finished before she began eating her salad, which was a mixture of greens with icy cold thin slices of red beets on top and a sprinkling of goat’s milk cheese.

  “Delicious salad,” Liza said between bites. “Is this cheese from the farm down the road?”

  Claire nodded. “They started the business only a few years ago, but they’re getting quite a reputation. They sell to a lot of stores and restaurants in the city.”

  “I want to pick up some lavender there to take home with me.” Liza pictured her apartment, which could have been on another planet she felt so distant from it at the moment. Had she only been here two days?

  “Lavender is wonderful stuff,” Claire agreed. “Your aunt always had me spray the bed linens with lavender-scented water-for the guests and for herself, too. The scent helps you relax.”

  “I have been sleeping well here,” Liza admitted. “Maybe that’s it.”

  “The sea air helps. And all the hard work,” Claire added. “How is your back?” she asked with concern.

  “Much better, thanks. Walking was a good idea.” Liza took another bite of the pot pie. The flaky crust just about melted in her mouth. “I met Reverend Lewis on the beach. He was surf casting.”

  “Oh yes, that’s his hobby. He comes out here a lot with his rod and reel, though I’ve never seen him catch anything,” Claire added with a smile.

  “He told me he wasn’t very good at it.”

  “There’s more to surf casting than catching a fish for Reverend Ben,” Claire said. “I think he needs the time alone with just his own thoughts and the ocean. It refreshes his spirit, you know?

  “Daniel stopped by while you were down on the beach,” Claire went on. “He left an envelope for you. I put it on the mail table.”

  “That’s probably the estimate for the painting,” Liza said. “Thanks. I’ll take a look after dinner.”

  Liza was far more interested in talking about Daniel than about Reverend Ben’s surf casting. She had a lot of questions about that man. But she didn’t want to be too obvious.

  “I guess I’d like to hire Daniel if his price is reasonable,” she said carefully. “But I don’t know much about him. Do you think he does good work?”

  “Excellent work. He’s very responsible and professional. He’s more of a carpenter. But I’m sure he’ll do a good job painting for you,” Claire added.

  “He seems to do a little of everything,” Liza remarked, thinking of how he fixed the leaky pipe.

  “You don’t find too many specialists out here. A person needs to be flexible to earn a living, just to get by day-to-day.”

  Liza knew her aunt and uncle had been very self-sufficient, doing many jobs at the inn themselves when they were young and strong enough-painting, renovating rooms, ripping up rugs, and refinishing floors. At the time she thought they were just trying to save money. That may have been true, but it was also probably easier to do it themselves than to find someone to come out to the island.

  “You have to be pretty self-reliant to live out here,” Liza agreed. “It’s not for the faint of heart, especially in the winter.”

  “The winters are hard. There’s less work. And it can be hard on the soul, all the solitude and quiet. For some people, I mean.”

  From her tone, Liza didn’t think Claire counted herself among those who were disturbed by the solitude. She seemed so self-sufficient and had such equanimity. But Liza still wondered if she lived all alone. Wasn’t there somebody in her life?

  Was there someone in Daniel’s life? That question seemed even more interesting to her right now.

  “I imagine it’s hard to support a family out here, even if both partners work.” Liza paused. “What does Daniel’s wife do?”

  Claire looked up, her expression one of surprise. “Daniel isn’t married. He doesn’t have a wife.”

  Liza smothered a smile. “Really? I thought he mentioned something about a wife.”

  Okay, it was a bald-faced fib, but she couldn’t help it. It had slipped out as she tried to cover her tracks.

  “You must have misunderstood him.”

  “Yes, I must have,” Liza agreed. She sensed that Claire knew she had fibbed but was too polite to call her on it.

  So, the handsome jack-of-all-trades was single. But that didn’t mean he was without a relationship. A man who looked like that had to be in a relationship. On this small island, he would have his pick of single women, Liza was sure. Or perhaps he liked playing the field and was the commitment-phobic type…

  Liza caught herself, surprised by the direction of her thoughts. In the many months that she and Jeff had been separated and then finally divorced, she hadn’t thought much at all about dating. No one had really caught her eye, though she had met a few single men through work and well-meaning friends who had dragged her out to restaurants and parties.

  Liza knew she wasn’t ready to take that step yet. She still felt attached to Jeff in a way. Not really married anymore-but not entirely separated either. That was more his doing than hers. It seemed he just couldn’t let go, even though he was the one who ruined it for them.

  “Care for some more chicken pie?” Claire’s question broke into her rambling thoughts.

  “No, thanks. It was perfect, though,” Liza said, “ just like Aunt Elizabeth’s.”

  Claire seemed pleased by the compliment. “I’m sure it wasn’t nearly as good. But thank you for saying that. There’s some dessert if you’d like. A chocolate pudding pie. It’s in the fridge.”

  Another one of her aunt’s specialties. A graham cracker crust filled with rich chocolate pudding and covered with whipped cream. Easy to make, deadly to eat.

  Liza sighed. “I’m going to put on twenty pounds if I don’t watch out.”

  Claire glanced at her and laughed. “Even if you did, it would hardly show at all.”

  Not in the baggy sweats or jeans she had pulled from the charity bag to wear around the inn. But getting back into her sleek business suits and spandex gym clothes would be a challenge.

  “I think I’ll pass on dessert for now,” she said finally. “Peter and Will will be here tomorrow. I’m sure that pie won’t go to waste.”

  Liza helped Claire clear the table and clean up. There wasn’t much to do. Claire was the type of cook who cleaned as she went and didn’t leave a huge mess at the end. Unlike Liza, who couldn’t manage to scramble an egg without using every pot and utensil she owned. Cooking had never been her forte.

  Claire closed the dishwasher and turned it on. “Looks like we’re all done. Thanks for the help.”

  “No problem. Thanks for dinner.”

  Claire nodded. “Do you need anything more?”

  “I don’t think so.” Liza watched as Claire gathered her things, slipping on her down parka and taking a canvas tote from a hook behind the kitc
hen door.

  “I’ll be off then. See you tomorrow. I’m looking forward to meeting your brother and your nephew,” she added.

  “They’re looking forward to coming here. Well, my brother is. I’m not so sure about Will.”

  Claire stood at the back door. “He’ll be fine. This place will do him good.” She nodded to herself, then went out the door.

  Liza hoped the prediction was true. Claire had a way of sounding so certain of things. Liza wondered where it came from, that sense of knowing, of certainty. She felt in awe of it-and suspicious of it.

  Nobody could feel that grounded and sure of things, not with the way the world was these days. Her aunt, too, had had a touch of that inner certainty. Not as much as Claire, but more and more as she had grown older.

  Where did this certainty come from? Liza only wished she knew. If she could bottle it, she’d make a million.

  Chapter Four

  LIZA woke to the sound of rain pounding against the building. The spring storms on the island could be fierce, but this one sounded like a hurricane.

  She jumped out of bed and ran to the window-then realized she heard not only water but men and machinery. Outside the building, on the front lawn just below, she saw Daniel Merritt and a helper, both wearing big gloves and goggles. They were working with some sort of water equipment, with a hose and a pointed nozzle aimed at the house.

  Power washing, she realized. The preparation for the painting had begun. Daniel certainly didn’t waste time. She had called him back last night about the estimate. The price seemed reasonable and the timing fast enough. He had said he would start with power washing to strip off the old paint. But she had not understood that meant he would start before eight a.m., and it would sound and feel as if the house were under attack.

  Liza took a fast shower and pulled on her jeans and a black turtleneck, a somewhat more attractive outfit than he had seen her in yesterday but not nice enough to look as if she had gone to any special trouble. She hoped.