Sea Glass Inn

by Karis Walsh

  Mel dropped her bag in the foyer, a habit she was going to need to break before guests arrived. She moved through the house, reacquainting herself with rooms that were slowly growing familiar and flipping on every switch so she could at least fill the inn with light. A snack might help, so she went into the kitchen to microwave whatever happened to be in the freezer but stopped when she saw the light blinking on her answering machine. She pressed the button, and Pam’s voice filled the room, dispelling the shadows better than the lights had done. She was calling about the painting, nothing more personal, but the growing sadness Mel had been feeling since leaving Salem tonight was eased by the sound of a friend’s voice—her only real connection to her new town. And a new painting. Another splash of color to help chase away the dinginess of the old house.

  She should have been disappointed because the call wasn’t from a potential guest, someone to help chase away some of Mel’s debt, a check to deposit rather than one to write for the painting. But Mel needed the contact, the friendship—no matter how casual—more than she needed the money.

  She was listening to the message for a second time, focused more on the husky timbre of Pam’s voice than on her words, when the power went out. Mel gave a squeak of surprise as Pam’s voice cut off and the inn was plunged into darkness and silence. Silence, except for the wind gusting against the windows, the scrape of tree branches against the side of the house, and a flapping sound overhead that must be coming from a loose shingle.

  At least she hoped it was a loose shingle. Her masochistic mind started replaying every horror movie she had ever seen as she went in search of a flashlight. Deranged dolls with chain saws and bloody ax murderers might be dancing around on her roof. She had been in the house alone all week, but never without the weak glow of the streetlights and the lamp or two she always left on in case she needed to get up during the night. Now the utter, isolating blackness made her feel cut off from even the glimmer of connection she had felt while listening to Pam’s message. She focused on practical matters.

  Of course she should have anticipated rough coastal weather. Pam had even warned her about an approaching storm. She should have flashlights in every room, candles, matches, extra blankets. Her list of supplies to help her weather the next storm grew, but even the promise that she would be more prepared for emergencies in the future couldn’t save her from two bruised shins and a string of swear words.

  She pawed through four still-unpacked boxes before she found the flashlight, and she followed its weak beam back into the storm and to the detached garage. She managed to make her way through the clutter and over to the generator with only one undignified shriek as she walked through a cobweb. She played the light over the dusty machine, searching for some indication of how it worked, and found a small power switch. She flicked it to the on position and stepped back, giving in to the fantasy that the generator would magically rumble to life and light up the house, even though she figured the heavy cords draped over it needed to be attached to something. She didn’t relish the idea of fumbling in the dark with electrical circuits, so she struggled against the wind and back into the house.

  Helpless again. And unprepared to look after herself, let alone an inn full of guests. Her frustration at least helped distract her from the odd noises coming from every corner of the inn. Okay, somewhat.

  She was drenched after the brief step outside, but a hot shower was as elusive as light. She changed into dry clothes and crawled under several blankets, moving learn how to operate generator to the top of her mental to-do list.

  ❖

  Pam startled awake when the electricity went out, and she sat up in her bed in the A-frame’s loft. Piper’s small snores were reassuring in the dark, and she settled back again and listened to the wind whistling between the closely spaced beach houses. Only a moment later a loud cracking sound made her sit up again. Piper woke with a snort at what sounded like one of the neighbor’s pine trees slamming into Pam’s house. She grabbed a powerful flashlight from her bedside table and trotted down the circular staircase.

  “Damn,” she muttered as she shone her light on the branches that had ripped through a section of her roof. Rain dripped onto her living-room floor, splashing onto broken glass from the south-facing window, and the wind slashed loudly through the hole. It would be small consolation to say I told you so to her neighbors when she called to tell them about the damage. She had mentioned the unhealthy tree several times, suggesting they take care of it before leaving to winter in Arizona. Their homeowner’s insurance would cover the cost of repairs, but Pam knew the process would be long and slow.

  She thought she might be able to pull the pine off her house, but it was actually providing some shelter for her floor. So, instead, she climbed on a chair and struggled against the wind to tuck one of her canvas drop cloths between the branches and the jagged edges of her roof. Another cloth covered the broken glass, so Piper wouldn’t accidentally cut her paws on it. Then she pulled stacks of soggy books from the broken bookshelf and laid them out on the linoleum floor in the laundry room. There wasn’t much more she could do in the darkness. She briefly considered trying to find a hotel for the rest of the night, but she hated the thought of leaving her broken house. After one last resigned look with the flashlight, Pam climbed the stairs again and changed into a dry T-shirt. In a rare moment of weakness, Piper left her cushion and huddled on the bed. Pam burrowed under the covers with her dog curled in a tight ball at her side and finally fell into a fitful sleep to the sound of flapping canvas.

  Chapter Seven

  Pam answered the door with her cell phone held to her ear and the tinny sound of Muzak grating on her already frayed nerves. Mel. Great. She had almost forgotten the message she had left on Mel’s machine the night before, giving her address and an invitation for Mel to come by anytime to pick up her painting. Naturally she had come at the worst possible time, as if to remind Pam why she rarely let anyone know where she lived.

  “I’m on hold with a contractor,” she explained as she waved Mel inside. “A tree fell…Yes, I need to speak with someone about repairing my roof.”

  Pam gave a detailed description of the damage to her house for the fourth time that morning. The first storm of the season always seemed to bring a rash of downed trees as the weak and dying ones, unnoticed over the summer, succumbed to the winds and rain-soaked ground. The earliest estimate she had so far was two weeks away, and she was torn between toughing it out in her dripping house and cramming an air mattress in her tiny office at the gallery.

  “Careful, there might still be glass on the floor,” she called to Mel before returning to her conversation with the contractor. Mel nodded and stopped a few feet away from the standing water on the floor while she inspected the tarp-covered hole. Pam, with the help of a neighbor and his chain saw, had gotten the pine off her house early that morning only to find the damage was more extensive than she had thought. If she could have covered the hole with plywood, the house would have been habitable, but the tree had managed to fall on a corner and take out large sections of two walls and the roof.

  “Yes, I’ll hold,” Pam said with a sigh. She watched Mel turn away from the damaged area and look around the rest of the downstairs.

  It didn’t take long for her to scan the entire living room, and Pam knew her bare walls and uncluttered surfaces were more revealing than a room full of personal items would have been. Mel was bringing vibrancy and light to her run-down old inn, transforming it into something beautiful, but Pam brought nothing of herself to this house, hadn’t enhanced it in any way. Anyone could see how unproductive and uninspired she was.

  She spent her days at the gallery surrounded by other people’s art, by reminders of her own emptiness. She found it soothing to come home and be free of the taunting creations, the explosions of color and inspiration. The few times she had invited women to her house, she had heard comments about how they had expected her to have paintings covering her walls and had expected
an artist’s loft to be messy, as if she was constantly in the throes of creative passion. Well, Pam had had expectations of her own once upon a time. And she had realized they were never going to come true.

  She had stopped bringing anyone to her home once she discovered how much of her soul was reflected in the barren environment, and seeing Mel walk through her space—and guessing at the judgments forming in her mind—made Pam feel as cracked open as the side of her house.

  The contractor came back on the line and promised to be out by the end of the week to check the house and give her an estimate. Pam gave him the address. She would believe it when she actually saw him arrive on her doorstep.

  “How did your house weather the storm?” she asked Mel after she turned off the phone.

  “Aside from being cold and dark, there was no damage,” Mel said, putting the nature guide she had been leafing through back on the kitchen table. “I found the generator, but I didn’t have any idea how to run it. I’ll figure it out before the next blackout.”

  Pam just nodded. No doubt Mel would learn how to use the generator before the week was out. Pam would commiserate as she, too, struggled with the aftermath of the storm. But she wasn’t obligated or expected to help. In fact, Mel wouldn’t want an offer of help. Usually women wanted something from Pam, not caring if she had problems of her own, but this new relationship was different.

  Pam felt an easing in the tension she had experienced when Mel first walked into her house.

  “How long will it take to fix that?” Mel gestured toward the dripping tarp.

  “I have a couple of appointments set up,” Pam said. “We’ll see who gets here first. It’ll be at least a week, but more likely three.”

  “Oh. I’ve finished the upstairs bedrooms, if you need a place to stay. Two of them even have beds.”

  Pam heard the hesitation in Mel’s voice and she hurried to turn down the offer. Of course Mel would offer her place. She had a huge inn and an even bigger heart. Pam hoped she hadn’t sounded as if she’d been fishing for an invitation. It was tempting, especially when Pam remembered sitting on the steps leading to the beach talking with Mel, and the feel of Mel’s hand when Pam had brushed against it with her own. Even now she felt the tickle of the light touch, vibrating into her belly. She had to say no. Not because she couldn’t control her physical reaction to Mel—of course she could. But because she felt bad enough having Mel look around her empty house and make assumptions about how little she painted. She didn’t need to give her proof day after day. “Thanks, I appreciate the offer. But I’ll stay at a hotel. I know how busy you are without having a guest underfoot before you’re ready to open the inn.”

  Mel was surprised by how disappointed she felt at Pam’s refusal.

  She hadn’t realized just how lonely she was in the big house until she had extended the invitation. And this wouldn’t be just a stranger, someone passing through town briefly. This would be Pam—a woman Mel wanted to know better, a woman who could help Mel transition to life as a local. A woman she was attracted to…Mel hurried past that thought. She was attracted to Pam’s talent and her standing in the community. And she hadn’t quite shaken the residual fantasies of sipping wine on the porch with Pam and discussing art. Nothing more intimate than that.

  “A hotel will be expensive, especially if it takes longer than you expect to get the work done,” Mel said, suddenly determined to convince Pam. “You won’t be in my way, and I’m sure you don’t mind a little paint smell.” She stopped talking, confused by Pam’s frown, and then continued. “I’d really love some company.”

  “I have a dog,” Pam said, going over to the sliding glass door and opening it to let a small dog inside. “Her name is Piper.”

  Mel knelt down and rubbed behind the animal’s soft ears. She was out of the habit of touching, of tactile contact with another being.

  She felt hypersensitive to every brief contact, whether it was the rough and gentle feel of Pam’s hand or Piper’s silky coat. Texture, warmth, the feeling of blood and vitality flowing through another creature and into her. “She’s very polite,” she said as the dog sat quietly, accepting the attention without fuss. She and Richard had argued about having a dog in the house for several years before Mel had finally given up.

  His complaints about dogs being destructive and intrusive couldn’t possibly have applied to this animal. A dog would keep her grounded, engaged. Not so lonely. Once the major repairs on her inn were complete, Mel would find a dog of her own. For now, she’d try to share Piper for a short time. “You must have trained her well.”

  “She came that way,” Pam said. “I found her at the Clam Shack in Seaside. She was outside looking for handouts, and the waitress said she had been there for almost a week. I brought her home and tried to find her owner, but no one claimed her. She’s always been very quiet.”

  “I love dogs. I figured I’d get one once I’m settled in the inn. I have a big backyard, and I’m sure Piper won’t mind how overgrown it is. You can’t make her stay in a hotel room.” Mel stood up. “Any more excuses?”

  “I smoke,” Pam said, but Mel could see her mouth starting to curve in a smile.

  “In the backyard,” Mel said. “So you’ll stay with me?”

  “Maybe. Don’t you want to see your painting?”

  “Oh, of course,” Mel said with a laugh. “I forgot why I came.”

  Pam led the way to her small laundry room. She had given in to an irrational need to protect the painting from the remote possibility of water damage. Mel claimed to have forgotten about it, but Pam was certain she’d be more demanding about the mosaics once she had Pam under her roof.

  She was only considering the offer of a place to stay because Piper would be happier in a house with a yard. She had tried to use Piper as a reason not to stay with Mel, but the plan had backfired. Pam had watched Mel’s gentle fingers scratching the dog’s ears, and she saw her eager expression when she talked about getting a dog of her own. Pam wondered if having a pet was yet another sacrifice Mel had made during her marriage. But she absolutely was not considering Mel’s offer because Mel’s voice had revealed too much loneliness when she admitted she wanted company.

  Pam stood back as Mel followed her into the laundry room and silently stood in front of the painting. She’d be stupid to accept. She had a feeling Mel’s driving need to do everything in the inn on her own would be wearing off soon. She must be exhausted by the work she had done already, and soon she would be only too willing to enlist the help of her reluctant houseguest. In between nagging her for the rest of the paintings.

  “It’s beautiful,” Mel finally said. Pam exhaled in relief. She had wanted just to paint anything in order to get Mel off her back, but she felt strangely happy to hear the truth in Mel’s voice. This wasn’t someone trying to impress her, flatter her, seduce her, like so many of the women who visited Pam’s gallery. She had seen Mel’s pride in her inn, and she believed Mel would only allow beauty in it. She wouldn’t display something she disliked on the walls she had worked so hard to transform. Pam had wanted Mel to like the painting, had trusted her to tell the truth when Pam was unable to judge it objectively. Neither the desire for approval nor the willingness to trust was normal for Pam.

  She wasn’t sure which surprised her more.

  “The black rock. It’s so powerful,” Mel continued. “And the starfish. I love how the tide is coming in to rescue them.”

  Pam bit back the need to correct Mel and tell her the tide was flowing away from the starfish, not toward them. They were dying, cut off from the nourishment and protection of the sea. Starving in the same way Pam was when she tried to paint and nothing was there, or when she felt the familiar urge but desperately had to fight it off. But, of course, Mel would see the more hopeful version of the painting, just like she persevered in seeing Pam as someone talented, creative, productive.

  Pam was accustomed to having other people see her paintings in different ways. Part of being an ar
tist was letting go of her work and turning it over to be interpreted by the public, and she had experienced a similar disparity in viewpoint when Mel had bought her seascape.

  But this time was different because for a brief moment she’d seen Mel’s optimistic perspective superimposed over the actual painting.

  Then Pam’s focus had shifted, and she saw what was really there.

  “Thank you, Pam,” Mel said. “I love it. It’ll be perfect in the front bedroom since I painted the walls a light lavender. You can stay in that room, too.”

  Pam struggled to find words to explain why she couldn’t possibly live in one of those airy bedrooms and face the painting every day, but Mel brushed by her on the way out of the room with Piper right at her heels.

  “Come on,” Mel said. “Let’s get you packed.”

  Chapter Eight

  Mel added more water to her scone batter, accidentally tipping the measuring cup too far and making a sticky mess. She sighed and added another handful of flour. Crazy. She had been baking for years, but today she was making breakfast for Pam as if she were a completely inexperienced cook. On their first morning together in the old inn.

  Mel turned the dough out onto the counter and tried to knead it into submission, stopping now and again to scrape the gooey mess off her fingers. She hadn’t slept well, and she had finally given up the pretense and headed to her kitchen to make a trial run at a large breakfast. Already she was surrounded by the scents of cinnamon and cloves, the aromas reaching far back in her memory, back to weekend breakfasts when Danny was a child. She patted the overworked dough into a large circle and then cut it into wedges. She put the scones in the oven, set the timer, and checked them off her list. She didn’t have much faith in the ancient appliances, but maybe the oven would explode and destroy all evidence of her miserable scones.