A Beach Wish

by Shelley Noble

  “Go home, do something useful.”

  “No. You tell me or I’m going to ask Zoe Bascombe.”

  Her grandmother closed her eyes. “I told you. She was young. She got pregnant. Her parents took her away. We adopted you. End of story.”

  It was all Eve ever got. But now it wasn’t enough. She’d never asked out loud if her mother had loved her. She’d left and hadn’t come back, hadn’t called, hadn’t written.

  “I need to know more than that.”

  “Why? Because of this Bascombe woman? Send her packing. We don’t need the aggravation.”

  “She was asking about Wind Chime Beach.”

  Her grandmother’s hand hovered above the keyboard, but she dropped it to her lap. She slumped back with a long sigh, and for a split second Eve was afraid she’d killed her.

  “Granna, are you okay? Granna?” She turned the chair to face her.

  Hannah’s eyes opened. “Of course I’m fine.” But her voice sounded weak.

  “You’re scaring me.”

  “Go back to the inn, Eve. You’re making too much out of this. Leave it alone.”

  It was over, for today anyway. Her grandmother had spoken, and nobody ever won against Hannah Gordon when she’d made a stand.

  “Did I tell you I’m thinking about buying the Kelly place?”

  It took Eve a minute to catch up. “They’re selling?”

  “Not yet, but they will.”

  “They won’t. They love that cottage and Jim can walk to the diner and back every day.”

  “Not if the diner is closed down.”

  “He’s never said anything about closing.”

  Hannah smiled briefly, showing a row of white, capped teeth. “I understand that there have been some serious safety and sanitary violations.”

  “Bull.” Eve narrowed her eyes at her grandmother. “I never heard . . .” It hit Eve in one great tidal wave of understanding and disappointment. Hannah was warning her to back off. “The whole town will fight you if you try to sabotage their favorite diner.”

  Hannah shrugged. “I’m just a citizen trying to do my duty.”

  Eve didn’t think her grandmother cared that people feared and despised her. And her explanation didn’t fool Eve, nor anybody else, once they’d heard what she was up to. “You want the easement on their property so that Henry and Floret won’t have access to the street.”

  “Perhaps. Is there anything else?”

  Eve reached down to pick up the photos, but a thin, bony hand stopped her.

  “Leave them.”

  Eve pulled her hand back and left without a word, without her habitual kiss on the cheek. Down the hall, out the front door, and into the noonday heat.

  It wasn’t until she was on the street that the first tear fell. Tears of anger, not hurt. Those tears had dried up a long time ago.

  Chapter 6

  Zoe didn’t go back to the inn immediately, but wandered through town, alternating between trying to recapture the sound of the wind chimes and wondering how she’d gotten here. It bothered and intrigued her that her mother had chosen this place to rest. It was so uncharacteristic of the suburban woman she knew.

  How did her mother even know about Wind Chime? She knew her way around social media okay, but Zoe, who spent a good part of her life online, had scoured the internet for information on the beach. Nothing had popped up. It was virtually unknown.

  Had she been here at some point in her life? She’d certainly never mentioned it, at least not to Zoe. And when would she have come here? Her mother wasn’t a traveler. And she would never consider a girls’ weekend away or a vacation without her children. Plus she hated the beach.

  Zoe stopped in the deli and got a bottle of water. She was hungry, but too restless to stop at one of the town’s cafés.

  What was she going to do? What if she went back and explained things to Henry and Floret? They might refuse and then where would she be. She couldn’t sneak around like some thief. Her mother deserved better than that. Besides, she refused to dump her mother’s ashes on a beach that was littered with debris and trash.

  She wanted to call Chris for advice, but it wasn’t fair to put him between her and Errol and Robert. If her mother had wanted Chris to do this she would have asked him, not Zoe. But she’d asked Zoe. Because she knew Zoe wouldn’t say no?

  How could she?

  She found herself standing in front of the corner bookstore, clutching an empty water bottle in her hand. She absently perused the titles in the window.

  There were several bestsellers, one of which she’d already read. A whole bunch of political nonfiction, a book of local poetry. One half of the window was taken up by a large display. A coffee table–type book of photography, surrounded by stacks of the same title. It was opened to show two full-page color photographs of . . .

  Zoe leaned into the glass to get a closer look.

  Wind chimes. Beautiful in their simplicity. Nuanced in sun and shadow, translucence and darkness, intriguing.

  On the front cover, LIGHT was spelled out in amber letters across a dark mountain landscape. And the photographer was David Merrick.

  David Merrick. David. Wind chimes. The man from the commune? He was a photographer? She tilted her head to see the spine of the book and the publisher. A major art publisher. Interesting.

  She went inside and bought it.

  When she came out again, she saw Mel from the inn, head bent, striding down the sidewalk. It took a second for Zoe to recognize her; she’d changed out of her gauze uniform and into jean shorts and a pink camisole T-shirt, and her ponytail had been tied up in an unconstructed bun on the top of her head.

  Even from where she stood, Zoe could tell Mel was upset and that they were on a collision course. Should Zoe smile as they passed and keep walking? Duck back into the store and avoid her?

  Mel stopped at the corner and wiped the back of her hand across her eyes.

  Zoe ran to catch up. “Mel?”

  Mel stopped, turned, sniffed. “What?”

  “Are you okay?”

  Mel wiped her hand on her shorts. Looked away, nodded, shook her head.

  Now what? It would be easy to walk away. Really, it was none of her business and she had problems of her own. Zoe had spent a lot of her job being a sympathetic shoulder, even when she didn’t feel very sympathetic. But she was a problem solver, at least in her professional life. And there was something about Mel . . .

  Stay out of it, Zoe told herself. “Can I help?” she asked.

  Mel sniffed and walked a few steps toward her. “Why are you here?”

  Taken aback, Zoe shrugged. “Buying a book.” She held up the copy of LIGHT.

  “No. I mean here in town.”

  Zoe shrugged. “Just visiting.”

  “Why did you ask about Wind Chime House?”

  Zoe’s stomach plummeted. Had Floret called the inn and complained?

  “My mother sent—told me about it.”

  “Why?”

  To bring her . . . She’d almost thought “home.” But her mother had been born and raised on Long Island. “I don’t know.”

  Mel wiped her face with both hands. “Didn’t you ask her?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  I didn’t have the chance. Why, oh, why had she stopped Mel in the first place? Zoe thought of the urn sitting unguarded in her hotel room. Had the maid found it? Reported a suspicious-looking vase in the closet? Had she looked inside? A thousand disastrous possibilities flashed in her mind.

  If she was smart, she’d say sorry, go straight back to the inn, and check out. She could register in a hotel down the road and try to sneak back to Wind Chime Beach.

  But for some reason she was drawn to Mel.

  “You know, like when somebody says they’ll be in New York, and you say ‘make sure to get to Rockefeller Center’?”

  Mel looked up and gave her a piercing look that was unsettling and at the same time strangely familiar.
r />   “Wind Chime is not Rockefeller Center.”

  “Of course not, that was just an example.”

  “Then why are Mom and Granddad fighting about it?”

  “About Wind Chime?”

  “About you asking about it.”

  So that was it. “Did I get you in trouble? I’m sorry. I had no idea . . . Do you want me to talk to your mom?”

  “No. It doesn’t matter. It’s really Granddad who got upset.”

  “The man I ran into as I was leaving?”

  Mel nodded. “He got angry and yelled at me, then Mom yelled at him and went into the office and closed the door.”

  “I am so sorry. It was all innocent. I’ll tell your mom it wasn’t your fault for telling me.”

  “It doesn’t matter, she was already mad at me. Everybody is.” Her head suddenly snapped toward the street as a big silver Cadillac drove past. “Shit. That’s Granna, my great-grandma. Do you think she saw me? She’ll know where I’m going. I am so screwed . . . Shit.” She pulled away from Mel. “Don’t tell Mom you saw me or where I was going.”

  “No problem,” Zoe said. She had no idea where Mel was going, except in the opposite direction of the Cadillac. And quite frankly she was more interested in the Cadillac, especially when it turned into the drive that she’d just left.

  David and Henry had just finished rehanging one of the freshly painted shutters and were considering an afternoon beer when David saw a late-model Cadillac coming up the drive. He knew who it was; everyone in town recognized that symbol of wealth and power. He was just surprised. Hannah Gordon didn’t venture this way much.

  “Here comes trouble,” he said to Henry.

  Henry looked up. “It was inevitable,” he said, and went into the house.

  David was used to Floret’s and Henry’s cryptic statements, which the two of them seemed to understand without explanation, but which left most everyone else, including David, in the dark, even after all these years. But today’s talk of reappearances and inevitability followed by the unexpected visit of their arch enemy—though Henry and Floret would deny that they felt any animosity toward Hannah—sent a ripple of unease up his spine.

  A minute later, Hannah came to a stop inches from where David was standing. He wasn’t sure if it was malice or just that she was old as the hills and should have had her driver’s license revoked a decade ago. Still, he refused to give her any satisfaction by jumping out of the way.

  And how stupid was that? It wasn’t his fight. He didn’t even know what it was about, except that Hannah wanted their land. Hannah was voracious that way. Hell, Hannah wanted everyone’s land.

  But in this case it was more than greed. She and Floret had had a falling-out years ago. When he was still a boy, much too young to remember, much less understand why.

  He opened the car door and held it for her like an obedient lackey. He knew that made her think she had the upper hand. But he put his faith in Henry. “Good morning, Hannah.”

  “David.” The old woman eased herself from the car, nodded minutely to him, not even bothering to look him in the eye. “Where are they?”

  “They being?”

  “Don’t be cute with me. I’m not in the mood. Where are Henry and Floret?”

  “I imagine they’re in the house.”

  He followed her inside. She was wearing a navy blue pants suit. Her cap of white hair clutched her head like a helmet.

  Dressed for business—or war, David thought. He sometimes thought he could remember a time when she had lived here and worn a long floral dress. He could find no vestige of that memory in the woman who preceded him into the house.

  Henry was waiting in the foyer when Hannah stormed through the door.

  It was funny, David thought. How the old woman could come in like a whirlwind on sheer determination. She had to be close to ninety, tall still, but frail-looking, and so thin that it didn’t seem she’d be able to balance on all that height.

  She marched straight over to Henry.

  “Welcome,” Henry said, as if she were some young truth seeker. “To what do we owe the pleasure—calling a truce?”

  “When hell freezes over.” The old woman scowled and looked around. “This place looks shabbier than the last time I was here.”

  Henry smiled. “Then you should come more often, and you wouldn’t notice it so much.”

  Hannah turned her scowl on him.

  God, she was a bitter old woman. David knew she’d lost a son in the war; her surviving son, Lee, was a local music legend, though a bit of a recluse. She had two daughters living nearby. She had several grandchildren, one of whom was Eve Gordon, and great-grandchildren, and owned a good portion of the town. She should be enjoying her twilight years. And yet she seemed miserable.

  David shuddered.

  Henry beamed. “Have a seat, Hannah.”

  “Where is Floret?”

  “Making tea.”

  Without a word, Hannah turned and tottered toward the kitchen. It was as if being in the house was suddenly draining her strength. David and Henry both hurried after her. Whether to protect Floret or aid Hannah if she fell, David didn’t have a clue.

  Floret was just pouring water into the teapot, and the aroma of chamomile filled the air around them.

  “Don’t bother,” Hannah said. “I won’t be staying that long.” She looked around and walked over to the old farm table, but instead of sitting down, she leaned on both hands on a chair back. “I’m here to warn you that you may be getting a visitor.”

  Henry smiled as if he had no interest in her information.

  David had to stop himself from reacting. Maybe the old broad was really a witch like some people said. How on earth could she have known? Though Henry and Floret hadn’t been surprised at all. Floret had even sent their visitor down to Wind Chime Beach. Though with Floret you never really knew if she was being lucid or off in a fog, which David had come to suspect had to do more with teas and brownies than loss of brain cells.

  “Already came,” said Henry, and pulled out a chair for Hannah to sit down.

  “Damn.” She sank into the chair, but straightened so quickly David wasn’t sure that he’d actually seen the split second of defeat before she gathered her armor again.

  Floret brought the teapot to the table, followed by a plate of the same cookies they’d been eating earlier out on the veranda.

  Hannah eyed them suspiciously.

  “They’re honey cardamom. Your favorite.”

  “Who says they’re my favorite.”

  Floret gave Hannah her most vacuous smile. “They’ve always been your favorite. Have you forgotten?”

  David smoothed his face, preventing the grin that was threatening to burst out. Score one for Floret. The old girl wasn’t as dense as people sometimes thought. Then again . . . sometimes she was.

  Hannah didn’t bother to answer, and she didn’t take a cookie or reach for the cup of tea Floret had poured her.

  “Will you please sit down, Henry? You’re very distracting hovering like that in—that dress.”

  “Was I hovering?”

  “You look ridiculous in that getup.”

  Henry looked down at his white caftan. “This getup is what I choose to wear. You used to not complain—in fact you used to say that—”

  “I know what I used to say. Sit down. I need you to pay attention.”

  Henry stood over her for a few seconds looking benign. He was anything but. David used to think he was a magician, that he could tame animals and soothe people merely by looking at them.

  He walked around the table, seated Floret with the formality of a butler, and sat down opposite Hannah.

  Hannah turned her hard, dark eyes on David. She probably wanted him to leave, so he sat in the free chair and reached for a cookie he didn’t want.

  The energy between Hannah and Henry arced across the table. David glanced at Floret, feeling a gulf of space—possibly outer space—between her and the other two. What on ea
rth would she say if given the opportunity, and would it play into Hannah’s hands? Because Hannah never came without an ulterior motive.

  For a lunatic moment, David considered going to get Dulcie to keep Floret from bursting out with nonsense.

  “What did you tell her?” Hannah demanded.

  Henry reached for a cookie. “What was there to tell?”

  “You know I really hate it when you do that.”

  “What is that, Hannah?”

  “When you answer a question with another question.”

  “There are only questions.”

  Hannah banged her knobby fist on the table. It wasn’t very effective, and she didn’t usually make those kinds of mistakes in her constant display of one-upmanship. She must be rattled.

  “Just don’t talk to her. And don’t let Floret say a word; she’ll spill the beans, for sure.”

  Floret was staring into the middle distance, but at the mention of her name she turned to Hannah and said dreamily, “She was lovely, she looked just like Jenny, at first I thought she was Jenny.”

  David froze. What was going on here? And why was everyone so concerned about a wandering tourist who wanted to see the beach? And who the hell was Jenny?

  Hannah groaned. “Give me patience.”

  “Not to worry,” Henry said. “David chased her off.”

  David shrugged. He wasn’t about to show any other reaction. And he certainly wasn’t going to describe what happened, especially not to Hannah Gordon.

  He really hated the way she treated her once-closest friends. All over some slight years ago, and now over money and property—and power.

  Hannah gobbled up real estate like a hen on corn. She wanted Wind Chime for God knew what. Ostensibly so the inn could use the beach that abutted their property. Eve just wanted use of the beach, which Floret would have gladly shared if Hannah hadn’t gummed up the works with her unrelenting bitterness.

  She couldn’t be satisfied just leasing the beach. She had to own the entire property.

  She’d probably raze the house to build banquet pavilions or something equally distasteful, but not if he could help it. This was Floret and Henry’s home. And his and Eli’s.