Beach Winds (4 page)

Faded hazel eyes drilled those words into her. She didn
’t have any good answers for him.

Did she think he
’d ever come back home? No, but he did, so she smiled and nodded. “You’ll be better soon.”

She stared at the half-eaten lunch sitting on the rolling table next to him. A cloth, like a large bib, was tucked inside his pajama collar. What was she supposed to do? Pick up that spoon? Offer him assistance? He wasn
’t making any effort himself.

A smell flooded the room as a woman entered. That anti-bacterial dispenser attached to the wall acted like an air freshener every time someone tapped it. Air freshener? Not unless you liked the smell of hospitals and illness.

“I see you have a visitor, Mr. Will. Are you family? The niece?”

“
Grandniece, actually. Or great niece. Whichever it is. You’re Janet?”

“
That’s me. It’s nice of you to come see him. He hasn’t had many visitors.”

Frannie
slid the chair back a few screeching inches to allow the nurse’s aide to pass. Janet pulled her own chair close in order to spoon the soft food into Will’s mouth. He choked and Frannie was alarmed. How did you help someone who was choking when their body was so frail? She was glad the nurse was there and the responsibility was hers.

Frannie wanted out. More than that smell, it was t
he faces, the waiting faces she’d passed in the hallway—the
can-you-see-me
faces—that weighed her down like she was dragging chains. Add to that, the inability to have a reasonable conversation with her uncle, as well as not knowing what to do, made her feel captive. Yet, she kept her butt in the chair and tried to keep her expression bland so he wouldn’t read the impatience that tied her up in knots. Had she taken her stomach medicine? A growing burning sensation, like banked coals not quite extinguished, warned her of worse to come.

“
Should I leave? I don’t want to be in the way.”

Janet looked at her as if the question were nonsense. She didn
’t waste words on an answer, but instead, turned back to Will with a spoonful of applesauce.

“
Have another bite, Mr. Denman.”

He sputtered and shook his head. She snuck a peek at her watch. How
much longer? She looked up. His keen gaze, sharp despite the faded hazel color, was fastened upon her.

He could afford a dedicated nurse
’s aide. She hadn’t considered correcting her mother when she’d made the remark about Uncle Will’s financial state. He wasn’t living only on his pension. That was a tidbit of info her darling mother didn’t need to know.

“
I’ll be right back.” Janet left the room.

Frannie
searched her brain, desperate for light conversation—statements that didn’t require a response.

“
I remember what you told me about the navy, and why you named the house
Captain’s Walk
.”

He
lips moved, but his words were garbled.

“
Remember that day you called me? I didn’t know what to think. I never had much family, except for Mother and Dad, but you know that. Anyway, you told me you had been a chief petty officer. You said you named the house
Captain’s Walk
because it was the only deck you’d ever be captain of, right?”

He gave a small nod, but he looked frustrated and that defeated look
returned to his eyes.

Frannie tried again.
“Mrs. Blair said to say ‘hello’.

No change in his expression.

Try again, Frannie.

“
Your handyman, Brian Donovan, made a repair to the house.” She saw something in his eyes. He was worried about his home. She added quickly, “A small repair. Nothing big. Loose lattice.” She hoped that hearing about his house and his handyman might give him comfort, but how exhausting it was to have this one-sided conversation. She was certain that inside his brain, he heard and responded, but they were powerless to breach the communication wall caused by his stroke.

Desperate for something else to throw into the silence, she said,
“I’m thinking of sprucing things up with a little paint. Inside, that is. If you don’t mind.”

H
e’d turned away and was now staring at a poster on the wall. A beach scene. Bright shades of pink, blue and turquoise. Typical beach colors.

That smell swirled again.

Frannie looked at Janet and said, “I guess I’ll go.”

She
rose and walked slowly to the door. Will continued staring at the poster.

“
Get better, Uncle Will. I’ll come again soon.”

He did
nothing to indicate he’d heard her, or that he cared.

Driving back to Emerald Isle
, she decided it was too soon to sell his house even though, more likely than not, it would need to be sold. In fact, in this real estate market, it made sense to spend some time sprucing it up. A little paint and a tweak to the decor would make it more marketable.

The decision to paint kept her moving forward, but without the risk of irrevocable actions. No commitment needed. Painting mistakes could be fixed easily. She
’d hang out here and let Mother stew by herself for a while. Mother would be plenty surprised when she saw that her daughter could handle this and so much more.

Impulsively, she pulled into a home improvement store parking lot. Might as well get the supplies before she crossed back over the bridge to the island.

With the paint cans and supplies loaded in the trunk, she built up such a vision, imagining plans for the makeover of
Captain’s Walk
, that when she actually entered the house, its dreariness almost overwhelmed her, but it didn’t keep her down long.

She
’d never painted a house before, but really, how hard could it be?

****

The smell of plastic drop cloths, pristine and fresh from the manufacturer’s packaging, complemented the sawdust smell of the new stepladder unmarred by use. The paint cans contained nice off-white tones that aligned with what was already on the walls. Those unopened cans held a lot of untried promise. She opted not to tape the trim despite the clerk’s recommendation. She had a steady hand and was innately neat.

Frannie
put on a pair of navy khaki slacks and, in a concession to practicality, she found an old button-down shirt in Will’s closet. She would start in the middle of the wall using the brush. The roller seemed vaguely intimidating.

She pried the lid off and dipped the brush delicately
into the paint. There was not yet a drop on the wall when her phone rang, its vibrations drumming on the kitchen counter. Not a ring she recognized. Better to grab it now than after she’d started applying paint. She went for it and answered one-handed.

“
Frannie?”

“
Mother?” Not her ring. “Where are you calling from?”

“
I borrowed a phone. I left mine at home.”

Likely story
. “What do you need?”

A moment of silence.
“Need? Not ‘how are you?’ but ‘what do you need?’ I
need
to know when are you coming back home.”

“
When we spoke this morning, I told you I wasn’t sure. I have obligations here.”

“
No longer. Good news. I’ve arranged with an attorney to handle all that for you. He does this professionally and will take care of Will’s business affairs properly. You don’t need to worry about it.”

“
He already has an attorney and I don’t need help. I’m doing fine.”

“
Frannie—”

“
No, mother.” She looked down and saw white blobs of paint on the vinyl floor. The brush.

“
I have to go.”

She threw the phone aside and grabbed for the paper towels. She hadn
’t anticipated drips, including the ones she’d stepped in and that now marked her path. Run, she told herself, and headed for the plastic cloth. It slipped beneath her feet and kept moving. As it moved, so did the open gallon.

In horror, in slow motion, she
slid toward the can like a runner coming in to home plate feet first. She sacrificed the brush so that she could try to swivel. She needed both hands to save the can. And she did. Or most of it. The top couple of inches of paint sloshed over the rim, but she righted it before the whole gallon spilled.

Hurriedly, she gathered the plastic
sheet up around it like a dam to contain the spreading lake of almost-white.

Painting was easy, or should have been.

Her hands were covered in paint. One leg of her navy khakis was now substantially off-white and sticking to her leg.

The phone began ringing again.

She sat up and wiped her paint-covered hands on the dry leg. Fine. Now, she had a pair of painting pants. Designated painting gear.

In the midst of disaster, she started laughing. Well,
as disasters went, this one was pretty minor. Frannie laughed out loud. She laughed until she felt the tears beginning to burn her eyes.

Enough.
She gulped in air.
Walk away from it. Just walk away.
She headed outside to cool down in the brisk February air.

She stood on the porch. The ocean was loud, but its roar was regular in rhythm and the worst of the crashing sounds were borne off by the wind. The sun was nice, but misleading. It promised warmth, but wind from a winter ocean could only be cold.

“Hello?”

She jumped
when the man spoke. Brian Donovan. He stood below the side of the porch; his sandy hair and his forehead were barely visible from this angle. Then he moved and she realized he was coming up to the porch. To join her.

He still had the hooded sweatshirt on, but the leather jacket was gone. His jeans
looked well worn, or worn well.

She reached up to smooth her blouse and her hair, but caught herself in time. Her hands were a paint-smeared mess
like the rest of her. She plucked at the pants leg adhering to her skin, then waved her hands to show him she didn’t care.

She
tried to laugh it off. “I’m working on a new fashion.”

After a pause during which he seemed to assess her, he smiled. Something happened to his face. He
jaws and chin were still stubble-covered, but his eyes brightened and his whole face re-shaped into something fresh, someone engaging. She couldn’t help herself and smiled back.

“
I was painting.”

“
I see.” He frowned. “But what?”

“
Funny.” She laughed. “Don’t take this wrong, but where’d you come from?”

He nodded toward the side of the house.
“I was checking that lattice. It needed another screw.”

“
Of course, you fix things.” That felt lame.

He started to speak
and then stopped and shrugged. “Yeah.”

“
What else do you do?”

“
Ma’am?”

“
Do you paint?”

He gestured at her slacks.
“Paint? As in house painting?”

She nodded.
“Interior painting.”

After a long pause, he said,
“I can.”

That sounded supremely non-committal. Which actually she liked. Not an overwhelming
‘sure let’s get it done.’ But a more thoughtful approach. She sensed he was also chagrined, probably by his profession. She pretended not to notice. She understood being embarrassed about not feeling good enough.

“
I want to give the interior of my uncle’s house a facelift. A fresh coat of paint.”

Brian looked at the sliding doors as if recalling how the interior was laid out.
“I don’t guess he’d mind.”

She shrugged.
“Either way.”

“
What does that mean?”

“
Whether he comes home, or doesn’t, he won’t mind.”

She knew she
’d stepped wrong somehow and said the wrong thing. The atmosphere around them soured, and Brian was already turning away. He was leaving and taking his good humor with him. No, scratch that, his good humor had already vanished. So had hers.

It ticked her off. She raised her voice and called after him.

“I’ll pay whatever the going rate is. Unless you’re not interested.” She said it like a challenge, believing he wasn’t interested, knowing he was leaving.

He stopped on the step and looked back.
“When do you want me to start?”

Chapter Two