Beach Winds

by Greene, Grace

  “You okay?”

  She waved her hands around. “I’m fine. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “Tea,” he repeated back to her. “Iced tea?”

  “A cup of hot tea. I have several blends.”

  Hot tea? “No, thanks. Not for me.” He went to work rearranging the drop cloth and then positioned the ladder.

  “Do you have spackling?”

  “Spackling? Oh, for patching holes. No, I’m sorry.”

  She had tea, but no spackling. “I’ll bring some tomorrow. I’ll start the trim work today. Where’s the tape?”

  “I didn’t buy any.”

  He frowned and stared. “Was I supposed to bring it with me? I assumed you’d have the supplies since you were already prepared to do the job yourself.”

  “I didn’t think I’d need tape.”

  Her ready-to-run rabbit stance was changing. He heard a danger warning in her voice. He almost smiled. She was so perfect, so cultured. So ladylike. As if nothing could rattle her. It gave him some satisfaction to shake up that composure, so he didn’t answer. He turned his back and began painting, cutting in the corners.

  He tried to focus, to keep it all in perspective, but after a while he was dissatisfied. Something was bugging him. He must’ve given signs of it because she spoke, asking, “Is there a problem?”

  He replied smoothly, “Nothing that can’t be fixed tomorrow with tape and spackling.”

  “Should I go get some? I can drive over to the mainland. Or the grocery store might have them.”

  He grunted. “By the time you get back, I’ll be ready to stop for the day. I have to leave by mid-afternoon.” He stopped and turned around. “I guess we should have discussed it. I can only paint part of each day. I have other obligations, so this project may take a while.”

  Was that a look of approval on her face? Did she actually sigh? As if in relief? Odd, since this woman seemed to have more hurry in her than most.

  “That’s fine. Really, there’s no rush.”

  She’d come around the end of the counter like she was ready to usher him right out the door.

  “Maybe I’ll wrap up for now. I might as well wait until I have the supplies.”

  He expected her to object, to ask why he couldn’t get more done today using what he had, but she didn’t.

  “No problem at all. Totally understandable. I’ll help you clean up.”

  He looked around. Clean up what? The work area was only now ready.

  “Can we leave the ladder and other supplies out? Maybe fold over the plastic a little so you can walk around?”

  “Certainly.”

  Did she want this place painted or not? “I’ll pick up the other stuff later today.”

  “Thank you. Do you need cash up front or will you bill me?”

  “Now that I think of it, I’ll roll a couple of the walls first.” He couldn’t help himself. “I’m already here. It’d be a shame to waste the whole day.”

  He watched from the corner of his eye as he bent to pick up the three-pack of rollers. He tore the plastic, still watching. He saw her dismay and felt a little guilty. It wasn’t his purpose in life to torture this woman. He hadn’t meant it as torture anyway. Something about her irritated him. And those two lines between her eyes—yeah, those eyes. They were deepest blue he’d ever seen.

  “Yep, shame to waste the day, that is, unless you have something you need to take care of. If so, I’ll get out of your way.” That was her opportunity. Would she take it?

  A moment of stillness, then she spoke, but in a voice that sounded measuring, maybe a little suspicious.

  “As a matter of fact, I do have a couple of errands to run, but you can stay here and work if you want to.”

  Bravo, he thought. Score one for Fran Denman. Did she know there was a game on? Now, he was embarrassed. He didn’t recall Will asking him to give his niece a hard time.

  “Up to you, ma’am.”

  “Please call me Frannie.”

  He nodded.

  Her phone rang. “Excuse me.” She went straight to it. “Hello?”

  Brian heard only her side of the conversation and had no idea who she was speaking with. He tried not to eavesdrop but went ahead and put the roller cover on the frame and got the tray situated.

  “Yes, please.” She paced a bit, concentrating on the call. “Can he afford it?”

  She stopped, standing still while she listened.

  “I see. Well, I’m having the house painted.” She grimaced at Brian and mouthed, “Sorry”. “When it’s time to sell, the house will be ready.” She paused, listening, and then continued, “Whatever we need to do. I’ll be here on and off. Thanks for the update.”

  Brian pretended he wasn’t interested, but it was obvious who and what they were talking about. Ready to sell whenever? That so? He stopped short of taking the lid back off the paint can.

  “I’ll pick up again tomorrow, after all,” he said.

  “Whatever you want.”

  “See you about ten a.m.?”

  Leaving so early in the day, he went straight up the road and across the bridge to the hardware store. He was on his bike. He should’ve gone home first. Should’ve worn warmer clothes. Should’ve. By the time he made it home, the wind chill and damp air had worked into his thigh and he could barely walk.

  He ran a hot bath and soaked his leg, then got out dripping. He pushed himself to do the stretching exercises, easing into the workout his physical therapist had taught him.

  All this for spackling and tape. All this because of his sister’s interference. All this because he still hadn’t learned to cool down before pressing that accelerator.

  Chapter Three

  Frannie watched as Brian rolled paint on the wall. Only the second day of the project, but she already felt more comfortable having this stranger in the house with her. She’d tried to hide her tension yesterday, but it had been a shock when he ditched his shirt. It made sense. Practical. He’d kept his T-shirt on, but still it disconcerted her. Likely because he was so tall. He seemed to fill up more than his fair share of the room.

  He made the painting look easy. His arms were well-muscled and those muscles moved as he applied a wide strip of paint over another wide strip, angle, angle, then one long roll down. A long roll because he was so tall. Each pass made that squishy sticky wet paint sound. A catchy rhythm began to beat in her head. Each time he did that long roll down, there was a slight hitch in his stance, likely related to the limp she’d noticed. She was anticipating the next roll when suddenly he stopped and turned around.

  “Is there a problem?” he asked.

  “No. Nothing.” Had he felt her eyes on him? “I was watching your technique.”

  “Technique?”

  “How you roll the paint on the wall.”

  He looked doubtful, but turned back to the wall.

  Only the second day, yet, he was moving right along. He didn’t need her staring holes in his back. She really did have to find something useful to do. She took the last doughnut from the bag to munch. How many people were lucky enough to hire a painter who brought doughnuts and coffee for two? To be polite, she sipped the coffee. She wasn’t really a coffee drinker.

  Her attention drifted, remembering how different it had been to get up this morning with the expectation that someone—someone relatively pleasant—was coming over, even if it was a guy hired to paint the house, and even if he was on the grumpy side. She became aware he’d stopped painting again.

  He said, “If it wasn’t wet, you’d never know where the paint went on. When it dries, you won’t be able to tell at all.”

  “It’ll look fresher. Cleaner.”

  “The walls aren’t dirty. It’s the color of the paint. Off-white.”

  “That’s silly.” She veered around the furniture piled in the middle of the room and marched over. She stared at the wall and crossed her arms. “Definitely fresher.”

  “You’re wasting your money.”
<
br />   “Have you changed your mind? You don’t want this job?” She looked at the paint paraphernalia lying around and her heart sank.

  “It’s not about wanting the job.”

  “Then what?”

  “It’s a waste of time and money to paint over a perfectly good coat of paint with the same color.”

  “Are you suggesting a different color? Not those tacky beach house colors? Turquoise and hot pink? No thank you.”

  He shrugged. “Up to you. Have you noticed the house is at the beach and on the ocean?”

  “Uncle Will obviously favors neutral colors.” She waved her hands at the walls. “Plus, a house with neutral colors is easier to sell.” She knew that. Everyone knew that.

  Except maybe Brian didn’t know because his expression hardened. His jaw tightened. It seemed an extreme reaction over color choices, especially for a house that wasn’t his.

  “Don’t quit, please. I’d hate to have to finish this job myself.”

  “What?” He frowned.

  “You looked so unhappy. Listen, I’ll get out of your way. I have to run some errands, anyway. You can continue to paint without me, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why don’t I bring lunch back with me?”

  He stared at her. He looked more bemused than grim now.

  “A sub? Pizza?” She hoped a change of topic would allow them to move on, past this disagreement, but judging by the stubborn expression on his face, it wasn’t working. She really didn’t want this job back on her plate. “Let’s compromise. You know my uncle.”

  “Yes.”

  “If you find a color, something soft, I’ll consider it. I want it to look nice. I don’t want to overdo.”

  He was shaking his head with infinitesimal movements, but he said, “Whatever you want. Never mind lunch. I’ll be gone by mid-afternoon, remember? I’ll eat later.”

  “If I’m not back in time, please lock up when you leave? Just hit the thumb lock and pull it closed behind you?” She grabbed her coat and bag and escaped.

  There was an old blue motorcycle parked near Uncle Will’s van. The finish was scraped up and the fenders were dented. She looked back up toward the house. Must be his.

  In winter? Riding a motorcycle? Crazy. She shivered. Maybe, he really was crazy. But he was good-looking, too, and seemed to know his way around a can of paint. It was his business if he wanted to freeze.

  ****

  Two days later, Frannie stood in the middle of the living room, admiring the walls. Brian had chosen well. The soft mossy green color picked up the light streaming in through the windows. It seemed almost translucent. What a shame it would be to let down the blinds, much less rehang those thermal-backed waffle weave monstrosities. Maybe vertical blinds were worth a try?

  Brian was right about the color. When she’d told him that, he shrugged it off, saying it was just a color. Not a big deal. Still, it was sad to watch Brian push Uncle Will’s old, tattered furniture back into place.

  The living room was finished, and Brian was taking the weekend off.

  The house phone rang. She answered and a woman said, “May I speak with Frances Denman?”

  Her heart did a blip. Who knew she was here? Someone connected with her mother? No, more likely the attorney. Or the rehab home. That thought spurred her to reply. “This is she. Frannie, that is.”

  “Well, hi there. I’m sorry about your uncle. I hope he’s doing better?”

  The woman’s soft lilting voice had a musical quality, almost like gentle laughter. Frannie felt her lips wanting to curve into a smile.

  “I wish I could say he is. How do you know him?”

  “Oh, sorry! The Front Street Gallery in Beaufort. Do you know us? I’m Maia.”

  “I’ve never been to Beaufort.”

  “Well, I hope you will very soon. We’re a small corner of the world, but not far away. Your uncle placed an order with us and it’s ready.”

  “Oh.”

  “Mr. Denman wanted these items. I don’t want to push if that has changed, but he’ll be able to come home at some point, right?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. You have a lot to deal with, I’m sure. If you think he won’t want them I can try to sell them out of the gallery.”

  “What is it? Or they? If he wanted it enough to order it, then maybe I should pick it up.”

  “It’s a set of beach scenes. He commissioned it.”

  “Special order.”

  Maia laughed. “A very special order.”

  “I can drive over tomorrow. Will that work?”

  “Yes, ma’am. That’ll be lovely. I’ll be here. Do you need directions?”

  Uncle Will had secured the gallery’s business card to his fridge with a magnet. The bold lettering said Front Street Gallery.

  “I have your address and GPS, so I’m all set.”

  “See you tomorrow, then. We open at noon on Sunday.”

  They disconnected. Frannie tapped her fingers on the countertop. A retired sailor who thought it was a waste to ‘doll up his house’ had commissioned a set of beach paintings?

  Curiosity stirred. She placed the card back beneath the magnet.

  ****

  How had she missed Beaufort? She was glad to have found it now.

  She’d come back to visit in season. Right now, in winter, many of the stores and restaurants were closed or had reduced hours. The upside was she could stroll along the walk past the marina and through the old cemetery without the distraction of vacationers.

  The Front Street Gallery faced the sound. The buildings on the other side of Front Street actually toed right up to the edge of the water.

  She climbed the concrete steps. When she opened the door, a bell rang. A short dark-haired woman was busy with a customer at a counter at the far end of the room. Another woman was on her way out. She had a canvas baby carrier attached to her shoulders and abdomen and it was filled with a sleeping baby dressed in blue. Frannie had only a brief peek at the curve of his cheek and the fuzzy hair, before they passed.

  The woman smiled. She looked vaguely familiar, so Frannie returned the smile and nodded as she stood aside to let the woman exit. She was certain they’d never met. It was the dark blue eyes that caught her attention.

  At the counter, the shop owner was finishing up with her customer. Frannie browsed.

  A round table in the center of the room displayed trinkets like small shells glued together to mimic sea creatures. There were frames with more shells glued on, but on the walls were more classic works of art. There was the expected assortment of seascapes and sunrises and sunsets. Most of the artwork seemed to be from local and regional artists. There were groupings that were obviously local because the artist bio was attached on a colorful card next to the paintings. Next to a series of small landscapes was a card for a lady named Anna Barbour. Next to that grouping was a painting of sand and that wild, grassy stuff that grew on the dunes.

  It was a rough painting, both in texture and style. Frannie leaned closer and raised her hand, stopping short of touching it with her fingers. Was sand mixed into the paint? Maybe a few grains from the heads of the weeds, too.

  The woman’s voice said, “Hi. What can I do to help you?”

  Frannie turned to face her and the woman stepped back. The warmth in her eyes and smile quickly changed to something that looked like surprise, which made no sense whatsoever.

  “Are you Maia?”

  “I am. Excuse me for asking, but have we met?” She chuckled. “I’m sorry. I know we haven’t, but you remind me of someone.”

  “I’m Will Denman’s niece. Frannie Denman.”

  “The special order.” She extended her hand. The smile was back and a friendly light lit her eyes. “Frannie, I’m pleased to meet you. Your uncle is a special person and a friend.”

  “My father’s uncle.” Why had she felt the need to correct a simple statement?

  Maia only smiled more broadly,
obviously not offended. She gestured toward the counter. “It’s over there.”

  She lifted a large box and set it on the counter. “It’s light,” she said. “The paintings are small and already framed and wrapped, but if you’d like to see them first, I can take them out.”

  “No need. They belong to Uncle Will, after all.”

  Frannie picked up the box with a hand on each side to test the weight. “Do we owe you anything?”

  “No, indeed. Already paid for. Can I get you to sign here to show they were picked up?”

  She wrote carefully, neatly, ‘Frannie Denman on behalf of William Denman’. She looked at Maia. “Will that work?”

  “It will. Please give my regards to your uncle when you see him. We were all terribly sorry to hear about the stroke. If there’s anything I can do, let me know.”

  “I will.” She should go visit him again. How often was enough? She put the purse strap over her shoulder and wrapped her arms around the box.

  Maia walked with her to the door and held it open. “Need any help?”

  “I can manage.”

  “Please come back and see us again real soon.”

  Chapter Four

  “It was the oddest thing,” Maia said. “Sure I can’t get you something?” Then she went silent and her attention drifted. She lifted her mug and sipped the hot chocolate.

  Brian ignored the question. They were seated at the lunch table in the back room of the gallery, but he hadn’t removed his jacket, had only unzipped it.

  He asked, “Odd? What do you mean? She’s kind of nervous.”

  She shook her head. “She didn’t seem nervous to me and she wasn’t odd at all.”

  “What do you mean, then?”

  “When I saw her, well, she reminded me of someone.” She laughed softly. “I heard somewhere that we all have doubles, right?”

  He didn’t understand her. The words, yes, but not the interest. “What do you want? Do you have some issue with her?”

  “Oh, no. Nothing like that. She came in to pick up the paintings Will Denman had ordered.”