A Christmas by the Sea

by Melody Carlson

  “Oh, I don’t know.” She wasn’t sure about taking a stray dog into the house. “Maybe we should call someone . . . to get him.”

  “It’s Thanksgiving, Mom. Who are you gonna call?”

  Wendy shrugged. “Good point.”

  “Are you hungry, boy?” Jackson opened the door. “Wanna come in and have some food?”

  Without hesitating, the dog followed Jackson inside, while Wendy turned on more lights. The cottage was just as messy as they’d left it. She remembered her fear over a possible burglar, but decided a smart thief would probably take one look at this place and run the other way. She went into the kitchen where their sand dollars were still spread all over the place. “What should we feed him?” She opened the fridge and looked.

  “How about eggs?” Jackson suggested.

  “Eggs?” She frowned.

  “Yeah, they’re protein. And if he hasn’t eaten for a while, they might go down easily.”

  She couldn’t help but smile. “Since when did you get to be such an expert on dogs?”

  He shrugged as he removed the egg carton. “I’ll fix his food for him, Mom. You don’t have to do a thing.”

  “Okay.” She stepped back, frowning down at the dog. “He’s really dirty, Jackson. And for all we know he could have fleas or mange or, well, anything. After you feed him, you better put him back outside for the night.”

  “Aw, Mom.”

  “Jackson.” She put a warning in her tone.

  “But he needs a friend right now,” Jackson pleaded. “What if I clean him up?”

  “We don’t even have a working bathroom,” she pointed out.

  “The shower works okay,” he reminded her.

  She rolled her eyes. “Fine, clean him up if you want.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  “And don’t make a mess in the bathroom.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

  “You’ll have to take complete responsibility for the dog tonight, and tomorrow morning we’ll try to figure out who he belongs to . . . or take him to a shelter or something. Okay?”

  He reluctantly agreed. Feeling like she might be making a mistake, she went into the living room and let out a long sigh. She’d already started dismantling this room and even painted two walls. But right now it looked disheveled and overwhelming. Besides the rest of the painting, which she planned to attack tomorrow, the wood floors really needed some attention. And she needed to thin out a lot more, including clearing some of the old, bulky pieces of furniture. Somehow she should stage this room, and with no budget to buy anything extra, she’d have to rely on her ingenuity and elbow grease.

  But the living room could wait. Right now she needed to focus on her bedroom. After getting the walls painted yesterday, she’d spent several hours scrubbing the soft pine floor earlier today. To her relief, it was dry and looked pretty good. Now she just needed to paint the baseboard and window trim with the white paint. Later she’d get Jackson to help her move the furniture back into place—and call it a night.

  Scooting along the floor, she carefully painted the wood trim. She could hear Christmas music drifting in from the living room and knew Jackson must’ve put an old record on. The cheery music combined with Jackson thumping around and happily chattering at the dog filled the little cottage with a sweet, homey sound. Almost like a real family.

  She was just putting the lid back on the paint can when Jackson knocked on her door. “Wanna see Oliver, Mom?”

  “Oliver?” She cautiously opened the door to see that not only did the dog appear clean and groomed, he had what appeared to be a leather collar around his neck. “Wow.” She knelt down to examine him better and noticed he even smelled good. “How did you—”

  “I kinda had to shower with him.” Jackson grinned, and she noticed that his hair was still damp and he’d changed into sweats. “Then I went through that storage room upstairs. Remember I put some of your stuff up there too—and there was an old hairbrush and comb set that I used to comb out his hair. I had to cut some of the mats out.”

  “Where did you get this?” She fingered the soft leather collar.

  “It was an old belt that was in a pile of men’s clothes, but it was all worn out where the holes used to be, so I cut it down and made a new hole. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “It was probably Poppa’s.” She smiled wistfully. “You’re a clever young man, Jackson.”

  “He’s a really good dog, Mom. He didn’t even mind when I used the hairdryer on him.”

  “My hairdryer?”

  “Yeah, but I took good care of it and put it back in your stuff.”

  She stood up and, folding her arms across her front, tried to think of a gentle way to put the kibosh on this dog business.

  “And he’s real smart, Mom. Oliver already knows how to sit and stay.”

  “Oliver?”

  “That just seemed like his name.”

  “Really?”

  Jackson glanced past her. “Hey, Mom, this room looks really great. That color you mixed up is really cool. Can I paint my room a color too?”

  “What color would you choose?”

  “How about a darker blue? Maybe like the ocean on a cloudy day.”

  She slowly nodded. “I suppose that’d be okay. We just need to be sure we select colors that buyers like.”

  Jackson got that stubborn look again, but then he smiled. “Everyone likes blue, Mom.”

  She pointed to Oliver. “And don’t forget that he is only here for the night.” Jackson’s smile vanished and Wendy felt like a villain. “How about if you help me get the furniture pieces back in here?” she asked.

  “Okay,” he muttered.

  “We need to be careful not to bump the wood I just painted—it’s still tacky.” She looked at the dog. “Will he be okay?”

  “I’ll put him in my room,” Jackson said glumly. “I fixed him up a bed and water bowl and everything up there. He really likes it too.”

  It didn’t take long to get the few furnishings into place, but when they were finished, Jackson still looked like he’d lost his best friend—or was about to. Wendy felt guilty and knew somehow she needed to put a better spin on this.

  “Here’s the deal,” she began carefully. “You said yourself that the dog seems well trained . . . and that probably means he has an owner—somewhere. I’m guessing he could belong to a tourist. Maybe he got lost on the beach. If we get the word out, someone will probably claim him. He might even have an electronic chip to identify him. A lot of people get those for pets. He does seem like a nice dog—”

  “So you do like him?”

  She smiled. “Of course. What’s not to like? But he probably has a heartbroken owner who loves and misses him. And here’s the bottom line, Jackson—I just don’t want you to be too hurt when that happens.”

  “But what if no one shows up to claim him?” Jackson asked with hopeful eyes. “Could I keep him then?”

  Wendy didn’t know what to say. Their apartment back in Cincinnati had a strict no-pets policy, but she wasn’t ready to have that conversation. Not tonight. “Oh, Jackson.” She sighed, pushing hair away from her face. “I don’t know. Let’s just sleep on it. Okay?”

  “Okay.” He nodded. “That’s fair.”

  “And tomorrow, you can ask around the neighborhood—see if anyone knows who he belongs to.”

  “All right, Mom. I’ll do that.” Jackson wrapped his arms around her neck, solidly kissing her cheek. “Good night, Mom.”

  “Good night.” She ruffled his hair.

  “And I’ll sleep tight,” he added. “I’ll sleep even better than usual because I’ve got a watchdog in my room.”

  Wendy resisted the urge to groan as she forced a smile, then closed her door. She knew she was in over her head—more with each passing day. Somehow, she had to get through this without losing her son . . . or her mind. Remembering her promise to Jackson—to trust God more—she decided to pray about this latest addition to their ho
usehold. “Dear God,” she pleaded quietly and quickly, “please help us to find that lost dog’s real owners. Amen.”

  Wendy was pleasantly surprised to wake to sunshine streaming through the bare window the next morning. She’d removed the tattered curtain before painting the bedroom, and although she had some ideas for recycling linens, she hadn’t figured out the new window covering yet. At least she’d taken the time to clean the glass, and with the morning sunshine, it was sparkling.

  “Good morning,” Jackson called out as she came into the kitchen. “Oliver and I already went down to the beach.” He held up a bucket. “I found about thirty sand dollars.”

  “I totally forgot,” Wendy admitted. “You should’ve woken me.”

  “I figured you needed to sleep in, Mom. You’ve been working so hard lately.”

  “Thanks. That was nice.” Wendy filled the coffeepot with water.

  “I met one of our neighbors on the beach. A girl about my age. She and her mom and little sister are renting a cottage about ten houses down the beach from us. She said it looks just like ours except that it’s yellow.”

  “And she lives here full-time? Or are they just here for the weekend?” She measured coffee grounds into the basket.

  “They’re full-timers. She said they moved here last summer after her parents got divorced. Her mom works as a waitress at Fisherman’s Wharf.”

  “Wow, you learned a lot about her.”

  “She’s a real talker.” Jackson grinned. “I guess she was nice to me because I gave her some sand dollars.”

  Wendy felt her brows arch as she turned on the coffee maker. “You gave up some of your precious sand dollars?”

  “Well, the tide was already in and she couldn’t believe how many I’d found. And she’s never found any before. I guess I felt sorry for her.”

  “Uh-huh.” Wendy noticed the empty egg carton in the trash and the frying pan still on the stove. “Did you finish off the eggs?” she asked.

  “Me and Oliver.” He grinned sheepishly. “I put some cheese in them too.”

  “Sounds delish.” She put a slice of bread in the toaster.

  “Anyway, Taylor told me she’s seen Oliver out on the beach before, but that he’d never come to her when she called for him. She figured he must really like me a lot.”

  “So does, uh, Taylor know where Oliver might live? Or who might own him?”

  “Nope, but she offered to help me ask around. I guess she knows almost everyone who lives along here.”

  “Taylor sounds like a very friendly girl.”

  “Yeah, she is.” He pointed out the window. “There she is now. She had to go home for a little bit, but said she’d be back to walk around with me—you know, to look for Oliver’s owners . . . like I promised you I’d do.”

  “Good for her.”

  Jackson opened the back door, calling out to a spindly girl with wild red curls that bounced as she ran. Jackson greeted her and even invited her into the house and then, acting like a perfect gentleman, introduced her to Wendy.

  “I’ve been hearing about you,” Wendy told her. “That’s nice of you to help Jackson find Oliver’s owners. I’m sure that some family is missing him.”

  “I doubt it,” Taylor said in a matter-of-fact tone. “I think Oliver is an abandoned stray or runaway. He probably got left behind by one of those summer families. Maybe they were mean to him or they just didn’t want him anymore or couldn’t afford his dog food.”

  “Oh?” Wendy didn’t know how to respond.

  “But Jackson is a good master for Oliver. They get along real nice. I tried to make friends with Oliver before—well, I didn’t call him Oliver then since I didn’t know his name, but I do think Oliver fits him. Don’t you?”

  “It’s a nice name.”

  “Anyway, even when I took a hot dog out on the beach, that dog wouldn’t give me the time of day. That’s probably good since my mom won’t let me have a dog anyway.” She poked Jackson. “We better get moving, man. I have to be home by eleven so Mom can get to work on time.” She turned back to Wendy with a wrinkled nose. “I have to babysit my little sister.” She rolled her eyes. “Tessa is only six, but she can be a royal pain in the you-know-what. But at least Mom pays me for babysitting. Well, if her tips are good enough.”

  “Come on, Oliver.” Jackson tied what looked like a piece of clothesline onto the leather collar. “Let’s go and see if we can find your owners.” He made a snickering sound that suggested this was a pointless mission, but that he was willing to jump through these silly hoops—just to placate his mom.

  Wendy watched as Jackson, his loquacious new friend, and the devoted dog headed down the beach road together. She hadn’t seen that much spring in her son’s step for a long time . . . and the prospect of taking it from him made her feel sick inside. What had she gotten herself into—and how on earth would she ever get out?

  nine

  WHILE GORDON REINSTALLED the bathroom fixtures, Wendy perused the cluttered storage room in search of items she could recycle or up-cycle in staging the cottage. Her plan was to create a sort of shabby-chic décor. Not too cluttered or overly sweet, but just charming and beachy and inviting. Hopefully it would entice a buyer to pay top dollar—ASAP.

  The more she poked and dug, exploring the tiny attic space and jam-packed linen closet, the more she realized she was on a real treasure hunt. Everyday items left behind by her grandparents and other ancestors who’d inhabited this cottage suddenly took on new meaning. By the time Jackson came home, she’d sorted her finds into several piles. One stack was old linens and textiles that she planned to recycle into lace trimmed curtains, quaint pillow covers, and tablecloths. She’d even dug out a nicely worn patchwork quilt. Its faded pastel shades, combined with the enamel white headboard she’d unearthed in the attic, would look lovely in her pale blue bedroom.

  She’d also found old lamps, picture frames, mirrors, boxes, and vases that she hoped to reinvent into one-of-a-kind home accessories that could be sold in town or even used to stage the cottage. After perusing the catalogues Caleb had given her, she was full of ideas for using driftwood, shells, and sea glass . . . for profit. Caleb hadn’t exaggerated about the price tags on artisan-made beach décor. If she only created and sold a few pieces, it would help cover some expenses.

  But her favorite find in her morning explorations was an old wooden box tucked way back in the tiny attic space. Besides a dozen vintage paint-by-number seascapes that she wanted to frame with driftwood, the box also contained old family photos dating clear back to the late 1800s. She picked up a sepia-toned photograph of a young couple, studying it, curious to see if there was any family resemblance.

  “Who’s that?” Jackson peered over her shoulder to see.

  “These are your great-great-grandparents.” She flipped the photo over to show him where Poppa had written “My parents, Odell and Viola Jackson, 1909.”

  “That’s more than a hundred years ago.” Jackson took the picture, examining it more closely.

  “I think they were the original owners of this cottage.”

  “Wow, that is so cool, Mom. We should hang their picture in our house.” He reached into the box for another old photo. “We should hang all these up. It could be our way to remember the past, kind of like saying thank you to them for giving us this cool place to live.” He looked hopefully at her. “Wouldn’t they look great on the fireplace mantel? Or we could just hang them on the wall. How about along the stairway? I’ve seen that before in movies.”

  “I don’t know . . .” She wanted to say “no way,” because she knew family photos weren’t the best way to stage a house. And yet it was sweet that he appreciated his family history. “Do you really want all these old ancestors staring down on you? Isn’t it kind of creepy?”

  “They’re our family, Mom. It would be like they’re here with us, watching over us.”

  “Well, I’ll think about it.” She slowly stood. “What about Oliver? Any luck finding hi
s owner?”

  “Nah. Mrs. Campbell agrees with Taylor. She thinks one of the summer families abandoned him a couple months ago. She told me I should just keep him. And that reminds me, we should go get him some dog food today. And we probably need some other groceries too. We’re out of eggs, and I just finished the last of the milk.”

  “Hallo up there,” Gordon called from downstairs. “I’m all finished in the bathroom. Wanna come have a look?”

  As they clomped down the stairs to check out his work, Wendy knew this meant she’d have to give Gordon his final payment, and her resources were pretty tapped out. Still, having the bathroom done put them that much closer to selling. Somehow she had to stretch her budget to make these frazzled ends meet.

  “I missed having my good work assistant with me today,” Gordon told Jackson.

  “I’m sorry.” Jackson introduced him to Oliver, explaining his hunt for the dog’s owners.

  “Looks like a good dog.” Gordon gently twisted Oliver’s ear. “Maybe you oughta keep ’im. Make a good watchdog.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I told Mom.”

  “It’s possible he belongs to someone else,” Wendy said a bit sharply.

  “Take him down to the vet clinic,” Gordon told her. “They get lost dogs in there all the time. They got a bulletin board for it too.”

  “Wow, this looks like a real bathroom.” Jackson was already in the bathroom, probably trying to segue their conversation. “You even put up the towel bars and stuff. It looks really good.”

  Wendy hurried past Gordon to see for herself. “It’s perfect!” she said. “Thank you so much! It really does look like a bathroom now. Better than ever.”

  “Well, you and your boy did the flooring and paint—and if you ask me, it’s not half bad either.” He handed her his bill.

  She knew Gordon didn’t take credit cards, but even if he did, she wasn’t sure there was enough left on her card to cover this. “I’ll get my checkbook,” she told him. As she went to her bedroom, she felt a desperate rush of nerves. Her anemic checking account didn’t have quite enough to cover this, but she hated to ask Gordon to wait. She remembered the seashells that Caleb had made a check for. If she could pick that up and deposit it today, it would probably make up the difference. At least she hoped so. Just to be safe, she dated the check for tomorrow, and fortunately, when she explained it to Gordon, he didn’t seem to mind.