Thomas Kinkade

by The Inn at Angel Island (v5)

  Claire noticed her shift in mood. Her clear blue gaze searched Liza’s face.

  “Those are my parents,” Liza explained, pointing down at the photo. “We were all at the beach, jumping the waves.” Everyone looked so happy and excited—and wet. Her mother held Liza’s hand tight. Her father had one arm around her mother, and with the other he had hoisted her brother up above the water. Peter had been all skin and bones in those days.

  “It’s a beautiful photo. You ought to save that one in a special place,” Claire suggested.

  “Yes, I should,” Liza agreed. “Elizabeth was my mom’s sister. They looked so much alike, people thought they were twins.”

  “I can see that. You look a lot like your aunt and mother as well,” Claire said.

  Liza smiled briefly at her, taking the words as a compliment. She had inherited the dark brown hair, the gray eyes, and the same slim build, but she was a bit taller than Elizabeth—though not quite as tall as her mother had been.

  She sighed and looked down at the photo again. “My parents died when I was in college. A car accident. They were just coming home from the supermarket one night. But it was winter, icy roads. They were hit by another car that skidded through an intersection . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  Claire rested her hand on Liza’s shoulder for a moment. “Yes, I know. Elizabeth told me. What a great loss for your family, you and your brother especially.”

  Liza nodded and softly closed the album. “At least we had Aunt Elizabeth and Uncle Clive.”

  Now they were gone, too. Nothing lasted, did it? Certainly not happiness. You could grasp a moonbeam in your hand more easily, Liza thought.

  She rubbed her hand across her eyes, and Claire handed her a tissue.

  “I didn’t realize this cleaning business was going to be so . . . heart wrenching. Pretty soon I’ll be crying over the broken umbrellas and boxes of old magazines,” she quipped through her tears. “My uncle had a thing for Reader’s Digest, didn’t he?”

  “We’ll both be crying if we have to lift another box of those. Come and sit down, have a cup of tea,” Claire urged her.

  Claire sat on the antique love seat covered with faded chintz fabric. Liza finally followed, taking the armchair. She was not the type of person who took a break while working. Once she started something, she went full steam until it was done. Tea time right in the middle of a task seemed positively . . . indulgent.

  But this was not an ordinary job and not an ordinary day. She sat down with a deep sigh and stirred a bit of honey into her cup, then surveyed the row of boxes and black trash bags that had already accumulated.

  “We won’t get it done in a day, I guess,” she finally admitted. “But we’ve made a dent.”

  “A good dent,” Claire agreed. “Save, discard, give away. That’s my motto.”

  “Mine, too.” Liza nodded and smiled over the edge of her tea-cup. There would be many more closets ahead and more weepy moments. But at least now she had a magic question to guide her through. Thanks to Claire North.

  Chapter Three

  THE next morning Liza silently repeated the question, though it did not always have its magic effect. She and Claire had finally emptied the closet in the front parlor, but that project was a mere warm-up compared to the next closet they tackled in the foyer, which was even larger and deeper.

  Liza, perched on top of a ladder, wrestled with an antique hat-box and finally pulled it from one of the upper shelves. She knew that people collected these things, and it might be worth something. But it hardly seemed in collectible condition. She stared at it, feeling stumped, then glanced down, about to ask Claire her opinion.

  But Claire was gone, along with several black bags of discards that had piled up in the hallway.

  The brass door knocker rapped loudly on the front door.

  Liza climbed down the ladder and headed over to answer it. It was probably Fran. They had spoken on the phone last night, and Fran was going to drop off some papers for her to sign, granting Bowman Realty the right to show the house to prospective buyers.

  Liza pulled open the door, a friendly smile in place for her favorite real estate agent.

  But it was not Fran Tulley on the other side of the door. Not by a long shot.

  It was a stranger, a man about her age wearing a battered leather jacket and worn jeans. And an annoyingly amused expression as he looked her over.

  “Can I help you?” Liza’s tone was curt, trying to make up in attitude what she lacked in appearance. She had picked out some old, worn-out clothing last night from the bags marked for charity, and now looked like a pile of cleaning rags wearing sneakers.

  “You must be Liza, Elizabeth’s niece.”

  “Yes, I am . . . Are you here about a room? The inn isn’t open for guests right now.”

  “Yes, I know.” He seemed amused by her answer. “I’m Daniel Merritt. Claire called me. Something about a leak in the basement?”

  “Oh . . . right. Come on in.” Liza stepped back and pulled open the door.

  Daniel Merritt was the handyman who usually worked on the inn, Liza remembered now. She had mentioned the leak to Claire last night, and the housekeeper had said she would call him. Liza had forgotten all about it.

  And she’d also pictured the “regular handyman” around this place as someone much different.

  Older for one thing. Balding. Paunchy.

  Daniel Merritt was none of these.

  Tall, dark, and . . . ironic was more like it.

  Liza closed the door and turned. Daniel Merritt stared down at her curiously. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, as if that would help.

  Skip it, Liza. Doesn’t matter.

  Uh . . . yeah. Right.

  “Looks like you’ve been doing some cleaning up around here.” He glanced into the big parlor. “Quite a project.”

  “No kidding. Know anyone who wants some sheet music from the 1950s? We have a nice collection from extremely corny Broad-way musicals.”

  Daniel smiled. “I’ll ask around.”

  “Thanks. You never know.”

  “That’s true. Many people wouldn’t own up too quickly to that passion.”

  She smiled back at him, surprised by the clever comeback. Okay, a handyman could have a sense of humor. Even out here.

  “At least Claire is still here,” he said. “I’m sure she’s a big help.”

  A godsend, she nearly said aloud.

  “No question,” she agreed. “So . . . you came to check that leak? Do you need me to show you where it is?”

  “Claire told me. I’ll just go down and take a look.”

  “All right.” Liza stepped back and watched as he slipped off his jacket and hung it on the coat tree.

  She didn’t mean to keep looking at him. He had broad shoulders and a good build. It wasn’t just the jacket. His black sweater was nearly the same shade as his thick dark hair; the collar of a denim shirt underneath peeked out from the neckline. Sort of stylish for a handyman, she thought.

  He walked down the hallway and opened the door to the basement with an easy familiarity. He seemed very at home here. But her aunt must have called him frequently. The inn must have needed a lot of repairs. Still did, she reminded herself.

  That was all going to be someone else’s headache in a little while. It was one thing she wasn’t going to inherit from her aunt. That was for sure.

  Liza returned to the big front parlor and started to work on a bookcase. She considered running upstairs to wash her face and fix her hair, which had more than half escaped from a ponytail, then rejected the idea. What did she care what Daniel Merritt thought of her? She wasn’t here to win a beauty contest. She was here to work and get this house on the market.

  She had loaded two boxes of books when Claire walked into the room. She looked like a real country woman today, Liza thought, wearing a long brown skirt, thick leather walking shoes, and a red down vest over a yellow sweater. Her long hair was pinned up in its usual
style, parted in the middle and coiled in a big bun behind her head, emphasizing her round face and large gray blue eyes.

  Liza thought Claire was a pretty woman for her age, which, if Liza had to guess, was probably late fifties. She had very smooth skin, almost wrinkle free, but otherwise seemed older. Perhaps it was her steady, quiet manner or the way she dressed. Her style was sort of a mix of hippie-Earth Mother and country bumpkin.

  “I packed a load of bags in my car and brought them right out to the carting station,” Claire reported as she walked in. Her round cheeks were red from the cold, and Liza felt guilty, knowing she had done all that work alone.

  “You should have told me. I would have come to help you.” Liza stood up and wiped some dust off her hands with an old cloth.

  “It wasn’t very heavy. Just bulky stuff. Besides, someone needed to be here for Daniel. I saw his car outside. Did he repair that leak downstairs?”

  “He’s taking a look at it right now.”

  “He’ll fix it. He can fix just about anything.”

  “Does he paint?” Liza had meant to look for a painter today, but she’d gotten too busy.

  “I believe so. Here he is. You can ask him yourself,” Claire suggested.

  “Hello, Claire,” Daniel greeted the housekeeper with a wide, friendly smile. While he and Claire exchanged greetings, Liza took a moment to notice his impressive set of dimples.

  Now, now, Liza. Handyman, remember? He’s definitely not your type.

  “So how’s the leak? Can you fix it?” Liza asked abruptly.

  “It wasn’t much. It’s already history.”

  “Oh, good. Thanks.” He was efficient at least.

  “Anything else you need me to check?”

  Liza met his glance and looked away. His eyes were brown, a shade almost as dark as his hair, and were filled with a deep, serious light, even when he was smiling. It was an odd thing to notice about a stranger, but she instinctively felt it was true.

  “I was wondering . . . do you do any house painting?”

  “What did you have in mind?” He crossed his arms over his chest. She couldn’t tell if he was interested in the work or not. He didn’t act very eager like some contractors. He didn’t act as if he needed work at all.

  “My brother and I have inherited the house, and we plan on selling it. As soon as possible,” she added. “The real estate agent suggested that we have the exterior painted—a quick job, just to freshen it up—and paint some of the rooms, too.”

  “A quick job on the outside of this place?” She could tell from his expression he was trying hard not to laugh at her.

  “Why? How long will it take? I just mean a quick coat of paint. It doesn’t have to be perfect.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure you’re in no danger of that.”

  Liza started to say something, then stopped. So he was the clever type on top of it. Did she really need that?

  And he had never even told her if he did painting, she suddenly realized.

  “If you don’t take paint jobs or aren’t interested in the work, just say so, Mr. Merritt. I just thought I’d ask you first, since you seem to do so much here.”

  “I never said I wasn’t interested.”

  “You never said if you paint or not.”

  “I do paint. And I’m interested. And it’s Daniel.”

  He smiled again, meeting her gaze. Liza intended to brush him off—the last thing she needed was a sarcastic painter—but she relented.

  “Well, that’s what we want. A quick coat of paint on the outside, just to freshen it up. The main rooms down here seem all right, but there are a few upstairs that need work. There’s a big brown stain on the ceiling in one bathroom.”

  He nodded. “A leak last winter. Your aunt never got around to having the ceiling repaired.”

  “I have a list somewhere. But that’s basically it.”

  He looked surprised. Then amused again. “That’s it?”

  She nodded, feeling off balance. “Why? Is something wrong?”

  “That’s a drop in the paint bucket, that’s all.”

  “Well, that’s all we intend to do. We just want to sell the property,” she repeated.

  “And leave the big headaches for the next owner,” he finished for her.

  She smiled at him. “Exactly.”

  So now he was questioning her ethics? For goodness’ sake, it was done all the time. People didn’t bring a place like this into tip-top condition before they sold it. It wasn’t their responsibility. Buyer beware, everybody knew that.

  “You know what this place really needs?” he told her. “A new roof and new windows. That will save money on heating and protect the whole building, especially with all the rain coming this spring.”

  Liza shook her head. “We wouldn’t dream of doing anything that extensive.” Expensive, she really meant. But he understood her. She could tell.

  “Besides,” she continued, “those kinds of repairs might be a waste. Somebody could buy this place and just . . . knock it down.”

  Daniel tilted his head. “That wouldn’t bother you?”

  She was taken aback by the question, by the way this conversation had suddenly turned personal. “I don’t think it really matters if it bothers me or not. It could happen,” she said, sidestepping the real answer.

  “It would be a shame if it did, I think. This old building is a real landmark. It’s one of only a few in this area built in the Queen Anne style. I’d hate to see it destroyed. But I guess there’s going to be a lot of bad development around here now unless somebody steps up to stop it.”

  Liza sighed. “I don’t want to see the inn knocked down. That’s not what I’m saying at all. But this place needs so much work, it’s amazing the building hasn’t fallen down all on its own by now.”

  And how had she even gotten into this argument with him? She was just trying to find a housepainter, for goodness’ sake.

  “That much I agree with. Maybe the spring storms will do the job. Do you want to wait and see what happens? Or go through with the painting?”

  “I’d like an estimate. If that’s not too much trouble. By tomorrow?”

  “I’ll leave one off today,” he promised.

  “That would be great. Thanks.” Her tone was flat and bland, though inside she felt anything but.

  This guy was incredibly nervy. Maybe he was used to sounding off to clients since there were so few choices on the island? Or maybe he didn’t care what people thought or whether anyone hired him back. Daniel Merritt was just proof that you had to be somewhat eccentric or a misfit to live out here in the first place.

  A good-looking misfit, she amended.

  She stomped back into the parlor and started on the books again. Claire was back at the foyer closet. Liza soon realized there were no more boxes. They had quickly used up all that they had in the house yesterday. Someone really needed to make a run to the General Store—or into town—and score some more. Liza stood up and rubbed the small of her back.

  Claire, who was up on the ladder, glanced down at her. “Back stiffening up?”

  “A bit,” Liza admitted. Back in Boston, she worked out at a gym when she had the time, but clearing out closets and carrying boxes of books worked muscle groups that were just not included in the usual tighten-and-tone classes.

  “Take a walk on the beach. That’s the best thing for it.”

  Liza was surprised by Claire’s suggestion. She would have expected something more in the line of a hot bath or even a heating pad.

  “I’d like to, but there’s still a lot to do here.”

  “It will all be here when you come back,” Claire promised.

  Yes, it would. This mess wasn’t going anywhere.

  “All right. Just for a few minutes. It did turn out to be a really nice day.”

  The morning had begun under a heavy veil of fog, as often happened on the island. But by noon the low layer of clouds had burned away and the sun had risen bright and high i
n a clear sky.

  The foggy morning meant spring was almost here, Claire had told her. An odd sign, Liza thought, but it did make sense. The air had to be warm and humid to create a fog, so maybe spring was arriving.

  Liza was already wearing a heavy fleece pullover. She grabbed a quilted vest and gloves before she went down to the water. She also wound a big woolen scarf—another find from the charity pile, a scarf her aunt had knitted ages ago—around her throat twice. Amazingly enough, Liza remembered the pale-yellow-and-cream-colored ribbon wool immediately when she saw it. It was a real treasure to her now.

  She crossed the lane in front of the inn and headed down the narrow sandy path that led to the beach below. After all these years, she remembered the way easily. The path seemed so familiar, as if she had walked it yesterday.

  The hill grew steep at one point, and Liza felt herself pulled down by the force of gravity, her feet moving beneath her faster than she wanted them to. She knew she had to just go with it or fall down. It was a freeing sensation to rush down the last few yards toward the ocean with the sound of crashing waves greeting her.

  At the bottom of the hill, she slowed to a stop. She’d made it without tripping over a root or sliding on the sand. She stood still, giving herself a chance to catch her breath. She stared at the waves rolling in, tumbling one over the other, white-capped curls and foamy endings that rushed up the shoreline and were sucked back out again.

  The waves were big today, making a loud crashing and booming sound. Liza had not been to the beach in a long time. She had forgotten how beautiful it was. This beach in particular. The sand was smooth and white.

  The beach curved up around the cliffs, edged with huge reddish brown rocks, some covered with green moss and seaweed. Liza knew that if you examined those rocks closely, each one was like a little planet, supporting entire communities of tiny sea creatures that survived on the nourishment brought in with each wave or high tide. The same tides that left pockets of shells on the shoreline. Like a treasure chest casually emptied on the sand. The natural world was astounding, almost too much to get your mind around if you really sat and thought about it. Walking this beach had always made her feel humbled and distant from the rest of the world and all her worries.