A Newport Sunrise

by Cindy Caldwell

  Twenty-Two

  Jen finally retrieved the last bolt of fabric in from her car —a task that would have taken much longer if Keith hadn't decided to help.

  It hadn't surprised her in the least, but she was grateful. She'd been feeding them lunch all week, and over the course of their conversations she'd found out that Earl's wife —Keith's mother —had passed away several years ago.

  "Haven't had a sandwich this good in a long time," Earl had said right off the bat.

  "Nope. Nothing like this. My mom was a whiz in the kitchen but these are something else," Keith had said. And by the end of the week, they'd started calling her the sandwich queen.

  So they were grateful —she understood that —but they'd fallen into a nice rhythm and Jen actually appreciated the company. It had been a little lonely since Faith went back to teach during the week. And they were definitely entertaining.

  As they laid the last bolt of fabric down in one of the guest rooms, Keith said, "I know what I would be doing with this. I'd make a tent in the living room. Haven't done that in a long time. Maybe the guinea pigs would like that."

  "Long time like fifty years," Earl added. "But you were really good at it. Turrets and everything. Never seen anything like that. He'd stay up all night and draw out what he wanted to do and then next thing I knew, it'd be done."

  That hadn't surprised Jen, either. They both seemed to have an uncanny way of understanding how things worked, and should be put together. And she was grateful she was in good hands.

  Earl tipped his hat and said, "Enough jawing, boy. Time to get back up there. Weather is supposed to turn and we can't leave this little lady with a skylight she didn't plan for."

  "We could make her a tent in the bedroom," Keith said as they pulled the door closed behind them.

  Jen looked around the room and wondered what she was going to do with all this fabric. She hadn't done much sewing all summer, and she was a bit envious of all the pillows Faith had made. So she'd decided to take a quick run to the house and grab some things —her sewing machine, some fabric and trim. Maybe she'd make some curtains, and try to spruce up her bedroom.

  The house that she'd raised the kids in was so quiet that she'd actually shivered. Voices and laughter from long past rang in her ears, and she was sorry that it wasn't bustling with activity.

  As she peeled potatoes and carrots for the pot roast as she'd done so many times in the past for her kids, she decided she needed to check in with her boys. It felt like it had been a long time since she'd had her whole family together. Thanksgiving wasn't too far away, and if she hoped to get them all in one place, she'd better start working on it now.

  She'd check in with Max and see what his plans were —his internship should be ending soon. And also to check in with Michael and Amber, and see what was going on with them. Things seemed a little disconnected for her, and she wasn't used to that. It was just because she was living at the beach, but she wanted to make sure that her kids were all right, and that the house was too.

  She spent the rest of the afternoon rearranging the guest room and nodded with satisfaction just before it was time to check on the pot roast. It smelled divine, and would be done right on time. She glanced at the clock and took the chilled bottle of wine out of the fridge as Faith would be arriving any moment.

  Pulling on a sweater before she headed out to the deck, she arrived to see Keith and Earl packing up their truck.

  "I think we've done all the damage we can for the day, ma'am," Keith said as he set his ladder on the side of the house. His father had rolled back the tarps and held the hose on Nana's rose bushes.

  "Thank you," she said. "Can I offer you a beer or something?"

  "No, no," Keith said as he ran his hand through his strawberry-blond hair. "That there's the devil's work. Right, Dad?"

  Earl laughed and sprayed Keith's work boots with water. "Don't let him fool you, ma'am. Keith's been known to have a beer or some."

  "Ah, Dad, you don't have to tell all my secrets. Like the time we were in Mexico and you —"

  "Hush, son," Earl said as he handed the hose to Keith and hurried toward the gate.

  Jen glanced over, and Faith and Mrs. Grover appeared. Earl stopped and caught Jen's eye, pointing to a flower and nodding, his eyes questioning.

  "Of course," Jen said, a little perplexed. But she understood when he got to the gate, opened it wide for Faith and Mrs. Grover. He smiled at Mrs. Grover, tipped his cap and handed her a flower.

  "A beauty for a beauty," he said.

  Mrs. Grover turned fifty shades of red, and Jen and Faith stood, speechless.

  "Aw, Dad," Keith said before he turned off the hose, grabbed his father and pulled him toward the truck. "See you tomorrow, ma'am. Don't mind my dad. He'll behave tomorrow, I promise."

  The three of them stood in silence as Keith peeled away from the curb. His father leaned out the passenger window and waved his hat, his smile spreading from ear to ear.

  "What was that all about?" Mrs. Grover said finally.

  "I think it was pretty obvious, Mrs. Grover." Jen headed to the porch and poured them all a glass of wine.

  "Beyond obvious," Faith added.

  "Now that I think about it, I've noticed him looking your way when you walk by to work, and then on the way home. Looks like he's taken a shine to you."

  Mrs. Grover looked down at her shoes. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm an old woman."

  Faith sipped her wine and looked down the street. "Don't say that, Mrs. Grover. You never know when something good is going to come out of nowhere."

  Twenty-Three

  "Have you heard from Patti?" Mrs. Grover asked when she and Faith got to the shop. They hadn't had time to take the ferry, and Faith felt fortunate they'd found a parking spot close by.

  "Nope. Not since I last checked. Guess we'll just muddle through until we do."

  Mrs. Grover tended to customers while Faith worked on the previous day's receipts. Finally, just before lunchtime, Faith's phone dinged with a text from Patti.

  * * *

  I know it's awkward but we can't close. I'm finding great things and have shipped some back already. Please just do anything you can to keep the boutique going. Thank you!

  * * *

  "Well, I guess we have our marching orders," Faith said as she came out from the storage room.

  Mrs. Grover waved goodbye to a customer. "And there went the last pillow, even. We've always had tons."

  Faith looked over toward the corner where the pillows had been on display and sure enough, it was empty, too. Not a single one left.

  "This is embarrassing," Faith said. "We have to have something to fill in with."

  “Too bad we don’t have any of your pillows,” Mrs. Grover said.

  Faith stared at her as if she’d said they should try out for the Dodgers. “Yeah, right. Mine aren’t professional.”

  Mrs. Grover looked at Faith in equal disbelief, her hands on her hips. “You have no idea how great they are, do you?”

  In her heart of hearts, Faith did think they were pretty, and certainly unique, but she’d never considered that other people might feel the same.

  Faith frowned. “Not sure I believe you, but we really do need something to fill that corner.”

  “Maybe we could bring some in tomorrow.”

  Faith remembered that that she had all of her new pillows in the car. She glanced at the empty store and gritted her teeth, deciding it was better to have the shop full of something rather than nothing. She’d just have to get over it.

  Faith squared her shoulders and said, "I'll be right back."

  She headed out to her car and grabbed the trash bags full of the pillows she'd made. She probably should ask Patti first, but Patti wasn't the one who had to sit in an empty store and be embarrassed. If they put the pillows out, at least it wouldn't look so darn sad.

  "What do you think?" she asked Mrs. Grover as she reached into the bags and pulled out several of her pillows.

/>   "Oh, Faith, they're beautiful. You have no idea how unusual they are,” Mrs. Grover said, running her hand over one of the velvet pillows Faith had made. No two were alike, and she'd worked particularly hard on that one.

  "Thank you," she said finally. "Even if they're not as good as the ones Patti had, at least they're something."

  "Don't say that. They're more than something. Better than the ones we had, even. And they'll fill that whole display quite nicely."

  Mrs. Grover set about arranging the pillows, oohing and aahing over each one of them. "How did you make this one, with the cactus?" she asked, shaking her head.

  Faith laughed. That was one she'd come up with after a trip to Arizona to see a college roommate. She really did enjoy the design part of it, and loved seeing her ideas come to fruition.

  "Voila. What do you think?" Mrs. Grover said as she stood back and looked at the pillow corner.

  "Looks silly to me, but it's better than nothing," Faith said. It was an interesting and unfamiliar feeling seeing them in public. But she knew there was no other option, and definitely better than an empty store.

  Mrs. Grover sat on the stool, grabbed a pen and a stack of price tags. "How much do you want to charge for them?"

  "Charge?" Faith said, a lump suddenly in her throat. Designing and making pillows had always been such a private hobby for her so this felt a little —well, a little vulnerable.

  "You weren't going to give them away, were you?"

  Faith wasn't quite sure what to say. It had been a little impulsive to bring them out, and she hadn't thought beyond that.

  "I don't know. Five dollars?"

  Mrs. Grover slapped her knee and laughed. "I don't think so."

  She wrote on several price tags and placed them on the pillows. "There."

  Faith followed her and leaned over, her eyebrows rising when she saw the price tag.

  "That's —that's a lot."

  Mrs. Grover nodded. "It's probably less than what it should be, but a good place to start. It's not even as much as the old pillows, and these are much, much nicer."

  A bit of panic washed over Faith as she looked at the display. She was positive Patti wouldn't mind, but she had no experience at all with putting her designs —herself, really —out there for public viewing.

  But it was good for the shop, and at least selling the pillows for what they cost her to make would recoup what she'd spent. Besides, it was Sunday and she wouldn't be back for a while. If the customers hated them, she wouldn't hear about it herself. Mrs. Grover would. At least until next weekend, anyway.

  She still had a knot in her stomach when she dropped Mrs. Grover off after they'd closed the shop. Jen was waiting for her on the porch, but the lump still in her throat wouldn't allow her to tell her friend what they'd done at the boutique. Maybe she needed a little more time to get used to it —and to hear from Mrs. Grover after next week how it had gone.

  Faith wasn't staying for dinner, anyway, so she gave Jen a quick hug goodbye, asked her to say hello to Joe and headed back inland to her real job. And her real world, trying to forget about all of her babies sitting in the shop where strangers could stare. She hoped they would be treated kindly next week, and she turned her attention to the work week ahead.

  Twenty-Four

  Carrie couldn't remember her convertible ever getting so much use. And she also couldn't remember ever taking so much time off work.

  Her assistant had rearranged Carrie’s schedule more than once in the past couple of months with mercifully little eyebrow wiggling when she found out it was so that Carrie could go somewhere with Dirk. Andrea had supported Carrie in lots of crazy adventures over the years, and Carrie was grateful that Andrea didn't ask too many questions now that it involved a man.

  And a very special man, at that. When they'd first met, and Carrie had introduced herself as Betty White, she'd never in a million years thought she'd become this interested in him. But through their experience with the fundraiser and tennis with her daughter, Bethany, and his daughter, Abby, they'd been thrown together quite a lot. And Carrie didn't mind one bit.

  They’d taken the afternoon to drive down the coast to a smaller seaside village that was well known as a quirky artist’s colony. Their summer art festival was world-renowned and Carrie had been many times with her mother—it brought people from all walks of life and backgrounds. Carrie and her mother always had front row seats to the annual pageant, and Carrie still tried to avoid looking at the charcoal drawing her mother had commissioned from one of the artists.

  The crisp fall air hadn’t turned cold yet, even though Thanksgiving was around the corner, but leaves were turning shades of red, yellow and orange even on the coast. As they drove down the increasingly rocky shoreline, the cliffs dropping sharply to the ocean, Carrie felt more peaceful than she had in—well, years.

  Dirk was meeting with clients, but they were going to get a bite to eat afterward. Carrie spent the time waiting for him walking through the park on a cliff high above the breaking waves, taking a moment to sit and breathe deeply of the salty ocean air until her phone buzzed with a text.

  * * *

  We’re finished. Come on over.

  * * *

  Carrie headed toward the old, iconic restaurant where Dirk had been meeting with the owners. It wasn’t a restaurant, exactly, but an older beach shack—hence the name, The Shack. It had stood in its current location for over fifty years, she knew, as she’d visited it frequently with her parents when she was a kid. Back then, it had been alone among restaurants on the beach, when the cliffs of the village were only dotted with small summer houses.

  Back then, it had been a walk-up joint that served only grilled cheese sandwiches and hot dogs. The menu hadn’t changed in all these years, but the restaurant had. She remembered being too small to even reach the order window, but now it had spread out a little bit, with some tables on a small patio, overlooking the spectacular view.

  And the town had grown up around it. On the edge of the park, behind it was a pretty major thoroughfare, with the street dotted with artists’ galleries, mini-marts and boutiques.

  She slid onto the worn bench next to Dirk. “How’d it go?” she asked before he leaned over and greeted her with a kiss on the cheek.

  “Well, I’m not so sure. The family is in a bit of a pickle. Not sure what to do.”

  Carrie frowned and glanced over at the The Shack—and the line that extended down the street. “What’s the matter?”

  “You know the family’s had this forever. The newest generation has apparently gone different directions, and the older generation is ready to retire. Lots of commercial offers, but nobody’s quite sure if they’re ready to completely give up the legacy. Even with offers that involve lots of zeroes.”

  Carrie nodded. “What a difficult decision,” she said. “Can you help?”

  Dirk was an outstanding real estate agent, and had worked for many years in the area. “I’ll do whatever I can, but at this point, it’s more about them trying to get consensus within the family. And you know how hard it is to do that even in a small family. Theirs is huge.”

  Carrie laughed and knew exactly what he meant. “I’m an only child and my family can’t agree on anything.”

  “Exactly,” Dirk said. He smiled, and brushed some of Carrie’s blonde hair from her face as the wind had picked up and she’d taken off her hat.

  “Thank you,” she said, enjoying his warm touch on her forehead.

  “You’re welcome. You know, you really do remind me of Betty White sometimes.”

  Carrie felt her cheeks heat at the memory of their first encounter. She’d tried avoiding him for months, and when it became no longer possible she hadn’t wanted him to know who she was. Now, she was glad that she’d let him get to know her—more than just her name.

  He leaned in and rested his lips on hers, and she forgot that they were in public, on a cliff, sitting in the fall sunshine.

  He pulled away and ran his thu
mb over her cheek. He looked as if he wanted to say something, but didn’t.

  “Yes?” she prompted.

  “I just wanted to say that I have really enjoyed spending time with you, and the girls. I hadn’t realized that part of my life was a bit—empty.”

  Carrie nodded. “Same here. I had no idea what I was missing.”

  Dirk smiled and his eyes brightened. “I’m glad to hear that. And I don’t exactly know what that means at our age. But I was wondering if maybe you’d agree that we’re an item.”

  “An item?” she asked. “Do we really need to decide that?”

  Dirk shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said with a laugh. I just wanted to say that that’s how I feel about you, and was hoping you’d feel the same. So we could agree. At least that we’re not seeing anybody else.”

  Carrie’s eyebrows rose. She hadn’t seen anybody “else” since she and Rob had divorced, so for her it was a moot point. She hadn’t really thought about it, but she guessed they were.

  “I think that’s wonderful,” she said. “In fact, I can’t think of anything that would make me happier.”

  He smiled like a kid, and she thought she probably looked the same. He leaned in and kissed her, a bit longer this time.

  Twenty-Five

  Carrie could hardly contain herself as she pulled up to Jen's for Friday night happy hour. She'd texted Jen that she was bring appetizers and knew the girls would be excited to see the gifts she'd brought from The Shack, and hoped that they'd be excited that she and Dirk were officially an item. She was pretty positive they'd be as excited as she was.

  She bounded up the porch stairs and through the house, onto the upstairs porch where she could hear Faith and Jen laughing already.