Thomas Kinkade

by The Inn at Angel Island (v5)

  Across the road in front of the inn, a stretch of vacant land sloped down to the beach. The land was unbuildable, her aunt had once told her, and their wide, wonderful view would never be blocked out by a new building there. Liza hoped it would stay that way, despite all the predicted development.

  Well, she wouldn’t be here to see what happened either way.

  She took a deep breath of the cold, salty air and felt it seep into her lungs. She had heard that something about air at sea level was good for you, the positive ions or something. Or was it the negative ions?

  Her BlackBerry buzzed, the vibration startling her. She snapped out of her reverie and checked the caller ID—Peter—Tucson. “Hey, I was just going to call you. What’s going on?”

  “Something’s come up. Sort of a good news/bad news situation. Gail went away with her boyfriend, so I have some extra unscheduled time with Will. That’s the good news,” he added. “But it’s the bad news, too. If I have Will here for the next two weeks, it means I’m stuck in Tucson.”

  Liza didn’t answer. She didn’t want to sound mad or upset, but did he really mean he wasn’t going to come at all?

  “Why don’t you just bring Will with you?”

  “Well, he’s in school this week. Next week starts his spring break, and he’s already got big plans. A camping trip with his buddies.”

  “I see,” Liza said slowly. “Could he do that trip another time, and you can just bring him out here? There’s the ocean and the beach, an entire island to explore. Wouldn’t he like that just as well?”

  “Who can tell what he likes? A mind reader, maybe. All I know is, everything I say is wrong or stupid. Or embarrassing.”

  “Ouch,” Liza said sympathetically. “That must be rough. Still, I really think you should explain it to him, persuade him somehow. Tell him it’s a family emergency and ask him to help you out.”

  “You don’t get it, Liza. He barely takes off his headphones long enough for even a one-word conversation.”

  Liza felt bad for her brother. She knew how much he missed Will and worried about their relationship. Peter felt he hardly got to spend any time with the boy. But she felt even worse for her nephew. Watching your family split up had to be hard at any age, and adolescence was rough enough without having that monkey wrench thrown in.

  “Well, he might want to come,” she pointed out. “You never know. It might improve things between the two of you, taking a little trip together? Making him feel he’s helping you solve a problem?”

  “Or not,” Peter said. Liza didn’t answer. She heard him give a long sigh. She knew he was now stuck between that proverbial rock and a hard place, but she really needed him out here. Surly teenager and all.

  “I don’t mean to stick you with all the work, Liza. Honestly. It’s just the way things played out this week. As usual, Gail didn’t even give me any notice, just packed him up and dropped him off yesterday after school.”

  “I understand.” She really did, too. “If I could rearrange things so we didn’t have to deal with the inn this week, I would,” she told him. “But I’m here now, because you said this was when you could be here. And the Realtor’s about to start showing the inn, and there’s a lot of cleaning up to do and—”

  “All right,” Peter said finally, “I’ll persuade him somehow. Though this is definitely going to cost me.”

  Liza laughed. “We’ll consider it a business cost and reimburse you after we sell the inn, okay?”

  “I’m going to take you up on that,” he said. “So what’s been happening on that front? Any news?”

  Liza quickly filled him in on the visit with Fran Tulley.

  “She does think we should make some repairs. A coat of paint, fixing the broken shutters, and replacing some missing window panes.”

  “There are broken windows?” She heard a note of distress in her brother’s voice as he realized the inn had fallen into disrepair.

  “You haven’t been here in a long time, Peter. Aunt Elizabeth just couldn’t keep it up. I’m surprised she was able to keep it open and people still came here . . .”

  “She had loyal customers,” Peter said. “Everyone loved her. That’s why they came.”

  That was true. There had been some very loyal guests who came every summer, as often as Liza and Peter did. Like old friends of the family, they came as much for her aunt and uncle as the ambience.

  “Well . . . do whatever you think is necessary. We want a good price, and sometimes a coat of paint hides a lot. It can make a big difference in what a person might offer.”

  It would take more than a coat of paint to make a big difference here, Liza nearly answered. But she didn’t want to make him too worried.

  “Okay, we’ll go for the paint,” she said instead. “A quick job. I hope I can find somebody.”

  “I’m sure there are plenty of capable workmen out there. Just ask around. Ask that housekeeper, that Mrs. North,” he suggested. “Did you tell her that we’re going to sell the inn?”

  “I told her last night. Right after I came in. I wanted to get it over with,” she admitted.

  “How did she take it? She must have guessed, right?”

  “I really couldn’t tell what she expected—or guessed,” Liza said honestly. “She’s very hard to read. Not exactly distant but . . . self-contained or something.”

  “Very Yankee,” Peter filled in for her.

  “Maybe.” Liza knew what he meant but didn’t quite think that was it either. “She’s been very kind to me. She said that she wanted to help us any way she could. That she promised Aunt Elizabeth she would. And that was even after I told her we were selling and she would be out of a job.”

  “That was nice of her,” Peter answered quietly. “Someone else might have just quit and disappeared.”

  “I thought so, too. But she’s not the type to act out that way. She’s . . . different. I can’t quite figure her out,” Liza admitted.

  She wanted to tell him how her dinner place had been set in her old spot, even though the table was as long as a bowling lane and Claire North had no way of knowing. And how Claire had chosen her favorite room. Not her old room but the one Liza had always coveted. But making something of those coincidences—for that’s what they had to be—would have sounded silly.

  “So how is everything else going?” her brother asked. “How did you manage to get away from the office for two whole weeks? Won’t the building fall down?”

  Liza ignored his jibe. He always teased her about being a workaholic. “I’ll fill you in when you get here. Tell me when you book a flight, okay?”

  “I will,” he promised. “I hope you don’t regret having Will around. It won’t be pretty. You really can’t imagine.”

  “I have some idea. I lived with you when you were fourteen, remember?”

  Peter laughed, and they ended the call.

  Liza’s talk with her brother had put her in a good mood.

  They had been very close growing up but had grown apart during college and even further when Peter moved out to Tucson right after he graduated. She was looking forward to spending time with him. Now that they were both divorced and had lost Aunt Elizabeth, their final link to their mutual past, it seemed to Liza they needed each other more than ever.

  Peter was only two years older, but she still looked up to him. She admired the way he had stuck to his original youthful goals and become a photographer. While she had let hers fall by the wayside.

  Growing up, Liza had always loved painting and drawing. She could entertain herself for hours with just a stick of charcoal and a drawing pad. Maybe she had inherited her artistic tendencies from her aunt—or maybe it was all the encouragement and instruction from Elizabeth that made her want to be an artist. Probably a little of both, she thought.

  Summers at the island were like art camp, learning how to use watercolors or oils, to sketch, or to make sculptures from found objects or plaster casts in the sand. Even spinning clay pots and fiber weavin
g were not beyond Elizabeth’s deft hands. Her aunt was not an artist who specialized; she saw creative potential in just about anything that came her way.

  But her aunt had never relied on her artwork for a living. She had always had the inn, Liza reminded herself.

  The sign for the inn blew in the breeze on its rusty hinges. The creaking sound shook Liza from her thoughts. She noticed again the carefully hand-painted lettering and the border of flowers and vines her aunt had painted so long ago.

  Elizabeth had never given up on her talent, Liza thought. She simply practiced her art every day in everything she touched without seeking public approval or recognition. She’d had few showings of her work and had never made the big time. But she took great joy in expressing herself. She lived and breathed her talent—and seemed completely satisfied that way.

  Liza could see now that her aunt had been a true artist through and through. No matter what the outside world might say.

  Liza gave the ocean one last look, then rose from the steps and went into the house. She had a lot of work to do. Sitting around and thinking over the past wasn’t going to get anything done.

  She was in the foyer, hanging her jacket on the coat tree, when Claire came down the stairs.

  “I just spoke to my brother. He won’t be here for a day or so,” Liza reported. “He’s going to call me when he’s booked a flight.”

  “His room is ready,” Claire said evenly.

  “He’s bringing my nephew, Will,” Liza added. “So that will mean another room will have to be cleaned. Sorry,” she added.

  “No problem. How old is he?”

  “Fourteen. He’ll be starting high school next fall.”

  “Fourteen is a hard age,” Claire remarked, her eyebrows raising a notch.

  Claire sounded so knowledgeable, Liza suddenly wondered if she had any children. But that question seemed personal. Even though the housekeeper had been close to her aunt, Liza didn’t see the point in encouraging a close relationship with her. It would only make things harder later when Claire actually had to go. Things were hard enough as it was.

  “I want to start clearing things out,” Liza said instead. “Fran thinks we should empty the rooms as much as possible.” She glanced around at the parlor shelves, each one filled with books. “My aunt was a real saver.”

  “She liked to use things until they had worn out their usefulness,” the older woman clarified. “She didn’t buy something new if she didn’t absolutely need it. She was a bit ahead of her time that way, wasn’t she?”

  “I suppose that’s true,” Liza admitted with a smile. “I’m sure there are a lot of useful things around here that can be given to charity.” And piles of stuff that can and should be tossed, she added silently.

  “There are empty boxes in the basement. I’ll go down and get some.”

  As Claire set off for the basement, Liza headed for the stairs. “I’m just going to run upstairs to change my clothes. Let’s start in the front parlor.”

  Liza needed to change her cashmere sweater and wool slacks for a sweatshirt and jeans. She wondered now if she had brought enough old clothes for all these dirty jobs. Even her worst jeans or workout outfits from the gym were probably too new and “good” to wear cleaning out the attic or basement.

  Well, she would figure it out. There were plenty of old clothes in this house to choose from, that was for sure. As she put on her comfortable clothes, she quickly checked the messages on her BlackBerry and saw a note from her assistant. The sketches had arrived just in the nick of time.

  Great, Liza began to type back. Make sure—

  “Drat!” The connection disappeared.

  She retyped her message, then hit Send—and promptly lost service again. What was it about this island that made it impossible to send a complete sentence? The Internet and cell service out here were beyond spotty.

  She tried to call her office instead and got an “All circuits are busy” message from some robotic voice. She tossed the BlackBerry on her nightstand with a groan.

  No choice but to face the closets. Claire was probably already in the front parlor, waiting for her. Liza truly dreaded tackling this job. Clearing this house out was going to be impossible. Like trying to dig your way out of an avalanche with a teaspoon, Liza thought as she headed downstairs.

  THE closet in the front parlor was even worse than Liza had imagined. It turned out to be a black hole, a magic portal that couldn’t possibly contain the amount of clothes, cartons, and miscellaneous items that seemed to be packed within. Once Liza and Claire began pulling things out, it seemed there was no end.

  No end to the memories either—another hazard of the job, along with the endless dust.

  Liza would have felt completely overwhelmed if not for Claire’s quiet, calm way of sorting it all out. At times, the older woman seemed like the carved masthead on a ship, guiding Liza through the foggiest waters.

  Whenever Liza would get off-track, lost in another memory, Claire would lift her chin and say, “Save, discard, or give away?”

  Liza had started calling the query “the magic question,” making them both laugh each time they had to remind each other to ask it.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m usually so decisive,” Liza despaired. “I’m not like this at all, especially not at the office.”

  “But this isn’t your office. It’s your past. It’s your family history,” Claire observed quietly. “Very different places.”

  Yes, they were. No argument there.

  An unmarked carton emerged. Liza was the one who tugged it out. It was too heavy to be another box of mismatched mittens and moth-eaten hats. She opened the lid and found the carton was filled with photo albums and envelopes stuffed with snapshots. She didn’t mean to detour and start looking at them, but once she started, she couldn’t help it.

  Claire had gone into the kitchen to make them tea. She came back with a tray and set it down on a side table near a wingback chair.

  “Oh, wow . . . these are amazing,” Liza said, leafing through an album of photographs that had once been black-and-white but were now yellowed with age. “Look at my aunt and uncle; look how young they were.”

  Claire walked over and glanced over Liza’s shoulder. “Yes, they were a lovely couple.”

  Liza couldn’t agree more. The photos showed them just about the age she was now. There were many pictures of them working on the inn, painting, or out in the garden. Pictures of her uncle in his woodshop or of the two of them relaxing at the beach, entertaining friends.

  “They were a perfect pair,” Liza said quietly. Her aunt always looked so pretty and full of life, and her uncle looked so handsome and strong. She glanced at Claire. “It was a pity they didn’t have children. They would have made wonderful parents.” She turned the page and looked away. “There was a child, you know. They lost her when she was about four.”

  “Yes, your aunt told me. That’s when they came out here. Your aunt said it saved her life, coming to this place.”

  Liza glanced at Claire. “Yes, I think it did. She had her artwork, at least.”

  “And you and your brother,” Claire added with a smile.

  “For the summers, anyway,” Liza agreed. Her aunt and uncle were like a second pair of parents. But it was funny, she had never really considered how important she and her brother were to them.

  Some consolation for not having children of their own.

  Liza turned the page, trying to turn away her more melancholy thoughts.

  “Oh, my . . . who’s that? The young Georgia O’Keeffe?” Claire pointed at a large photo in the middle of the page, then looked at Liza with a twinkle in her eye.

  Of course they both recognized the little girl in a pink T-shirt and shorts, covered in paint. A child-sized easel stood nearby with a few small red and blue handprints on the otherwise blank sheet of paper.

  “That was my random handprint stage. I was trying to express the deep yearning within modern society
to reach out and connect with one another,” Liza explained in a mock-intellectual tone.

  “I can see that,” Claire said, playing along. “A deep need for sticky fingers and stain remover as well, I’d say.”

  “Exactly,” Liza nodded. “This place was like an art camp. Aunt Elizabeth always had us working on something messy and fun—pottery, painting, papier-mâché. That’s why I wanted to be an artist, just like her.”

  “Is that what you studied in college?” Claire asked.

  “My special area was painting. The Rhode Island School of Design . . . I tried my best after school, but I didn’t get very far,” she admitted. “Not far enough, anyway.”

  Liza had worked hard at her painting, never expecting easy success. For a time, she had believed that with persistence, dedication, and a thick skin, she would finally break through. She worked part-time in the art departments of advertising agencies to pay the bills and spent all her spare time in her tiny studio apartment, which was pretty much an artist’s work space, with a stove, a fridge, and a bed shoved in one corner.

  But time passed, and her successes were few. The rejections from galleries undermined her confidence more than she had ever expected. Meanwhile, her work at the ad agency was noticed and valued. She became the go-to graphic artist for the most challenging projects, where a creative flair and fine-art skills were needed.

  Eventually, the part-time job that paid the rent and bought art supplies became full-time with benefits.

  “Do you still paint?” Claire asked curiously.

  Liza shook her head. “I don’t even own a paintbrush or a canvas,” she admitted.

  “There’s plenty of that stuff around here. You find it all over . . .” Claire tugged out a large roll of canvas from the closet as if to prove her point. “I mean, if you ever want to try your hand again.”

  Liza glanced at the canvas wistfully. It was true, there were enough supplies stashed around the house to open an art school. Maybe that’s where she’d donate all of it, to a local school.

  She glanced at the album again and felt her breath catch, her joking mood instantly evaporating.