Beach Winds

by Greene, Grace

  “I see you have a visitor, Mr. Will. Are you family? The niece?”

  “Grandniece, actually. Or great niece. Whichever it is. You’re Janet?”

  “That’s me. It’s nice of you to come see him. He hasn’t had many visitors.”

  Frannie slid the chair back a few screeching inches to allow the nurse’s aide to pass. Janet pulled her own chair close in order to spoon the soft food into Will’s mouth. He choked and Frannie was alarmed. How did you help someone who was choking when their body was so frail? She was glad the nurse was there and the responsibility was hers.

  Frannie wanted out. More than that smell, it was the faces, the waiting faces she’d passed in the hallway—the can-you-see-me faces—that weighed her down like she was dragging chains. Add to that, the inability to have a reasonable conversation with her uncle, as well as not knowing what to do, made her feel captive. Yet, she kept her butt in the chair and tried to keep her expression bland so he wouldn’t read the impatience that tied her up in knots. Had she taken her stomach medicine? A growing burning sensation, like banked coals not quite extinguished, warned her of worse to come.

  “Should I leave? I don’t want to be in the way.”

  Janet looked at her as if the question were nonsense. She didn’t waste words on an answer, but instead, turned back to Will with a spoonful of applesauce.

  “Have another bite, Mr. Denman.”

  He sputtered and shook his head. She snuck a peek at her watch. How much longer? She looked up. His keen gaze, sharp despite the faded hazel color, was fastened upon her.

  He could afford a dedicated nurse’s aide. She hadn’t considered correcting her mother when she’d made the remark about Uncle Will’s financial state. He wasn’t living only on his pension. That was a tidbit of info her darling mother didn’t need to know.

  “I’ll be right back.” Janet left the room.

  Frannie searched her brain, desperate for light conversation—statements that didn’t require a response.

  “I remember what you told me about the navy, and why you named the house Captain’s Walk.”

  He lips moved, but his words were garbled.

  “Remember that day you called me? I didn’t know what to think. I never had much family, except for Mother and Dad, but you know that. Anyway, you told me you had been a chief petty officer. You said you named the house Captain’s Walk because it was the only deck you’d ever be captain of, right?”

  He gave a small nod, but he looked frustrated and that defeated look returned to his eyes.

  Frannie tried again. “Mrs. Blair said to say ‘hello’.

  No change in his expression.

  Try again, Frannie.

  “Your handyman, Brian Donovan, made a repair to the house.” She saw something in his eyes. He was worried about his home. She added quickly, “A small repair. Nothing big. Loose lattice.” She hoped that hearing about his house and his handyman might give him comfort, but how exhausting it was to have this one-sided conversation. She was certain that inside his brain, he heard and responded, but they were powerless to breach the communication wall caused by his stroke.

  Desperate for something else to throw into the silence, she said, “I’m thinking of sprucing things up with a little paint. Inside, that is. If you don’t mind.”

  He’d turned away and was now staring at a poster on the wall. A beach scene. Bright shades of pink, blue and turquoise. Typical beach colors.

  That smell swirled again.

  Frannie looked at Janet and said, “I guess I’ll go.”

  She rose and walked slowly to the door. Will continued staring at the poster.

  “Get better, Uncle Will. I’ll come again soon.”

  He did nothing to indicate he’d heard her, or that he cared.

  Driving back to Emerald Isle, she decided it was too soon to sell his house even though, more likely than not, it would need to be sold. In fact, in this real estate market, it made sense to spend some time sprucing it up. A little paint and a tweak to the decor would make it more marketable.

  The decision to paint kept her moving forward, but without the risk of irrevocable actions. No commitment needed. Painting mistakes could be fixed easily. She’d hang out here and let Mother stew by herself for a while. Mother would be plenty surprised when she saw that her daughter could handle this and so much more.

  Impulsively, she pulled into a home improvement store parking lot. Might as well get the supplies before she crossed back over the bridge to the island.

  With the paint cans and supplies loaded in the trunk, she built up such a vision, imagining plans for the makeover of Captain’s Walk, that when she actually entered the house, its dreariness almost overwhelmed her, but it didn’t keep her down long.

  She’d never painted a house before, but really, how hard could it be?

  ****

  The smell of plastic drop cloths, pristine and fresh from the manufacturer’s packaging, complemented the sawdust smell of the new stepladder unmarred by use. The paint cans contained nice off-white tones that aligned with what was already on the walls. Those unopened cans held a lot of untried promise. She opted not to tape the trim despite the clerk’s recommendation. She had a steady hand and was innately neat.

  Frannie put on a pair of navy khaki slacks and, in a concession to practicality, she found an old button-down shirt in Will’s closet. She would start in the middle of the wall using the brush. The roller seemed vaguely intimidating.

  She pried the lid off and dipped the brush delicately into the paint. There was not yet a drop on the wall when her phone rang, its vibrations drumming on the kitchen counter. Not a ring she recognized. Better to grab it now than after she’d started applying paint. She went for it and answered one-handed.

  “Frannie?”

  “Mother?” Not her ring. “Where are you calling from?”

  “I borrowed a phone. I left mine at home.”

  Likely story. “What do you need?”

  A moment of silence. “Need? Not ‘how are you?’ but ‘what do you need?’ I need to know when are you coming back home.”

  “When we spoke this morning, I told you I wasn’t sure. I have obligations here.”

  “No longer. Good news. I’ve arranged with an attorney to handle all that for you. He does this professionally and will take care of Will’s business affairs properly. You don’t need to worry about it.”

  “He already has an attorney and I don’t need help. I’m doing fine.”

  “Frannie—”

  “No, mother.” She looked down and saw white blobs of paint on the vinyl floor. The brush.

  “I have to go.”

  She threw the phone aside and grabbed for the paper towels. She hadn’t anticipated drips, including the ones she’d stepped in and that now marked her path. Run, she told herself, and headed for the plastic cloth. It slipped beneath her feet and kept moving. As it moved, so did the open gallon.

  In horror, in slow motion, she slid toward the can like a runner coming in to home plate feet first. She sacrificed the brush so that she could try to swivel. She needed both hands to save the can. And she did. Or most of it. The top couple of inches of paint sloshed over the rim, but she righted it before the whole gallon spilled.

  Hurriedly, she gathered the plastic sheet up around it like a dam to contain the spreading lake of almost-white.

  Painting was easy, or should have been.

  Her hands were covered in paint. One leg of her navy khakis was now substantially off-white and sticking to her leg.

  The phone began ringing again.

  She sat up and wiped her paint-covered hands on the dry leg. Fine. Now, she had a pair of painting pants. Designated painting gear.

  In the midst of disaster, she started laughing. Well, as disasters went, this one was pretty minor. Frannie laughed out loud. She laughed until she felt the tears beginning to burn her eyes.

  Enough. She gulped in air. Walk away from it. Just walk away. She headed outside
to cool down in the brisk February air.

  She stood on the porch. The ocean was loud, but its roar was regular in rhythm and the worst of the crashing sounds were borne off by the wind. The sun was nice, but misleading. It promised warmth, but wind from a winter ocean could only be cold.

  “Hello?”

  She jumped when the man spoke. Brian Donovan. He stood below the side of the porch; his sandy hair and his forehead were barely visible from this angle. Then he moved and she realized he was coming up to the porch. To join her.

  He still had the hooded sweatshirt on, but the leather jacket was gone. His jeans looked well worn, or worn well.

  She reached up to smooth her blouse and her hair, but caught herself in time. Her hands were a paint-smeared mess like the rest of her. She plucked at the pants leg adhering to her skin, then waved her hands to show him she didn’t care.

  She tried to laugh it off. “I’m working on a new fashion.”

  After a pause during which he seemed to assess her, he smiled. Something happened to his face. He jaws and chin were still stubble-covered, but his eyes brightened and his whole face re-shaped into something fresh, someone engaging. She couldn’t help herself and smiled back.

  “I was painting.”

  “I see.” He frowned. “But what?”

  “Funny.” She laughed. “Don’t take this wrong, but where’d you come from?”

  He nodded toward the side of the house. “I was checking that lattice. It needed another screw.”

  “Of course, you fix things.” That felt lame.

  He started to speak and then stopped and shrugged. “Yeah.”

  “What else do you do?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Do you paint?”

  He gestured at her slacks. “Paint? As in house painting?”

  She nodded. “Interior painting.”

  After a long pause, he said, “I can.”

  That sounded supremely non-committal. Which actually she liked. Not an overwhelming ‘sure let’s get it done.’ But a more thoughtful approach. She sensed he was also chagrined, probably by his profession. She pretended not to notice. She understood being embarrassed about not feeling good enough.

  “I want to give the interior of my uncle’s house a facelift. A fresh coat of paint.”

  Brian looked at the sliding doors as if recalling how the interior was laid out. “I don’t guess he’d mind.”

  She shrugged. “Either way.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Whether he comes home, or doesn’t, he won’t mind.”

  She knew she’d stepped wrong somehow and said the wrong thing. The atmosphere around them soured, and Brian was already turning away. He was leaving and taking his good humor with him. No, scratch that, his good humor had already vanished. So had hers.

  It ticked her off. She raised her voice and called after him.

  “I’ll pay whatever the going rate is. Unless you’re not interested.” She said it like a challenge, believing he wasn’t interested, knowing he was leaving.

  He stopped on the step and looked back. “When do you want me to start?”

  Chapter Two

  What had possessed him to agree to paint Will’s house? He could’ve walked away. It wasn’t a big deal, but a paint job? Not his favorite pastime.

  It was one thing to do favors for Will, but for this woman? For a brief moment, he’d seen…what? A woman who was full of trouble, that much was obvious. Those two vertical lines etched between her eyebrows were an obvious warning sign. He felt some sympathy figuring she was torn up about her uncle.

  Then she did what every woman ultimately did, except this one didn’t waste any time. Her true nature came out and her cold practicality outdid even a winter gale on the ocean. What had she said? ‘Either way?’ Like it meant nothing. As if whether Will Denman recovered or not was all the same to her.

  Her own uncle. Will had said he trusted her. For her, this was nothing more than business. To sell the place faster. She only wanted to run back to her soft, convenient life.

  It didn’t take long for a woman to forget a guy. Took even less time for her to replace him.

  Brian grabbed his leather jacket from the handlebar and shrugged it on. He threw his leg over the motorcycle, jammed the helmet down on his head. Not ideal weather for bike riding, but his mood demanded it.

  He was almost a mile down the road when he remembered what Will had said about his niece. Aside from his elderly sister, Fran was the only blood relative, or relative of any kind for that matter, who was worth anything. Which, in Brian’s opinion, was about the saddest thing a man could admit. The only thing sadder was when Will had also said if a man lives long enough, he outlives his friends and everyone he loves. To Brian’s way of thinking, that wasn’t all bad. At least, it meant you once had friends and loved ones worth keeping.

  He parked his bike in the garage next to his apartment. The apartment was on the back of the garage. Now that was convenience he could appreciate.

  His phone beeped. He pulled off his helmet and heavy jacket, and dropped them on the chair by the door. He stripped the sweatshirt over his head and tossed it over the back of the chair. The sudden loss of thermal warmth caused a shiver, yet it was a relief at the same time. One day he’d learn to wear the suit and protect his legs, too, so he could walk like a whole person, instead of limping along like he was still injured. He dropped onto the couch and put his boots on the coffee table, then touched the voicemail icon to retrieve the message. It was his sister, his well-meaning and interfering sister.

  “Are you coming to dinner tonight? Mom and Dad will be here and hoping to see you. Let me know. Give me a call. Come whether you call or not. Dinner’s at six and I’m making one of your favorite meals. If six doesn’t work for you, we can eat a little later. Please come, Brian. It’s been a long time since we’ve all been together.”

  Unlike Will, he had family that was worth something, but he’d lost the connection. He pulled off one boot and then the other, wincing at the pain in his thigh, and put his feet back up on the table. He laid his head back against the soft sofa, letting loose a groan since there was no one to hear. His back. His neck. His leg. The muscles had tightened up like a board, each twisting the other, even after a year. The cold didn’t help. He rubbed his thigh.

  Someday maybe he’d get his old enthusiasm back. He would welcome it, and his family, back into his life. There was more to life than what he was doing now. There had to be more. But for a long while now, he couldn’t remember what.

  Now, apparently, he was a handyman and a house painter. He stood abruptly, jolting his back and thigh. He paced the room, which only took about twenty steps. He was going to paint the inside of Will’s house. For this woman. Not for Will. Will was happy with his house as it was. But what would a coat of paint hurt?

  He could watch out for Will’s interests at the same time. Maybe intervene if she wasn’t living up to Will’s expectations.

  He searched the freezer for the most likely looking frozen dinner. Salisbury steak and gravy? Beef tips and broccoli? He kept digging until he found the least objectionable one. He’d make do.

  He was a simple kind of guy and it didn’t take much to make him happy. Well, not happy, but content. Enough, anyway. He knew the good and the bad and had learned that you have to be willing to live somewhere in-between.

  ****

  The next morning, Brian stood in the middle of Will’s living room and scratched his head. If she’d started painting yesterday, why did everything look so completely in place? The ladder was standing in the corner with a few books stacked on its steps as if that were its true purpose.

  Behind him, she cleared her throat and said, “I didn’t move the furniture. I thought we might start with one blank wall and then move the furniture around as needed?”

  “We?” He was only half-kidding. She was wearing slacks and a soft-looking sweater, not the casual kind, but nice clothes as if she was heading into
the office or maybe to church. All she was missing was a string of pearls like his grandma sometimes wore.

  “Or we can hire a helper? Whatever you think best.”

  He nodded. “I’ll need some help with the larger furniture. We should be able to manage it.” But even as he spoke, he noted she was on the thin side. Probably wouldn’t be moving much furniture, after all. Nice looking, though. He unbuttoned his flannel shirt and dropped it on the sofa. He didn’t mind risking his T-shirt for the job.

  “Maybe you could take the pictures down from the walls?”

  There was a cheap print of an ocean scene and another of a naval battle. She carried them down the hallway and then returned to gather up the framed photos. Next, she carried off armloads of books. He had to admit, she made herself useful and without complaint. When the drapes came down from the sliding doors, dust particles swirled in the light. She had a coughing fit.

  She waved her hands to clear the air. “Apparently, Mrs. Blair draws the line at cleaning the draperies.” She coughed again.

  He gathered the musty drapes and carried them down the hallway himself.

  They saw the slip of folded paper on the floor at the same time.

  “Did you drop something?” she asked.

  Since the answer was obvious, he didn’t respond, but reached down to pick it up. He knew what this was. He called them Will’s fortune cookies, but without the cookies.

  “What is it?”

  Brian held it out, but she stayed back, so he left the paper on the counter. “It’s Will’s. He salts these around the house.”

  She walked over and picked it. “2nd Corinthians. Why does he do that?”

  This woman, Fran Denman, asked a lot of questions. He shrugged and went to move an end table out of the way. He’d already said enough. He wasn’t going to discuss Will’s quirks, not even with his niece.

  When the room had been cleared of stuff, the woman went to stand in the kitchen with the counter between them. After all the running around, now she stood very still, like a rabbit trying to vanish into the background. When he looked at her, she blushed.