Fade to Blue

by Julie Carobini

  “Excuse me?”

  “Girls. You’re asking me to make girl talk with my brother. It’s kind of weird.” I double-dipped my biscotti.

  “No, it’s not.” His hushed tone told me he knew this wasn’t the kind of conversation a girl had with her brother. Yet I understood why he wanted to know.

  I sighed. “All right. I guess we can go there, even though . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah, it’s none of my business.”

  “Right.” I blew a breath into the air, like a deflating balloon. “Okay, Len’s letter meant a lot to me, but mainly because it means he’s quite possibly not lost anymore. If making the mistakes he’s made and walking away from his family led him to his knees, and ultimately to his Savior, then . . .” My voice lowered to a whisper. “It was worth it.”

  This time Gage looked me in the eye and offered me a liberal dose of compassion. “But do you love him?”

  A million memories overflowed my mind, memories of when we met and how we laughed and how he treated me . . . at least in the beginning. “Do you remember how I learned to drive?”

  He released a startled laugh. “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Um, well, no I really don’t.”

  I searched his face. “I was a late bloomer, as they say. I didn’t learn until I had to, until Mom could no longer . . .”

  Gage nodded, pain trailing across his face.

  “Anyway, after Seth and I split up and Mom got sick, it became apparent that I needed to get my license so I could help out around the house more. I was nearly twenty! Dad was too grief stricken to help, so Len stepped in. He helped me study for the written test and took me out for dinner to celebrate when I passed. Then he risked his life and his fancy car by letting me sit behind the wheel while he braced in the passenger seat.”

  Gage chortled.

  “Yeah, it was something. It felt like such a generous gift at the time because I really needed the help.” I looked up. “And Len was there for me.”

  My brother drew in a deep breath through his nose and then sat back, his shoulders drooping. I knew he was remembering more than how I learned to drive. He was remembering the sadness over losing our mother to heart disease and, not long after, our father to cancer.

  We sat awhile, draining our mugs of cocoa and listening to the wind and waves howl through an open window. After revealing the events of the week to Gage and hashing them out with him, I made the determination to appreciate all the Lord had done for me—providing me with a new home, a loving brother, a job—but I needed to move on, just the same.

  My bike and I continued to travel from our neighborhood of sea-colored cottages, up past the Kitteridge property where Gage’s handiwork had begun to appear, and along the inn-dotted lane that abutted Moonstone Beach. I vacillated between watching the road and staring out to sea in hopes of discovering a sea lion or two or maybe some otters or other marine life bobbing on the water. Maybe even a gray whale migrating south.

  After following the length of the bluff boardwalk for two miles until reaching The Landing, I stopped at the lookout carved into the landscape. Straddling my beach cruiser, I scanned the sea. Waves crashed over rocky tongues leaving mini tide pools in their wake. If Jeremiah were home, I’d jump back on my bike and hurry to make breakfast. Who was I kidding? If my son waited at home, I would never have left.

  I drew in a deep breath of sea air. My hands revved my cruiser’s handlebars, as if it had a motor, and I hopped back on, only this time traveling east toward gently sloping mountains. Halfway up the first hill, my body expressed its dissatisfaction with my choice. My legs burned above the knee and turned my thighs leaden. By the second hill, it was mutiny—against myself. So much for pastoral slopes.

  My body wanted to give up, but with a full-time job and a child to raise, how many chances to wander about Otter Bay would I have? I searched for the end of the trail and found it, causing a second wind to inflate my lungs. Satisfied my strength would help me make it up the last incline toward the small house in the woods Fred had told me about, I tucked my chin down and pedaled harder.

  The morning’s faint sun rays disappeared above the treetops as I coasted beneath canopied branches at the plateau. The temperature dropped enough to cause goose bumps to rise on my arms and legs, but when the cabin appeared in a small clearing, turning around wasn’t an option. I’d found Shangri-la.

  “It’s an antique redwood cabin, built in the 1920s,” Fred had told me.

  I’d laughed believing the word antique was his euphemistic way of saying “really old.” I needn’t have worried. Cradled in a grove of manzanita and Monterey pine, the red log cabin had been restored to picture perfection with fresh paint and new double-hung windows. It existed in the Hearst area, and like the famed castle, Fred told me that he and his wife had decorated it with works of art, including some of his own abstract originals. I rolled my bike closer, wishing to peek inside but thinking better of it when I heard the distinct patter of child-sized feet across wooden floors followed by the chatter of doggy paws.

  I settled for examining the outside from a respectable distance. Stones trailed up one end, shaping the chimney. Sprays of willowing sunflowers stretched up from the earth, accenting the cabin like sunshine against a red sky. The side yard was another matter. Thick brush shaped into cavelike mounds bumped against the log siding. Someone had propped a wooden lean-to next to the brush, as if extending the children’s play set out from the corner. I smiled. Like the child living in this cabin in the woods, Jeremiah would love to play hide-and-seek back there too.

  Most of the other homes in the area were shrouded by ages-old pines and native plants, as if the residents preferred the rustic environment. The ocean appeared through partings in the branches, but the scents up here were different than at sea level. More earthy and floral.

  The crunch of tires rolling through dried pine needles pricked my attention. Still straddling the cruiser, I rolled backward to see a familiar truck pulling up to the house. The driver side door creaked open and Fred eased out.

  When he spotted me, he didn’t look surprised. “Found her, did you?”

  I nodded, then swung a look back at the house. “Stunning.”

  Fred rooted himself, stuck his hands into his pockets, and admired his own cabin. “When my wife and I bought her, she was in sore need.” He shook his head. “Sore need, indeed. Barely enough room inside to move around when we were working on the place, but we did it. Made us closer too, I think.”

  I smiled. “That’s sweet.”

  His cheeks grew rosier. “So you think you’d like to live in her?”

  My heart fell a little, knowing it would be a while before I could save enough money to move. A sigh slipped from me. “I’d love to, Fred, but I don’t think I’ll have the funds in time. When will it be vacated?”

  “Not for another month or so. I drove up here to drop off some extra moving boxes for when the family needs them. After they leave, the missus and I will want to go in and do some touch-up. I’m thinking of moving my paintings to the guest room at home.”

  “Oh, really?” I wanted to hide my disappointment, but the squeak in my voice betrayed me.

  “After we give the whole place a clean coat of white paint, I was hoping to hire a freehand artist to give it a fresh look.” He smiled at me. “Know anyone who might be interested?”

  My heart, which only a moment ago had begun to sink in self-pity, pitched upward. “You know it.” A knot lodged at the base of my throat. “I would be honored to leave my mark upon your walls.”

  His laughter rumbled from him, and I felt the joy in it as his wire rims bounced with the bridge of his nose. He nodded, those hands still stuck low in his pockets. “The job is yours. I’ll let you know when we are ready for your handiwork.”

  I nodded, speechless. Until Fred suggested it, I hadn’t realized just how much I missed the freedom of painting images from my mind onto the blank slate of a bare wall. Fred moved to h
is truck and opened the tailgate to pull out a stack of boxes piled up inside.

  He stopped when he noticed me watching him and peered around the side of the truck. “You all right, Suzi-Q?”

  I slid my bum onto the seat of my beach cruiser and rolled past him. “Absolutely. Thanks again, and I will see you Monday.”

  “Indeedy you will!”

  I drifted down the first hill and then the next, braking only twice to avoid deer foraging for breakfast or excessive speed. The trip back home took me past scenic overlooks, the kind that made me glad to be alive and living in this tiny oasis with its small-town presence, quirky residents, and vast blue sea.

  Already my mind whirred with possibilities for Fred’s rental cabin. The chain of intricate rocky tide pools near Gage’s home could provide plenty of inspiration, and I determined to find more time to spend there in study.

  I may not ever be able to afford living in the antique cabin in the woods, but I could sure whip up some livable art to decorate its walls.

  Chapter Ten

  I couldn’t wait for the weekend to end.

  With the romance of an antique cabin in my sights—or at least the cabin’s bare walls in view—my enthusiasm for getting through the workweek grew long and unrestrained like the sunflowers growing all around the decades-old structure. Jeremiah must have sensed my budding excitement because getting him ready for preschool went smoother than most mornings. He didn’t beg to lie around in his jammies in front of the television before preschool nor dawdle around, nor hide his shoes (again).

  Right on time, I walked him into his classroom and kissed him on his sweet-smelling head. “Mama will pick you up after day care today. Love you.”

  He ran off, then stopped and launched himself back into my arms. “Love you too!”

  I sailed into the art studio ten minutes later with an easy step, all while humming “This Little Light of Mine” in a less-than-lyrical voice. But I didn’t care. Timo smirked at me as I zipped by, so I tossed him a wink before plunking my bag next to Letty’s on an empty stool. The scent of coffee beans, resin, and old wood permeated the air.

  At the worktable, the ancient door lay in disarray as the stripping of its defects had begun. Still, despite sections of thinly painted wood and divots in need of filling, the relic appeared brighter already, as if fully submitted to its restoration. I could see its potential.

  Something slammed onto the table and I jerked my head up. Letty stood there, her hand resting on a toolbox. “You showed.”

  I glanced at the clock. “Am I late?” I knew that I wasn’t.

  “I’ve been here since seven.”

  “Wow. I was still in my slippers making Jeremiah’s oatmeal.”

  Did Letty just roll her eyes?

  I grabbed an apron from the vacant booth and slipped it over my head. “Since you got a head start on things, Letty, where are we with this project today? I’m itching to get going.”

  Timo butted in. “Looks like you’ll have to dig out an entire section of wood.”

  Letty glared at him. “A lot you know. That would be a tragic way to restore this piece. Shame on you. We have already removed all that we should to keep this door’s historical significance alive.”

  He turned both palms up and scowled at her. “Really.”

  “Yes, really. Now go on. I will be fitting the gaping holes with matching wood that is cut to fit.” She turned from him, grabbed a hair dryer from the box, and handed it to me. “Here. Plug this in and start softening that second layer of paint.”

  I stared at her. “Be nice to our Timo.”

  She pursed her lips, ignoring me. “You do know how to use a hair dryer, do you not?”

  “Letty! What’s got into you today?

  She shook her head, causing the yellow scarf on her head to shift. “Nothing much other than I would like to see this door restored properly, not finished willy-nilly by young Timo here.”

  Both of Timo’s fists found his stick-thin waist. “Hey.”

  “I do not want to see this project’s character diminished on my watch. That is all.” She nodded my way, her eyes less piercing than her tone. “The hair dryer?”

  “Okay, yes.” I offered Timo a shrug and smile before turning to find an outlet.

  She moved closer. The spice of her cinnamon perfume reached my nostrils, not as pungent as in past days. “You are going to have to remove the top layer of paint from the carvings on the north end of the door. Aim the dryer nozzle into the cavities and when they are sufficiently softened, you can carefully scrape away the top surface. Can you do that?”

  I didn’t know what had caused Letty’s surly attitude today, but I would not let it affect me. This job had taken on greater meaning in the past couple of days. It was more than a paycheck and more than a way to increase my knowledge and love of the field of art. I’d gone from my parents’ home to Len’s apartment to my brother’s cottage, and it was time to find the strength and means to find a place on my own. This job meant independence.

  I switched the dryer to low. “No problem.”

  An hour ambled by as I focused on the intricate carving at the north end of the door’s surface, careful only to apply heat deep enough to soften the top layer of peeling paint. A familiar ache spread across my lower back, but I pushed through, stopping only to swipe my forehead and temple with the side of my hand. My mind swayed in and out of focus, sometimes fixated on the task before me, and other times remembering things I’d rather forget.

  Like the way my heart spun the first time Len kissed me under a rainbow in Myers Field.

  Or the way my throat tumbled when I watched Len hold newborn Jeremiah close to his chest.

  My shoulders clenched as my mind turned to memories of another kind. I hadn’t been able to shake the gnawing, empty sense of loss when I learned all that Len had done without my knowledge: the drugs, the filthy money he gave me to fill our pantry, the lies . . .

  The criminal activity wreaked confusion in my mind, but the infidelity attacked me in a more personal way—like a stab to the heart with an extra twist for surety.

  Len’s twisted face had glared at me. “What did you expect? That a guy like me could be with just one woman? C’mon, you didn’t believe that, did you?”

  “I took you at your word.”

  A laugh marred his face, a perverted, ugly laugh. “Big mistake.”

  How was it possible for a man to change from a decent human being to a criminal? From a solicitous boyfriend to an adulterous husband? I pushed away my memories and focused on the present.

  I switched off the dryer for the umpteenth time and inhaled, steadying my pulse. My attention wandered to Letty, who just installed a short piece of board where the old wood had rotted. She set down her tools and placed both hands on her back, stretching.

  “Tough on the bones, isn’t it?”

  “I will give you that.” Letty stretched her arms in front of her and allowed a yawn to escape. “Julia Morgan was unappreciated.”

  I leaned my head to the side. “Random comment. How so?”

  “She spent hours and hours up at that castle, assuring Mr. Hearst of all the details—even those he changed as often as his shorts. Then she would switch gears and throw herself into designing YWCA buildings and the like. Imagine. Going from the mission and classical styles represented in the castle to something, say, Chinese, like the YWCA in San Francisco.”

  Her words resembled gibberish. “She left a legacy, that’s for sure.”

  Letty’s forehead bunched, as if trying to reign in her thoughts. “It’s more than that. It is true that William Randolph Hearst had the money, but he gets all the credit for that castle up there when it was designed by one very patient Julia Morgan. Can you imagine a man being told to redo so much of his work?” She scoffed. “He would have told Mr. Hearst where to put his drafting board and then stalked off that monstrous hill.”

  If he were Len, definitely.

  I tried to focus on Letty’s bante
r. All my library reading told me that Julia Morgan and William Hearst had an atypical working relationship. They could sit in desks across from each other and ping-pong ideas to each other for hours. But should I point this out to Letty when she’s in no mood to release one of her time-held beliefs?

  When I didn’t respond, Letty took a step closer. Her forehead bunched beneath her scarf. “Don’t you agree?”

  I bit my lip. “I don’t know, Letty.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know? Don’t you have an opinion?”

  “I didn’t study architecture, so my knowledge of Miss Morgan is perhaps not as thorough as yours. I guess my take on her is different.” My shoulders raised in a shrug. “I’m just grateful for the legacy of inspiration she left behind.”

  Letty stared at me, open mouthed, as if digesting my answer. She lowered her eyelashes and turned to look again at the prize laid out before us, still waiting for complete restoration. “That’s a good way to put it, Suz.” She surprised me with a smile. “That is why I like you so much, my friend.”

  I had been holding my breath, so I let it go and laughed.

  We returned to our work, and with gusto. I fed off of Letty’s intensity, reeling in the energy to work straight through the morning without a break. If it weren’t for the growl in my stomach, I wouldn’t have known that lunchtime had arrived. Before I had a chance to pursue food, though, Fred appeared for the first time all day and handed me a lab coat.

  I gave him a questioning look while accepting it.

  He motioned with a single nod. “You’ll need to put that on.”

  I slipped on the coat, eyeing the pristine white fabric and picturing how it would look after just one day with me and a paintbrush.

  He gave the table a single tap with his pen. “You’ll be joining a group of students at the castle, and this will make you look official.”

  “Official?”

  His smile reached his eyes. “Yes, you will be joining some textile research interns from the university and viewing those rooms not being toured at the moment.” He glanced through the studio’s sky-high windows. “Should be a fine day for it, Suzi-Q.”