by Karis Walsh
“Mel,” she corrected with a short laugh. “And that probably should be stupid, not proud, new owner of the Sea Glass Inn.”
Pam shrugged, wanting to hide the fact that she had thought the same thing when she first walked into the old house. “I remember the Lighthouse from when I was a kid. My grandparents and I spent holidays at Cannon Beach, and I always thought it was the most beautiful place.”
“So you used to stay here?”
“No, we rented a cabin just outside of town,” Pam said, smiling at the memory of lazy summer days on the beach. “The Lighthouse was much too posh for us.”
“Posh,” Mel repeated, glancing around the dimly lit room with a wry frown. “That is the first word that comes to mind, isn’t it?”
Pam laughed. “Well, at least the p-o-s part…” At Mel’s confused expression she tried to explain. “Piece of shit? Sorry, that was a bad joke.”
Mel shook her head and weakly attempted to laugh along with Pam. “No, you’re right. The house is a mess. And I can’t even hang a painting let alone fix the rest of the problems.”
Her voice trailed off with a sniff, but she slapped her hands to the floor and pushed herself to her feet so she was nearly eye level with Pam. Pam shifted her gaze away from Melinda’s still-red eyes and noticed a bent nail stuck in the wall above her painting which was the only bright spot in the room. Blue and tan brushstrokes sketched out a sandy beach and summer sky, but the ocean’s waves were crusted with blue and white sea glass. Pam remembered every moment she’d spent at work on it, picturing the relentless waves of time that shattered a person’s life into unrecognizable fragments. She turned away from the pain it represented and focused instead on the simple problem of getting the heavy painting securely on the wall. She spent her days hanging other people’s artwork. There would be no emotion attached to that act.
“I can help you hang it, but it weighs too much for a nail,” she said, deciding now wasn’t the time to suggest that the distraught Mel either paint or paper the stained wall before she decorated it with a picture. “We’ll just need a…”
“God, don’t tell me,” Mel said as she covered her ears like a child.
“What?”
“I’ll figure it out myself,” Mel insisted. “I’ll get a book or go to a hardware store, but let me do it.”
Pam frowned. Mel had moved from tearful to controlled to angry in a matter of seconds. From sensual to downright sexy. “How is that different from having me—”
“It just is,” Mel said, facing Pam with a determined look on her face. “Don’t ask me why, but it is. This is my inn, and I’ll take care of it.”
Pam raised her hands in surrender. She had to get off Mel’s emotional roller coaster before the next big plunge. Every time Mel’s confidence appeared to inch higher, Pam’s stomach dropped a little deeper. Tears made her want to help, but confidence made her want to rip off some clothes. “Okay, lady, have it your way. I was just trying to help.”
She turned and headed down the stairs. She should feel relieved because she certainly didn’t need to get caught up running someone else’s business. Step in to help with one small chore, and soon she’d be the inn’s handywoman. She should be glad to escape and not unaccountably hurt.
Mel watched Pam leave and ran her hands through her hair, still expecting it to be as long as it had been a week ago. She was angry.
Angry with her tears, her frustration, her inability to do more than make a useless hole in the bedroom wall. But not angry with Pam.
She jogged after her and caught up just before Pam could let herself out the front door. “Wait, please,” she said, pulling on Pam’s arm.
Pam tugged away and crossed her arms over her chest, but she at least stopped long enough for Mel to apologize. “My husband took care of every detail like this,” Mel said. She stayed close to Pam, wanting to reach out and reestablish contact. Anchor herself to the soft, worn cotton of Pam’s shirtsleeve. But she had no reason to reach for her, no excuse for fondling a relative stranger, except that she had been so long without intimate human contact and she craved even the fleeting warmth of a simple touch. And she wasn’t about to explain her lonely desire to Pam.
But the Pamela Whitford of her fantasies—the intellectual artist Mel had conversed with so often in her mind—gradually fused with the real Pam. The Pam who stood right before her, looking strong enough to weather the waves she had painted, strong enough to help Mel. But Mel didn’t want help. She wanted, needed, to stand on her own. She struggled to control her racing thoughts and find a way to explain why she had rebuffed Pam’s attempt to hang the painting, without thrusting all her personal issues into the open where they didn’t belong.
She rarely spoke without thinking as she had done, but she had been shocked to find someone in her house, staring at her with such intensity it made her skin shiver. And then to discover her elusive artist and the sexy gallery owner were the same woman—Mel’s emotions had been careening around so much lately she had started to react to every new problem or revelation without her usual calm and thoughtful approach. She had changed from a controlled woman to one of pure reflex, and the transformation was disconcerting. Her self-doubt and fledgling steps to make it on her own were bearable when kept inside. They stung when exposed to the air. “I guess I didn’t realize just how helpless I’d become until I tried to do the simplest thing like put a picture on the wall. I don’t want to feel this way anymore, and if it means I need to embarrass myself by asking a hundred questions in a hardware store, then that’s what I’ll do. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
Pam uncrossed her arms as if relenting a little, and Mel relaxed as well. Pam looked the same as she had in August, but with long pants and a University of Oregon sweatshirt instead of her summer clothes. Mel inhaled. The same ocean-clean smell she remembered, but with an overlay of cigarette. A smoker, and in need of a nicotine fix if her fidgeting hands were any indication.
“It’s okay. It’s cool that you want to do this stuff on your own,” Pam said. She looked pointedly around the room. “But by the time you’re done with this place, you’ll probably know the clerk in the hardware store better than you know your husband.”
“Ex-husband,” Mel corrected. But Pam was more accurate than she could have realized. Mel had never really known Richard. “And I have a feeling you’re right.”
“Oh, well, good luck with…everything.” Pam took a step backward. “I’m sorry I busted in on you like this. I should get going.”
“Wait,” Mel said when she finally remembered why she’d been looking for Pam in the first place. “Assuming I ever get this first painting on the wall, I’d like to commission more for the rest of my rooms.” Mel followed as Pam edged toward the door. “That’d be four more, plus one for the common room.”
“I don’t like to paint on commission,” Pam said, avoiding direct eye contact. “And it’s getting harder to find sea glass. And my prices are kind of high.”
“There’s no rush, and I’ll pay what you ask,” Mel said stubbornly.
For an artist who owned a gallery, Pam didn’t seem intent on actually selling any paintings. Even during yesterday’s phone call, Pam had been willing to help Mel decorate her inn, but not with her own work. False modesty? Coy self-deprecation to make Mel offer more money? Mel didn’t think so. Neither of those would explain the tight frown lines on Pam’s face whenever Mel mentioned her art. “I won’t try to tell you what to paint. Whatever you’re inspired to do is fine with me.”
Pam grimaced. Mel wasn’t sure if her expression was one of pain or annoyance at Mel’s persistence. “Please,” she said, angry at the tearful quaver she heard in her own voice. Her body kept betraying her emotions, no matter how mentally resolute she tried to be. She wouldn’t beg again, but she wasn’t about to let Pam leave without agreeing to paint.
“Okay, I’ll do it,” Pam said with obvious reluctance, as if she could read Mel’s thoughts. She quoted a price per painting that was a f
ew hundred less than Mel had spent on the seascape. “It might be a month or more between paintings, though.”
“That’s fine,” Mel said, reaching out and shaking Pam’s hand to seal the agreement before she could back out. Skin roughened by coastal weather, grip firm and confident. Just as Mel had anticipated.
Her own hand must feel soft in comparison. She broke contact at the thought. “I can give you a check for a deposit.”
Pam waved her off, hoping to shake off the sensation of Mel’s hand in hers as she did so. Mel had struck like a snake, snatching at Pam’s promise the moment it had been halfheartedly given and retreating again after a too-brief touch. “You can pay me as I finish each one,” she said. She hoped her confident attitude would erase the tormenting vision of five empty canvases. It didn’t.
Pam got in her car and drove slowly home, wondering why she had not only agreed to produce more mosaics but to do so at a less-than-market price. Tears, beauty, and stubbornness. A deadly combination. Mel might be coiled and ready to fight for her new life, but Pam wasn’t about to join the battle. And she certainly didn’t need the stress from an obligation to paint hanging over her. But she had given her word, had calmly shaken Mel’s hand when all her instincts were screaming at her to run.
Mel’s grip had been unhesitating and sure, at odds with the woman who only minutes before had been sitting in an empty room and crying over a bent nail. Warm and alive, as if she had been soaking up the October sun and could have shared the heat if she had only held on a few seconds longer. Shared her trust in Pam’s ability to paint, when Pam herself had no such faith. She had an uneasy feeling Mel was the type who kept her promises and expected others to do the same. She had no idea how she would be able to keep her part of the bargain and deliver five paintings over the next six months when she hadn’t been able to complete that many in the past few years.
Mel had said to paint whatever inspired her. She couldn’t have realized how much that word hurt. Except for a brief glimmer of a vision, a flash of yearning to capture a scene, Pam rarely felt inspired to do more than a brief sketch on a restaurant placemat or on the back of a grocery receipt. Her muse, or whatever, seemed to have abandoned her, and she wasn’t even sure she cared. Art had been her connection to life, to the people—whether family or strangers—who caught her attention and wouldn’t let go. Now she breathed empty air, untouched and tasteless, except for those few occasions when a scene or landscape managed to get past her lips, into her lungs, and change her somehow. Those breaths were bitter, and she barely remembered the time when painting had been simple and painless. She could only hope Mel would give up on her business and move away before the paintings were due.
Pam fumbled for another cigarette. As much as she wanted to be free from the commission, she was surprised to realize a part of her wanted Mel to succeed. She appreciated Mel’s desire to be independent and to take care of herself. Pam had always strived to be the same way. And she grudgingly admired Mel’s ability to get what she wanted, no matter how reluctant the other person involved might be. But in Mel’s quest for a successful business, something was going to have to give—either the broken-down mess of a house or her vision of a thriving inn. When Pam had first looked around the cluttered yard and time-worn rooms of the old Lighthouse Inn, her money would have been on the house as victor. Now she wasn’t so sure.
Chapter Three
As soon as Pam was out of the driveway, Mel grabbed her purse and drove to Seaside to find a hardware store. For the first time since she’d arrived in Cannon Beach, she felt a glimmer of hope, and she wanted to seize it before it disappeared and left her floundering again in the depressing state of reality. She had managed to convince Pam to supply her with mosaics. Now she just needed to learn how to hang the damned things. She had spent the morning halfheartedly unpacking items and moving them to different rooms in the house while she noted repairs she needed to make. She had finally written burn down and collect insurance money on the bottom of her long to-do list and tossed it aside before searching in earnest for the toolbox she had bought for the new house. The box seemed so small and inadequate in the face of her mammoth project, but at least it held a hammer and some small nails. She’d feel better once her painting was hung. Who couldn’t do something as simple as hang a picture on the wall?
Apparently she couldn’t. She had pounded the nail into the wall and then managed to catch it on the strange hook on the frame. Only her quick reflexes had saved the painting from falling and pulling the nail all the way out of the wall. That had been too much to bear. She had followed the painting back to the ocean. Changed her life—and her son’s life—because of what it meant to her. Freedom, independence, self-sufficiency. Hanging the mosaic on the wall of her new home had taken on a sort of symbolic meaning. Nearly dropping it on the floor had suddenly seemed like a very bad sign.
She had spent years keeping her emotions carefully under control, smoothing over her true feelings and rarely letting them be seen in public. The bent nail had been enough to make her wallow in a rare—and private—moment of self-pity and frustration. Not meant to be witnessed, especially by Pamela Whitford. Mel had imagined their first meeting so many times. She’d be relaxed and gracious in her inn, or witty and charming at an art show, or sexy and windblown on the beach. Never in any of her fantasies was she sitting on the floor sobbing.
Mel parked in front of the hardware store and mentally prepared to feel foolish again. The only way to get through this renovation was to start asking stupid questions and not stop until she ran out of them. It might take the rest of her life, but she was determined to do whatever it took to not ever feel so completely helpless again.
Mel walked into the store with what she hoped was a competent air. She had been in hardware stores before, of course, but usually as an observer, not a participant. She wandered up and down the aisles.
Hammers, screwdrivers, tool belts, drill bits. She touched everything.
Smooth wood and cold metal. Trying to make the objects seem less foreign, to make herself feel more confident in her ability to use them as she turned her piece of shit—as Pam had so accurately called it—into a home. She stopped in front of a display of power tools and picked up a cordless drill. She hefted it, surprised to feel comfortable with its size and weight in her hand. She could use it. For what, she wasn’t certain, but a motorized tool at least sounded more fun than anything manual.
Another day. She returned the drill to its shelf and walked down the next aisle. Screws and nails. Exactly what she needed for today’s project. Maybe. She peered into the little drawers, unsure what she was looking for. The sheer variety was overwhelming, from thin slivers of metal to screws thicker than her thumb. Silver, gold, black.
Galvanized. She picked up one of those because it sounded like it meant business, but it didn’t look much different from the nail she had tried at home. She tossed it back and closed the drawer. She didn’t think a bigger nail was the solution, and she almost wished she hadn’t interrupted Pam when she was about to tell her what to do.
Almost. But Pam seemed so sure of herself, so composed. So damned sexy and comfortable in her skin. She had everything Mel wanted for herself—an independent life at the ocean, a fulfilling career…
A working knowledge of tools and hooks and picture hanging.
Two days ago, she’d been admittedly envious of both Pam-the-gallery-owner and Pamela-the-artist. Mel’s own vision of success had been a perfect inn, creatively decorated and full of guests. Now success had been scaled down to this one project. Find out how to hang a picture, and then actually get the job done. On her own. Or, at least, with minimal help from an impartial clerk. Somehow, letting Pam solve the problem would have been as bad as calling her ex-husband and having him drive over from Salem to do it. She couldn’t explain why, but she knew it was necessary for her to stand in this store on her own. Uncertain, but ready to learn. She could have handled it better with Pam—and she regretted snapping at her�
��but this new life was about Mel herself. Not who she was in relation to anyone else. She turned a rotating bin full of bulk nails. God only knew what project loomed in her future that might require her to buy nails by the pound.
“Can I help you?” a man asked from behind her, and Mel turned to see what looked like a garden gnome come to life. He was several inches shorter than she was, with a pointy gray beard and ears that stuck out through his thick hair.
“Yes, please, um…Walter,” she said, reading his name tag as she remembered Pam’s prediction that she would get to know this guy very well over the next few months. “I need to hang a painting on a wall.”
“What size?”
Mel caught herself before she asked whether he wanted the size of the picture or the wall. She held her hands several feet apart to show him the dimensions. “About this size, but it has glass on it so it’s pretty heavy. Maybe twenty pounds?”
“What you need is a molly bolt,” Walter said with a nod. “I’ll show you.”
“Okay,” Mel said noncommittally as she followed him to a different aisle. She wasn’t sure if that was some sort of sexist joke or not, but he handed her a small plastic package with the name across the top. “Oh, it really is called a molly bolt.”
“Sure is,” he said. He ripped open the package and showed her how to hammer the contraption into the wall and pull it back so it would support her painting. “Do you have a stud finder?”
“No, thank you,” Mel said absently as she studied the small metal pieces in her hand. “I mean, do I need one? You said this didn’t go into a stud.”
“Well, now, you’ll need to find where one is to know where one isn’t.”Mel laughed for the first time in what felt like weeks. “Walter, that makes perfect sense to me.”