“What were the last tenants like?” Beth ventured, trying to change the subject.
“The last ones were an odd bunch, a little family from New Jersey. They left after eight months or so. I think we were a bit too provincial for them,” Mary concluded. “The couple before them lived there almost eight years. They were such a nice family. But the kids moved out, they divorced. A sad story, really.”
Beth sighed quietly, feeling some empathy for the unknown woman with an empty nest and no companion. But that woman had more to show for her life than Beth did – grown children, a life of memories and scrapbooks. Beth’s only achievements were years of balanced books and tidy accounts.
“But we’ve never had ourselves a famous artiste,” Mary declared, raising her glass in Beth’s direction, as the three of them finished their meals.
“I’m not exactly—”
“Nonsense,” Mary interrupted. “Everybody else has one. It’s high time we had one of our own.”
Lou rolled his eyes.
“Where are the paintings, dear? Lou said you were bringing your paintings.”
Beth blushed. “Oh, I left them in the car,” she explained.
“For goodness sakes, go on and get them. I’ll put on some coffee and we’ll look over them in the parlor.”
Beth’s face turned bright red. She was anxious to get her artistic career off the ground but suddenly embarrassed at the thought of actually showing her paintings to strangers. “I…well—”
“Go along,” Mary commanded. “You can’t become famous if you’re going to be shy.”
Beth sighed and reluctantly retrieved the paintings from her car. When she returned, Mary was fussing over a tray of coffee and cookies on the glass table in the sitting room. Beth entered the room cautiously, toting her paintings. She slowly unwrapped them. First came the flowers, which did not seem to impress Mary, then the lighthouse. Mary’s eyes brightened.
“Oh, that’s lovely. How could you capture such a realistic portrait of a lighthouse while living in New Mexico?”
“Actually, I lived in Minnesota at the time. Lake Superior has some stunning lighthouses. We vacationed near the lake every summer. This is the Split Rock Lighthouse,” she said, pointing at the painting.
When she unwrapped the third painting, a soft oil image of her grandmother’s house with the afternoon sun brightly lighting up the flowers in the front garden, Mary gasped. “For the love of God, would you look at that. You absolutely must paint The Cove. I insist. I’ll pay top dollar. I want to be your first Virginia Point customer.” She gestured toward the antique desk in the foyer. “I could hang it right there over the guest sign-in table and get rid of that drab painting of the starfish.”
Beth was confused. Her eyes slowly followed the direction of Mary’s outstretched hand to the earth-toned painting of starfish on a beach that hung in the entryway. She tried to unscramble what had been said. It finally dawned on her that Mary must be referring to the inn as The Cove and that Beth was about to secure her very first commission as a professional artist. A huge smile formed on her face.
“I would love nothing more,” she replied, feeling that, finally, she had arrived.
* * * *
The following morning Beth awoke before dawn and welcomed the day with anticipation. She drove back to the house to retrieve her sketchpad and charcoal pencils and returned eager to draft The Virginia Point Cove. She grabbed a plastic lawn chair from the Schmidts’ backyard and sat across the street, her mind lost in her work until she saw Mary’s friendly face waving to her from the front porch.
“You can’t start the day on an empty stomach,” she scolded. “Come on in for breakfast, dear.”
Beth obeyed, bundling her art supplies in one hand and dragging the lawn chair in the other.
“Oh, leave it. No one on this block is going to steal that old thing.”
Beth smiled as she climbed the steps. She held out her preliminary sketch for Mary to review. An impulsive move, hardly characteristic of Beth; she was willing to expose herself and allow her unperfected work to be examined by a woman she barely knew. She made a mental note of that development, hoping it was a sign of growth, a testament to change.
“Oh my,” Mary cooed. “Here you are creating beautiful things before I’ve even finished drinking a cup of coffee. Come on in. I’m sure you’re famished by now.”
Beth enjoyed a delicious breakfast on the patio with the Schmidts before heading into town. She drove through the neighborhood, which consisted of an eclectic collection of homes from a variety of periods. Many included barn-shaped structures that had been converted into garages or guest quarters. Most of the houses were white with dark shutters. She also passed a bright blue colonial, several late twentieth century models in earth tones, and a dingy trailer with an unkempt yard.
Virginia Point was tucked in a sheltered cove to the north-northeast of the lighthouse. A breaker rock wall further protected the boats at the marina. Main Street modestly sloped toward the docks, and small stores and restaurants lined both sides. Every store had its own awning and at least one window box, yet none of them matched. Buildings from the mid to late nineteenth century blended from one to the next – a rebellious group of structures forced to connect, but each determined to retain its own unique style. Most of the buildings, whether constructed out of brick or wood, were painted white, while others used natural brick. Several buildings needed repairs or a fresh coat of paint.
The bank had a bright red awning positioned at about nine feet, covering only the door. A brick window box with red and blue petunias beamed proudly under a freshly washed pane of glass. Adjacent to the bank was a seafood restaurant, shaded by a slightly faded, orange awning decorated with a smiling lobster. The lemon gem marigolds in the window box gave the restaurant a cheerful air, even though its paint was faded and its windows dirty. The children’s clothing store sported a curved blue and white striped awning and a pale blue window box overflowing with marguerite daisies. Continuing on toward the marina, on her left, Beth saw a real estate office, a fish market, and a small coffee shop. On her right at the top of the hill, she found a shoe store with an overstated, bright blue awning and two meticulously manicured window boxes filled with fuchsias. Next, a hardware store with a worn exterior and a pale gray awning sat adjacent to a drug store and a woman’s clothing store. Near the end of the row, a jewelry store painted bright white included a pale green awning and a window box blooming with a variety of wildflowers. Finally, at the bottom of the hill, she saw Kelp Corner, the gift shop owned by Bobby Downy. It had a tattered slate blue awning and a worn window box containing deep purple petunias.
No art gallery, Beth observed, her eyes twinkling.
She parked her car in front of the jewelry store and took a deep breath before emerging.
With her paintings clutched protectively in her arms and a spring in her step, Beth entered Kelp Corner. The small shop offered a variety of souvenirs and jewelry. Hand embroidered t-shirts and sweatshirts with pictures of lighthouses, nautical symbols, and the words “Virginia Point” hung on small racks. Beth walked tentatively to the back of the store. Next to the counter stood a multileveled display of handcrafted pieces of art made out of stones or small chunks of wood.
The man behind the counter looked up from the Bangor Daily News. He was a tall, lean man in his mid-forties. He wore a lightweight, red sweatshirt and a pair of faded blue jeans. His sandy blond hair showed signs of gray and a slightly receding hairline. He had a day-old beard and a warm smile.
“May I help you?” He stood to greet her. His six-foot-two frame made the tiny shop look even smaller.
“I’m Beth LaMonte.” She held out her hand enthusiastically.
Mr. Downy took her hand in his, briefly covered it with his other hand, and smiled joyfully. “My southwestern artist, she arrives at last.” He glanced down at her bundle of brown-paper-wrapped treasures. “Let’s see them.” He pointed to a tattered map of coastal Maine on the
wall, which hung by itself in the middle of the store. “I’m anxious to recycle that old thing and hang your paintings.”
Beth unwrapped each one. “Delightful,” he exclaimed, especially pleased with the lighthouse. When she showed him the painting of her grandmother’s house, he exclaimed, “Oh the ladies will love this one.” And finally, she brought out the flower painting. His response was tepid like Mary’s. “This one may not appeal to my clientele, but you never know. I will hang it until you bring me something new.”
Beth was disappointed that no one appreciated the flower painting. It was the one piece she felt had captured a little bit of her own spirit. But she did not let his response deflate her overall good mood.
He tapped his pencil on the counter, making some calculations in his mind. “I am thinking I will try to sell them for three-twenty-five and pass two-fifty on to you.”
The lines on Beth’s forehead creased slightly. She had hoped for more. She was a little angry with herself for not discussing the matter before packing up and moving twenty-four hundred miles. How could such a detail-oriented woman forget that one, not-so-insignificant detail? She ran a rough estimate in her head – rent, utilities, groceries, art supplies. “How many do you think I can sell?”
“Oh, that all depends upon the season,” Bobby replied. “You will do very well June through September, but things get rather slow in the winter.”
Beth sighed subtly. She had a nest egg, which gave her some financial freedom. Upon her mother’s death, she had inherited over five hundred thousand dollars after taxes. The amount took her totally by surprise. Sophia had lived a frugal life. Poor Mom, Beth lamented. She never did anything for herself. She could have remodeled her bathroom, bought new appliances, and taken nice vacations. A sense of guilt overwhelmed Beth on the day the funds were transferred into her name. Still, the money was hers. But it would only go so far if she could not make a steady living. The idea of eating away at the inheritance without producing something made her sick to her stomach. Should she attempt a part-time accounting job in Portland or Bangor? Or maybe she could provide an auditing service, dialing in to businesses and going over their books to find areas in need of improvement. With her credentials, she could probably build a stable clientele for such an entrepreneurial endeavor, but was that what she really came to Maine to accomplish?
Bobby looked down and shuffled his feet. “You know,” he began. “You could try setting up a website. People love the coast of Maine. Paint a dozen or so pictures and post photos on the Internet. That way, you are more likely to maintain a steady income. I know a young man going to college in the fall who is a computer wiz. I’ll bet he could help you set up a site.”
Beth looked up at Bobby and smiled. “That is an excellent idea, Mr. Downy.”
“Please. Call me Bobby. I’m an old salty dog. I don’t be going by the name of Mistah,” he mocked in a playful, fake accent Beth couldn’t place.
She left Kelp Corner relieved of her awkward, brown paper wrapped bundles, and she decided to take a walk along Main Street. She peeked in the jewelry store. It seemed stark white and devoid of color, and no jewelry adorned the window. The clothing store’s door was shaded by a ruffled, pink awning. A mannequin dressed in a sporty blue jumpsuit stared impassively at the sidewalk. She stood on a blue-checkered blanket and around her feet were the makings of a picnic – a basket, blue plastic dinnerware, artificial grapes, and pathetically obvious fake sandwiches. The drug store had a more utilitarian presence – a green striped awning, non-flowering plants in desperate need of water, and a simple arrangement of summer necessities in the display case. The hardware store had a small window with no display, but the shoe store sported an elaborate, almost gaudy presentation in each of its windows. A woman waved from inside. Beth grimaced faintly and returned the gesture.
Beth crossed the street. The restaurant had an arrangement of plastic chairs and tables dressed with ketchup, napkin containers, and salt and pepper shakers. Several patrons with hardy appetites enjoyed lobster as well as fried haddock and clams. A few lobster traps and about twenty lobster buoys hung from the ceiling in a colorful, chaotic pattern. The children’s clothing store featured several child mannequins in bright summer clothing, along with a kite and a stuffed dog jumping in the air. The real estate office windows were covered with photos and descriptions of property for sale. The fish market was white and brightly lit. Along the back wall, a glass counter displayed fresh fish and lobster as well as a few steaks and pork chops. A woman with long, gray hair spoke with a tall, dark-haired young man who stood behind the counter. The café’s yellow awning and window box, filled with a rainbow assortment of Petunias, welcomed townsfolk and visitors. A small counter near the back displayed muffins and pastries. A family sat in one corner eating sandwiches and their toddler laughed as his mother tried to wipe applesauce off of his face. Beth smiled, crossed to her car, and drove back to the cottage for a brief nap.
That afternoon, she returned to The Virginia Point Cove eager to share her ideas with Mary. Mary poured two glasses of red wine. Then she placed a plate of crackers and small cheese squares on a round, wrought iron garden table on the back patio. The Schmidts’ backyard bloomed with even more flowers than the front. A small bean-shaped patch of grass took a backseat to lush gardens, blueberry bushes, and a bubbling stone fountain of an angel. The neighboring houses were not visible from any direction due to a large cluster of trees that encircled the property.
As the ladies sipped wine and discussed the day’s events, Beth noticed Mary fiddling with her wedding ring. Beth looked down at her own bare left hand and realized how empty it felt. I should buy myself something, she mused, an independence ring. Then she remembered her mother’s sapphire anniversary ring, a stunning deep blue jewel set in gold and surrounded by tiny diamonds.
Her father had given the ring to Sophia on their tenth wedding anniversary, a year before he died in an auto accident. Beth was ten years old at the time of his death. She never truly allowed herself to grieve the loss of her father. Sophia put away her wedding ring and wore the sapphire ring in its place. Throughout Beth’s turbulent teenage years, she sneered at her mother whenever she wore the ring. Beth believed that removing the wedding ring was a betrayal. In addition, and true to teenage inconsistency, the sapphire angered her because it was a constant reminder of her father. As Beth matured, her hostile tantrums were forgotten, and her mother continued to wear the ring until her death. In a small, handwritten will, found in her lingerie drawer, Sophia had requested that Beth keep the sapphire ring and bury her in her wedding band. She wrote, in her usual matter-of-fact fashion, that she would hate to see this beautiful ring buried six feet below ground on the boney finger of an old woman’s skeleton. Beth shuddered and looked out over the garden.
Poor Mom, Beth thought, remembering the third anniversary of her father’s death. She wished the memory had faded over time, but it always seemed to overwhelm her in vivid detail at a moment’s notice.
They sat in the kitchen at a round Formica table with wobbly silver legs, the one that drove her mother crazy. Nevertheless, she did not replace it for years. It was one of the first pieces of furniture the newlyweds purchased a year before Beth was born. The kitchen radiated canary yellow, a yellow that seemed to grow brighter and deeper over the years each time Beth recalled the day. Her mother made spaghetti and meatballs that afternoon. Beth swirled the noodles around on her fork but refused to take a bite.
“It’s your favorite,” her mother gently reminded her.
Beth glared judgmentally at the blue sapphire. “So we just forget now?”
Sophia sighed and looked down. “We don’t forget. We move on.”
“We move on? You didn’t love him, really, did you?”
Sophia’s eyes met Beth’s and held them in a gaze that betrayed a complicated mixture of feelings so intense Beth had to look away.
Beth stabbed her fork into a meatball repeatedly. In a wave of unanticipated cru
elty, she retorted, “Maybe he just didn’t want to come home.” It was beyond out of line, what she said; it was despicable. Beth knew very well that her father had been commuting home at his usual time, taking his customary route. He must have briefly passed through the blind spot of a large Sears delivery truck. In an instant that changed Beth’s and Sophia’s life in the most terrible way, the truck driver changed lanes, sending Mr. LaMonte’s car down the embankment. It flipped several times before hitting a tree. Her father was pronounced dead at the scene.
Beth picked up her knife and flipped it around. She smashed her meatballs, randomly and with vigor, until they were reduced to mush. Then she pushed her plate away and stormed to her bedroom.
Sophia quietly removed the plates and silverware from the table and scraped away food remnants before placing the dishes in the sink. She turned on the water and added a drop of soap. Her movements were slow and methodical. She stared blankly at the bubbles forming around the dishes. The water turned mildly orange. She watched in silence. Whatever dreams Sophia had cherished as a young woman slowly withered away over the years, as sink after sink filled and drained. Her life blended with the lives of countless other mothers, resigned to the whim of tedious chores, the ones that returned every day, mocking a woman’s potential and intelligence.
Beth hid in the hallway watching her mother. She longed to say that she was sorry and to take over washing the dishes. But she did not, due to pride or shame; she never really determined which. She left her mother alone on the anniversary of the accident, alone to soak in the soapy water and the hateful words of teenage irrationality.
“Hello? Cat got your tongue?” Mary asked, bringing Beth back into the present.
“I saw a jewelry shop in town,” Beth blurted out. “I need to get a ring resized, a very special family heirloom. Is the jeweler reliable?”
Mary sighed and smiled. “Ah, good old Kenny McLeary. He’s an odd one, but he’s an exceptional jeweler. I’ve never seen a more meticulous man in my life, hunched over that bench night and day. But he’s got a creative side, too. Maybe you’ll understand his language. You’re an artistic type.” She ran her finger along the rim of her wine glass. “There is not much to go by. The man hardly says a word to anyone, except in the course of business. Shy as a field mouse, that one. I often wonder what secrets lay beneath that innocent exterior.”
Firefly Beach Page 3
