Thomas Kinkade

by The Inn at Angel Island (v5)

  She steered her car onto the two-lane bridge, which had a rail and a paved shoulder, edged by large gray boulders, on each side. A few tall highway lights lit the way, but she still drove slowly down the narrow black ribbon of highway. From the middle of the bridge, she could see the coastline curving around to Cape Light’s harbor and the cluster of lights in the village.

  Waves crashed against the rocks on either side of the road, threatening to spill over, and Liza felt a stiff wind push against her compact SUV.

  Why the town didn’t build a real bridge to the island, she had never understood. Maybe they wanted to keep it private and challenging to reach. It kept people out. Or maybe it was sheer economics: Because so few people lived out there, or even visited, it didn’t seem an efficient use of taxpayer dollars.

  But that was all supposed to change—and very soon, she had heard. Angel Island had just been designated a Historic National Seashore. Improvements were coming, including a ferry service from the nearby village of Newburyport, about ten miles north along the coast. The ferry would land on the beach at the north side of the island, which would be improved with bathhouses, a dock, and a boardwalk, all the amenities day-tripping tourists expected.

  Predictions were very positive. More visitors would come, and real estate values would rise. Liza wasn’t sure who would even be interested in coming here. The place still seemed so remote and out of the way. But that was another good reason to sell the inn now, while everyone was still so optimistic.

  Fortunately, her aunt had put Liza’s and her brother’s names on the deed while she was alive, so the property automatically transferred to them upon her death and was not part of the probate process. At least they had been spared that hassle. There would certainly be more hassles to come before it was all over; Liza was sure of it.

  The ride over the land bridge was brief, the winds stronger across the open stretch of water and just wild enough to hint at the island to come, which had always been rustic and untamed. Liza suddenly realized she hoped the island hadn’t changed much since her last visit.

  The inn was a short drive from the bridge. Liza found her way easily, though she had not made the trip in a long time.

  She felt strangely excited, driving slowly down the dark, narrow roads. She rolled down the windows, feeling the moist breeze on her skin and smelling the salty air, sensations that brought back a wave of memories.

  There weren’t many opportunities to get lost out here. But she was surprised at how clearly she remembered the route. Everything looked exactly the same: the high marsh grass on the roadside, the dark shadows of houses popping up here and there, even the bent old trees that stood like sentinels and served as landmarks, directing her way. Straight on Old Dock Road, veering right on Mariner’s Way, just past the huge willow at the crossroads.

  The beach appeared on the left side of the road, at the bottom of a high bluff. Liza could see the water shimmering in the moonlight. The sky had cleared, and stars sparkled like pinpoints of light in the dark blue sky. There were always so many stars out here; it was really astounding. She could hear the waves rolling in, the sound of the surf muffled and distant, the way it had sounded every night when she fell asleep in her summer bedroom.

  Suddenly, on the right side of the road, the inn came into view. Liza stopped a moment and gazed out the window before pulling up the drive. She had always loved this house, three stories high with matching bay windows on the first and second floors. The windows on the second floor were fronted by a balcony, and there was even a turret on the right side of the building not far from the front door.

  When Liza was a little girl and had heard the extravagant Victorian called a Queen Anne style, she had instantly known the term was perfect for the house. It was definitely a place worthy of royalty, something right out of a fairy tale.

  Set on a large piece of property that sloped toward the road, the house faced the bluffs and the expanse of ocean that stretched out below. In the summertime, the wraparound porch was filled with sitting chairs, Adirondacks, wickers, and straight-backed rockers. During the inn’s busiest weeks, the seats would be filled with guests, from morning to night, sipping lemonade or ice tea, reading or knitting in the shade. Or just gazing out at the sea. But the big porch stood empty now, except for a few cardboard cartons and dark lumps covered with black plastic. The remaining chairs were stored for the winter, Liza suspected.

  A light on the walkway leading up to the porch glowed. A sign swung in the wind. “Angel Inn—All Are Welcome.” Her aunt Elizabeth had painted and hand-lettered that sign, Liza recalled, though the scroll of vines and flowers on the border was now hardly visible.

  Up on the porch, there was another small light on over the door. Liza couldn’t see too much of the building, but what there was to see was not encouraging. The roof sagged, and the paint was dingy and peeling. There were shutters missing, and others hung broken and dangling. The sight was painful to her. The day her aunt had been buried out here, Liza had driven past the inn without really seeing it, and hadn’t had the heart to stop and go inside.

  No sense lingering now, she reasoned. There would be time enough tomorrow in the daylight for a full, depressing inventory.

  Liza drove her SUV up the curved drive and parked near the porch. The front door swung open, and Liza saw Claire North silhouetted in the doorway. With Claire’s back to the light and her face in shadow, it was hard to see the older woman’s expression. Was she smiling? Liza wasn’t sure.

  She had met Claire only once before, at her aunt’s memorial service, which had been held in the old stone church on the green in the town of Cape Light. Liza knew that her aunt had depended on Claire a great deal and valued her friendship. But in their brief meeting and during a few recent phone calls, Liza found the woman very hard to read. Liza wasn’t sure if that was simply Claire’s personality or some reaction she should take personally.

  Liza walked to the rear of the vehicle, pulled out her bags, closed the hatch, and started toward the house. For the first time, she wondered about Claire’s expectations. Did she think Liza and Peter might keep the inn, running it as absentee owners with Claire in charge? Didn’t she realize they would sell it?

  Liza and her brother had agreed that it was only fair that Claire hear about their plans right away. Liza was hoping, though, that she could put off that conversation until Peter arrived.

  She walked up the porch steps, forcing a smile and a friendly greeting, the one she used to win over difficult clients.

  “Hello, Claire. You didn’t have to wait. There was a lot of traffic. I meant to call and let you know I’d be late . . .”

  But she’d forgotten, Liza realized. She had forgotten all about the housekeeper and had not expected her to be waiting here. Claire did not live at the inn, though she had a room on the third floor, where she stayed over in case of bad weather. Her real home was in a cottage on the other side of the island. Liza’s aunt Elizabeth had told Liza that when Claire had first started working for her.

  “I didn’t mind waiting.” Claire stepped forward and helped Liza with her bags. Her welcoming smile and warm tone caught Liza off guard. “It must have been a hard drive in all that rain. You must be very tired.”

  “It wasn’t that bad.” Liza downplayed the aggravating journey.

  “Well, come on in and dry off,” Claire urged her. “Any more luggage?”

  “Not much. I’ll get it later.” For some reason, Liza didn’t want Claire waiting on her. It made her feel uneasy and a little guilty.

  Liza set her big purse and laptop on a hall table. Claire shut the door, then turned to face her. “Your coat is wet. I’ll hang it up for you.”

  “Okay, thanks.” Liza shrugged off her damp wool coat and handed it over.

  Claire hung the coat on a coat tree near the staircase, then positioned the tree closer to a large old radiator.

  Very efficient, Liza thought. Though without her coat, she felt a sudden chill. Claire quickly took
notice of that, too.

  “I’ll turn up the heat a bit. It is a raw night.”

  As the housekeeper stepped away to adjust the thermostat, Liza glanced around, feeling a bit stunned by the sights that were so familiar yet, at the same time, almost forgotten. The wallpaper patterned with vines and flowers. The Tiffany lamp softly glowing on an Eastlake-style table. The blue and red Oriental rug beneath her feet. Such familiar and comforting sights. But all a bit faded and worn looking now—the wallpaper peeling at the edges and stained in spots, the rug almost threadbare.

  The place even smelled the same, a mixture of sea air, cooking, and her aunt’s special blend of lavender and rosemary. Elizabeth would gather the herbs from the garden and hang bunches in various spots around the house. Liza spotted a bunch, tied with a thin blue ribbon, just beside the doorway.

  When she turned, Claire was standing nearby again, looking at her expectantly. Liza didn’t know what to say. Aunt Elizabeth had been very loquacious. She talked enough for two, Uncle Clive always said. Maybe that’s why Elizabeth and Claire had gotten along so well—her aunt had done all the talking?

  “Well . . . thanks for waiting. But it is late. I’m sure you want to get home.” Liza heard the forced, false note of friendliness in her voice. Claire was being so kind to her, it made her feel even more guilty about having to tell her that she would soon be out of a job.

  If she leaves now, I won’t have to tell her until tomorrow, Liza realized.

  “Are you hungry?” Claire asked, ignoring Liza’s hint. “I’ve fixed you some dinner, just in case.”

  Liza was hungry. As much as she wished she were alone and out of this woman’s company, her stomach easily won out.

  “I am. I didn’t stop to eat. It was raining so hard, and the places on the highway have such horrible food.”

  Claire nodded, seeming satisfied by that answer. She headed down the long hallway to the kitchen that was at the back of the house, and Liza followed, aware of her heels clicking against the wooden floorboards. Had she ever worn heels in this house? They didn’t seem right here.

  “I made some rosemary bread and chowder with plenty of cod and potatoes. I used the tomatoes from your aunt’s garden. We put them up together last fall, before she got ill.”

  By put them up, Liza knew Claire meant preserved them in glass jars. Her aunt had been a devoted gardener and a very practical one, too, cultivating both beautiful flowers and rows of vegetables and herbs, which she and Liza’s uncle would pick and preserve, then eat throughout the winter.

  Claire stood at the wide, black cast-iron stove with her back to Liza. Solidly built, Claire wore a long dark blue cardigan over brown wool pants and heavy brown shoes that looked waterproof. A practical outfit for a rainy day in this part of the world, Liza thought. The housekeeper’s fair hair looked as if it had once been blond but was now blended with gray and white strands, all wound in a coil at the back of her head.

  Claire lit a burner beneath a large pot. The flame sprung up with a whooshing sound that Liza suddenly remembered. The stove was the same one her aunt had used to cook on, so old it had probably come with the house.

  Liza rinsed her hands at the sink and dried them on a towel. The big farm table was long enough to accommodate a houseful of guests. Tonight it had been set with one place: a blue and white cloth place mat, a white linen napkin, silverware, and a water glass.

  Liza sat at the spot, which was obviously meant for her. She suddenly realized it was the very same seat she had always sat in as a little girl. Had Claire somehow known that? But how could she?

  It seemed an odd coincidence, considering the size of the table and the place Claire had chosen. Not some obvious spot at the head or even a corner. Liza glanced at the housekeeper, who stood at the stove, stirring the chowder, and felt an uncanny chill. She marked it up to her damp clothes and to being so hungry and tired.

  “That soup smells good,” Liza said, mostly to break the silence.

  “That must mean it’s ready. Or you’re ready to have some.” Claire glanced over her shoulder and smiled briefly. Then she filled a large bowl with chowder and carried it, along with a basket of fragrant bread that had just been taken from the oven, over to the table.

  Liza noticed a small dish of butter near her plate. This was the perfect kind of bread for butter, and Liza did want to indulge, knowing it would melt instantly and taste very good. But she resisted. This was not vacation, and she didn’t want to go home bursting out of her clothes on top of every other inconvenience. She would stick to her usual diet, thank you very much. No butter, no sugar, no empty carbs.

  She took a bite of the bread, which was still delicious on its own, then glanced at her dinner again. There was a lot more floating around in the chowder than just some cod and potatoes. Bits of celery—or was that fennel? Some carrot, onions, and herbs. Some shellfish, clams and mussels and even a few plump shrimp. The scent was rich and fragrant, hinting at saffron.

  Liza dipped her spoon and took a sip, then closed her eyes, savoring the mixture of flavors. It really was . . . divine. It was more like a bouillabaisse and very much like the chowder her aunt had made. Had Claire followed the same recipe? Liza wanted to ask her, but for some reason, she held back and simply took another large spoonful.

  Claire set a mug of tea near Liza’s place along with a jar of honey. Liza was a coffee person, an absolute caffeine addict, but for some reason, tea was just what she wanted tonight. Somehow, Claire had guessed without asking.

  Claire took another mug from the counter near the stove and sat at the table across from Liza and a few seats away, so that they weren’t directly facing each other.

  “This soup is very good,” Liza said between bites.

  “Put it up this afternoon. The General Store had almost everything I needed. You can’t be too particular about recipes here. You have to learn to improvise.”

  Her aunt used to say the same thing. You had to be flexible in the kitchen. If you couldn’t find a potato, a turnip would have to do.

  “Thank you for fixing it for me,” Liza said politely.

  “It was no trouble.” Claire sipped her tea, then sat with her hands folded on the tabletop.

  They had run out of conversation again. Liza took a few more spoonfuls of chowder and a bite of bread, then pushed the food away and sat back. Ten minutes ago, she had felt very hungry. Now she just felt tired, worn out.

  Claire glanced over at her. “So, you’ll be here two weeks. Is that right?”

  Liza nodded. “That’s right. Two weeks.” Unless everything is settled sooner, she added silently. Meaning Claire North would be out of a job sooner, too.

  “At least you’ll have your brother. You won’t be doing this all alone,” Claire said.

  “Yes, he’s coming tomorrow.” Peter had not been able to come east for their aunt’s funeral, so he and Claire had never met.

  Claire nodded. “Good. I’ll get his room ready.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that,” Liza said honestly. She forced herself to smile back. Claire North was very kind—and making it even harder now to impart the bad news.

  Liza sighed and took a long sip of her tea.

  “Would you like anything else? There are some oatmeal cookies,” Claire offered.

  “No thanks. Not right now.” Liza paused. She felt so tired. It was probably a bad time to talk to Claire about serious matters, but Liza knew if she didn’t say something tonight, she wouldn’t be able to sleep.

  “There is something I need to speak to you about, Claire,” she began.

  “Yes?” Claire turned her head and met Liza’s glance. She didn’t seem nervous, Liza noticed. Perhaps she already guessed what was to come.

  “You must be wondering what my brother and I plan to do with the inn, now that we own it.”

  Claire’s mild expression remained unchanged, her clear blue gaze serene. Liza was beginning to think that the house could come down all around her and Claire wouldn’t bat an
eye.

  “We appreciate that you’ve stayed on here, after my aunt’s death, and taken care of the place. But we’ve decided to put it up for sale. We’ve been in touch with a real estate firm in Cape Light, Bowman Realty. We’re hoping to find a buyer and have everything settled within the next two weeks.”

  There. That was clear enough, wasn’t it?

  Claire calmly sipped her tea. “I thought that might be what you would do,” she said at last. “I guess we’ll see how it goes.”

  We’ ll see how it goes? What was there to see? The answer got under Liza’s skin. How blunt did she need to be? Did she have to tell Claire that once they sold the place, she would be out of a job?

  Unless someone came in and wanted to keep running the inn and kept Claire on. That was possible of course. Maybe that’s what she was hoping and hinting at? It was extremely unlikely considering the condition of the place. Even Claire North must realize that, Liza reasoned.

  “There really is no question,” Liza told her. “The agent we spoke to already has a few clients lined up to see the property. It could happen quickly.”

  Claire didn’t answer. But Liza still wasn’t sure that her point had come across.

  She’s been here a long time, and my aunt’s death was a blow. She must be in denial about having to leave, Liza realized.

  I won’t say anything more, she decided. Not tonight. Maybe after Peter comes, we’ ll talk to her again and offer her some compensation or a gift.

  “Is that all you wanted to tell me?” Claire asked finally.

  “That’s it, I guess.”

  Liza rubbed her eyes. This first evening was not going at all the way she had planned. She had imagined meeting Claire and really being able to talk with her, asking questions about Elizabeth’s last days. But you had to feel comfortable with someone for that kind of conversation, and Liza had a feeling that she had just ruined any possibility for that kind of ease. Instead, she was sitting in this cold, damp kitchen feeling awkward. And she was fairly certain that in two weeks’ time, she would leave here without ever having asked those questions.