Thomas Kinkade

by The Inn at Angel Island (v5)

  I’m sure we can work things out and move on with our lives. That is my sincere hope. Take care of yourself. I wish you happiness.

  Fondly,

  Liza

  Feeling satisfied with her message, Liza sent it off.

  She turned off her laptop, climbed into bed, and shut off the light. It had been a long day, and she was very tired. By this time tomorrow, they might have an offer, and this entire ordeal might be over, she reminded herself. For better or for worse.

  Chapter Eight

  SUNDAY was a day of rest for most people, but not at the Angel Inn, Liza reminded herself. It was sunny and mild, and Peter and Will, who had run down to the beach to shoot some early morning photos, looked as if they wouldn’t have minded hanging out at the beach until sunset. Liza quickly dished out the day’s jobs along with the scrambled eggs and toast she had cooked for their breakfast.

  “I’ve got a good one for you today, Peter. Take down the wallpaper in the bathroom on the second floor, the one next to your bedroom.”

  “Take it down? It’s falling down.”

  “See, I gave you the easy job. It’s half done already.” Liza gave her brother an encouraging smile. “There’s some solution to melt the glue somewhere. I found it in the basement with the painting supplies. You just rub it on, and the rest of the paper will peel right off. Then the walls need to be scraped and painted. Including the ceiling . . . mold spots,” she snuck in quickly.

  “Those need to be washed with bleach.”

  Liza was surprised. “So you do know what to do.”

  He shrugged. “Close enough.”

  She never thought of her brother as the handy type, but he did own a house and was economical. He must have learned a few home-repair tricks over the years.

  “I’ll start on the half bath down here,” Liza told him. “It shouldn’t take long. Claire found a pair of perfectly good curtains for the windows. She even ran them through the washer.”

  Peter glanced at Will, who had said hardly a word during breakfast. Liza could hear the hum of his iPod from across the table. The music volume and ear buds seemed to eliminate any possibility of conversation. Peter leaned over and gently tugged one from his ear.

  Will looked startled. “Hey, what are you doing? You’re going to ruin my earphones.”

  “You’re going to ruin your ears. That music is way too loud, Will. Turn it down or I’m taking that thing away.”

  Will scowled but adjusted the volume. “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. What about helping me paint the bathroom today?” Peter said.

  “What about it?” Will echoed.

  Liza saw Peter reach deeper for some patience. “I’d like you to help me. We were just talking about it, but I guess you missed the conversation.”

  “I heard you,” Will cut in. “Take down the wallpaper. Mold spots on the ceiling.”

  “Sounds like a band,” Liza said, trying to make a joke.

  “Mold Spots on the Ceiling?” Will gave her a blank look. “Right,” he said kindly.

  She couldn’t be faulted for trying. She did think that he secretly wanted to laugh but wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. He hadn’t argued about helping today, she realized. Maybe things were easing a bit between him and Peter. She hoped so. That would be one good thing coming out of this ordeal.

  A short time later, the three-person crew was busy at work on their projects. Liza had found some perfectly good paint, robin’s-egg blue, down in the basement and decided to use it. She had begun to play a game with herself, a challenge to be resourceful and use up what was in the house.

  By the time Fran came by late that afternoon with a fresh set of “lookers,” both Liza and Peter were too engrossed in their bathroom projects to be any bother. The real estate agent seemed very pleased with the progress.

  “Kitchens and bathrooms make a big impression,” she told Liza privately. “Even if they plan to renovate, they want the rooms to look fresh until they get around to their own repairs.”

  “I’m sure that’s true,” Liza replied. Unfortunately, there were two more bathrooms besides the two they were working on today, and one of them had a Grand Canyon-sized crack down the middle of the ceiling.

  Maybe she could get Daniel’s advice on that repair? It was definitely out of her league. He might help her fix it. Though the thought of working with him and a tub of spackle in such close quarters made her quickly nix the idea. It would definitely redefine the term sticky situation. She didn’t need to complicate her short stay here even more, did she?

  The truth was, though, that Daniel was the very nicest of all the complications so far. She did miss seeing him today, which was a secret she wouldn’t have admitted to anyone.

  Claire North didn’t work on Sundays, and Liza definitely missed her, too. Even more than Daniel in some ways, she realized. Claire’s presence balanced out the male energies in the house. But it was more than that. Claire was like the tiller on a sailboat, Liza decided. A solid, steadying force who helped Liza keep things on the right track. She was a good sounding board, even about small, silly questions—Which china cups should she keep or give away? What color should she paint the bathroom molding: stark white or cream?

  Liza certainly didn’t begrudge Claire her day off. She and Peter both knew they were lucky to have the housekeeper’s indefatigable help these final weeks. It couldn’t be easy for her, taking this place apart, Liza reflected. But she seemed so accepting, even cheerful at her work.

  Liza wondered what Claire was up to today in her cottage on the other side of the island. She tried to picture the place. It wasn’t like Daisy Winkler’s ornate Victorian confection, she decided. It would be an old structure but far simpler. Did Claire entertain? Go out to visit friends? Or remain home alone for the day? Although she seemed completely at ease in her own company, everyone around here seemed to know Claire and think very highly of her. She probably had lots of friends.

  Liza knew that Claire attended the church on the green in Cape Light, Reverend Ben Lewis’s church. So she had probably gone there this morning. Liza recalled the church, the cool, dark interior and soft amber light from the stained-glass windows, the gentle music and quiet prayers. She pictured Claire sitting there, calmly taking in the sermon and service, and suddenly pictured herself there, too. Trying to absorb some of that soul-deep serenity. Perhaps church was the source of Claire’s infallible inner calm.

  But it doesn’t work like that, Liza reminded herself. Going to church wasn’t like soaking in a tub of warm water, easing out your spiritual aches and pains. You had to have faith. You had to believe in . . . in something to get the benefit. Didn’t you? What was it that Reverend Ben had said about her aunt Elizabeth? That she was a woman of faith.

  Distracted by her thoughts, Liza painted over the edge of the masking tape. “Oh . . . drat!” She quickly wiped the smear and stood back.

  She had done enough for today, she decided. She was getting tired and messing up her work. It was time to make dinner anyway.

  By the time Liza called Peter and Will to the dinner table, they both looked as if they might droop right into the dishes of pasta she had prepared. She had found a bottle of tomato sauce in the pantry, pepped it up with some sautéed mushrooms, and made a simple meal with bread and salad.

  “This is pretty good,” Peter said between mouthfuls. “But you have to admit, Claire’s cooking is awesome.”

  “No argument there,” Liza agreed. Claire was not a sophisticated cook, using the latest “hip” ingredients. Her dishes were comfort food, and yet too subtle and intricate to be called that either. Just like the woman herself, her cooking more or less defied definition.

  “That may have been one of the reasons Aunt Elizabeth had so many return customers,” Liza added. “It certainly wasn’t the decor these last few years.”

  “Speaking of return customers, what did Fran say about the couple who came today?” Peter asked. “Any interest?”

  “She ca
lled while I was cooking. They liked the place but are worried about energy costs,” Liza reported. “Daniel already told me the building needs new windows and insulation. I guess that scared them off.”

  “Aunt Elizabeth managed. She would close off the third floor in the winter. Didn’t Fran tell them that?”

  “I’m not sure, but I don’t think it would have made much difference. If people don’t want the place, they don’t want it.”

  Peter frowned at her a moment. “How about that couple who came yesterday while we were biking? The Hardys? Weren’t they due back today?”

  “They’re coming back next week. They want to bring a friend, an architect.”

  “An architect?” His glum expression brightened. “That’s a good sign. Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

  “Oh . . . I don’t know.” She shrugged and looked down at her plate. “An architect might say the place is falling down and not to bother.”

  “Always the positive view, Liza,” he said sarcastically.

  “I’m just being realistic,” she defended herself. She didn’t mean to raise her voice but realized too late that she had.

  “I know that’s what you think you’re doing. But sometimes I wonder if you really want to sell this place,” Peter retorted, his voice equally loud. “I’m starting to think that deep down inside, you don’t want anyone to buy it. I’m afraid that if someone actually makes an offer, you’ll point out reasons why they shouldn’t.”

  Did she really sound like that? Liza rubbed the back of her neck, which was stiff from painting the bathroom ceiling. Peter’s words had hit a nerve.

  “Well, I guess I do have mixed feelings,” she admitted. “The longer I stay here, the more I remember. Don’t you?”

  “Of course, I have memories, Liza. That’s part of the territory. We both knew this wouldn’t be easy.” He wasn’t exactly shouting, but his tone was hard, drawing a line.

  It made Liza angry that he couldn’t just step back a minute and look at the situation from another perspective.

  “Of course, I knew it wouldn’t be easy. But I didn’t realize it would be so hard. You can’t honestly tell me this isn’t hard for you, can you?”

  His expression darkened. “Are you getting cold feet on me? Is that it?”

  Liza took a breath, then shook her head. “No . . . it’s not that at all. I know we have to sell it. That’s what we agreed.”

  And her melancholy feelings were irrelevant, she added silently.

  “Maybe I wouldn’t buy it myself because it’s so run-down,” she said finally. “So that’s where I’m coming from.”

  “Maybe,” Peter said quietly. “I’m just tired tonight. I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

  “I’m sorry I lost it, too. It’s okay.” Liza picked up some dirty dishes and patted her brother’s shoulder as she passed him on her way to the sink.

  Neither of them spoke for a while. Then she said, “There is one way you can make it up to me.”

  He turned and looked at her. “What?”

  “I noticed that pack of Wing Dings the Doyles gave you just sitting in the refrigerator . . . and there’s nothing around for dessert.”

  Peter laughed and shook his head. “Okay, I know when I’m beat. We’ll share it. You deserve it for putting up with me.”

  Liza smiled in answer. She loved her brother, but she did deserve half of those Wing Dings. She knew it. And so did he.

  ON Monday morning the inn was a beehive of activity. Peter, Will, and Liza continued their work on the bathrooms. Liza should have known they wouldn’t whip through the rooms in one day. It would take more like two or three. Painting always took longer than you expected. But the results were so obvious and transforming, it was satisfying work.

  As opposed to cleaning out closets or even sorting china. She had left those chores to Claire today, who carried on without Liza in her typical orderly way.

  Daniel had arrived early with several assistants and another large contraption that sprayed paint onto the outside of the house. He had told her they would have to apply a coat of primer before the house paint went on, and that she and Peter needed to choose the colors.

  “White with black shutters. Simple and saleable,” Peter said at once. “Who could object to it?”

  “I do,” Liza argued. “It’s so . . . boring.”

  Some old houses looked very good with that classic combination. But the inn had a whimsical spirit. You couldn’t just smother the place with white paint and black shutters.

  It would just seem so wrong.

  After some discussion—and Peter realizing there was no extra charge for a real color—Liza won out with her choice, a soft, warm cream for the house, the same color the inn had been when they were growing up. She quickly ran to show Daniel the shade she had chosen on the paint sample wheel before Peter changed his mind.

  “Good choice,” Daniel noted. “That’s just what I would have picked. We’re on the same wavelength.”

  “About paint colors at least,” she said quietly, without looking at him.

  He smiled. “What about the shutters?”

  “I’m not sure. Any ideas?”

  “I have a few . . . but I don’t want to rush you.”

  She met his playful glance, and a spark raced through her veins. Was she imagining this? These clever, double-edged exchanges?

  Sometimes a paint chip is just a paint chip, Liza. You’ve just got a silly crush on him.

  But something in Daniel’s warm gaze belied that theory. There was definitely more than paint chips on his mind.

  She smiled at him blandly and backed away, holding the color wheel. “I’ll just take this with me and get back to you about the shutters.”

  “Take your time.” Daniel smiled and nodded. He knew he had rattled her and seemed pleased about it.

  She stalked off in a mild tizzy.

  Yes, she was officially divorced. But it still seemed way too soon for this. Way too soon for someone like Daniel. She needed to start with someone far more boring and tame, she reasoned, as she retreated to the first-floor bathroom and set up her paint supplies. She needed to wade in the kiddy pool awhile. Daniel was the deep end. A leap off the high diving board in fact—and no lifeguard on duty.

  Liza decided her best course of action was to avoid him. She was working inside, and he was working out. It shouldn’t be too hard, she kept telling herself, though it was tempting to peek out the window every time she heard him pass by.

  Somewhere around lunchtime, she realized she needed to go out to the shed to find some sandpaper. There had to be a scrap or two on the workbench, she thought.

  She heard the dull drone of the paint sprayer on the other side of the house and the men shouting instructions to one another. The coast was clear. I’ ll just dash in and out of the shed without running into him, Liza figured.

  Wrong, she discovered too late. Daniel was in the yard, touching up the back wall of the house while his crew continued spraying the far side of the building. She nearly walked right into him before she realized it.

  He turned and smiled at her. “Hey, how’s it going? Doing some painting?”

  “That’s right.” She nodded and lifted her chin. He seemed to find the idea of her painting amusing for some reason. “The half bath downstairs.”

  “Get any on the walls yet?” he asked in a serious tone.

  “Very funny.” She tried not to laugh, but she had practically coated herself with blue paint, shaking a can with a loose lid. “The lid on one of the cans wasn’t closed properly. I’m actually a very neat painter,” she defended herself. “I use lots of tape, and I hate a drippy job.”

  “I’m impressed. Maybe you can work for me sometime.”

  “Maybe,” she replied, playing along with him. “Are you a good boss? Or do you shout a lot?”

  He laughed. “Hey, aren’t I supposed to be the one asking the questions?”

  “I never said I was interested in the job,” she clarified
. “I’m just curious.”

  He smiled and held her gaze. “Good. Cause I’m curious about you, too.”

  Liza felt her stomach drop and suddenly looked away.

  She had no idea what to say next and no idea what had gotten into her today. It had to be paint fumes making her light-headed. Staring off the end of the high diving board again . . .

  Liza heard the BlackBerry in her sweatshirt pocket buzz, alerting her that a message had come in. She quickly reached for it. Daniel gave her a disapproving look, and for a moment she thought he might try to grab it away from her again. She quickly stepped out of his reach, just in case.

  “I have to take a look at this. It’s my office . . . excuse me,” she said to Daniel.

  “See you later.”

  “See you,” she replied, her gaze lingering on him as he turned to join his crew.

  Liza clicked open the e-mail. It was from her boss, Eve. She read it quickly, not liking what she saw.

  Liza—

  Harry Berlinger is being a total pain about those print ads, and now he’s complaining about everything under the sun. I’ve told Charlie to hold his hand until you get back. We have to keep Harry happy. We can’t afford to lose the account. I’m out of the office today at meetings. Talk to you soon.

  —Eve

  Great. Now Eve had just handed Charlie one of Liza’s juiciest plums on a silver platter. What if Harry Berlinger no longer wanted Liza to handle his account by the time she came back? Then what?

  Liza was fuming. She went back inside and started to paint again, but her hand was shaking, making a zigzag line. She tossed the roller down, sloshing it in the tray.

  Should she call? No, not now. She was too upset. Eve was out of the office all day anyway. She wouldn’t even reach her. Besides, what could she say? She could hardly tell Eve to yank Charlie from the account. Keeping clients happy was the priority, and she had to be a team player about this.