The Inn at Angel Island

by Thomas Kinkade

  So it had. The storm had left the air sparkling clear, and now the sun shone down brilliantly. It was far too beautiful to stay inside, but Liza couldn’t think of any outside jobs she wanted to tackle either.

  “Why don’t you take a break from this house today, Liza?” the older woman suggested. “Maybe that lightning bolt was trying to tell you something,” she added with a smile.

  “You think so?” Liza asked, curious. “I can’t imagine what that might be.”

  Claire shrugged. “I don’t know exactly. Whenever I’m tired and confused, I take a nice long walk on the beach. That’s where I feel calmer. And closest to God. That’s what helps me sort things out.”

  Liza nodded. She respected-and even envied-Claire’s strong faith, though she didn’t come close to sharing it. Liza wasn’t a churchgoer, hadn’t prayed for years. Well, maybe once or twice in some desperate crisis, after her parents had their accident, probably. Liza didn’t think God felt very positively about people who only called in an emergency. But Claire was right about two things: Liza did feel tired and confused, and she did need some time away from the inn.

  “Off I go. See you later.” Claire picked up the big bag of clothes and headed out to her car.

  Liza gazed out the bay window at the stretch of clear sky and blue-green ocean. A beach walk would do her good, she decided.

  As Liza left the parlor, she saw her sketchbook and pencil box still sitting on the end table where she had left them the other night. They seemed to be waiting for her like dear old friends.

  She picked up the art supplies and tucked them under her arm. She wasn’t sure if she had the courage to start drawing again, but it would be nice to look over the sketches once more, she thought. The images brought back such happy memories.

  Wearing her scarf and jacket, with an apple and a water bottle tucked in her pockets, Liza crossed the road in front of the inn. She felt as if she were sneaking away, on some secret errand. Behind her, the steady sound of hammering and the sound of the saw broke the perfect quiet of the clear morning.

  No one will miss me, she thought. Not for a while anyway.

  As she climbed down the steep hill that led to the beach, she felt her cares and concerns about the inn lifting. The sight of the beach after a storm was captivating. She had forgotten how beautiful it looked, with long ropes of reddish brown and green seaweed flung about like strange confetti, as if there had been a wild party there the night before. Shells and stones were scattered in patterns that marked the tides, and little cliffs and alcoves had been carved from the shoreline by the strong surf.

  The waves were still rough today, rushing to the shoreline, one after the other, and crashing with a thunderous roar.

  Liza walked against the wind, her hands dug in her pockets and her head down. She felt as if the salt air were practically blowing her cares away. Claire was right. She did feel closer to something vital and elemental here. Was it God? Well, that was one word for what she felt, she acknowledged. The rough, wild sea did seem like the very soul of the Earth, the source of life, the source of everything.

  Liza walked until her legs felt weary, then sat in the sand, resting against a large flat rock. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, feeling the sun on her skin.

  It was warmer here today than she had expected. She felt herself slowing down, almost getting drowsy. But the cackling and calls of seabirds nearby wouldn’t let her drift off completely.

  She opened her eyes and watched a flock of small birds-terns maybe? Or maybe herring gulls? Her uncle Clive had been a big birder. He knew the proper names of all the species common to the area. There were eighty-seven species of gulls alone, Liza recalled, though only a few lived locally.

  Neither Liza nor Peter shared Clive’s avian passion, though Liza loved to watch the seabirds feed and fly along the shore like this. Of all the creatures on earth, birds had such graceful lines and eloquent expression in their smallest gesture, the tilt of their heads, the gaze of bright eyes, or the arch of a delicate wing.

  Without giving it much thought, she opened her sketchbook, took out a soft pencil, and began to sketch the flock. After a few minutes, she rose from her spot and crept up slowly to observe them at closer range.

  One or two of the birds looked up inquisitively at her but soon returned to pecking at mounds of seaweed, searching for tasty bits of broken crabs or other delicacies in the sand.

  Liza’s hand moved awkwardly at first. Her fingers felt so clumsy. She couldn’t draw a decent line. Frustrated, she tore off page after page. But finally, she stuck with a sketch and saw a tiny bit of improvement. She finished one drawing, flipped the page, and moved on to another.

  The birds were fast, never staying in one pose very long. Which was a good thing, she thought. A lot like the fast-sketching sessions she was forced to do in art school. A model would hold a position for no more than three minutes, then switch to a new one. Students would rush to capture the pose in bold, swift lines.

  “Don’t think, just draw,” was her favorite teacher’s motto.

  Liza could almost hear her professor’s voice, shouting at her over her shoulder. The impulse had to flow from the eye to the hand, bypassing a certain analytical, editorial part of the brain that always made a muddle of things.

  Maybe that’s my problem lately, Liza mused. I’m thinking too much. “Don’t think… just live,” she adapted her art teacher’s counsel.

  Liza wasn’t sure how long she sat there, drawing her small, winged models. Her drawing hand began to cramp, and she stopped to stretch her fingers. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, the entire flock of birds took to the air.

  The birds hovered over the shoreline and rolling waves. The gulls formed a soft white cloud, swooping and flying as one. Then they sailed off down the beach and disappeared, searching for some fresh feeding ground, she guessed.

  Liza sat back and looked over the drawings. A few weren’t half bad, she conceded. It had been fun to try her hand again. She had been afraid of what might happen. Afraid that she’d lost her eye, her talent.

  But maybe that never really goes away, she realized. It’s like riding a bike. The equipment is a little rusty and clunky at first, but little by little, you get it all rolling along again.

  Could she ever really quit her job and stay on this island?

  Run the inn and return to her artwork?

  Liza had joked about the possibility yesterday with Daniel. But hadn’t she been a tiny bit serious, too? Hadn’t she wished she had the courage to strike out on her own like that? To choose the road less traveled, the way her aunt and uncle had?

  Liza sighed and put the sketchbook aside. Perhaps it was better to just stick with the plan. Sell the inn, return to Boston. Take her lumps at work or look for a new job. Draw a little in her spare time if she liked. Take an art class again.

  Time was running out. Her two weeks away from the office were almost over. They expected her back next Monday. If she wanted a longer leave from work, she would have to call Eve before the weekend, either tonight or tomorrow.

  Liza didn’t know what to do. She’d had so little sleep last night, it was hard to make any decisions right now. Liza bunched up her scarf under her head and lay back on the sand.

  She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths. God, I’m not too good at prayers, she began silently. I don’t have much practice, but I just feel the need to talk to You. I’m so confused. I don’t know what to do. Should we sell the inn? Should we wait? Should I stay here or go? If I could just have a sign, I’ d be ever so grateful… You don’t need to send another lightning bolt. A less dramatic sign would be fine.

  Liza wasn’t sure how long she slept. The sun had traveled across the sky, and the air felt cooler. She sat up quickly and looked down. There was something in her lap, stuck to her jacket-a thick white feather. She picked it up and examined it. It was a long, silky plume. Very pure and clean.

  She didn’t think it had come from the flock of birds sh
e had been drawing; they were mostly gray. She glanced around, but there were no birds in sight.

  Staring down at the feather, Liza had an odd feeling. It seemed to be a sign, wordless approval of her artistic efforts for the day and also an answer to her question.

  Liza stood up, brushed herself off, then carefully tucked the feather into her jacket pocket. She set off for the inn, knowing this was something she couldn’t explain to anyone. Well, maybe Claire North would understand. It seemed to Liza that her rambling, desperate prayer had been heard. Heard and even answered.

  PETER didn’t seem to mind that Liza had taken a day off from house repairs. He didn’t say anything about it at dinner. He had helped Daniel with the roof repairs for most of the day and was eager for Liza to see their progress.

  After they cleaned up the kitchen, Liza followed her brother and Will upstairs, heading for the attic. But when they reached the second floor, Will headed to his room instead.

  Liza was surprised. “I guess you’re tired from all the work you did today.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” the boy mumbled, avoiding her glance.

  “Well, thanks for pitching in. I’m sure Daniel appreciated the extra help.”

  “Yeah, well at least somebody did.” Will gave his father a dark look, then turned toward his room.

  Will’s door closed, and Liza looked over at her brother. “Did you and Will have another fight today?”

  Peter shrugged. “Oh, he’s just in a snit. That work was dangerous. I didn’t want him getting hurt. Was that so wrong? I didn’t feel like carrying his fingers in a plastic bag of ice to some emergency room and-”

  “I get your point,” Liza quickly cut in.

  Poor Daniel. Had he played referee all day between them?

  Peter shook his head. “Let’s go up and look at the roof. I’ll try to make it up to Will tomorrow,” he added in a tired tone.

  Moments later they were standing in the attic. The branch had disappeared, and the jagged hole had been cleaned up. Fresh beams of wood crossed over the hole, which was covered on the outside tonight by a sheet of canvas.

  “Not bad,” Liza said. “It’s coming along quickly.”

  “I thought so. But Daniel thinks it needs at least two more days. At this rate, it will be Labor Day before we sell this place.”

  “I’ve been thinking, Peter, maybe this delay isn’t such a bad thing?” He turned and looked at her, but she rushed on before he could interrupt. “Right before the storm, when I ran off on the bike, you know where I ended up? At the cemetery. I went to look for Aunt Elizabeth and Uncle Clive’s headstone.”

  “I guess I should visit, too, before I go,” Peter said. “Maybe I’ll take Will.”

  “Maybe you should. I was so upset about Jeff and about my job, about a lot of things. I just sat there for a long time, thinking. I got this feeling that if Aunt Elizabeth were here, she wouldn’t like the way we’re handling things-rushing to sell this place to the first person who has a pulse and enough credit to get a mortgage.”

  Peter laughed, a sharp, surprised sound. “What other credentials should we be looking for, do you think?”

  “You know what I mean.” Liza walked over to a pile of her aunt’s canvases that were stacked against the wall. One had fallen, and she bent to pick it up. Some of these should be framed, she thought. They would look great in the bedrooms and hallways.

  She dusted her hands off and looked at her brother. “I know the roof repair is an annoyance and a speed bump. But it’s also an opportunity. Maybe we should just slow down and consider our options.”

  Peter laughed. “Oh, no. Don’t tell me. You think that lightning bolt was ‘a sign’ or something now, too?”

  Liza wasn’t entirely sure what she thought about the lightning bolt. Maybe it was a sign of some kind. Who could say either way? She wasn’t willing to go down that road with him right now. It was beside the point anyway.

  “Let’s just say we’ve been forced to stop and take stock. We have no choice. So why not look at all the possibilities?”

  “What possibilities?” Peter folded his arms across his chest, his expression not quite angry but tense. Still, she had to persist, get this out in the open while she had a chance.

  “There are choices we’ve never discussed,” Liza said carefully. “Like holding on to the place as an investment. Once the island gets more active, the property is bound to increase in value. Maybe we could find someone to run the inn, and we could be absentee owners.”

  “Liza, please. Don’t do this to me. Not now.” Peter shook his head. “I don’t want to be an absentee owner of a run-down money pit. And how would we find anyone to manage this place for us? Anyone we could trust? And what about the cost of renovating? Aunt Elizabeth had her regular customers who didn’t expect much, but you’re talking about a wave of tourists with far different expectations… And why am I even getting into this discussion in the first place? Honestly, Liza. This is the last thing I expected. I’m really not in the mood to argue with you tonight.”

  “I’m only pointing out some possibilities,” Liza said quietly.

  Then she stopped talking. She didn’t want to argue either, and she didn’t have answers to his questions. But now that Peter had mentioned it, Liza did think Claire North would be the perfect person to run the inn. She was definitely someone they could trust.

  “You know I need my share of the money,” her brother continued. “I thought this was all settled between us. Why are you back-tracking?”

  Liza sighed. “It’s hard to explain. It’s just that my feelings have changed since I’ve gotten here. I’ve started to feel differently, and I can see some interesting alternatives to selling. Can’t you?”

  “To be perfectly honest, I’ve felt relieved knowing I won’t be stuck with this place. It’s practically falling down. Or haven’t you noticed?”

  Liza didn’t think the condition of the building was quite that bad. Though the repairs needed were definitely daunting.

  Peter’s expression remained tight and grim. She could see that she wasn’t making any headway.

  “If it’s a matter of money, I have some savings I can loan you, Peter. I’d be happy to help you. Honestly.”

  Peter stared at her, then let out a long frustrated sigh. “It’s not just the money, Liza. It’s the whole idea of it. I own half of this property,” he reminded her. “It’s not just about your feelings, which seem to change day to day.”

  “I can’t help it. I’ve had a change of heart.”

  “You’ve had a lot going on in your life, too. Everything at your office and your divorce. Jeff surprising you here-”

  “What are you trying to say?” she asked warily.

  “Only that you’re going through a lot of change and loss, a lot of emotional upheaval. Maybe changing your mind about selling the inn is some sort of reaction to all that. That’s all I mean.”

  What he meant was that she was upset and confused right now and that she shouldn’t trust her own feelings or impulses.

  “I don’t think that’s it,” she said finally. “But I’ll think about it. If you’ll think about what I said.”

  “All right. Fair enough. I’ll try.”

  “Let’s just get the roof fixed and get our bearings,” Liza said. “We have to delay showing the place that long anyway.”

  “Fran Tulley certainly thinks so,” Peter grumbled. He stood up and stretched, then rubbed his lower back. “I’m turning in. See you tomorrow.”

  “Good night, Peter.”

  She knew that she ought to go downstairs, too, but somehow she didn’t feel like leaving the attic space so quickly. She wandered around, peering into boxes to check for water damage.

  She came to the boxes of Christmas decorations and thought about the kiss she had shared with Daniel in the shadows at that very spot. The episode seemed like a dream. Like some wild fantasy. How seriously should she take it? Another question to add to her growing list.

  Most li
kely it was just a fluke, not the start of anything real, she told herself. She would be foolish to let things go any further if she wasn’t going to stay here.

  It was funny how all the pressing questions seemed tangled together now, one sticky thread twisted with another.

  Clearing out this old house had become a process of clearing out the cobwebs in her own life, Liza realized. Cobwebs she hadn’t even known were there.

  Chapter Twelve

  DANIEL started working on the roof very early the next morning. Liza heard heavy footsteps pass her bedroom door, then tramp up the next flight toward the attic. Hammering soon followed, making it impossible to get back to sleep. With a sigh, she got out of bed and quickly dressed.

  Down in the kitchen, Peter and Will had already eaten breakfast and looked ready to start their workday.

  “Daniel wants us to help his man with the exterior house painting today,” Peter said. “He’s concerned about falling behind schedule.”

  Liza thought Daniel was probably concerned about having Peter and Will up in the tiny attic again, breathing down his neck as he hurried to fix the roof. But his diplomatic solution seemed to solve two problems at once.

  “I’ll come outside and paint, too,” Liza offered. “It’s a perfect day. We can get a lot done.”

  “My thought exactly.” Peter took one last sip of his coffee and left the mug in the sink. He seemed in a better mood today.

  Liza quickly downed some yogurt and a mug of coffee, then took out her BlackBerry. She had woken up certain that she wanted to stay on the island a week more, or even longer. Now she needed to tell Eve she wasn’t coming back on Monday.

  But when she called the office, she got bounced to Eve’s voice mail. Though she would have preferred to tell Eve directly, she decided to leave a message. “Hi, Eve, it’s Liza. We’ve had some set-backs here. A branch went through the roof during a storm, and we need to make a lot of repairs. Everything is taking longer than I expected, actually. So I do need to take some more time here. A week at least. Possibly more. You can call me if you’d like, or I’ll try you again on Monday.”