A Christmas by the Sea

by Melody Carlson

  “I just did like I saw on YouTube. The trick is dry fuel and good air flow.” He explained the process in detail. “And I looked inside the woodshed, Mom. It was pretty full.”

  “Great. We’ll have a fire every night.”

  “Won’t we want to ration it some—to make it all the way through winter?”

  She pursed her lips. As much as she hated to rain on his parade, she didn’t want him being deluded. “I never promised we’d stay here all winter, Jackson. You know that I need—”

  “But you didn’t know how great it would be here. You were being all Negative Nellie. This place is awesome.”

  “Yes, but we have to—”

  “Come on, Mom. Let’s just enjoy it, okay?” His expression was so hopeful that she couldn’t bear to set him straight. If Jackson wanted to live in denial for a while, why spoil it with an argument? Reality would come soon enough. Why not enjoy the moment while it lasted?

  “It’s a nice clear day,” Jackson said as they finished eating. “But it’s pretty chilly out there.”

  “Still want to go beachcombing?” she asked as they carried their dishes to the kitchen.

  “Absolutely.” He set his plate in the sink. “Is it all right if I do these dishes when we get back? I know it’s my turn.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll get my coat and my phone. It’s too early to call a handyman now, but I can call from down there.”

  “Do you think it’s okay if I wear the boots I found on the back porch? They look like my size.”

  “They must’ve been Poppa’s. I’m sure he’d love for you to have them.”

  Before long, they were out on the beach with their gathering buckets. It was nearly nine when she called Mrs. Campbell’s handyman Gordon, but she was able only to leave a message. They walked for another hour or so, but found only a handful of shells—and nothing very impressive. “Shell finding is always better after a storm,” she told Jackson as they paused to look out over the water. “It was one reason I never minded when we had a summer storm.”

  “Is that how your grandparents found all their cool stuff?”

  “I’m sure storms helped, but it was also their daily diligence to—” She paused when she heard her phone jingling. “That’s probably the handyman.” She eagerly answered.

  “I got your message, Mrs. Harper,” Gordon said in a slow Maine drawl. “I can come on out there first thing this morning if you like.”

  “That’d be great.” She briefly described the condition of the bathroom floor.

  “Sounds like you got yourself some dry rot all right. Best to get onto that before it gets worse. The Millers out your way let their problem go too long and next thing you know they got termites. You ain’t seen no sign of termites, have you?”

  “No, no, I don’t think so.”

  “Well, you never know.”

  “When can you come out?” she asked.

  “Lemme finish my coffee, and I’m on my way.”

  “Great. My son and I are on the beach right now, but we’ll hurry back. And if we’re not there, just go inside. The back door’s unlocked.” She told him goodbye and pocketed her phone. “He’s coming,” she told Jackson. “That means I need to get back ASAP. You can keep shell hunting if you like but I’ll—”

  “Nah, I’ll go back with you. Did you really leave the door unlocked, Mom?” He looked concerned.

  “This is Seaside. My grandparents never locked up. No one did.” She smiled nervously. Hopefully that was still the practice. “Mind if we jog back? I’d like to be there when Gordon arrives.”

  Wendy was relieved to make it home before the handyman. “I want to clear everything out of the bathroom,” she told Jackson. “Makes it easier for Gordon—and the less time it takes him, the better it’ll be for our budget.”

  “Maybe he’ll let me help him,” Jackson offered. “That might save some time.”

  Wendy nodded. “Good idea.” She started emptying the linen cabinet, and with Jackson’s help they soon got the old-fashioned bathroom completely cleared out. For a long moment, she studied the space. It was actually a good-sized bathroom. Bigger than the one in their apartment, it had a claw-foot tub and an acrylic shower that her grandparents had gotten installed when she was about Jackson’s age. Hopefully the dry rot wasn’t too bad. It would be expensive to have it all redone.

  “Hallo the house,” a deep voice called.

  “In here,” she yelled back.

  A short, balding man introduced himself as Gordon and immediately started poking around the floor with a screwdriver, actually puncturing a hole right through the linoleum. “You definitely got yourself some dry rot here. Probably a leaky toilet seal.” He looked up at her. “I gotta pull the toilet and, unless I’m wrong, most of the underlayment too. Means you’ll be without your bathroom awhile. You got another one?”

  “No, this is it.” She frowned.

  “You got another place to stay? Friends nearby?”

  “No,” she said firmly. “How long will it take to repair it?”

  He rubbed his chin. “Well, if the dry rot is just ’neath the toilet, I suppose I could be done in a day or two—maybe three or four if it’s worse.”

  “I can help you,” Jackson offered.

  Gordon nodded. “Might speed things along some to have a helper.”

  Wendy wanted to ask how much this was going to cost, but she knew it was pointless. It had to be done. Still, what would they do without a usable bathroom?

  “So you want me to start tearing it out now?” Gordon stood up, hooking his thumbs into his bright yellow suspenders. “It’ll be a mess.”

  “But it has to be done?”

  “Yep.” He dipped his bristly chin.

  “Then I’d appreciate it if you could start right away.”

  “Will do.” He pocketed his screwdriver. “And if I were you, I’d run into the hardware store and pick myself up a camp toilet. To get you by until I’m done in here.”

  “Okay.” She nodded. “Anything else I need?”

  “Well, you’re gonna need some new flooring.”

  “Flooring?”

  “To replace that linoleum. The hardware store don’t got a lot to choose from, but if you’re not too picky, you might find something that’ll do. Otherwise you gotta drive yourself over to Portland to one of them big box stores.”

  “Okay.” Wendy did not want to drive to Portland.

  He looked around the bathroom. “Your fixtures look to be in good shape. Shouldn’t need to replace anything. Well, unless you’re wanting fancy updates.”

  “No,” she said quickly. “I like the old-fashioned look in here.”

  He tapped a shower wall. “Sure hope that dry rot don’t go clear behind here. Hate to have to tear this out.” He bent down and poked with his screwdriver again.

  She frowned. “How does it look?”

  “Hard to say.” He stood. “Gotta open it up to find out.” He turned to Jackson. “Wanna help me get some tools and things from my truck?”

  “Sure.” Jackson nodded.

  “I guess I’ll go to the hardware store,” Wendy said. “Jackson, I’ve got my phone. If anything comes up, you just call me, okay?”

  “Sure.” He paused from following Gordon. “Are you okay, Mom?”

  “Okay?” She smiled stiffly. “Yeah, sure, of course.”

  “Are you worried about money?” he persisted.

  She shrugged. “Well, I hadn’t really planned on these kinds of expenses.”

  “Remember how you always used to say that God takes care of us,” he reminded her. “You and Dad used to tell me God will provide what we need.”

  “You’re right, Jackson.” She sighed. From the mouths of babes . . . or preadolescents. “Thanks.”

  “So maybe we just need to trust him more.”

  Her smile grew more genuine. “I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

  As she drove to town, Wendy pondered Jackson’s reminder. Didn’t she used to trust G
od to provide? She and Edward had both believed that God would meet all their needs. When had she quit? Was it when Edward got sick? Or when they paid more than they had saved for medical treatment that didn’t work? Or after he was gone and all the bills kept pouring in? She wasn’t even sure, but she knew that Jackson was right—she had forgotten. She wasn’t even sure she believed it anymore. For Jackson’s sake, she wanted to believe it. But in light of life these past few years . . . well, it felt impossible.

  Driving through town, she marveled at the many improvements. From the sidewalk pavers to charming streetlamps to the variety of businesses, the village looked bigger and better than ever. Even the city park looked clean and fresh, with sturdy benches and inviting picnic tables. She parked across the street from the hardware store, noticing that several shops and a couple of restaurants appeared to be open. Seaside was not nearly as dead as she’d imagined it would be during the off-season.

  Noticing a big plush turkey in the toy-store window, she remembered this was Thanksgiving week. Perhaps that was why the town felt lively. Maybe tourists were here for the holiday week. Next to the toy store was one of her favorite shops, She Sells Sea Shells. Wendy was glad to see it was still in business. Someday she’d have to take Jackson in there. Next to the shell shop was an elegant-looking furniture store called Driftwood. That was new. She peered in the window to see some gorgeous pieces of expensive-looking furniture. If money were no object, she’d love to get some of those pieces for the beach cottage. Unfortunately, that was not going to happen.

  Wendy breathed deeply as she crossed the street at the corner. The sea air was incredibly energizing. So clean and fresh and invigorating. Even the fishy smell wafting in from the docks didn’t bother her. It never had. The hardware store looked pretty much the same as she recalled. At least on the outside. When she wheeled a cart through, she could see that it had been modernized and was much better stocked than she remembered. The good signage helped her quickly find the camping aisle. Hopefully Gordon was right about finding a portable camp toilet here, but the more she looked, the less hopeful she felt. Was there really such a thing?

  “Need some help?”

  She glanced up to see a tall man with dark wavy hair. Dressed casually in faded blue jeans and a plaid flannel shirt, he appeared to be carefully checking her out. He likely suspected she wasn’t a local. Hardware store employees were probably familiar with everyone in this small town. “I’m looking for, uh, a temporary toilet,” she said with a bit of embarrassment. “You know, the kind they take camping. Do you have anything like that?”

  His dark brows arched with amusement. “Going camping this time of year?”

  “No.” She hid her irritation at his freshness. “Our bathroom is being torn out and we need something to—”

  “Oh, yeah, I get it.” He nodded. “But if you’re under construction, you should consider getting an outhouse so that your workers—”

  “That’s not necessary,” she declared. “The project should only take a day or two.”

  “Okay.” He slowly led her to the end of the aisle. “Looks like a couple of options right here.” He pointed to some boxes. “Now, if it were me, I’d go with this model.” He tapped the biggest box. “Looks sturdier. Not that you’d need a particularly hefty potty yourself.” He chuckled like this was highly amusing, and she could tell by the way he was talking that he actually knew nothing about the products he was attempting to sell her. Wendy couldn’t believe she was standing here discussing toilets with a perfect stranger. Not that he was perfect—although he was rather attractive. But she didn’t appreciate him making fun of her—and he was obviously enjoying her discomfort a bit too much. Maybe he’d forgotten to study the customer service section in his employees’ manual.

  “Fine,” she retorted. “I’ll take that one.”

  He reached down to pick it up. “It’s a little big for your cart. How about I take it up front for you?”

  “Thank you,” she said crisply.

  He eased the bulky box from the shelf and onto the floor, leaning it against his leg. “So . . . you’re new in town?”

  “Not exactly.” She watched as he easily picked up the container. Was he trying to be friendly or actually hitting on her—and did it even matter?

  He hoisted the carton to his shoulder. “But you’re not a tourist, are you?”

  “Not exactly,” she repeated her intentionally vague answer.

  “But you are remodeling your bathroom.” He grinned. “Anything else I can help you with? Need a sink or a—”

  “I do need some flooring,” she admitted. “Although I’ve heard your selection is limited.”

  He pointed toward the back of the store. “That’s the building section back there. I think flooring is on aisle 22 or 23, but I wouldn’t stake my life on it.”

  “Thank you.” She turned away from him, rolling her eyes and her cart—trying to get away from this weird employee and wondering why she felt so irked at him. After all, he was trying to be helpful and he was awfully good-looking. But it was his offhanded teasing that had gotten under her skin. Besides that, he was too nosy. What business was it of his to know her status in Seaside? She turned onto aisle 22 and was pleasantly surprised to find several flooring options. Some big rolls of vinyl as well as packages of tile squares. Unfortunately, she’d forgotten to measure. So she pulled out her phone and called Jackson, asking him to find out.

  “It’s seven feet wide . . . and almost ten feet long,” he informed her just as the obnoxious sales guy returned.

  “How’s the project going?” she asked Jackson, trying to appear preoccupied so the salesman would go away and mind his own business.

  “Great, Mom. Gordon’s already got the toilet removed. I carried it outside for him. It was pretty heavy, but I got it by myself.”

  “Good. I should be home—”

  “Gotta go, Mom. Gordon is calling.”

  She pocketed her phone, turning her attention to the three choices of roll-out vinyl. One was dark and dreary, one was faux wood, and one resembled white tiles.

  “Find anything you like?” the salesman asked.

  She frowned. “Not particularly. But I suppose that would work.” She pointed to the shiny white one. “Although I don’t really like it and I’m not sure it’s wide enough.”

  “Says it’s 72 inches wide.” He pointed to the sign next to the rack. “That’d be six feet.”

  “I can do the math.” She refrained from rolling her eyes again.

  “How big is your bathroom?”

  She repeated what Jackson had just told her.

  “That’s not going to work for you. Not without a seam, and no one wants a seam in a bathroom. If they can help it.”

  “Oh, yeah.” She conceded. “Well, it’s kind of cheap looking anyway.”

  He pursed his lips then nodded. “Gotta agree with you there.” He pointed to the boxed tiles. “What about these stick-on tiles? You got your faux travertine, faux granite, and then you got the solid colors—white, gray, and black.”

  She frowned, trying to imagine any of these options in the old-fashioned bathroom. None of it seemed quite right. Maybe she was in over her head.

  He picked up a black square in one hand and a white one in the other. “I used these to make a checkerboard pattern in a small bathroom, and if I do say so myself, it turned out pretty nice. They’re easy for a do-it-yourselfer, and these stick-on tiles are surprisingly tough. For the money, you can’t beat ’em.”

  Like a lightbulb going on, she instantly envisioned a charming black-and-white checkerboard floor in the cottage bathroom—it would look sweet with the old-fashioned white sink and claw-foot tub. And perhaps she could put some accent color on the wall. It all made sense. Her eyes moved from the two squares still in his hands up to the smiling face of the man holding them. In that same instant she felt a strange little jolt inside of her. As if a dormant part of her had just been poked and awakened . . . almost like coming to lif
e. And although it was a pleasant sensation, it was somewhat unsettling.

  five

  I THINK YOU SOLD ME on it,” Wendy declared. “Checkerboard it is.”

  “Really? You like it?” His eyes lit up, and she realized they were a deep shade of blue—slightly out of place with his dark brown hair, and yet strikingly attractive.

  “And you’re not exaggerating? Is installation really easy?” She took a square from him, carefully examining both sides, testing it for strength and trying not to think about those deep blue eyes.

  “It’s easy-breezy. As long as you have a smooth, flat, and very clean surface.”

  She pursed her lips. “And you really think I can do it?”

  He appeared to size her up, then grinned. “You look fit to me. I’m sure you can handle it.”

  She flushed slightly as she bent down to pick up a box of tiles. Was he flirting?

  “Here,” he said quickly. “Let me get these for you. The boxes are heavier than they look.” He set a box of white tiles followed by a black one into her cart. “There you go.”

  “Is that enough?”

  His mouth twisted to one side. “Probably more than enough, but it’s better to have too many than not enough, and the store will let you return what you don’t use.”

  “Thanks.” She smiled, trying to act perfectly natural. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  “Glad to be of service. Anything else I can help you with? Need any towel racks or bathroom accessories while you’re in home-improvement mode?”

  She considered this. If she wanted the cottage to show nicely, it might be wise to replace the flimsy old towel bars and hooks and things after all. “Come to think of it, that’s not a bad idea.”

  “Right this way.” He led her down another aisle and then another. “I, uh, think we’re getting closer.”

  Eventually they found a decent selection, but Wendy couldn’t decide on the finish. “I kind of like the bronze,” she said. “But I’m not sure that’s best.”

  “What metal are your plumbing fixtures?”

  “Chrome.”