“I wish I could attend one of his readings or a signing, and ask him some questions. Under all his symbolism, I believe he was taking his readers on some kind of spiritual and emotional quest. I’d enjoy exploring that.”
Avery felt a chill run through her, as if Gabriel had read her own mind some twenty-five years earlier. “ Unfortunately, Axel withdrew from the public after his eighth book, but don’t let that dissuade you. You’re very intuitive. Keep reading each of the books in the order they were written. I think you’ll grasp the author’s message.”
“Can I write to you? About his books, I mean.”
The question caught her off guard. “Uh . . . sure. I haven’t thought much about them in years, so I’m a little rusty, but you could help me remember. I’d enjoy that.”
“Great. My girls would laugh if they knew I was reading touchy-feely books.” He chuckled sarcastically and wiggled his fingers in the air. “No shoot-’em-ups, no murders to solve, or lawyers saving freedom and the Bill of Rights.”
“Like in my books, you mean?”
Gabriel leaned toward Avery. “See? I have offended you.”
“No, not at all. I’m happy you’re enjoying the books. Maybe you’re evolving.”
“Just broadening my interests. But if I am, I’d enjoy having a literary guide to help me navigate through some of these more tender themes. I’m actually surprised I’m drawn to them, but I think you would make a fascinating guide. You knew the author, you are an author, and you’re a spiritual person.”
Avery wasn’t quite sure how to interpret the last comment. “What makes you say that?“
“That you’re a spiritual person?” He seemed shocked by Avery’s question. “Teddie as much as said so during breakfast, but I knew before then. The religious artwork in your condo was a tip-off. And you had a Bible lying open on the table the day we signed the agreements.”
Avery sat back. “Hmmm. Pretty good detective work.”
“Allow me to dazzle you.” He raised one eyebrow. “I know you’ll make a good tenant.”
“Oh really? And how is that?”
“I’m willing to bet you don’t smoke or drink. Not even coffee. Only herbal tea.”
“You’ve been talking to Teddie.”
“Nope.” He tapped his head. “I used my masterful skills of deductive reasoning. The condo doesn’t smell like a smoker’s home, and there’s nary an ashtray, a coffee pot, or a shot glass in the place, though I did come across a stash of peppermint herbal tea in the cupboard. I’m willing to take a leap and assume these clues suggest you won’t be hosting wild parties at my house, or falling asleep with a lit cigarette. And I’m willing to bet there won’t be any coffee stains on the rugs, either.”
“Do tell! Well, you never know what crazed things I could do while stranded on the beach, separated from my spinning wheel and pot-belly stove. Why, I could decide to can up your shrubbery and bake your wax fruit into tarts. You know”—her hands started wriggling in the air—“we spiritual women can get crazy if we have to quit our domestic enterprises cold turkey.”
Gabriel chortled, then blushed beet red. “Touché,” he conceded. His chin dropped to his chest until his reddened cheeks returned to tan. More somber when he raised his head, he said, “I hope you can see past my awkward stereotyping and realize that what I’m attempting to say, however poorly I’m saying it,” he said with a chuckle, “is that I . . . I trust you—with my home, with my girls . . . who will no doubt show up on the stoop from time to time . . . and with this curiosity Axel Hunter’s work stirs in me.”
Avery fumbled with her previously clenched hands, embarrassed by her emotional overreaction. She eventually reached out with a hand of comfort, more hovering than touching. “I’m honored to have your trust. You’re a good man, Gabriel. And you’re not the only one on a scavenger hunt to find pieces of themselves they lost over the years. I’m trying to find myself again too.”
“Thank you, Avery. And I trust that you’ll be discreet and not—what is it that Emilia says—rat me out? Yes, I trust that you won’t rat me out about my newfound introspection when you meet my girls.” He chuckled at his joke.
“Don’t push it, buster.” Avery wriggled one eyebrow. “Just kidding. Your secret’s safe with me.”
The honking of geese and the crying gulls filled the human silence as Gabriel turned the vessel for home. Avery studied its captain as he adjusted the set of the boom and manned the lines. He moved with a commanding grace and strength Paul had lost long ago. He caught her watching him and held her captive with his smile.
The boat slipped back into the dock, and Gabriel stood to secure the lines. He turned to Avery, disappointment showing on his face. “I hate to see the trip end. I haven’t enjoyed myself this much in a long, long time, Avery. A day like this was just what I needed.”
“Maybe we each needed permission to be happy again.”
“Maybe. . . Since we’re going to keep in touch anyway, about the books, I mean, would you mind keeping me apprised from time to time on how the girls are doing?”
“Of course. I hope they come by often. I’d enjoy the company. And thanks for the lead on the rental car. Tell me again, who should I ask for?”
“My s—,” he began, then paused. “Uh, Mark Donovan. I’ll make the arrangements. He’ll take good care of you.” Gabriel tied the lines to the dock as Chuck hurried over to help.
“When are you leaving?” asked Gabriel.
“Early Monday morning, but Teddie and Rider have a full day planned for tomorrow. I think we’re having dinner with Granddaddy Davis after church.”
Gabriel’s eyes widened but all he said was, “Good luck.”
“I hope you have a wonderful stay here in Maryland, Gabriel.” She extended her hand in farewell and he took it gently.
“Good luck with your writing. I hope Anna Maria brings you only happiness as well, Avery. Let the water speak to you at night. It can be a good friend. It always has been to me.”
After their parting handshake Gabriel held on to her hand a moment longer than she expected. She could feel the rush of color to her cheeks and the awkward strangeness that swelled over her when she was beyond her comfort zone.
“Thank you,” she said as she eased her hand away and lifted it in a soft wave. She turned and strolled back into building six while Gabriel tended to the boat. As she pulled the door open, she looked back at him and found him watching her.
Chapter Eleven
Anna Maria Island, Florida, April 24
Their father had been gone for weeks before Emilia and Gina Carson had to move out. His departure confirmed the inevitable. They were indeed being forced to exit in order to make room for the dreaded interloper—his swap partner, some woman from Utah named Avery Thompson, and her tag team of assorted relatives. Phase two of their eviction occurred when Eva Castillo dropped off the rental agreement and the keys to her house. From that day on, like women on death row, they counted down the days and prepared for . . . the end. They packed as if they were in mourning and shared a final supper in their house in ritualistic style, and then on Saturday evening, they loaded their cars and drove one block to their place of exile.
Both Emilia and Gina had been in Eva Castillo’s cheery beach home many times when they were young, playing with Eva’s daughters. But years had passed, during which time, aside from a smile and a wave as they passed on the street or a quick conversation in town, they’d had very little contact with Mrs. Castillo. In fact, neither of the girls had been in her home for many years. They weren’t sure what had affected their opinion of the place, whether it was simply their ages or their new position as tenants with a six-month lease, but suddenly the Castillo’s house seemed distressingly. . . colorful.
The orange walls they once found festive and fun appeared to be battling the bright furniture for attention, and it was unclear to the Carson sisters which garish interior element took the prize. Multicolored green curtains with a broad leafy pattern b
rought images of a rainforest to windows that provided a brash backdrop for the purple plush sofa and arm chair placed strategically below. Tropically themed paint-by-number artwork, a term Gina applied only in the loosest of terms, adorned the walls, adding primary-colored macaws, parrots, and fish in every variety to the already grossly overstimulating decor. But despite the never-ending list of eyesores, one item indubitably topped them all. It was an eight by ten-foot rag-weave rug that covered the living room floor.
“What. Is. That?” asked Gina, as she pointed at the gigantic flamingo design.
“Could it be more pink? And what is that smell?”
“Glade Plug-Ins. The tropical breeze scent, if I’m not mistaken.” Gina pointed to an outlet with an air freshener jutting out. “They use them in our office. See, they’re everywhere!”
Both girls plopped onto the purple sofa. “I can’t live here!” Gina cried. “I feel like the walls are closing in on me.”
Emilia squeezed her sister’s hand in support. “Surely we can do something. Let’s think.”
An hour later they were in the checkout line at the local department store with a counter full of linens and hardware. The checkout girl, a former classmate of Emilia’s, cracked her gum and smiled broadly. “D’jou guys move inta Eva’s place yet?”
Emilia and Gina shared a conspiratorial glance over the speed and efficiency with which news traveled on the island.
“Pretty cool beach house, huh?” the girl asked as she scanned eight teal-and white-striped sheets. She cracked her gum again. “Ya know, she made that rug by hand. The Islander did a piece on it once. She told them it was made from swatches taken from her kids’ clothes over the years.” Crackkk. “It’s like some precious heirloom or something. Pretty cool, huh?”
Back at the house the sisters took another look at the rug, and Emilia commented, “From the ratio of pink it’s easy to see that the Castillo girls outnumbered the boys six to one, but you know, Gina, once we get these sheets hung to hide the orange walls, that rug might actually look good.”
Gina bit her lip and shook her head. “I was thinking the same thing.”
The pair began screwing small hooks into the corners of the walls, adding an additional hook to the center for support. They threaded wire through the hems of the sheets and secured the wire on the hooks. Six hanging sheets completely covered the orange-painted plaster with teal and white fabric stripes. They stepped back to look at their work and were pleasantly surprised. “What about the holes we just put in the walls?” Emilia asked.
Gina waved a nonchalant hand. “They’re so tiny. A dab of paint will fill them right in.”
While her hand was still in midair, she heard two almost simultaneous popping sounds followed by two more a moment later, as the sheets’ weight ripped the hooks from the walls, pulling gaping holes of delicate plaster along with them.
“Gina!” Emilia hollered. “You said—”
“I know what I said!” Gina exclaimed in exasperation. “How was I supposed to know the plaster would pull out?”
“Now what are we going to do?”
“We’ll just have to buy some more plaster and patch the holes.”
The next day, hoping for more privacy than the previous establishment had afforded them, they tried a hardware store in town. As they stood in the aisle reading the labels on assorted plaster products, an ancient clerk walked up to them.
“Well, hello, girls. Have you moved into Mrs. Castillo’s house yet?” He chuckled as if he knew a secret. “She came in here last week and bought a dozen of them air freshener things, to make the place real cozy for you girls. Tickled pink she was. Yes sir, tickled pink to know you local friends would be keeping an eye on her place while she was away. Now what can I help you with?”
Gina nearly choked as she tried to concoct some feasible reason for buying plaster other than to repair holes in the walls of the home of the lady who was tickled pink to have them as tenants. She breathed to calm herself. “Plaster . . . ,” she muttered as she clutched a bag to her chest. “We need some . . . for . . . for a . . . a project.”
“Yes!” Emilia squealed as if Gina had just found the cure for cancer. “That’s right! We’re working on a project.”
Gina elbowed her sister to calm her theatrics. “This one is perfect.” She offered the man a quick smile before latching onto Emilia and hightailing to the register.
It was evening when they finally had the white goop mixed and ready to apply. “Now what?” Emilia asked as she stared at the bowl in her hands.
Gina read the bag’s label for the fifth time. “It says to apply it to the wall using a putty knife or spatula.” She reached for a pancake turner. “I suppose this will do.” She offered the tool to Emilia.
“Oh, no! Why me?”
“You’re the artist in the family. You understand lines and texture.”
“It’s a wall, Gina, not the Sistine Chapel!”
“Just do it. I carried the ladder from the shed. Besides, I’ll vacuum the old plaster from the floor and rug while you do that.”
A reluctant but bamboozled Emilia set up the ladder near the first hole. The ladder’s legs were spread across the teal-striped sheets lying crumpled on the floor, a tribute to a good idea gone bad. She placed the bowl of plaster on the ladder’s utility shelf and climbed with the spatula in her hand. A few strokes and seconds later, the first hole was nicely filled and smoothed. Pleased with herself, she replaced the bowl of goop on the utility shelf and climbed back down to move the ladder closer to the second hole. Just as she stepped on the floor she heard Gina and the vacuum cleaner come from behind. Emilia turned her head to get her sister’s appraisal of her work and was rewarded by a big smile and a thumbs-up sign. And then disaster struck.
While admiring Emilia’s work, Gina hadn’t noticed that the vacuum cleaner had sucked up a corner of the sheet and was gobbling more fabric with each rotation. As the sheet pulled tighter it began to unsettle the ladder, causing it to totter. Emilia saw the bowl of plaster start to fall, so she reached for it at the very same, unfortunate second Gina lunged to steady the ladder. The pair collided in the middle.
The force of Gina’s incoming motion slammed Emilia against the already unstable, tottering triangle of aluminum, knocking it sideways and down along the wall, where its corner gouged a long, deep gash into the fragile orange plaster. In perfect synch, the bowl slid off the shelf, landing flat-bottomed on the carpet and in a sickly regurgitation, spewed plaster up and out like a great white eruption of Mount Vesuvius. When all motion finally ceased, small white globules of plaster dotted the girls, the wooden floor, and worse, the precious, hand-woven, pink flamingo rug.
The girls were too stunned to react at first. They sat on the floor in shocked silence, tangled up in sheets and electric cords, surveying the damage their interior decorating efforts had wrought upon Mrs. Castillo’s home, whose only previous crime had been an overt tendency toward cheerfulness, a flaw the girls regretted tampering with at all.
Gabriel Carson was Friday-weary by Tuesday. He kicked at the dirt as the grader hit another patch of work-slowing rock. The inevitable squawk of the walkie-talkie added to his frustration as the driver reported the obvious. At the same time, he felt the vibration from his cell phone tucked into his jacket pocket and snapped it open with a grumbled hello.
“Daddy?”
The voice was Gina’s. His mood lifted as a smile instantly replaced his frown. His tone became apologetic. “Gina, sweetheart! How are you girls making out?”
“Well, fine . . . pretty well. We’ve hit a bit of a snag, Daddy. We need some advice.”
Gabriel tensed in anticipation of what the snag might entail. “Uh-huh.”
“Daddy, we were fixing the place up a little, just a few tiny changes. I mean, Heaven knows the place was just the most horrid color of orange. Well, anyway, we had an accident and we need to get some holes repaired in a wall.”
As Gabriel closed his eyes and shook his
head, the grader driver’s voice came over the walkie-talkie again, requesting directions. “Gina, I really don’t know what you’d like me to do from up here. Call a handyman.”
“We can’t! We don’t want Mrs. Castillo to find out! What will she think if she hears we damaged her home on the very day we moved in? You know how everyone knows everybody’s business on this island. Someone might call her.”
The grader driver was now climbing down from his rig and sauntering Gabriel’s way. “I don’t see what other choice you have, Gina.”
“Please help us, Daddy.”
Gabriel recognized the plaintive whine his daughters employed to bring him rushing to their aid. They’d nicknamed him Houdini years earlier, a tribute to his ability to magically fix everything from broken toys to term papers, another well-intentioned but poorly utilized parenting technique. But he’d seen the error of his ways, and he was certainly in no mood to perpetuate the wrong. “How, Gina?”
“Don’t you have someone you could call for us? Someone who owes you a favor and who would promise to be discreet?”
A devilish thought crossed his mind. “Yes, I do, actually, Gina Donovan. You know him too. His name is Mark Donovan.” The silence on the other end of the phone told him he’d hit a nerve. “It’s the only answer I can give you. Mark is handy and he’s a hard worker, always taking on side jobs to make some extra money. And he’s probably the most discreet and honest person I know.”
“How could you dare suggest—”
The flustered grader driver was now in front of Gabriel with his hand on his hips, clearly as low on patience as Gabriel. “Listen, Gina. You wanted my help. That’s my suggestion.”
“I’d rather—”
“Fine!” growled Gabriel. “Good luck with whatever you decide!” And then he hung up.
Gina was still steaming by dinnertime. “The nerve of Dad!”
A SECOND CHANCE ROMANCE BOXED SET Page 61