Thomas Kinkade

by The Inn at Angel Island (v5)

  “Sure thing. Here you go.” Marion handed them across the counter.

  “How much will that be?” Liza opened her purse.

  “Oh, they’re on the house. I hope you feel better. You’re not having such a good day so far, are you?”

  “No, I’m not,” Liza admitted.

  “Well, I hope it gets better. Just remember, don’t sweat the small stuff—and it’s all small stuff,” Marion added in a jaunty tone.

  Liza nodded but didn’t reply. She really hated those cheery little inspirational slogans. People who said them either had to be in deep denial or were just plain lying.

  She stepped outside and blinked at the strong sunlight. The day was chilly but fair. No sign of rain. That was a plus. At least the bridge would be open.

  “Don’t sweat the small stuff ”? What was that supposed to mean? This wasn’t small stuff. This was big stuff. Liza had worked so hard and come so far. She wasn’t going to let herself be beaten out steps from the finish line. Not if she had to swim to the mainland with the sketches between her teeth.

  Liza retrieved a water bottle from her car, downed her headache pills, and surveyed the tiny town center. Right next to the General Store, she spotted a storefront window covered by a red first aid symbol. The sign above read, “Medical Aid—Walk-in Clinic. Emergency Services. Visiting Nurse.”

  She wondered if they had a fax machine. Her problem was definitely an emergency, though not of a medical nature. There was an automotive garage on the corner of the block with one lonely old-fashioned-looking gas pump in the small lot. That place had always been there, though if a vehicle needed serious repairs, it usually had to be towed to the mainland, Liza recalled. She doubted they had a fax.

  On the opposite side of the street, she noticed another storefront office. This one had even more official-looking lettering on the window that read, “State of Massachusetts Environmental Protection Agency.” And another sign below that read, “Angel Island—Village Office.” Between the two bureaucratic offices, there must be a fax machine, she reasoned. But as she drew closer, she could tell both were closed.

  She checked the hours listed near the door and saw that the state office was open only once a week, and the village office had limited morning hours three times a week. Though there was a number to call and a night court held once a month.

  What in the world did people visit night court for out here?

  Speeding tickets? Inappropriate trash dumping?

  She passed another little shop that had colorful signs for homemade ice cream. Now that place was definitely new. If only it had existed when she was a kid. A hand-written sign on a sheet of notepaper was stuck to the inside of the glass door. “See you in the spring!” Liza wondered how the shop survived here, even in the summertime.

  Finally, she ended up at Daisy Winkler’s place, her last hope. The small cottage stood diagonally opposite to the General Store on the town square. Surrounded by a sagging picket fence, the building was two stories high but in dollhouse proportions. Painted pale yellow with a violet door and gingerbread trim on the roof, eaves, and porch, it looked like something out of a fairy tale, and she doubted that anything even remotely technological was going on within. But Marion had said there might be a fax machine here, and Liza had to ask.

  Liza walked up to the cottage and opened the creaky wooden gate. She passed a painted sign that hung near the path. “Winkler Tearoom & Lending Library—Books Are Our Best Friends.”

  Liza remembered this cottage but didn’t recall its present incarnation. When she was younger, it had been an antique shop, one that she was rarely allowed to visit with her aunt, in fear that she and Peter might break something. But the name Winkler definitely sounded familiar.

  A brass bell with a pull chain hung near the door, and Liza rang it. The tinkling sound hardly seemed loud enough to alert anyone inside, but she soon heard steps approaching. A small face peered at her through the front window, then the curtain quickly snapped back, making Liza wonder if she passed inspection.

  The front door soon opened. A small, birdlike woman stood in the doorway, peering up at Liza through thick round glasses. Liza assumed it was none other than Daisy Winkler. Who else could it be?

  She had wild, curly hair, a rusty reddish gray color. A bunch of curls gathered on her forehead, and the rest swirled in a haphazard upswept style around her head. She wore a golden-colored crocheted sweater over a dark burgundy skirt that nearly reached her ankles. Liza’s gaze lingered on the skirt. Yes, it was velvet and possibly Victorian. A bit formal for a weekday morning, but this woman clearly had her own sense of style. She held a messy pad in one hand and a pencil in the other. There were also at least two more pencils stuck in her bird’s nest of a hairdo.

  The little woman smiled, looking pleased to see a visitor. “Can I help you? We’re not open yet for tea, but you’re welcome to browse in the library.”

  “I’m not here for the library . . . not this time,” Liza amended, not wishing to offend her. “Marion Doyle at the General Store said you might have a fax machine I could use?”

  Daisy looked suddenly and deeply concerned. Her smooth brow wrinkled. “A facsimile machine? Yes, I know what you mean. I do have one that I use occasionally. To send my poems to my editor,” she added, catching Liza’s eye. “But it’s not working right now. Something is . . . funny. I have to get it fixed. Otherwise, I’d be happy to let you use it, Miss—?”

  “Liza Martin. That’s okay. I’ll try to find one someplace else.” Liza tried to keep the desperate note from her voice.

  “I’m so sorry, Ms. Martin,” Daisy Winkler said sincerely. “You might try the environmental office down the way. I think Mr. Hatcher has a fax machine.”

  “I took a look before coming here. The office is closed right now.”

  “What a pity. You’ll need to go into town then, I suppose. There’s a drugstore on Main Street in Cape Light. They might have a fax machine,” she added.

  Liza wasn’t sure how reliable this tip was. Daisy looked a little . . . out there.

  “Thank you. I’ll check before I drive over,” Liza said, backing away from the door.

  Daisy started to follow her. “Good idea. Call and check. Please come back when you have a few minutes to spare and browse the bookshelves . . . Wait!”

  She stared at Liza in alarm, and Liza stood stone still, wondering what the crisis could be. Daisy quickly riffled through her pad, tore off a sheet of paper, and stuffed it in Liza’s front pocket.

  “Here’s a poem for you. I hope it helps.”

  A poem? How could a poem help? Liza decided the woman must be batty.

  “Uh, thank you. Thanks for your help. Sorry, but I have to run.”

  “Any time. That’s what neighbors are for,” Daisy called after her, and waved from the doorway. “See you soon, Liza Martin.”

  Liza waved back but didn’t answer. She quickly crossed the street, jumped in her car, and headed down the road the way she had come. She would drive into Cape Light and try her luck. The fax machine in the drugstore might be working. If not, someone there would surely know where she could go.

  She passed the goat farm and rounded the next curve. The inn came into view, and she noticed a dark blue car parked in front. A woman stood on the porch. She had been peeking into the front parlor window, Liza noticed, but now took a cell phone from her bag and held it to her ear.

  Fran Tulley! The real estate agent.

  In the midst of her emergency, Liza had forgotten all about their appointment. That was not good . . .

  Liza wasn’t sure what to do. She had an impulse to hit the gas and speed past the inn, so she wouldn’t have to waste time e xplaining her dilemma to some chatty real estate woman.

  But she knew that was not very polite and a poor way to start off a business relationship. She quickly slowed the car and then drove up to the inn. She heard her cell phone go off and realized who Fran was calling.

  Liza got out of her SUV and tro
tted up to the porch.

  “Ms. Tulley? I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Liza Martin.”

  “Oh, there you are. I was just trying to call you,” Fran said cheerfully. “Don’t worry, I haven’t been here long. I just wondered if there was some miscommunication.”

  “To tell you the truth, I’m in the middle of a work emergency. I’m not sure we can meet right now.”

  “What’s the matter? Can I help you at all?”

  Liza explained the situation and Fran nodded. “Don’t worry, we have a fax and a scanner at my office. I can send the sketches for you.”

  “Would you?” Liza felt as if some superhero had just swooped out of the sky to save her. “That is so generous of you to help me like this—”

  “No big deal.” Fran patted Liza’s arm. “It’s different around here. We all sort of look out for one another. You’ll do me a favor sometime, I’m sure.”

  Liza wasn’t so sure about that. Unless Fran needed a big favor in the next two weeks.

  “When did you say your office needs them?”

  “By one o’clock,” Liza answered quickly.

  Fran checked her watch. “It’s eleven thirty. Why don’t we get started, and I’ll make sure I leave for town in about an hour. That will give us plenty of time.”

  Liza wished she would go back to town immediately and send the sketches. But the plan made sense. And Fran had come all the way out here, expecting to look at the house.

  “Fine. Where should we start?”

  “Let’s start out here, I guess,” Fran replied. “I’m curious to see how the place has held up.”

  It had not held up that well, but Liza didn’t want to sound negative. She smiled and followed Fran as she headed around the side of the inn.

  Fran gazed up at the building, making the occasional note on a legal pad as she walked the property. It was cool and breezy outside, and the sun was shining. But the inn looked no better in the sunlight than it had last night in the rain, Liza thought. Maybe even worse.

  “This was once such a beautiful place.” Fran shook her head and tucked a strand of hair under her wool hat. “Such a shame for it to get run-down like this.”

  “Yes, it is,” Liza agreed. “My aunt tried her best. But she was all alone at the end and in poor health.”

  “Oh, yes, I know. Elizabeth was a wonderful woman. I knew her from church,” Fran added.

  Everyone seemed to know one another around here. From church or . . . wherever. Liza wasn’t surprised.

  “Your aunt had a beautiful garden back here and one in front, too. She was famous for her roses,” Fran recalled. She turned to Liza. “I don’t suppose it was kept up? That could be a selling point.”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t think so,” Liza said honestly.

  Unless Claire North had continued working on it. Liza would have to ask her about that. Claire had mentioned that they grew tomatoes last summer, but that didn’t mean they still kept a big garden. Just a few plants could yield piles of tomatoes.

  They went in through the back door and began to tour the rooms on the first floor. Fran didn’t say much, though she made a few notes on the pad and used an electronic device to measure the rooms. She took photos of the kitchen and several of the large rooms downstairs, the front parlor and dining room.

  Fran checked the condition of the pocket doors, which were solid oak. “Not bad,” she told Liza. “They don’t even stick much. And those plaster medallions on the ceiling are the real thing, not the plastic molds you can buy these days at the hardware store.”

  Liza hadn’t known you could buy ceiling medallions at the hardware store. She hadn’t even known what the ornate plaster carvings around the light fixtures were called until this morning.

  They climbed to the upper floors, where Fran took photos of a few bedrooms, those that were in the best condition and nicely decorated. She even took a few shots that showed the ocean views from different windows.

  Liza found that encouraging. Some people didn’t care what a place looked like, as long as they could see the water. You could see the ocean from nearly every room of the inn. That was one of the wonderful things about it.

  They finished the tour and went out again through the front door. “I’m going to take this information back to the office and work up some figures,” Fran said, pausing on the porch. “I want to have my broker, Betty Bowman, help with the asking price. She’s very good at it. There’s so little property out here for sale right now, it’s hard to find anything comparable. But we definitely need to figure in the rising market value. We don’t want to put it out there too low.”

  “No, of course not,” Liza said quickly. “What about fixing the place up a bit? Will that help?”

  “Some paint would help. You’d be surprised. Just the minimum to make it presentable. You can fix the shutters and those broken panes of glass—” She pointed out a window on the third floor that had been patched with cardboard. “You should clear out whatever you can inside. The less clutter, the better. Just try to stage the place with the nicest pieces of furniture.”

  Liza nodded. She’d heard that term before—staging a property—and knew there were professionals who came in and did that for a seller. She would have to read up on the Internet and figure it out herself.

  “I’m going to start cleaning up today,” Liza promised. “How soon do you think you can begin showing it?”

  “Not long. A day or so. It sounds as if you don’t want to wait until the paint job is done.”

  “No, I don’t,” Liza said firmly. “I only have two weeks off from my job. I don’t even want to stay here that long.”

  “We’ll go as fast as we can,” Fran promised. “If we don’t get any offers, I’ll keep showing it after you leave. Let’s figure out the asking price and any conditions you and your brother might have about the sale.”

  “Conditions? What kind of conditions?”

  Fran shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes in this situation, people want to make sure the building will still be run as an inn . . .”

  “We don’t care. Someone might want to restore it to a private house. That’s what it was originally.”

  “Yes, I know. And someone else might want to buy it just for the property. As a knockdown. Would you be comfortable with that scenario?”

  A knockdown. Liza had never even considered that, but of course, it seemed so obvious. So definitely possible.

  The wind off the water suddenly gusted up, and Fran grabbed on to her hat. Liza turned her back a moment, grateful for the chance to get her thoughts together.

  “I’ll have to talk that over with my brother,” Liza said finally.

  Peter’s answer was easy to predict. He needed the money from the sale of the inn immediately. His divorce had made a big dent in his finances, and his business had hit a slump in the ailing economy. She doubted that sentimental feelings would win out over his checkbook.

  “Yes, talk it over. I’m sure this is very stressful for you both, right on top of losing your aunt.”

  “Yes, it is,” Liza admitted.

  Not to mention the other dramas going on in her life right now: the tournament of champions at the office and her divorce.

  “Well, I hope to guide you through the process as painlessly as possible. With all the action going on out here and all the articles in the newspaper, this island is becoming a hot spot. I just sold a little cottage on the north side, near the new beachfront. There were so many offers, we had to have an auction,” Fran said proudly.

  “Really?” That was encouraging. Would they need to have an auction for the inn? Liza wondered.

  “If you have any questions at all, please feel free to call me, day or night.” Fran handed Liza a business card and a thick packet of information about Bowman Realty. “I’ll be speaking to you soon, once I come up with some numbers.”

  The two women said good-bye, and Fran headed for her car.

  Just as Fran’s car pulled out of the c
ircular drive, Liza saw another car pull up and recognized Claire North behind the wheel. The battered dark green Jeep suited her. It was just the kind of car Liza expected her to drive. Sturdy and nondescript.

  Claire parked and walked up to the inn, carrying a cloth tote filled with groceries. Liza stepped forward to greet her, feeling relieved that Claire had not been around to overhear the conversation with Fran. Especially the part about possibly knocking down the inn.

  “That was Fran Tulley from Bowman Realty,” Liza explained. “She’s going to show the inn for us.”

  “Yes, I recognized her. We go to the same church, Reverend Ben’s church,” she explained. “Everyone knows her husband, Tucker. He’s a police officer in Cape Light.”

  Liza should have guessed. It was such a small town. There were not even six degrees of separation among the residents around here, more like one—or even zero. She couldn’t imagine living in a place like this, where everyone knew everyone else and their business. She wondered how her aunt had coped with it. Elizabeth, for all her innate hospitality, had always been such a private person.

  “Have you heard from your brother? What time do you expect him?” Claire asked.

  “Oh . . . he’s not coming today. He’s stuck in Tucson for some reason. I’m not sure when he’ll get here. I haven’t spoken to him yet.”

  “I see. I’ll get his room ready, though. I have a feeling he won’t be too much longer.”

  Claire sounded so definite. Liza wondered if she had some inside knowledge. Impossible, of course. The woman was simply eccentric.

  Claire went inside, and Liza checked her watch. It was just past twelve. So just past nine in Tucson? She always got the time change wrong, but it seemed late enough to call her brother.

  Liza walked up to the porch and sat on the steps, then pulled out her cell phone. The air was cool, but the sun felt strong. Spring was coming, even out here. In the daylight she could see that the lawn in front of the house was sprinkled with snowdrops, the first flowers of spring, and other promising bits of green seemed to be sprouting up as well.