Thomas Kinkade

by The Inn at Angel Island (v5)

  And what about the promotion now? Liza had thought she had it in the bag. Was Eve having second thoughts? If her boss was feeling even the slightest doubt, Liza was sure Charlie would fan that spark into a three-alarm blaze in no time.

  And here she was, stuck on this island, unable to protect her own turf or defend herself.

  Get a grip, Liza, she coached herself. You’re starting to get all crazy and paranoid. It’s probably just as Eve said. Harry Berlinger is throwing temper tantrums, and you don’t even have a fax machine out here. You’ll just have to wait and see how this all plays out.

  Liza e-mailed a quick note back, saying she understood and that she would check in with Charlie to make sure things were going smoothly.

  “I do have a few concerns however. Please give me a call when you get a chance,” she added at the bottom of the note.

  Liza thought it was better to be up front about her fears, even if they sounded silly. What was that old saying? “Just because you’re paranoid, it doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you.” Maybe Eve trusted Charlie, but Liza knew better by now.

  With that plan settled, Liza returned to her painting project. Painting might be messy, but it seemed gloriously simple and undemanding, especially when compared with the grueling emotional roller coaster of office politics.

  I can always work for Daniel if the advertising career doesn’t work out, she consoled herself.

  At the moment, it didn’t seem like such a bad alternative.

  THE day passed quickly. Everyone reported in at dinner on their progress, tired but happy. Even Will seemed proud of his accomplishments. Peter had promoted him from a mere assistant to being in charge of his own job, the second-floor hallway.

  “I didn’t realize how dingy the hall looked until Will started with the fresh paint,” Peter said, a touch of pride in his voice. “It really brightens up the space.”

  “It makes a huge difference,” Liza agreed. She glanced at her nephew. “You’re doing a great job, Will. I thought we’d have to skip that area; the hall is so long.”

  “He’s got the energy, and he’s stronger than he looks.” Peter smiled at his son. “I didn’t realize I’d be bringing so much extra man power.”

  Will looked embarrassed by their praise. “No big deal. I’m just hanging out. What else am I going to do?”

  Stay up in your room with the door locked? Like you did the first few days? Liza replied silently.

  But of course, she didn’t say that. That phase seemed over with, thank goodness. And thank goodness Peter was starting to take a new tack and treat Will more like an adult. It was good for him to let go a little and see what Will could do on his own without grown-ups hovering over him.

  Will did go up to his room right after dinner. Not pouting, though, as he sometimes did, but just because he was tired. Peter and Liza brought some coffee into the front parlor. Liza sat on the chintz love seat and worked on her to-do list.

  Peter strolled over to the oak table that had become his work space. The photo albums were piled on one side, and he began rearranging several old shoe boxes he had labeled with white index cards.

  “How are we doing?” Peter asked, glancing over her shoulder.

  “Hard to say. Seems every time I cross one thing off, I have to add two more.”

  “There’s something wrong with that system,” he said. He walked over to the table, then handed her a book that looked much like the others, with a cracked binding and a dusty black leather cover. “Look what I found. One of your old sketchbooks . . . and look what was with it.”

  Liza’s breath caught as she took the book from him, then a slim wooden box with a hinged lid. She looked over the box first. Her initials were carved on top, E.G.M.—Elizabeth Grace Martin. She traced them with a fingertip. She had been named after her aunt, her mother’s sister, but everyone had always called her Liza while she was growing up. She rarely used her full name, except on legal documents.

  “Uncle Clive made this for me, remember?”

  Peter sat down at the table and nodded. “I remember. It was your birthday.”

  “That’s right.” She opened the top of the box, wondering if there was anything still inside. Soft drawing pencils and pieces of charcoal sat there, patiently waiting for her. She fingered them gently. They looked old and crumbly but were usable. When was the last time she had taken them out?

  She opened the book next and found some of her old sketches. She glanced at Peter, feeling slightly self-conscious, as if looking through the sketchbook were a private act of some kind. But he seemed to be concentrating on the photos, not even aware of her in the room right now.

  She turned the pages slowly, examining each drawing. A star-burst lily cut from the garden and tilted in a cup. Aunt Elizabeth’s old gray cat, Cleopatra, sunning herself in the tall grass. A sketch of Liza’s own hand and also her foot. Uncle Clive reading the newspaper. Aunt Elizabeth sitting on the back-porch steps, shelling peas.

  Several more. The last few rough and unfinished.

  Then the book went blank.

  The same way her art career had trickled off and ended.

  Liza sat back, holding the book in her lap. It was hard to look at sketches like these, made at a time in her life when she was young and hopeful, fully believing that if she worked hard, her talent would prevail and she would succeed.

  As if hard work and a little talent were all it took. But, of course, it was much harder than that, and most who tried would never make it.

  Jeff had always known that. Aunt Elizabeth had liked Jeff well enough, but Liza knew that her aunt didn’t believe Jeff was a good match for her beloved niece.

  Maybe she sensed that he wouldn’t value or encourage Liza’s career as an artist. That he would influence her to follow a different path, a safer, more conservative lifestyle. Was that how it had gone?

  Looking back, Liza wasn’t even sure now. She believed she had made those choices totally on her own. Jeff had been proud of her success and recognition, but he had never pressured her to accept promotions and move up the corporate ladder.

  A ladder that looked more like a food chain in a jungle full of carnivores right now, Liza thought.

  What was the use of even thinking about any of this anymore? Mulling this stuff over made no difference now. But wouldn’t it be great to get up every day and know that all you had to do was draw or paint to make a living? Not face difficult clients, cutthroat colleagues, and a demanding boss all the time? What a fantasy . . .

  It was too late now to go back and change anything in this picture. She had made her choices, and she was stuck with them.

  Peter glanced up at her, then down at the sketchbook. “So, what do you think now?”

  “Oh, they’re dreadful. Hard to look at right after dinner,” she said, trying to make a joke.

  “Come on, Liza. They’re not bad at all. They’re very good, in fact.”

  “You’ve already looked at them?” Her voice rose in outrage.

  He nodded. “I couldn’t help it. I found the sketchbook, and before I knew it, I was flipping through the pages. I’d forgotten how good you were.”

  “I was . . . okay.” Her brother was just being kind. But she was more realistic. “A marginal amount of talent. Certainly not enough to do more than grunt work at a drawing board in an art department somewhere.”

  “I think you’re wrong,” Peter said. “I bet if you picked up a pencil again, it would all come back to you. All that and more.”

  “Or all that and even less,” Liza replied.

  The truth was, the pad and box of pencils had given her the notion to try her hand again. But she was afraid of what she would see. To find that she had lost her eye and touch entirely would be very depressing.

  “What difference does it make?” she asked. “The memories are sweet, I guess, but they also make me sad. They make me remember that I was fooling myself to think I would ever make it as an artist.”

  “That’s too bad.”
Her brother cast her a sympathetic look. “The thing is, it’s not entirely about talent, Liza. It’s more about persistence and even faith,” he said quietly. “Faith in yourself. And how you define success, of course. I always thought Aunt Elizabeth was a great success because she hung in there and did her artwork and didn’t give a darn what anyone thought of her work, good or bad.”

  Faith. There was that word again. Aunt Elizabeth had faith in herself. Liza couldn’t argue with that. But how many people could be as sure of themselves as Aunt Elizabeth?

  As for Peter—even if he was having financial problems, he never seemed to question his own gifts as an artist. From the first time he had held a camera, he had known he was meant to be a photographer.

  She, on the other hand, had lost her faith in her talent. She had gotten distracted by a life path with a faster, more certain payout.

  “Well,” Liza said, “I think I’m going to turn in.” She didn’t want to take this conversation any further. “Are you going to stay up, sorting photos?”

  “You did put me in charge of the photo archive,” he reminded her.

  “Right, but your duties as a bathroom painter and head wallpaper remover do come first,” she joked.

  “I won’t stay up too late, don’t worry,” he replied.

  They said good night, and Liza headed to her room. What she told her brother had been honest. Looking at the sketches had stirred up something, regrets for the road not taken. But there was nothing to be done about it now. She had to focus on the road she had taken, her job at the agency.

  Before she went to bed, she checked her messages for some further word from Eve, but there was none. There were also no e-mails or phone calls from Jeff. Had he finally gotten her message about letting go?

  Liza felt a little stunned. She knew that would be a good thing, but if he was finally, really giving up, it was a kind of loss, too.

  ON Tuesday the painting inside continued. Liza finished with the powder room and sized up another small bathroom on the third floor. The ceiling was slanted on the eave of the roof, and she needed a taller ladder and extension for her roller to get to it.

  She considered taking a ride to the General Store or even to the village of Cape Light. Then she wondered if Daniel could lend her the equipment. He probably had everything she needed right in his truck.

  All that and more, she taunted herself.

  I know your tricks, Liza. You’re just looking for some excuse to talk to him.

  Well, that might be true. She hadn’t seen him again yesterday after he had admitted he was curious about her.

  And that was probably a good thing, Liza told herself. She didn’t want to think about him too much, but that tiny admission had stuck in her mind. Along with a vision of his exceptional smile.

  She quickly checked her appearance in the bathroom mirror: her long hair pulled back in a ponytail and covered by a Boston Red Sox baseball cap, her face bare of makeup, and dark shadows under her eyes from working hard and worrying.

  Great. He’ll think some sort of ghoul has come down from that attic.

  Then she got annoyed at herself for even thinking about it. I need a ladder, not a date, she reminded herself. Let him think whatever he likes. This thing between us is just plain . . . silly.

  Liza stomped down the stairs and was heading for the backyard when she heard voices in the second-floor bathroom. Peter and Daniel discussing some repair.

  Liza poked her head in. The two men practically filled the space. “Hey,” she said, not attempting to enter the room. If she did, she would feel like an extra sardine in a can.

  “Daniel was just telling me how to seal the moldy spots with some spray,” Peter explained. “He even gave me the right stuff.”

  Daniel had the right stuff. No doubt about that.

  “Terrific . . . now I have a question for you,” she told Daniel.

  “Yes?” he asked with that curious, amused tone.

  She tried to ignore the way he was looking at her—obviously happy to see her, as if he even liked the way she looked in her painting outfit.

  “Can I borrow a ladder? The one I have isn’t tall enough, and I also need an extension for the paint roller,” she added.

  “No problem. I thought you were going to ask me how to patch the crack in the ceiling up there.”

  “That was my next question, actually. How did you guess? You’re going to have to charge a consulting fee.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said amiably. “Let me go down to the truck and get the ladder. I’ll bring it up to you.”

  “That’s all right, I’ll carry it up.” He had his own work to do. She didn’t need him to wait on her.

  She followed him down to the first floor, then they headed toward the back door in the kitchen. Claire stood by the stove, chopping an onion on a wooden board. She was putting up something for dinner in the slow cooker.

  “Hello, Claire,” Daniel greeted her. “What’s for dinner tonight?”

  “Short ribs,” Claire answered. “Your favorite. Would you like a dish to take home? There’ll be plenty.”

  “Thanks but . . . that’s okay. Maybe next time.”

  How did Claire know his favorite dinner? He must have been invited by Aunt Elizabeth to join them from time to time. Aunt Elizabeth was a generous person and made friends easily. Liza could see how she would have enjoyed Daniel’s easy company and his clever conversation.

  Should she invite him to stay tonight for the short ribs? she wondered. Or was that crossing a line, sending some signal she wasn’t yet ready to send?

  He glanced at her, and she wondered if he was thinking the same thing—expecting her to pick up on this hint and extend an invitation.

  Before she could figure out what to do, Claire’s voice caught her attention. “I finally finished sorting the china,” she said. “It’s all in the dining room on the table and in boxes against the wall. I’ve put labels on everything, as you asked me to.”

  “Thanks, Claire. I’ll take a look in a few minutes.”

  “What would you like me to start on next?” Claire asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Liza said honestly. “I’ll check the list. But I need to run outside with Daniel for a minute. I’ll be right back.”

  “No hurry.” Claire looked at Liza and then at Daniel with a little smile that made Liza feel self-conscious. Then Claire turned back to the sauce she was making. “No hurry,” she said again. “Some fresh air will do you good.”

  Liza ignored her, but she still felt . . . silly. Exactly like she did in sixth grade when a friend told the whole class that Liza had a crush on the most popular boy in the school.

  Daniel could have been that boy, she thought, glancing at him. He would have certainly caught the eye of the girls in middle school.

  Daniel politely pulled the door open for her. Liza was forced to endure another knowing glance from Claire as she brushed past him and stepped outside.

  They walked over to his truck parked back near the shed. Bright green weeds were sprouting through the pebbles on the drive, Liza noticed. Another sign of spring and another job for the list. One for the new owner, she decided.

  Daniel opened the gate on the truck and reached inside, moving things around.

  “So, short ribs are your favorite dinner,” she said, just to make some conversation.

  “Yes, ma’am. One of my favorites. But only the way Claire makes them.”

  “Claire’s such an amazing cook, everything she makes tastes the best,” she agreed. “Did you come for dinner often when my aunt was alive?”

  She wasn’t sure that was a polite or appropriate question. But once again, she was curious.

  “Fairly often. Your aunt was a great lady, and I enjoyed her company. I considered her a good friend.”

  Liza was silent for a moment. Daniel jumped down from the truck and faced her.

  “She was a great lady,” Liza agreed. “I miss her.”

  “I miss her, too.”
He looked down and met her gaze. “I’m sorry for your loss, Liza. I don’t think I ever got to tell you that.”

  “Thanks for telling me now,” she said quietly.

  He nodded but didn’t say more. He lightly touched her shoulder, and Liza looked up at him. But before she could say anything, her BlackBerry went off.

  He smiled briefly at her, his hand dropping away.

  She turned and fished in her back pocket for the phone, then checked the message. It was a call from Eve. Liza nearly groaned out loud.

  “Sorry, I’ve got to take this,” she told him. She stepped away while Daniel turned his attention back to the ladder, wrestling it out of the truck bed.

  Liza took a breath and answered the call.

  “Hello, Liza. I’m glad I was able to reach you,” Eve said. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything?”

  “Not at all. I’ve been wanting to speak with you,” Liza said honestly.

  “Good. I’d like to talk with you, too. Oh . . . can you hold on a minute, I just want to shut the door.”

  She was shutting the door? This was serious.

  Daniel caught her eye. He had the ladder out and the roller extension. “I’ll bring this inside for you,” he soundlessly mouthed the words.

  Liza nodded at him in a distracted way, her attention totally focused on the call. She couldn’t tell yet from the tone of Eve’s voice if the message was going to be good news or bad.

  “So, Liza . . . your e-mail said you have some concerns about Charlie babysitting Berlinger. I think I can guess what they might be. You’re afraid he’ll steal the account from you?”

  “Yes, to be perfectly honest, that’s it exactly.” Maybe Eve wasn’t blind to Charlie’s underhanded ways after all.

  “I suppose that’s possible,” Eve conceded. “But you know, Liza, that wouldn’t be the end of the world. It might not even matter that much who handles Berlinger in the big picture.”

  Liza didn’t like that answer. And she didn’t entirely understand what Eve was driving at. “In the big picture? You mean in regard to the agency as a whole?”

  “That’s right,” Eve said quickly. “I’d like you to think of the big picture more often, Liza. There are going to be changes around here. Some big changes, very soon.”