by Karis Walsh
Now she’d have to ask the artist to sign a new form. And find a way to disappoint the beautiful Melinda.
Pam rarely had trouble disappointing people who wanted her paintings, and she was surprised by her reluctance to do so to Melinda. Even more surprising, Pam wanted to see her again, to draw her, maybe in pastels. Pam chose a pale green background to set off Melinda’s hazel eyes and the chestnut tones in her dark hair before she could stop herself. She had painted hundreds of portraits, had made a living at it, but there were very few people she had felt this yearning, this itch to paint. Not to capture Melinda’s beauty—Pam had seen plenty of gorgeous women, but she was usually content to admire and appreciate them in person, in the flesh, in bed. But Melinda offered something more, something Pam couldn’t define. Something she didn’t want to define but that her disloyal hand wanted to grab onto, suffuse with color and texture. Melinda had stood here, determined to look at Pam’s painting and not only accept the wave’s destructive power but to uncover the hope in it, while Pam—unable even to glance at her own work—had listened to her and almost believed.
A group of three twentysomething women entered the gallery.
Pam’s part-time assistant, Lisa, sat at a table surrounded by colored pencils. She was chewing on the end of her long blond ponytail and working on a drawing, but she stood up to greet the customers. Pam waved her back to her seat. Lisa more than earned her wages during the busy tourist seasons, and Pam liked to give her time and space to work on her own art when business was slow. Besides, she needed a distraction from Melinda.
She walked over to the women and smiled with more enthusiasm than she felt when the one with long dark hair made eye contact. She was too young for Pam’s usual taste, and within a few minutes Pam knew they didn’t share any artistic values. The three were immediately drawn to the cheap, mass-produced—but popular—trinkets and prints Pam carried out of necessity. They bypassed the original, quality pieces by talented local artists without even a glance. But the dark-haired woman glanced at Pam again, for a few seconds longer than before. Pam’s hands still tingled from the imagined contact as she posed Melinda for her portrait. Shifting Melinda’s shoulders so her face caught the light. Unbuttoning the top of her silky blouse and letting her hands linger as they exposed her neck a little more. Pam forced an image of the dark-haired tourist into her fantasy, and she was relieved to feel the too-intense physical arousal caused by Melinda’s phone call ease into something safer. Something sufficient for tonight.
“Where are you ladies from?” Pam asked, directing the question only to the woman cruising her.
“Portland,” she said. “We had a long weekend off work, so we came here for a few days.”
Pam smiled again. Temporary. Exactly what she was looking for.
Chapter Two
Mel woke with the sun the following morning. She had arrived at the house the night before, thankfully when it was too dark to see just how bad her present circumstances were. The real estate agent had accepted delivery of her belongings, apparently instructing the movers to dump everything just inside the door. Mel had turned on as few lights as possible and had torn the protective plastic off her mattress and dropped it on the living-room floor so she had someplace to sleep. Now she wanted nothing more than to pull the blanket over her head and pretend she was safely back in her old life, but the relentless and unexpected sunlight streaming through the curtainless windows forced her to get up.
Boxes and furniture spilled out of the foyer and into the living and dining areas of the house. Barely enough to furnish one or two of the guest rooms, but quite enough to be annoyingly in the way. Mel squeezed past a bed frame and two mismatched end tables and found her overnight bag where she had left it next to the front door. She suspected most of the unwanted residents of her new house—the mice and spiders she was certain occupied the abandoned building—would congregate in the downstairs suite that would be her private part of the house, so she decided to use one of the upstairs guest rooms for her shower.
Faded strips of green wallpaper curled off the wall, exposing dingy yellow paper underneath. The fixtures were coated with grime, and hard-water marks stained the sink and tub. But the shower worked and the toilet flushed. She was thankful for the small gift of functional plumbing as she stood under the spray of hot water and tried not to touch the sides of the shower stall. A wave of resentment rose like a fist in her throat, no matter how hard she tried to swallow it down.
She hadn’t been overly happy in her Salem home, but at least she had had something there. A routine, a role that had defined her. Here she had nothing but an endless list of impossible chores. Nothing but a life wiped clean and demanding to be rewritten in every detail, from where she did her grocery shopping, put gas in her car, or got her hair cut to how she organized the rhythm of her days. Here she was alone.
Mel dried off with a towel she had luckily thought to bring. She took a carefully folded and coordinated pastel-colored outfit from her small suitcase and shook out the wrinkles before she put it on. She had packed for an afternoon of shopping and brunch, not a day full of dusty, dirty work. She sighed at the naiveté she had still possessed less than twenty-four hours ago. When she had first walked through the house, she had been full of dreams of the future. Now all she could think of was the past. From where she stood, overwhelmed and unprepared, the loveless but predictable life she had left suddenly looked safe and appealing.
Then she walked out of the bathroom and stopped short, an involuntary gasp escaping her lips as she really noticed her surroundings for the first time. Sunlight, even though autumn weak and diffused by clouds, streamed into the large corner bedroom. The two west-facing windows showed an expanse of ocean beach. Mel stepped closer. Haystack Rock was to her right, buffeted by the spray of waves. A steep staircase of weathered wood led from her backyard to the beach, winding between two small ocean cottages that were low enough so they didn’t obstruct her view. A lone woman, bundled in a heavy coat and with her long hair blowing free in the wind, walked along the sand and occasionally stopped to throw a piece of driftwood for her dog. The relentless sound of the surf finally reached past Mel’s daydreams and regrets and brought her back to the present with the constancy of a heartbeat.
Mel struggled with the rusty clasp and tugged until the reluctant window opened. Just a few inches, but it was enough. The ocean breeze brushed her skin with a hint of moisture, of salt. The briny smell of seaweed, strewn across the damp sand in lacy patterns, chased away the musty smell of the long-enclosed room. Mel smiled when a seagull took off noisily from the beach, scolding the dog that ran past it in search of its stick. Yes, she had been deluding herself about the state of the house and her ability to restore it. But the ocean of her daydreams, the setting she had chosen for her new life, was real and tangible and perfect. She felt a renewed surge of hope. She would hang Whitford’s seascape in this room, across from this magnificent view and over the space where the guest bed would eventually be.
One easy job, one step toward recreating her life in this beautiful place. Mel trotted down the steps to hunt through her boxes for a hammer and nail.
❖
Pam drove to the old Lighthouse Inn and parked behind a mud-spattered blue Honda. During an emergency trip to Cannon Beach’s tiny—and expensive—grocery store, she had been flagged down by another local gallery owner, the head of the town’s art commission.
Pam usually shopped at the Safeway in Seaside where she could shop in anonymity, less likely to be forced into conversation with an acquaintance, but she had picked a particularly bad day to run out of cigarettes. She had no polite way to avoid talking to Tia Bell, so she had forced a smile on her face and obediently crossed the quiet street to the art gallery. Instead of asking the usual intrusive questions about Pam’s painting, however, Tia had only wanted to chat about the foolish woman who was attempting to start a new B and B in town. The entrepreneurs who descended on the town every year were alternately a joke
and a source of irritation to locals. Each year there were a few new ones who came into town and provided entertaining stories of spectacular failures. Pam had done her share of joking and complaining about the fly-by-night ventures, but she was always aware of the undercurrent of concern shared by the local business owners and the nervousness they all felt when empty storefronts and out-of-business signs marred the small town’s prosperous and utopian image, intruding on the attempt to shield happy vacationers from the realities and failure.
In a town with good reason to be wary of newcomers, Pam had been accepted as a local right from the beginning. Thanks to Tia. Tia was instrumental in raising Cannon Beach’s art scene to a national level, attracting tourists from across the States to the events and shows she planned. She had talked up Pam’s reputation when she first opened her gallery, and the rest of the business owners had accepted Tia’s endorsement of her as gospel. Pam had made her gallery a success, and no one seemed to mind that she hadn’t lived up to her reputation as a productive artist. Except Tia. She regularly scolded and cajoled in her attempts to make Pam paint, seemingly undeterred by the months or years between Pam’s works.
Their styles couldn’t be more different, Pam mused. As much as she tried to fade into the background, Tia forced her way front and center with her garish clothes and loud comments. Still, as different as Tia was, Pam couldn’t help but respect her contribution to local art and feel grateful for her support in the community. Pam wouldn’t admit it out loud, but she usually enjoyed small doses of Tia’s flamboyant conversation. But today Tia had seemed prepared to discuss Melinda’s impending failure for a long time, so Pam had finally lit one of her cigarettes. Tia hated the smoke, and Pam felt only a little guilty using that as a way to escape her company.
Pam stubbed out a second cigarette in her ashtray and stepped out of her car. She had no intention of accepting Melinda’s commission for more of her sea glass paintings, and her first inclination had been to call her and decline the offer. After talking to Tia, though, Pam wanted to check out the old house herself. If the needed repairs were as extensive as Tia claimed, maybe Pam could warn Melinda in time to save her some money and useless effort.
The former Lighthouse Inn was one of the landmarks of Pam’s childhood, but it had been empty and in disrepair so long she could barely remember how it used to look. She had never seen the inside of the old building, so she decided to make a rare neighborly visit and turn down Melinda’s offer face-to-face. Although she had meant to tour the place when it was on the market, she hadn’t gotten around to it, and this seemed as good an excuse as any to snoop around the property.
Pam slammed her car door. She had plenty of acceptable excuses for coming here in person, enough of them to let her ignore the one reason she needed to stay away. Her interest in Melinda Andrews was dangerous. She had felt an almost overwhelming urge to step up and defend Melinda against Tia’s gleeful predictions of failure. Pam pictured Melinda’s beautiful features shrouded with disappointment when her house foreclosed, and she wanted to brush her hands over Melinda’s face and wipe away her sadness. Who knew why? All Pam knew was Melinda admired her painting—something they definitely didn’t have in common. Her interest in Melinda was simply physical attraction. Or fascination with anyone who would take on such a monumental project as the old inn.
But fascination led to sympathy and caring too much. That led to heartbreak. Pam recognized the early stages of her same old pattern, and she was determined to stop herself before she got any more entangled in Melinda’s fate. She had watched enough businesses go under to know not to get personally involved. Just last year she had been disappointed when the new candy shop closed after just two months, but she hadn’t imagined personally consoling the owner.
True, Melinda was easier on the eyes than old Joe Morrison, but neither of them was Pam’s concern. Succeed or fail, Melinda would have to face the consequences of her investment without Pam’s help.
Pam went to the side of the house and peered over the fence into the overgrown backyard. The cement patio was barely visible under a mess of decaying furniture and stuffed trash bags. Weeds had taken over the yard, so Pam was hardly able to tell where flower beds had once ended and lawn began. A small raised porch at the back of the house promised a great view of Haystack Rock, but she wasn’t convinced the rickety structure could support her weight. Besides, rusty tools and plastic toys, their shapes and protruding edges barely visible where they had fused with the thick undergrowth, littered the path.
Pam couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a tetanus shot, so she stayed on the safe side of the fence and gingerly climbed on a haphazard pile of rocks to see the rest of the yard. An old building, tucked under the red limbs of a sheltering madrona, ran along the north side of the fence. Gaping holes lined with lichen-covered wood had once framed large south-facing picture windows. Probably a studio or sunroom before time and gravity had stripped away its door and gave its roof a scalloped effect. Pam let herself imagine the studio fully restored, full of natural light and space, before she turned away from the fence and walked up the cracked sidewalk to the front door.
Melinda had better have an army of workers and a sizable fortune at hand to help her. The inn looked months away from being ready to receive guests.
After a few minutes of knocking and ringing the apparently nonfunctioning doorbell, Pam opened the unlocked door and stepped inside. “Hello?” she called, standing on the threshold. She felt like she was walking into someone’s home, even though she knew it was meant to be a public place. She finally moved into the hallway and shut the door behind her. She stood in stunned silence as her eyes adjusted to the dark interior. The short walk from her car to the front door had done its best to lower her expectations, but she was still surprised by the cluttered and run-down foyer. The backyard looked like an idyllic meadow compared to the chaos inside the house.
Pam moved slowly around the various pieces of furniture and into the large living room. A mattress, bare except for a single rumpled pillow and blanket, lay on the ratty carpet that might have been green. The incongruously intimate setting and her sudden vision of Melinda sleeping there—alone?—disconcerted Pam. She abruptly turned away and went into the next room. There were open boxes everywhere, with some of their contents and packing materials strewn around as if someone had been searching for particular items and not unpacking in any sort of logical way. The mess distracted Pam’s attention momentarily from the dingy walls and stained surfaces. A cracked ceiling and peeling wallpaper decorated what looked like a once-elegant dining room. The walls were scantily clad in the remnants of decades-old fashions, the dark cherry paneling and rose-colored wallpaper a faded testament to how many years the room had been neglected. Pam shook her head as she waved a cobweb out o her way. Melinda shouldn’t even bother to unpack. The place didn’t look worth the effort.
The sound of something dropping upstairs reminded Pam why she was there in the first place, and she climbed the steps to the second story where a muffled noise guided her to one of the bedrooms.
Melinda sat in the center of the room, crying. Had she been this way since she arrived yesterday? Was the pillow downstairs wet with her tears? Pam hesitated in the doorway, unnoticed, as she took in the scene in front of her and tried to see it objectively, tried not to be moved by Melinda’s obvious and understandable distress.
Pam’s own painting was propped against the wall with a hammer lying next to it. Melinda sat facing the window, her face in profile to Pam. She was wearing cream-colored slacks and an apricot blouse with the sleeves rolled up. She sat surrounded by evidence of work, but her clothes were remarkably clean for all the dust in the house.
Because she cared too much about how she looked or because she was a careful person? Either way, her elegant outfit wouldn’t last long in this house. But the colors were just right. A hint of sand, of the beach, but neutral enough so they didn’t detract from Melinda’s face. Her brown hair was neatly st
yled in a classic bob, shorter than it had been in August and tucked behind her ears, Pam noticed with approval.
No longer hiding the line of her jaw or her slender neck, instead exposing them to be admired. Touched. Her features were delicate and aristocratic, but a slightly pointed chin saved her face from being too proportionate. For only a moment Pam acknowledged the desire to paint Melinda’s portrait. Just like this, with her eyes staring out but looking inward, like she was seeing a memory. Melinda was all angles and curves, from her too-prominent collarbones to the hair softly framing her small ears. Pam blinked and clenched her fists, and the urge passed.
Pam’s presence in the room felt too invasive, the moment too intense and unguarded to share. Pam wasn’t sure which one of them she needed to protect, which one was more vulnerable, but she had to be the one to leave. She was about to turn and sneak away unobserved when Melinda turned and saw her standing there. Pam watched her unguarded expression shift from surprise to recognition.
“I knocked,” Pam said, mesmerized by the hazel eyes, shining with tears, that were watching her. “I’m Pam. Pamela Whitford.
From the gallery.” Pam waved toward her painting, cringing inside at her halting speech. She was a sucker for crying women, especially beautiful crying women. She had to get the hell out of the house before she agreed to paint more seascapes, paint the walls, paint the damned garden fence.
“You’re my artist?” Melinda asked.
“Yes,” Pam said. Her easy acquiescence to the possessive note in Melinda’s voice confused her. She rarely accepted the title, let alone the modifier, and she took a step back in an attempt to put more distance between them. “And you’re Melinda Andrews, proud new owner of the Lighthouse Inn?”