Thomas Kinkade's Cape Light

by Katherine Spencer

  Sophie laughed. “Good lord, no. My mother couldn’t stand that idea. But they both loved Cape Light.”

  James could easily imagine it. “It must have been beautiful here back then.”

  “Yes, but much more remote. Harder to get to without the big highways and train service extended to this point.”

  “So how did your parents jump from chickens to apples?”

  “Lucky for my mother, this orchard and house came up for sale. Bank foreclosure—it was nineteen thirty, the start of the Depression. But her father still had money. He bought this property for a song. He loved his daughter, and he approved of apples. He knew my folks would never be millionaires, but they’d do well if they worked hard, took care of the land and the trees, and managed their business properly. He helped my father with that,” she added. “My father, to his credit, paid him back every penny. My grandfather respected that.”

  James slipped the photo from the plastic sheet that covered it. “I could take this someplace and have it enlarged and framed for you, Grandma. Maybe I should make a few copies. You can give them out at Christmas, to the family—to my father and aunts?”

  Sophie beamed. “What a nice idea. Is it much trouble for you?”

  “Not at all. But I’d like to look at this album more. Maybe I can do something with the pictures so that they aren’t stuck in a box somewhere. I’d like to know more about the family’s history, too. I love all your stories.”

  His grandmother patted his shoulder as she came to her feet again. “I thought you might. You’ve got more than a touch of the poet in your soul, dear.”

  As James put the album in a safe place, he noticed a photo on the floor. Sophie had noticed it, too. “Pick that up, will you, dear? Let me see. That one looks more recent . . .”

  He handed her the photo. It was clearly more recent. A color photo, though not all that modern, with its bright yellow and red tones. A little boy in a baseball uniform, about to swing his bat, a gap showing in his smile where a tooth was missing.

  “That’s your father. Didn’t you recognize him?”

  James shook his head. “That’s big, bad Bart? That skinny little twerp?”

  Sophie laughed. “One and the same. He thought he was headed for the major leagues at that age. He wasn’t very good at baseball, but he loved it, and we encouraged him, Grandpa and me.”

  “Good to know he wasn’t always that realistic about his career goals, either,” James said, still stinging from the previous night’s showdown.

  “He also wanted to be an astronaut.” She gazed at the photo a moment. “He was a good boy, always had a kind heart, and was protective of his sisters. Though he could be mischievous. Nothing terrible,” she added. “He was a little scoundrel; always made us laugh.”

  “Sorry, Grandma, I find that hard to believe,” James said honestly. His father was still kind and protective of the people he loved. But he didn’t have much of a sense of humor or even flexibility.

  “He hasn’t changed that much,” she insisted. “When you have words with him, try to remember this picture. It might help.”

  James thought that was interesting advice. “Okay, I’ll try. But you probably should, too.”

  His grandmother looked up at him. “You got me there. Maybe you should make copies of that one, too,” she added with a laugh.

  James gathered a pile of clothes his grandmother had tossed in the donation pile and shoveled them into a large black plastic bag. “Are you really leaving here, Grandma?”

  He heard her sigh. “I don’t know. In my heart, I don’t feel as if I am. I just can’t picture it. But lately, it does feel like I’m being swept away on a riptide. I’m trying to fight it, but it’s just too strong to swim against.”

  James heard the sad, defeated sound in her voice. “I don’t want to do this repair work if it’s going to help my dad and aunts push you out. I can find a job somewhere else. I think I need two jobs anyway, to earn the amount of money I need.”

  “That’s good of you to say, dear. But it won’t make a difference either way. The cleaning out and repairs need to be done, whether I stay or not. I can’t let the place fall down around me. Maybe my time here has come to an end. ‘To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under the heaven . . .’ You know that Scripture, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do.” James didn’t know too much Scripture, but he was familiar with those famous lines.

  “Maybe I just have to get my mind . . . and my heart . . . around those words. It’s very hard, going through all this old stuff. It doesn’t make the question any clearer,” Sophie confessed, gazing around. She looked confused and suddenly tired, he thought. “All I can say is, life goes by awful fast. You don’t feel that way when you’re young. But at my stage, when you look back, it seems like a movie that was running on fast-forward the whole time. Years and years went by in a heartbeat. Inside, I hardly feel any different at all.”

  James gazed at her with sympathy but couldn’t help smiling, too. “That’s a good way to describe it . . . Can I use that line in a story sometime?”

  She laughed, surprised and suddenly cheerful. “I’d be honored. I never thought I ever said anything worth writing down.” She glanced at her watch. “What do you say—ready for lunch?”

  “Sure. Let’s take a break.” He could tell she was ready to leave this room and her memories. And determined to serve him three squares a day.

  * * *

  After lunch, James began to carry the trash out from the room they were cleaning. It was a long walk from the upstairs bedroom down through the kitchen and out the side door to the truck. On the second trip, he piled the boxes high—higher than he could see—and Sophie scurried to the door to open it for him.

  “Be careful. You’re going to fall like that,” she warned.

  “I’m okay, Grandma. Just point me toward the truck.” He could see a little, around the edge of the cartons. But as he swung out of the house and headed for the driveway, he smacked into something solid—that gave out a high-pitched squeal.

  “Oh, my gosh. I didn’t see you there . . . I’m so sorry.”

  The boxes tumbled down, the contents spilling all over the drive—old shoes, broken toys, a woman’s wide-brimmed hat covered with dusty cloth flowers, and a water-stained roll of Happy Birthday wrapping paper that unfurled like a flag.

  At the same time, Zoey dropped the paper bag she had been carrying, and a collection of pie tins poured out and rattled to the ground, rolling around like pinballs until they each spun to a stop.

  James stared at Zoey, and she stared back.

  “Instant yard sale?” she asked in a small voice. James grinned, and they both started laughing.

  “One man’s junk is another man’s treasure.” James began picking up the fallen debris, and Zoey bent down to help him.

  “I should have seen you coming. I was in a daze or something.” She had actually been so anxious at the possibility of seeing him, she’d been totally distracted, worrying about her hair and her outfit and what she would say. So now you just look like a complete klutz. Good job.

  “I piled the boxes too high. It was my fault,” he said.

  Zoey didn’t reply. The guys she knew rarely admitted it when they messed up, and never so easily. That’s refreshing, she wanted to say.

  “No harm done,” he added, tossing a worn-out sneaker into one of the cartons. “How about those pie tins? Need any help chasing them down?”

  “I can manage.” Zoey had to go around the truck to get the last tin, which had rolled underneath and come out the other side. Despite her claim that she could handle it, James had come around the truck and they met face-to-face, practically knocking each other over. Zoey slipped a bit on the gravel, but he grabbed her arms just in time. She stared up at him. She could feel his breath and, for some odd reason, couldn’t pull her
gaze away from his. His face was so close. Was he going to kiss her?

  Mac came racing around the truck. He picked up a pie tin in his mouth, circled them quickly, and dashed off toward the barn, gravel flying out from under his paws.

  James laughed, stepping back from her. “What in the world was that—Space Dog?”

  “Looks like he beat us both to that one. He must think it’s a game. He wants us to chase him.”

  “That dog needs a Frisbee. There must be at least one in this pile of junk. I’ll check before I go to the dump.”

  “Are you helping Sophie clean out closets?”

  “I’m helping her clean out everything. And paint and do some other repairs. I fixed the door. It isn’t stuck anymore,” he reported proudly.

  “Really? I didn’t know writers could be handy, too.” She was teasing him a little. But it was also true. She was surprised he knew his way around a toolbox.

  “My dad taught me. He knows carpentry, how to paint, and all that. My grandfather taught him. Running the orchard, he had to do his own repair work most of the time.”

  Zoey nodded. “That makes sense.”

  “My father hates to do any of that stuff now. He always hires someone. But I like it. It makes me feel productive, and it’s a good way to earn money,” he added, tossing a box into the truck bed.

  “So you’re going to work on Sophie’s house while you’re staying here?”

  “Yes, it all worked out. She needed to hire a handyman and here I was, just hanging out. I would do it for free, but she insists on paying me. And I really need the money. For my trip,” he added, tossing another carton in the truck.

  “What trip is that?” Did she miss something the last time she spoke to him? She didn’t remember him mentioning that he planned to travel.

  James glanced at her and smiled. “Oh, sorry. I told my grandmother, but I guess you weren’t around. I’ll be leaving right after the holidays. I’m not sure where yet. Someplace really interesting—South America, maybe? There’s this website called WAVE where you can find agricultural jobs all over the world. You apply and are matched up with a farm. I did it in college over a summer. I went to Spain. It was a great experience.”

  “It does sound great.” Zoey had always wanted to take a trip like that, just backpacking around and going to different countries with no set schedule. Even a semester abroad would have been great. But her parents couldn’t afford it. “How much money do you need to save?”

  “At least two thousand dollars, for my airfare and expenses until I start working. I don’t have much time. I’d like to leave right after New Year’s. I’m going to look for another job in town, too, but at least I can save everything while I’m staying with my grandmother.”

  “I’d love to travel like that someday, too. Maybe after I graduate. I guess you’ll see all kinds of interesting things to write about and meet all sorts of people.”

  “I hope so,” he said cheerfully, tossing another box in the pickup. It fell with a soft thud on top of the others. “My grandmother told me that you’re an art major?”

  “I have a double major, art and psychology. I’m studying to be an art therapist. I’ll have to go to grad school, too.”

  He looked impressed. “What an interesting career choice. When I was a little kid I had a lot of nightmares. My parents brought me to a shrink, and she made me draw pictures.”

  Zoey smiled. “I want to work with children, too. I volunteer right now in a center where the counselors work with kids. I’m getting good experience there.”

  “See, I guessed right off you were the type. Artistic . . . but smart and kind,” he added. His blue gaze met hers, and she felt herself starting to blush.

  Zoey stepped back, hugging the bag of pie tins. “Why were you having nightmares? Did you ever find out?”

  He shrugged. “Too many Harry Potter books. My mother kept telling me it was just a story, but I was sure that we were secretly related. Like he was a lost twin, and nobody wanted to tell me the truth.”

  Zoey laughed. “Did you get teased in school for having the same last name?”

  “A little,” he said. “But that only convinced me more. They say children with high IQs have very active imaginations.”

  “Yes, I’ve read studies about that.”

  “Did you read Harry Potter books when you were little?”

  “I did,” Zoey replied. “Hermione was my favorite. I always wished I could have her for a best friend.”

  “I liked Hermione, too. I had a crush on her,” he admitted. “I never understood why Harry didn’t.” He smiled. “Now that you mention it, you look a little like her.”

  He was flirting again. She tried to ignore it, but that was hard.

  “Did you grow up in Cape Light?” he asked.

  Zoey had guessed that question was coming, but she never liked answering it. It was too complicated. “Not really. But I like it here. It’s a nice place to live. For now, I mean.”

  She heard her phone buzz, signaling a text. She thought it was rude when people pulled out their phones in the middle of a conversation, but this time, she felt saved by the interruption. “I’m sorry, I have to see who this is.”

  “That’s all right. I don’t mind.” James tossed two more cartons onto the pile. Even though it was cold outside, he wore an open flannel shirt with a T-shirt underneath. The shirt flew open each time he tossed the boxes, and Zoey couldn’t help noticing his strong chest.

  The text was from her dad, who needed her at the diner earlier than her scheduled shift. She quickly texted him an okay.

  “My dad. I have to get to work. He needs me there early,” Zoey explained as she slipped the phone into her pocket. “Can you give the pie tins to your grandmother? Oh . . . I forgot they fell. I’ll take them home and wash them first.”

  James pulled the bag from her hand. “No problem. Got this covered. You sound like you’re busy enough, running to work, to school. Volunteering,” he added. “Do you ever just hang out?”

  She wasn’t sure why he was asking. Did he think she was some sort of totally serious, stressed-out person, rushing around like a lunatic all the time?

  “Sure. I hang out.”

  “Good to know. Would you like to hang out with me sometime? Like, go to a movie or something?”

  Did he just ask me out? Zoey had to take a breath before she answered. “Sure. That would be fun.”

  “How about Friday night? Have any plans?”

  She pretended to think about it a moment, trying not to seem so super available. “I have to work, but I get off at five.”

  “Great. My grandmother has your number. I’ll check in, and we can figure it out.”

  Zoey nodded, not knowing what to say. She was afraid that she would do or say something terrifically dumb. She glanced at her watch without even seeing it. “Got to go. Good luck with the cleanup.”

  “Thanks. I need it. My grandmother’s a real pack rat. Everything she ever owned has some sort of sentimental value.”

  “Yeah, I know. But that’s what makes her so special.”

  His expression softened. “Very true. So long, Hermione . . . I mean, Zoey.”

  “So long, Potter,” she called over her shoulder as she walked to her car. “Hope nothing too scary pops out of the closets. But I’m sure you can handle it.”

  She heard him laugh and saw him wave as she started down the drive.

  A date with James? Really? Does he actually like me, or is he just bored to death up here?

  Steady, Zoey. You don’t want to drive into an apple tree. You have plenty of time to think about this later . . . at the boring old Clam Box.

  CHAPTER SIX

  On Wednesday afternoon, Emily pulled up to Emerson Middle School and parked near the gym. She was already a few minutes late for Jane’s game, but hoped it hadn’t sta
rted on time. There was usually some delay, waiting for refs or the opposing team to arrive.

  She ran down the hallway to the gym, not really noticing how quiet the school was. The gym was surprisingly empty—except for two boys playing basketball at the far end of the shiny wooden floor, the sound of the ball and their shouts echoing in the big space.

  “Can you help me?” Emily called. “Isn’t there a girls’ volleyball game here today?”

  The boys stopped and glanced at her. One continued bouncing the ball. “I don’t think so.”

  “I think they’re away today,” the taller boy said. “There’s a schedule on the bulletin board,” he added, shooting a hook shot over his friend’s head.

  “Hey, man, that doesn’t count,” the shorter boy protested.

  “Yeah, it does.” He grabbed the rebound and stuffed in another.

  Emily shouted back a word of thanks but knew they didn’t hear her. She ran back out to the hall and checked the bulletin board near the door, filled with schedules for all the school teams.

  Finally, she found it: Wed. 11/30 Girls Volleyball: Away. Simpson Middle School—Beverly.

  She ran back out to her car, jumped in, and drove out of the lot, heading for Route 1A. She wasn’t sure she remembered the way to Simpson Middle School. The talking gadget on your phone, Emily. No-brainer . . .

  She pulled over to the side, set her phone to direct her—even though the robotic voice drove her crazy—and pulled back out on the road.

  “Turn left in five hundred feet, at the next light,” the voice said.

  “Will do, thanks.” Am I the only person in the world who talks back to that thing? She could only blame her mother for teaching her and her sister to be unfailingly polite at all times.

  Emily’s phone rang just as she stopped for a red light. She quickly glanced at the screen—her mother again. Emily didn’t have to listen to the message. She knew it was another last-minute pitch to get her to the open-space meeting, though Emily had made it perfectly clear that if her mother wanted to go, she needed to arrange her own ride. But it was more than transportation that Lillian was after. Emily knew that, too.