A Christmas by the Sea

by Melody Carlson

  “Maybe you should match them.”

  She nodded. “Yes, you’re absolutely right.”

  She loaded several pieces in her cart. Then feeling discombobulated, she aimed her cart for the front of the store. But the salesman stayed with her, chatting pleasantly all the way, then pausing by the paint section. “Need any paint?” he asked hopefully.

  “As a matter of fact.” She glanced over the multitude of cans with uncertainty. “Can you help me with that too?”

  “Sure. Is this for the bathroom as well?”

  “Actually, I plan to paint just about everything in the cottage,” she told him. “I mean, as far as the interior goes. Hopefully the exterior is okay.”

  “Do you have any specific colors in mind?”

  “I should probably keep most of the walls neutral,” she said. “Something light and bright, but not too stark. Some pleasant shade of white.”

  He went straight to the rack of paint samples like he knew what he was doing. “This has a nice selection of white shades.” He handed her a pamphlet. “And it’s a good-quality paint company.” He pointed to a shade called White Sand. “This one is nice.”

  She studied the color, holding it up to the light coming in from the front door. “I like it,” she agreed. “Clean and fresh, but not too bright or stark. Kind of beachy too. Good choice.”

  “Great.” He waved to another employee. “Hey, Allan,” he called out. “How about mixing us some paint over here?”

  Allan asked Wendy a few questions, then went to work mixing a five-gallon bucket of White Sand paint.

  She turned back to the original salesman, wondering why he wasn’t wearing a name badge like Allan. She was curious as to his name, but didn’t want to show her interest by asking. “I’d like to get a couple of colors,” she told him. “The bathroom could use something to perk it up. It’s got beadboard wainscot that I could paint the White Sand color, but it would be fun to have something different on the wall above. I’d like it to look beachy too. Maybe a blue or green shade, you know, like the sea. Do you think that would look nice with the checkerboard?”

  “I can see that.” He led her over to a section of colors, then quickly selected a very pale turquoise blue, holding it up. “How about this? It’s called Sea Glass.”

  She stared at the color, which really did remind her of sea glass, then looked up at him in wonder. “That’s perfect,” she admitted. “You’re really good at this.”

  “Thanks.” He grinned. “Anything else I can help you with?”

  “Well, I’d like to paint the kitchen cabinets too. I’m not sure what color exactly, but I’d like something to perk up the kitchen. The countertops are just white laminate, and I don’t plan to replace them. And the floors, well, they’ll probably need to be redone too.”

  “So . . . this a small house?” he asked with interest. “Like a beach cottage perhaps?”

  “How’d you guess?”

  He shrugged. “It’s not a big leap in these parts. Anyway, since it’s a small house you might not want to get too many colors going—might feel too busy.”

  “Tell me the truth.” She narrowed her eyes. “Are you an interior decorator?” she teased.

  “Nope.” He laughed as he pulled out another color sample. “But how about this for your cabinets? It’s kind of bold, but might be fun in a small kitchen. And it’s beachy.”

  She studied the slightly darker shade of turquoise blue. “I actually think that would be really nice.” She could imagine it with the Fiestaware dishes—it would make a real statement in the drab, tired kitchen.

  He fanned out the three paint samples for her approval. “They go nicely together. Good for a small house.”

  “I love it,” she told him. “I don’t know how you picked them so easily.”

  “I’ve been told I have a good eye.” He handed the two blue samples to Allan, explaining what they were for. “A quart should be plenty for the cabinets and probably a gallon for the pale blue, although she’ll probably only need half of it.”

  While Allan mixed, the first salesman helped her to pick out some painting tools. The whole time he continued making small talk with her. He was clearly intent on extracting some information. Grateful for his assistance, she no longer felt irked at his curiosity. Without disclosing everything, she explained about summers spent in Seaside and how she was now fixing up a beach cottage that she’d inherited.

  “I don’t have much time to get a lot done.” She set a paint tray and roller on top of the other items.

  “What’s the hurry?”

  “Well, I have to get it done in order to . . . well, before Christmas.”

  “So do you have anyone around to help you with your improvements?”

  She suspected he wanted to know if she had a significant other. Instead she told him about Gordon the handyman.

  “Oh, yeah, Gordon is the best. Good for you.”

  “And I’ve got my son, Jackson. He’s only twelve, but he’s extremely helpful.”

  He appeared to consider this, but to her relief, didn’t push anymore. “I seem to have forgotten my manners.” He stuck out his hand. “My name is Caleb Colton. I’ve lived in Seaside my whole life. Well, aside from college and a few years in the Big Apple, where I thought I was going to find a more interesting life.” He shook his head. “I was wrong about that.”

  “Oh . . .” She nodded as they shook hands. “I’m Wendy Harper.”

  “Welcome to Seaside,” he said. “Or maybe I should say welcome back.”

  She studied him closely, wondering. “Do you think our paths might’ve crossed as kids . . . I mean, here in Seaside?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.” His smile was lopsided. “But you probably wouldn’t recognize me or remember me from back then. I was a pretty geeky teen. Scrawny with braces. Seriously, I could pass for twelve when I was sixteen. Not a real chick magnet.” He chuckled.

  Wendy stopped herself from admitting that he’d grown up rather nicely. Just then, Allan announced that her paint was ready. Caleb appeared determined to continue helping, loading the smaller buckets in her cart and carrying the biggest one to the cash register, waiting as the cashier rang it up. Wendy tried not to look as shocked as she felt by the total, swallowing hard as she handed over her credit card. This is an investment, she told herself as she signed her name. I’ll pay it all back with the sale of the house. Hopefully soon!

  “I’ll help you get it to your car.” Caleb picked up the big paint bucket and the toilet box.

  Still feeling stunned—and a bit light-headed—she followed him out, waiting as Caleb loaded everything into the back of her Subaru. “Thank you so much,” she told him. “I really appreciate it. I didn’t know the hardware store had such great customer service.”

  He laughed as he closed the back of the car then turned to face her. “So . . . you say you’ll be without plumbing for a few days?”

  “Gordon said a couple days—more if the damage is bad.”

  “Do you have plans for Thanksgiving? If you don’t have plumbing by then, you probably can’t cook much.”

  “I haven’t really thought about that.” She shrugged, adjusting the strap of her bag. “I guess Jackson and I will go out for dinner to celebrate.” She smiled brightly as she opened the driver’s side door. “Thanks again, Caleb.” Without giving him a chance to pursue this further, she hopped into the car, gave a cheery wave, then backed out.

  Wendy wasn’t sure why she felt so unsettled as she drove back home. It wasn’t as if Caleb had done anything wrong. Sure, he’d teased her some, but it was probably just his personality, simply being small-town friendly. Albeit a bit too friendly for her taste. But she didn’t want to get involved with a guy right now. Not because she was opposed to dating, per se. She’d actually let Claire set her up on a couple of blind dates this past year. Disastrous dates, as it had turned out. But her real reason to hold an attractive, friendly fellow like Caleb Colton at arm’s length was simply bec
ause she and Jackson were only here temporarily. There was no point in encouraging a connection.

  Still, unless she was imagining things, Caleb had been about to invite her to Thanksgiving. How weird would that have been? Sharing a traditional family holiday with someone you barely know? Well, maybe it was sweet, but it was also unsettling. Really, she’d prefer eating at a restaurant with Jackson . . . just like they’d done these last few years . . . since losing Edward. Stark? Maybe. But it had become their tradition.

  And it wasn’t that she never got gracious invitations to join friends or coworkers on holidays. Claire and Rich always wanted her and Jackson to join them—for any occasion. Although Wendy tried to think she’d accept someday, in the meantime she preferred to avoid gatherings with intact families simply because it made her sad. Of course, it was somewhat selfish and not something she could easily admit to. Not even to Jackson. And certainly not to a stranger—even a handsome and helpful one like Caleb Colton. Really, what would be the point of furthering a pointless acquaintance?

  Wendy was not prepared for the chaos she found when she arrived at the cottage. Although Gordon’s truck was gone, the toilet, bathtub, and sink were scattered in front of the house, along with an ugly pile of nasty-looking wood and torn-up linoleum debris. Like a real junkyard. Hopefully the neighbors wouldn’t complain.

  The inside of the cottage was no better. Welcomed with a mess of dirty footsteps on the kitchen floor, she picked her way past tools and junk and a couple buckets of water. She wanted to protest, but knew this was all simply necessary. Still, as she walked through what felt like an invaded space, she wished she could afford to put herself and Jackson in the hotel down the street until the repairs were wrapped up. Even though she could rationalize that the hotel expense would be repaid by the sale of the cottage, she still needed to protect her credit card’s limit for the duration of this rehab phase. She needed to remember there was no guarantee she would sell the house . . . and then what?

  “How’s it going?” she asked Jackson.

  “Gordon says it’s going to take several days.”

  She grimaced as she set a paint bucket on the kitchen table. “Is the shower going to be okay?”

  “He thinks the dry rot didn’t go that far. But most of the bathroom floor had to be completely torn out. He even has to replace the floor joists.”

  “Floor joists?” That sounded expensive.

  “That’s these big pieces of wood that hold up the whole bathroom floor. The old ones were rotted right through. Gordon went to the lumberyard to get some new ones, but he said he won’t be back until tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” She frowned. “Do we have water in the meantime?”

  “Nope, it’s turned off.” He pointed to the bucket of water on the floor. “I got those from Mrs. Campbell. She said we can use her hose as much as we need.” He grinned. “It’ll be kinda like camping, huh, Mom?”

  “I guess so. Speaking of camping, our new toilet is in the back of the car.”

  “I’ll get it,” he offered.

  “Why does the water have to be turned off if Gordon’s not working on it right now?” she asked as she followed Jackson out to the car.

  “Because the bathroom pipes are old and rotten—that’s the reason there was a leak. So Gordon called a plumber to come look at it. He’s supposed to come by sometime this afternoon.”

  She cringed inwardly. This was sounding more and more costly!

  Jackson pointed to the five-gallon bucket in the back of the car. “Is that paint?”

  “Yes. As long as the cottage is a mess, I might as well start painting.”

  “Can I help?” he asked.

  “Absolutely. I haven’t painted anything since before you were born. I painted our kitchen and your nursery, but as I recall, it’s pretty hard work.”

  “Maybe I should do some research on YouTube,” he said as he carried the toilet box into the house. “You know, to learn some painting tips.”

  “Great idea. I’m glad you’re such a researcher. We’ll knock this out in no time.” Wendy wanted to maintain a brave front for Jackson’s sake. He didn’t need to worry about finances—although she knew the bathroom project was going to cost far more than she’d expected—that was her job. Anyway, the best plan was just to plunge ahead and get this place fixed up and hope for a quick sale. As she changed into painting clothes, she remembered what Jackson had said—reminding her that God would provide. She sure hoped her son’s faith wouldn’t be shaken if God did not provide—or not in the way that Jackson was hoping for. In the meantime, she would attempt to conjure up some faith of her own . . . but it wasn’t going to be easy.

  six

  BY WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, Wendy had made a fair amount of painting progress. And she’d come up with an idea—something to address some of her financial woes. She’d been highly motivated to think of solutions after the plumber handed her an enormous bill for just nine hours of labor, plus materials. Who knew plumbers were so expensive? “Maybe you should consider becoming a plumber,” she’d teased Jackson after going over the bill.

  At least the water was back on—that was something. Unfortunately, the bathroom—aside from the shower—was still unusable. Gordon promised to have the fixtures back in by Saturday afternoon. “That’s if you get your flooring installed by then,” he’d told her after she showed him the tiles she’d chosen. “No sense getting your fixtures in if your floors aren’t down. But you and Jackson oughta be able to lay these just fine.” He gave her some pointers and even left her a couple of cutting tools.

  Wendy had paid Gordon for what he’d already done, taking her meager checking account down even more. She had no idea how much his final bill would be or what other expenses lurked ahead, but as she painted in the living room, she’d been racking her brain for money-making ideas. Late last night, she’d even perused the storage room in hopes of unearthing some priceless antique or collectible she might be able to sell on eBay for a small fortune. Unfortunately, it was mostly junk. Interesting junk, but probably not highly valuable. Her best hope was probably getting this cottage ready to sell—ASAP. Even if a quick sale cut their “vacation” short, she didn’t think she had any other options. Hopefully Jackson would understand.

  So she’d thrown herself wholeheartedly into painting—working until nearly midnight last night and getting up at the crack of dawn to continue today. While preparing the most cluttered area of the living room for painting this morning, she’d boxed up hundreds of shells, driftwood bits, sea glass, and various treasures. Although she planned to keep some pieces, she knew there was far too much for their little apartment in Ohio. But she also knew these items had value. Tourist shops sold tons of this stuff in the height of the season. How many times had she prowled the shelves and aisles of She Sells Sea Shells when she was a child? And her favorite shell shop was still in business—the perfect place to sell some of these shells. For all she knew they could be worth hundreds of dollars. Maybe a couple thousand. Perhaps enough to cover the rest of the repairs for the cottage—as well as buy them some time. It really would be fun to remain here a few weeks.

  Since she had to drive to town to pay her bill at the plumber’s office, she decided to take a sample box of really nice seashells with her. She would drop by the shell shop and see if she could interest the proprietors in adding these beauties to their inventory. She wasn’t sure what the value of this one box of shells might be, but she hoped it might be a couple hundred dollars. Enough to keep her bank account from completely shriveling.

  After paying her plumbing bill, she got out her box and headed down the street. Hopefully, since it was the day before Thanksgiving and the town looked fairly busy, the shell shop would be open. Catching a glimpse of her reflection in a shoe store window almost made her rethink this plan. What was she thinking? With her paint-splattered old clothes and a faded bandana wrapped around her hair, she looked like a bag lady. But seeing a young couple emerging from She Sells Sea Shells
with a purchase in hand, she decided to swallow her pride and go for it. After all, it was just a tourist shop, and the state of her finances was dire.

  To her surprise, the shop was much nicer than she remembered. Instead of the junky tourist trap that she’d adored as a child, it was actually quite elegant. Certainly, there were still shells and treasures sprinkled about, but they were artfully displayed in gleaming glass cases with expensive looking jewelry inside—all very high-end and beautiful.

  “Can I help you?” An attractive blonde woman studied Wendy with arched brows—as if to ask, Is the bag lady lost?

  “Well, I—I’m not sure.” Feeling conspicuous and foolish, Wendy set her slightly worn box of seashells on the counter. “I haven’t been in here for years,” she confessed. “I thought it was still a touristy shell shop—and that perhaps you’d like to purchase some interesting shells.” She looked down at the box. “I have quite an unusual collection here. Some very—”

  “No, thank you,” the woman said crisply. “We don’t buy shells here.” She frowned at the box. “We’re not that kind of business.”

  Wendy felt the insult, but decided to dig herself in deeper. “Do you know of any other place that might—”

  “No, I can’t think of anyone who buys shells.” The woman folded her arms in front of her with a disgruntled expression. “I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”

  “I’m sorry to have troubled you.” Wendy picked up her box just as the bell on the door jingled, and she heard someone coming in. Now she really wanted to disappear—or just blend in with the walls. She’d been foolish to enter this shop—and looking like this!

  “Hello,” a male voice called from in front.

  “Hey there,” the blonde woman chirped, smiling brightly past Wendy. “I was hoping you’d stop by and say hello.” Her tone turned flirtatious. “So, tell me, what’re you up to today?”

  “Not much. How’s business?”

  “It’s okay, but I’ve been missing you, Caleb.”

  Wendy felt a jolt at the name Caleb. Was this her Caleb—the guy from the hardware store? And if so, how could she avoid being seen by him? Feeling like a trapped rabbit, she moved away from the counter, slipping behind a rotating card rack, pretending to be interested in the glossy seascape images as she slowly backed away.