The Beach at Painter's Cove

by Shelley Noble

  They sat down and Paolo poured the wine. “Ben says he has a video camera we can borrow. I thought we could get some footage of Leo talking about the Muses if she doesn’t mind.”

  “I think she’d love to do anything to help keep the Muses alive. That’s a great idea.” She turned to thank Ben only to catch him looking speculatively at Paolo.

  Now, what was that about?

  Dinner was delicious and Issy brushed aside her concerns to enjoy a couple of hours with friends. When Chloe and Paolo said they would do the dishes, the sun was setting and Issy and Ben were left alone.

  “This is an incredible home,” Issy said.

  “A work in progress, not that I have much time to work on it.”

  “All those salt marshes calling.”

  Ben nodded. “I know everybody thought I was a total geek for being so fascinated with them, but they’re vital to the survival of the shore habitat.”

  “I know. You taught me well.”

  “You actually were listening to me carry on all those years?”

  “Yes. I know they protect shorelines from erosion, provide essential food, refuge, and breeding habitat for a whole bunch of marine species. And a habitat for birds and other animals. They reduce flooding and protect water quality and only stink at low tide—wait, wait, when they aren’t aerated properly.” She grinned. “And at low tide.”

  “Wow, you were listening.”

  “Of course; just because you were geeky didn’t mean what you said wasn’t interesting. Plus I grew up with paintings of shores and marshes. They don’t call it the Coastal School of painting for nothing.”

  “Want to see something?”

  “Maybe. Does it involve mosquitoes?”

  “Maybe one or two.”

  “Nothing gross?”

  “Nope.”

  “I guess,” she said suspiciously, knowing the things that excited Ben were sometimes outright disgusting.

  “Come on.” He headed toward the far side of the glass room to a door that opened onto a wooden balcony where a set of steep, narrow stairs ran up the side of the house.

  “They’re safe,” he said. “Just hold the rail.”

  He stood aside and let her precede him. She wasn’t sure what she’d find, so at the top, she stopped and peered over the edge.

  “It’s a crow’s nest,” she said, and climbed through the opening to a circular deck perched at the apex of the roof.

  And it was a spectacular view. To their right, the setting sun flared red, yellow, and orange, while the surrounding sky turned dark with streaks of mauve and gray.

  “Wow,” she said as she felt Ben come up beside her at the rail. “This is amazing.”

  “I can’t take credit for it,” he said. “But it was the thing that finally swayed me to buy a house this large.”

  “Not planning to inhabit it with more than yourself?”

  “Not yet anyway.”

  The night grew darker except for a funnel of light that turned the marshes gold and the waterways that curled through them to deep ebony. Fireflies began to wink around the scrub oaks.

  She sighed. “What a life.”

  “Cool, huh?” Ben draped his arm over her shoulders and a hundred scenes flashed through her mind. Ben and Chloe and her walking on the sand, walking into town, just stopping to look at the ocean, Ben in the middle, his long skinny arms slung carelessly over Issy and Chloe’s smaller, shorter shoulders. Comrades. The Three Musketeers. Three nerdy kids.

  It was a totally natural thing to do. It had made her feel at home that night at the hospital when he’d put his arm over her shoulder and pulled her along to the parking lot.

  But somehow, in this private quiet aerie, alone and watching the sunset, it felt different. Comfortable. The same, yet different.

  The sun slid below the horizon, leaving a nimbus of color, until it finally disappeared completely over the horizon. And they stood like captains on a ship among the stars.

  “So how much longer are you going to be able to stay?” Ben asked.

  The world came rushing back in. “I have a week left of vacation.”

  “And you think you can see things clear by then?”

  “No.” There; she’d said it out loud. “I’ve been here nearly a week and I’m no closer to figuring out what to do than when I arrived.”

  “Well, that’s seven whole days more. Don’t give up yet.” He gave her a squeeze and dropped his arm.

  She moved away. “I guess we’d better be getting back.”

  “How long is Paolo staying?”

  “He hasn’t said. But since he’s at loose ends, I’m hoping he’ll stay until I leave.”

  “He really quit because somebody said he was incompetent and only got the job because he was sleeping with you?”

  “Yep. He may look totally metro but he’s old-fashioned at heart. Honor, loyalty et cetera.”

  “Is he?”

  “Old-fashioned?”

  “Sleeping with you.”

  “No. That would be so unprofessional.”

  “Now that’s he’s no longer working for you? Not that it’s any of my business.”

  “No, it isn’t, but no I wouldn’t and he wouldn’t. We love, love, love each other to pieces, but not like that. We’re friends. He wants to settle down to a comfortable home life. So do I, with someone steady, when the time is right.”

  “But not with him? I would think you guys would be dynamite together.”

  “We are. He’s passionate and wild and it’s wonderful working with him. He has an eye for art that is remarkable. And a special way with people. You should have heard him drawing Leo out this morning. That’s why he wants the camera—to film her.

  “Professionally we are an incredible team. Totally simpatico and hugely in demand for our inventive design. But personally? That special spark just isn’t there. He wants someone to be comfortable with, a homebody. It’s strange but he has a real domestic streak.”

  “And you?”

  “Me? I don’t know what I want. I’m counting on recognizing it when it hits me over the head.”

  “I guess it would be hard to give up your glamorous, exciting life in Manhattan to be a homebody.”

  “Glamorous? Long hours? Heavy lifting? Beautiful artwork. That’s exciting enough for me. My mother had a glamorous life and look where it got her.”

  “For one thing, it got her back here. That’s not such a bad place to be.”

  “No. And not for me, either. I like being home. It’s going to be hard to go back, though I love my work, the artwork.”

  “You can’t stay here and still design?”

  “Not really, although for the last couple of days, I’ve had this wild idea. But no. I think the only thing to be done is to beg George to loan me the money to keep Grammy at the Muses. I’m not optimistic.”

  She turned away, the quietude disturbed by the reality of what awaited her tomorrow and the next day and the next.

  They climbed back downstairs, but Ben stopped her before they went back inside.

  “I thought if you do have some time before you leave, we might go to dinner or something, just the two of us.”

  She tried to see his expression in the dark. “Ben, are you asking me on a date?”

  “Is that a dumb idea?”

  “No. No, actually, it isn’t a dumb idea at all.”

  It wasn’t easy prying Paolo away from his conversation with Chloe, which seemed to be about food, backpacking, and eighteenth-century painters. But finally he and Ben went out to Ben’s workshop and came back several minutes later with a camera and tripod and several lenses.

  “Boy toys,” Chloe said, and gave Ben and Paolo a huge loving smile.

  “Work toys,” Ben countered. He carried them out to Issy’s car and put them in back.

  “I’ll pick up the kids as usual,” Chloe said.

  They said their thank-yous and good-byes, and Ben gave Issy a look that at first she thought was meant to remind he
r of their date, but was actually about the weather.

  “It’s going to rain all tonight and maybe tomorrow. Probably starting in a few minutes. Drive carefully.”

  “Is this the beginning of that big storm you were telling us about?” asked Paolo.

  “Associated weather is my guess,” Ben said. “But I’m not a meteorologist.”

  “Should we be worried?” Issy asked.

  “Hopefully it will veer out to sea long before it reaches us, but you should be prepared for some weather. After the weekend most likely.”

  “But you’re preparing.”

  “I always prepare. I have delicate instruments that need protection. The first three storms of the season have missed us. No reason this one won’t. Still, it’s best to be ready. I have a bunch of stuff to do, but if you need help, call me.”

  It started to thunder as they drove through town, and by the time they pulled up to the door of the Muses, the rain was coming down in sheets.

  “Do we sit it out or do we make a run for it?” Paolo asked.

  “It could keep up for a while. I say we run.”

  They did and were soaked by the time they got to the kitchen.

  “Ben definitely has the right idea about a shower by the back door,” Paolo said.

  They pushed off their shoes and left them to dry. It was later than Issy had realized. The rest of the house was already dark.

  They climbed the stairs and said good night on the landing. Palo went off to his room and Issy to hers. Only one overhead light lit the hallway. All the rooms were dark except one at the far end. A thread of light shone from beneath the Impressionist Room door. Jillian’s room. Issy didn’t stop at her own room, but walked straight down the hall. They would have to talk sooner or later, and maybe this was as good a time as any.

  As she thought it, the light went out. Issy crept back to her own room, thankful, relieved, and knowing that it couldn’t be put off much longer.

  Fae ducked her head against the rain, only to have it roll down her neck. But she couldn’t very well carry an umbrella while skulking around in the dark. It was ridiculous enough that she had to sneak out at night like some damn teenager. Something had to give, something was about to give. That business with the photograph this morning had almost undone her. There had to be some changes.

  And she dreaded the only change that was possible. She couldn’t leave. The life she knew and wanted would have to be jettisoned. She’d promised Wes.

  She stopped under a tree. Thunder rumbled overhead. Lightning would soon follow. Why had she made that promise?

  Because she’d never guessed at the ramifications.

  She pressed against the bark of the trunk until her dress was soaked through and her tears were mingled with the rain.

  Stupid old woman. You had some happiness. Let that be enough. Let it go, sever the past, your present, the future. Do it for Wes, for Leo . . . for Adam.

  And the pain forced its way out and she wailed, slicing the sky with her acceptance. It had to be done, but not tonight, in the dark, in the rain. She turned and sloshed her way back to the house.

  In her sleep, Steph dreamed the rumble of the gods at war, the wail of the banshee, the march, march, march of unseen soldiers, and she thought, It’s starting, the end of the world as we know it, and she wanted her mother.

  Jillian sat by her window in the dark. Rain slid down the panes, forming a curtain of indecision. Why had she come here? Had the thought of reaping money from the sale of the Muses really sent her scrambling back to the family bosom? She had a mother who was more icon than nurturer, two daughters she didn’t even know, one a thief and missing, the other as skittish as a wild foal. Not that she’d ever seen a wild foal. Not that she’d really seen much of anything that was real.

  Her life was a sound stage; the scenes changed but they were pretty much all the same, and in between, Saint-Tropez with Henri, St. Moritz with Jonathon, Ipanema with Enrique. Even her last film, The Sins of Eva Narone, was the flip side of a film she’d done years before and whose name escaped her at the moment. She hadn’t had a film in the last two years.

  She touched her cheek and was glad it was dark. The skin was smooth; she paid plenty of attention and money to keep it that way. But there were wrinkles just waiting to show themselves. The toughness that came with age that all the derma peels on earth couldn’t stop.

  She wished she had a drink but she’d be damned if she’d get caught sneaking downstairs for a glass of courage. Her doctor had refused to renew her diazepam scrip. She sighed and sat in the dark, the rain came down, and Jillian York grew a little older.

  Chapter 22

  Steph and Fae were already in the kitchen when Issy came downstairs the next morning.

  Issy stopped just inside the door and grinned. “You two look like a fragmented, dee-mented rainbow of love.”

  The two twirled around and struck a pose, which made Issy laugh out loud, something she hadn’t expected to do today, not with what lay ahead.

  Steph was wearing a T-shirt and a long gauze skirt that she’d turned into a pair of pants by pulling the back hem through her legs and rolling it into her front waistband. A string of brass bells rode low on her hips, and she jingled with every movement. Fae, for a change, wore a green-and-blue-flowered tunic over purple harem pants.

  And with a stab of affection Issy realized she was attempting her not-batshit-crazy look since George was expected that afternoon.

  Issy danced across the floor and hugged them both and they spun in the kitchen until the door opened and Griff and Mandy came in.

  “What are you doing?” Mandy asked.

  “Nothing, stupid,” Steph said, and walked out of the room. Mood broken. Someday, hopefully, that would change.

  “I want to dance, too,” Mandy said.

  “And so you will,” said Fae. “In a few nights we’re all going to dance on the beach.”

  “Why?” Griff asked.

  “Because it will be a full moon and the Whitaker women—and one brave Whitaker male—always dance on the beach at the full moon.”

  “But I’m a Bannister,” he said, his mouth puckering.

  “That night, we’ll all be Whitakers.”

  “What about me?” Paolo asked, coming into the room.

  Fae shrugged. “Why not? It’s the spirit that counts.”

  “If Mommy comes back, can she dance, too?” Griff asked.

  Fae and Issy exchanged looks.

  “Sure,” Issy said. “Now, what do you two want for breakfast?”

  As soon as Mandy and Griff had left for camp, Issy and Fae joined the others in the parlor. Paolo and Steph had set up the video equipment and both were in discussion with Leo, who had dressed in a light lavender suit that to Issy’s semitrained eye appeared to be a Chanel.

  “Doesn’t she look fabulous?” Steph said.

  “Beautiful,” Issy agreed. And looked closer. “Are you wearing makeup, Grammy?”

  Leo smiled. “Yes my dear. Fortunately, I didn’t have to apply it myself. I had a wardrobe and makeup team.”

  Issy frowned and turned to Steph. “You and Paolo?”

  Steph’s gaze flicked to the archway. “Me and Paolo and, uh, Jillian.”

  On cue, Jillian swept into the room, slacks, silk shirt, hair back in a low ponytail. Her business costume?

  Issy felt a sucker punch to the gut, straight back to the spine; she may have even taken a step backward. This was her project. Her idea. Her dream.

  She did stagger back then. Her dream? What was she thinking? This wasn’t a dream. This was an inventory, pure and simple. Except, one thing had grown out of another. Unfortunately, anything that might have been a dream had just turned into a nightmare.

  Idiot. You just got too carried away. Possibly, but Issy had to stand her ground. To hell with the fact that she wanted to run to the nearest john and throw up.

  She’d spent years trying to be something that was essentially Isabelle Whitaker, and not the le
avings of someone better. Even though a newspaper clipping upstairs in a box reminded her that her birth was surrounded by salacious gossip and speculation rather than the joy of welcoming a new family member, a baby girl named Isabelle.

  “Do you want to get started, dear?”

  Issy heard Leo’s question but she was having a hard time dragging her attention back to the room. It seemed to her no one moved. They were all staring at her.

  Pull yourself together, Is. You’ve dealt with bigger divas than your mother, ones that were actually artists. And then she realized Jillian was gone.

  “Sure, I was just thinking . . .” She turned to Steph and Paolo. “What do you think about having Leo sit in front of the fireplace?”

  “Excellent,” Paolo said, and offered his elbow to Leo.

  They spent the morning, cataloging pieces and asking Leo questions. Sometimes the descriptions would ramble into memories associated with the artwork; sometimes they led to other anecdotes about the artist or the times. It was all fascinating.

  At some point, Jillian reappeared with a makeup kit and sat at the side of the room. She stayed quietly in the background, running in to refresh Leo’s makeup during their brief breaks. She didn’t attempt to take over, but Issy was painfully aware of her constant presence.

  “Leo’s amazing,” Paulo said after one hilarious story that had them covering their mouths to keep from laughing out loud during the taping. “You could make a whole PBS series with her.”

  “Hmm,” Issy said, thinking, Why not?

  With all of them working on the inventory, Issy’s mind stayed off the fact that George was coming to “discuss” the situation with them. She was pretty sure he had no plans to discuss anything. He’d already decided what would be best. And she couldn’t help but wonder if Jillian was a part of it.

  Had the two Whitakers concocted a scheme to oust Leo and Fae from their homes? Was that why Jillian was suddenly staying so close? Spying on them? Looking for reasons that the house should be sold. Waiting for Leo to make some mistake as she drifted from past to present. So far she’d stayed focused, but she was getting tired, and when they stopped for lunch, Issy wondered if they should call it a day.