by Lisa Wingate
My emotions ricocheted now. The euphoria of seeing the Outer Banks again dissolved into a soft weepiness. Exactly the kind of thing I couldn’t afford.
There wasn’t time for it.
The salt breeze served as a distraction, a comfort, as I rolled down the window and slowly circled the building, looking things over. Manteo was so startlingly beautiful these days, clean and well manicured—a far cry from the commercial waterfront town my mother had first seen when my father brought her to visit as a new bride. With its old, New England–style homes freshly painted and ready for tourists and the harbor filled with expensive pleasure boats, the place lay blanketed in an old-world charm, a sense of being far from modern life and its concerns.
The appeal had apparently sparked an economic boom in the years since my last visit. Sleek, multistory condos towered where the old drugstores and fish houses of my childhood had once leaned away from the sea. The condos were designed to fit in seamlessly, but neither my mother nor Grandmother Ziltha would’ve approved. The new buildings undoubtedly blocked part of the harbor view from the Excelsior’s roof garden, for one thing.
The uptick in construction probably meant that the aging Excelsior, one of only two turn-of-the-century originals to have survived repeated waterfront fires, was worth far more than it had been five years ago. No wonder the first-floor retail space was full, despite the fact that the place looked tired and ragged, as if it, too, were mourning the loss of my mother, who’d dreamed of restoring its Gilded Age glory. At street level, an upscale ladies’ boutique, a jewelry shop dealing in vintage and artisan works, and a small gallery, so narrow that it was little more than a runway with a door on one end, were all closed for the evening. No doubt the store owners were still keeping off-season hours at the first of May.
In another corner of the building, the Rip Shack was also dark. Surf-n-Sand, read a blinking neon sign in the window. The shop was the typical kind of seaside place, offering everything from actual surf equipment to paddleboards, beach chairs, flip-flops, swimsuits, Tshirts, and items in between. A handwritten sign wavered in the breeze, clinging to the window by a bit of tape. I let the car roll almost to a stop as I read the message. Back in one hour-ish.
No time of departure was listed. The loose way of doing business seemed to fit my image of Joel Coates, the young surfer-voiced neighbor who’d called about Clyde’s fall. Since all the other shops were closed for the evening, the Rip Shack probably was too, but no one had bothered to take down the sign.
An SUV and a Volkswagen Beetle sat in the rear alley of the Excelsior. Neither was familiar, but that didn’t mean one or the other wasn’t Clyde’s. I hadn’t seen him in five years, after all.
I rolled into an empty spot, climbed out, stretched the kinks from my back, and studied the third-story windows of the Excelsior. No lights, no movement, no signs of life beyond the wavy plate glass. Nothing but the silent reflections of rooftops and sky. The fire escape tempted me briefly. Back in the day, it had been my preferred method of sneaking to and from the building—less chance that I would run into Grandmother Ziltha, assigning me yet another job to do. Escaping her was my greatest pleasure. Unfortunately, catching me was hers. Every summer when we made arrangements to come here, my mother gently reminded my grandmother that Mom was the one coming to work. I was here to visit with my grandmother. Every summer after we arrived, it was made clear that my grandmother wasn’t interested in a visit; she was doing us a favor by providing an opportunity for extra income, and she expected me to earn my keep, as well.
The hard work didn’t hurt me, in truth. It taught me things. Not the least of which was that I wanted to be the boss someday … and when I did become the boss, I would treat people with respect, not condemnation. Life at the Excelsior had been a good training for life in general.
“Looking for someone?”
I stumbled backward, lost my balance, bumped into a trash can, and made a racket that probably echoed for several city blocks.
There was a guy standing in the back door of the surf shop. Tall, good-looking, wearing a T-shirt. The wetsuit rolled down at his waist was still slick with water.
“Joel?” I asked, but he was older than I’d pictured. Probably a little older than me—fortysomething perhaps. Longish, slicked-back hair outlined his face. Brown, but sun-bleached lighter on the ends. He obviously spent a lot of time by the water.
“Mark. Mark Strahan.” He stepped forward and extended a hand, but the gesture wasn’t welcoming, exactly. More like curious … or suspicious. His chin lifted as he sized me up.
Mark had the kind of rich, caramel-brown eyes a girl shouldn’t gaze into very long. A shock of damp hair fell over them after he shook my hand. He swept it out of the way, seeming to wait for me to make the next move. When I didn’t, he said, “You the stepdaughter?” It sounded more like an accusation than a question. Something inside me bristled. It also confirmed that he wasn’t glad to see me here. “My Saturday clerk said he’d called you about Mr. Franczyk’s accident.”
“Yes. I appreciate that he did.” I squinted toward the windows again, wondering if Clyde was watching us, even now.
“No one’s up there.” Mark seemed to read my thoughts. “Mr. Franczyk hasn’t shown up since he walked out of the hospital. Not unless he came and went in the middle of the night.”
“Do you have any idea where he is?” According to Joel’s description, my stepfather didn’t socialize with anyone or maintain friendships, and he wasn’t even supposed to be out of the hospital. Where would he go?
“I don’t.” Mark studied me in a way that asked a question, but I couldn’t tell what the question was. This guy wanted something. “I’ve never known him to be gone like this. Not since his wife passed away.” Unlike Joel, he didn’t apologize for mentioning my mother. Maybe it hadn’t occurred to him yet.
“There was no indication of where he was headed? Did he mention any contact with his sons?” Maybe they’d come to get him after all.
“Not according to Joel’s girlfriend. He just told them, if they didn’t remove the IVs, he’d do it himself. Kayla said he wouldn’t give her or the hospital staff next-of-kin information. He told them his family didn’t want anything to do with him and vice versa. He left in pretty rough shape. Kayla says it happens, especially when someone’s afraid social services might look into it as an adult well-being case.”
Something acidic roiled in my stomach and bubbled into my chest. I swallowed hard, trying to quell it. I hadn’t anticipated social services involvement or words like adult well-being case. “This just doesn’t make sense.” If one of Clyde’s sons had finally come to take him back to Raleigh, why wouldn’t they have picked him up at the hospital and stopped by here for some of his things?
“Kellie in the jewelry shop might have some ideas. She’s been here the longest. But she’s closed for a few days and gone across the bridge.”
“All right … well … I guess I’ll go look around upstairs and see what I can figure out.” I didn’t even have the phone numbers for Clyde’s sons anymore, but with a last name like Franczyk, they couldn’t be too hard to find. I could probably track down their contact information… .
“It’s your building.” The comment was surprisingly sharp-edged.
I turned, blinked at him. “Clyde told you that?” Somehow I’d always imagined my stepfather letting everyone believe that the building belonged to him.
Fingers braced on the rolled-down wetsuit, Mark surveyed the nearby ground, his lips pursing in a way that deepened the dimple in his chin. I caught myself wondering what would happen to it if he smiled.
“When we leased the space, he said he only did contracts six months at a time. Said if something happened to him, his stepdaughter would be down here to sell the building quicker than spit off a griddle—his words, not mine.”
That analogy sounded like Clyde. No surprise that he would think of me as spit or that he would paint an unflattering picture for the townsfolk.
“Everyone will be wondering about the building.” Mark broke into my thoughts. “I know this is a family issue for you, but for us it’s our livelihoods. We can’t just walk down the street and find another open space to put in a business.”
“I understand that.” If he knew how well I understood, he’d probably be shocked. On the other hand, the decision could come down to their businesses or mine. “I’m not prepared to talk about that right now. Thanks for the information.” Without waiting for more questions I couldn’t answer, I turned and started toward the side-street entrance to the old hotel stairwell. My mother’s key was waiting on my key ring, right where it had always been. Removing it would’ve been like admitting she was gone forever.
Stepping through the door and starting up the stairs, I reminded myself again that she wouldn’t be here. Whatever secrets this building kept, I would have to discover them on my own.
What was waiting here? What had Clyde left behind? Were there clues as to where he might be?
The door to the third-floor alcove was unlocked when I reached it, the cat flap in the bottom hanging slightly askew. At any given time, my mother had been a caretaker of one to a half-dozen wayward felines looking for permanent homes. Wherever she lived, she was involved with the animal rescue organizations. Perhaps Clyde was still sharing space with Oscar and Felix, the duo of tabby kittens I’d found on my first trip here to meet the old flame my mother had suddenly married. Oscar and Felix were an unplanned wedding gift. Being my mother’s daughter, I couldn’t just leave them in a ditch for the gators.
Maybe Clyde had found them another home after my mother passed away. He didn’t really like cats.
When I turned the corner onto the balcony, Grandmother Ziltha’s wicker porch furniture was still right where it had always been. In the hotel’s glory days, the cushion covers had been regularly washed and the wicker repainted every few years to ward off the salt air. Now the cloth lay faded and threadbare, tiny moats of leaves and cricket parts gathered around the cording. The wrinkles formed dry riverbeds filled with sand. A saggy lawn chair rested forlornly nearby. A matching one had been folded and placed against the front wall.
My mother’s chair. Waiting, as if she were expected to return, open it, and sit watching the boats and the tourists come and go.
Beyond the leaded-glass front door, the interior lay shadowy and dim. A gasp trembled into the silence, and it was a moment before I realized that I’d made the sound myself. Everything in the front room was just as it had always been. All of my mother’s belongings, still in place. Even a basket of organic knitting yarns and a half-finished angora hat remained neatly tucked beside a needlepointed wing chair in the ornate, bay-windowed parlor that my grandmother had referred to as the receiving room.
The screen door slapping shut made me jump, an eerie disquiet settling in its wake. The building creaked and groaned. It always had, but now each sound seemed piercingly loud.
“Hello?” My voice echoed against quiet walls, muted by a myriad of my mother’s quilted hangings and fiber arts creations. “Clyde, it’s Whitney. Are you here?”
No reply.
I passed silently down the center hallway, checked the kitchen, the living room, the bathroom, the master bedroom, six of the guest bedrooms. No one. I peeked into vacant areas that my mother had closed off when she’d moved in. The library, the drawing room, a ballroom that had been built for grand parties but had never hosted one that I knew of, all looked as if they hadn’t seen humankind in a long while.
My courage flagged outside the only guest bedroom I hadn’t checked yet—the one my mother had used as a craft room. I stood gripping the doorknob, stiff-armed like a soldier gathering strength for the final full-frontal assault against an overwhelming enemy. Even so, even having steeled myself, I was unprepared. The place where my mother had died was exactly as it had been the last time I’d visited her. The single ship’s-wheel bed that had once been my father’s waited along one wall, a maple-leaf quilt draped over it. A small dresser sat under the window Mom had always loved because it caught a good breeze off Shallowbag Bay. A stack of books rested on the marble-topped nightstand. Her weaving loom stood by the window, her easel beside it, a watercolor seascape half finished.
One of her scarves lay on the dresser, gray with dust. A paint palette and an artist’s brush were gathering dust beside it.
The only thing missing was the hospital bed she’d told me was only there because the hospice service had sent it by mistake. Oh, Whit, don’t fuss about it. It’s too much trouble to sort out the paperwork. They’ll come get it eventually. She’d waved a backhand and smiled beneath the water-blue head scarf. I’m through all the treatments, and I feel okay. Just enjoy yourself while you’re here. Tell me more about the restaurant in Dallas. I’m so happy it’s doing well… .
Moving into the room, I touched the quilt, ran my hand along it, smelled my mother’s favorite bath spray. Coconut Dream. She said it reminded her of summer nights on the beach.
Grief rose up, sudden and overwhelming. The next thing I knew, I was grabbing the quilt in handfuls, pulling it off the bed, rolling it and clutching it against me, clinging to it as if it were her, then bolting from the room, running into the hallway and through another door, up a flight of stairs to the rooftop garden that had always been my hiding place, my dreaming place, my refuge from the world of others.
The lawn furniture had been left to slowly disintegrate since my mother’s death. A fifties-vintage string of patio lights hung weathered and cracked. The remaining plants had grown wild or died. A Lady Banks rose tumbled from a cracked pot, its blooms a feast of yellow. A dead bougainvillea formed a crown of thorns over a leaning trellis. Passionflower vines circled the garden’s iron railings, the stems heavy and rebellious. New spring leaves thickened the barricade, creating a living wall.
But even this thicket of my mother’s making could not shelter me. Inside this place that she had tended and nurtured back to life, I fell into what remained of a chaise longue, wrapped her patchwork and stitches close, and let the tears come like a storm tide.
The air on the second floor of the building whispered of mildew and decay. It crossed my mind, as I unlocked the door from the stairwell, that my grandmother—who’d always insisted that the cherrywood floors be flawlessly polished and the chair rails along the hallways be dusted to a white-glove shine and the salt haze be washed and washed and washed from the windows—would have been horrified at that smell. She would’ve found it disgusting that the center of her building was going to rot, decomposing like the meat of a sandwich in a forgotten lunch sack.
Didn’t Clyde ever come down here? My mother had stored things like Christmas decorations, gardening equipment, and leftover craft supplies in the empty hotel rooms. Were they as untouched as the one where she’d died? Would I find her treasures waiting here in tiny time capsules?
The long hall, its mahogany wainscoting now clad in pimpled varnish and muted light, stretched wide like a dragon’s mouth, toothed with peeling plaster and paint, dust swirls dripping like smoke. Why did Clyde insist on staying in the Excelsior if he wasn’t even taking care of it? He couldn’t possibly be happy here. He wasn’t a wealthy
man, but he had his military pension. He could afford something better suited, easier to maintain. Instead, he chose this eerie state of suspended animation.
I’d made the rounds this morning and talked to the people who ran the boutique and the gallery downstairs. The jewelry store owner, who reportedly knew the most about Clyde, wasn’t expected back until at least tomorrow. By all accounts, Clyde reluctantly communicated with the tenants about basic repairs and maintenance to the building, but nothing else. He wasn’t interested in chitchat or socializing or invitations to wine-and-cheese events in the stores during the holidays. He hadn’t endeared himself to the shopkeepers, and they weren’t thrilled with the slow disintegration of the Excelsior either.
Unfortunately, they were even less pleased by my arrival. Everyone was worried about my reasons for coming, and I couldn’t give them what I didn’t have—answers about the building … or about Clyde.
After falling asleep on the roof yesterday evening, then waking half frozen under a scattering of stars, I’d gone back downstairs and again found the apartment empty, my stepfather still mysteriously absent. The remainder of the night had me starting at every sound. In the morning, I’d awakened in my mother’s chair, wrapped in her quilt and her scents. Even though the building was mine, I felt like a trespasser, a thief about to be caught and punished.
Before anyone could show up and tell me differently, I wanted to get a look at the second floor. No sense arguing with Clyde about the contents if nothing of value remained. If there was something, at least I’d know what I was arguing for—what my eventual options might be. If left-behind family heirlooms couldn’t buy our way out of the immediate trouble with Bella Tazza 2, my only hope might be the value of the building itself.
A sharp pinch of guilt came with that thought. It was clear enough from the uneasy conversations downstairs that everyone had heard of Patricia’s greedy daughter, who wanted nothing more than to turn the family property into profit.