Sea Glass Inn (5 page)

Pam parked behind the dirty Honda and let her car idle for a few minutes. Apparently Mel had been too busy with her home improvement projects over the past three days to have time to wash her car. Or go into town. Pam hated to admit how many times she had caught herself staring out her gallery window at Cannon Beach’s main street, watching for Mel’s car. She had even changed her route to and from work so she drove past the old house. She hadn’t gone far out of her way, though, and she’d managed to justify her detour each time. She’d hoped to see a new for sale sign in the weed-filled front yard because, once Mel packed up and moved out of town, Pam would finally be free of the stress she had felt ever since she had agreed to paint. But she’d seen no indication Mel had abandoned the inn. Instead, day after day, she saw the unchanged scene that was before her now.

She finally got out of her car and picked up the pizza box she had left on the backseat. She certainly wasn’t concerned if Mel was eating or trapped under a collapsed ceiling or quietly having a nervous breakdown. Pam had enough to worry about without adding Mel’s welfare to the list. She had brought the pizza as a peace offering since she wanted to come clean with Mel and tell her she couldn’t fulfill the commission.

She had tried to paint something, anything, the night before.

How hard could it be to sling some paint on a canvas and call it good enough? Some blue water, some sand and driftwood. Glue on a few pieces of sea glass and sell the damned thing to Mel. Who cared if she produced crap? She didn’t. Her reputation was only a liability now.

Pressure, expectations, jealousy. She’d be happy enough just to get through the paintings and go on with her normal life. Or what passed as normal these days.

But she had been paralyzed. Her mind had been empty, and she had been unable to even open a tube of paint. She couldn’t create without feeling something first, and she rarely felt anything now.

“Hey!” Pam looked up at the shout and saw Mel leaning out of an open upstairs window. Pam had expected to find her huddled in a room crying tears of despair, and she felt a wave of relief to see Mel smiling.

“Hey,” Pam said with an answering smile.

“Is that one of my paintings already?”

Pam sighed, her relief turning immediately to irritation. She couldn’t survive under the constant pressure to paint. She wished she could go back in time and get out of this obligation without fuss. Go back three days and tell Mel she had no idea how to contact Pamela Whitford. Or go back to that sunny August day and close the gallery early, so she never would have met Mel in the first place. Some part of her rebelled at the thought, and her reaction only made her angrier.

“No. It’s pizza.”

“Just as good,” Mel said. “Come on up.”

She disappeared again, and Pam shifted the pizza box to her left hand and opened the front door. She really needed to lecture Mel about leaving her house unlocked. Pam walked up the stairs, fuming about Mel’s insistent interference in her life and trying to ignore her own complicity in the situation. She had come here once before to let Mel down, and she had ended up agreeing to paint for her. She couldn’t fail again this time. She reached the first floor landing and stopped, her anger momentarily forgotten as her eyes adjusted to the airy brightness so at odds with the dim stairwell. The three bedroom doors were propped open, and weak sunlight reflected off their freshly painted walls and ceilings. All the windows were wide-open as well, and a light breeze wafted into the hall.

“Does it look a little better?” Mel asked as she appeared in the doorway of one of the rooms.

“Much,” Pam said, as mesmerized by Mel’s appearance as she had been by the décor. She had been transformed along with the rooms, reflecting a light from some source other than the sun. Pam couldn’t turn away, and all her excuses disappeared. Had she simply wanted to see Mel? Now she wanted to leave, but Mel gestured for her to come into the room.

Pam walked in and managed to focus on the walls. She had thought the paint was white at first, but now she could see it was a very pale yellow. With a slight gloss, like the inside of the shells Pam used to collect here when she was a child. Lined up on her bookshelf when she returned home, they were reminders of safe and warm summer vacations. Pam was relieved there were no bold patterns or trendy colors in Mel’s rooms. Just an organic lightness, like the background wash on a painting, that pushed the attention toward the sea. Guests would love it here.

“Beautiful,” she said, looking at Mel again. They were in the same room as a few days ago, but the difference was startling. Before, Mel had been impeccably dressed and the room had been a mess. But now Mel was the mess, in a gray sweatshirt and old jeans, her face as paint splattered as her clothes but with a bright smile instead of tears.

Pam would have agreed to add ten paintings to her commission if Mel asked her to. She took a step backward and held out the pizza box.

“Fortuna’s Pizza,” she said. “If you’re going to be a local, you’ll get to know them very well. Best pizza in town, and they deliver.”

Mel laughed. “Are you moonlighting as their delivery woman?”

“No, but I haven’t seen you in town for a few days. I wasn’t sure if you were eating.”

Mel fought off the pleasure she felt at Pam’s concern. And at having any company at all in the big, lonely house. Pam had been thinking about her. The realization felt as tangible as a caress, as comforting as a hug. But Pam was just being polite and welcoming.

Typical small-town businesswoman.

“I like the color,” Pam said, gesturing at the walls.

“Thanks. I wanted to keep it light. Neutral,” Mel said, keeping her voice casual as if the project had been as simple as choosing the right paint. For the first time in her life, Mel was responsible for every decision, every aspect of a mammoth project, with no input except for Walter’s occasional suggestions. Pam’s obvious approval of her color scheme wiped away some of the self-doubt Mel had been battling. But, despite her uncertainty, Mel was proud of the work she had done. Even if Pam didn’t necessarily understand all that had gone on beneath the layers of paint, Mel certainly did. She had spent hours on the rooms. Washing the walls and ceiling, priming them, painting. Moving from molly bolts to spackle and roller brushes and painter’s tape. The rest of the house might look dingy in comparison, and she had only done a tiny percentage of the needed renovations, but Mel felt a thrill of accomplishment and pride in her newfound self-reliance. Though she had a long way to go, she was beginning to trust her ability to get there. But the road was sometimes lonely, and she was happy to share even the surface of her success with Pam.

To share
something
with
anyone
. Mel couldn’t rely on Pam forever, expect her to put her own life on hold just because Mel missed the companionship of sharing her life with someone. Mel had never spent so much time on her own. At night, while working, while eating.

Eating. The house had consumed so much of Mel’s time and attention that she had barely bothered to do more for herself than take an occasional shower or eat a simple meal. Her stomach rumbled as the smells of yeast and basil and tomatoes finally overcame the paint fumes and caught her attention, driving the question of what it would be like to have Pam keep her company at night away from the forefront of her mind. Having Pam there to talk about her renovations was a pleasant enough change. And to share a meal? What had once been an everyday occurrence was now a cause for celebration. “I have a bottle of wine downstairs,” Mel said. “Why don’t we eat outside?”

Pam followed her down the stairs and out the back door. Mel had cut an uneven, choppy path through the backyard with an ancient lawnmower she had found in the shed, but the dull blades on the push mower had been woefully inadequate for the job at hand. After an hour of rolling over sections two or three times before they were cut and stopping every few feet to pry rusted crap out of her path, Mel had been sweaty and cranky. She would have thrown the mower in the ocean if she’d had enough energy to carry it down the stairs to the beach.

None of the tools or appliances in the old house seemed sufficient for anything beyond basic survival, if that. Except for a relatively new microwave and a fancy wine refrigerator—and Mel had brought both with her—the kitchen looked like a relic from pioneer days. Those two appliances, along with the coffeemaker Mel had bought on her first day, at least covered her personal needs, but they wouldn’t be enough when she had an inn full of guests. Still, she’d make it work until she could focus beyond the essential renovations.

Mel led the way along her messy trail. She could have done a neater job if she had used a pair of scissors to cut the grass, but at least the destination made up for the untidy journey. Mel sat on the top step of the staircase leading to the beach and uncorked the wine while Pam set the pizza and napkins between them. The weathered roofs of neighboring cabins flanked them, and the stairs led steeply down to the sandy beach.

“I’ve been lucky with the weather,” Mel said, cringing inside at her inane choice of conversation topic. She had spent her time alone belatedly adding up the money and time she would need to make the inn ready for guests. The phrase “home equity line of credit”

had seemed so innocuous and benign when she had signed the loan papers. Now it had turned into a monster devouring her profits before she even made them. She was afraid to bring up anything more serious than the weather in case her worries about finances and her ability to actually carry out this project leaked out. She didn’t want to spill out her private stresses, but she felt them so close to the surface she could barely keep them contained. “I haven’t had to wait long between washing and priming because everything dries so quickly with the windows open.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Pam said around a mouthful of pepperoni.

“We’ll probably have a storm this weekend.”

Mel took a gulp of her wine. “How can you tell?”

Pam gestured at some innocent-looking clouds on the horizon.

“You can see where two systems are colliding. It’s called a mackerel sky.” Pam leaned back on one hand and looked at the scene before her. The term fit. The tapestry of the sky was filled with wispy clouds, like scales on a fish, echoing the pattern of foam on the choppy ocean.

A bluff in the distance provided a good focal point. Its dark outline and straight fir trees contrasted nicely with the frilly clouds. She’d center the painting…

Pam caught herself, focused on the words, not the images. The habit had become automatic, but never effortless. “Cirrocumulus. There’s a warm front coming in,” she explained. She sat up and held her hands out in front of her, sliding the right one over the left.

“Warm air rises, so it flows over the pressure system we have in place. Droplets freeze in the upper atmosphere and form those clouds.”

Mel squinted at the bright sky. “They don’t look very threatening.”

“They’re not,” Pam said with a shrug. “But they signal change.

Sometimes nothing more than a shift in temperature or some light rain. Sometimes a big storm. You’ll recognize the signs after you’ve been here a few seasons.” Pam was surprised to find she believed Mel might be able to stick it out. She certainly was putting in the work required by her demanding old house.

Pam was impressed as hell because she understood exactly what Mel had gone through just to get her rooms looking so fresh and bright. Pam’s gallery had been neglected by its former tenant.

Water stains, sloppy patching of holes, layers of garish paint. It had taken her hours of steady work to get just that small space back to a presentable condition. Exhausting work. Now that they were out in the natural light, she could see Mel’s bright smile was a little too forced. And her slumped shoulders and the dark circles under her eyes showed how tired she must be.

The urge to touch Mel caught Pam by surprise. To rub the aches out of her shoulders, to stroke her hair until the worried lines on her face relaxed. Pam reminded herself Mel was straight. Unmarried, but uninterested.

“How long have you been divorced?” she asked. Pam decided to keep their conversation on safe subjects. Weather, ex-husbands, anything to make her lose interest in Mel as a woman. And just see her as a client who needed to be politely turned away.

“We filed six months ago. We had been married eighteen years, but I’m a lesbian,” Mel said. Pam heard a slight hesitation in her voice, as if she wasn’t yet accustomed to openly defining herself.

“I’ve known for years, but we stayed together anyway for Danny. My son.”

Pam didn’t interrupt. So much for a safe subject. She busied herself by serving them each another piece of pizza, refusing to meet Mel’s eyes while she talked. Pam pulled some stringy mozzarella off her slice and put it in her mouth, licking sauce off her fingers. She had eaten almost half the pie, but her sudden feeling of hunger wouldn’t be eased by more pizza.

“I thought we had a deal, to remain married so we could give Danny a conventional home and family. I kept my part of the bargain and didn’t tell anyone I was gay. I thought what we had was enough.”

“But your husband didn’t?” Pam guessed as Mel’s voice faded to a stop.

“No. He asked for the divorce. He’s getting remarried.”

Pam picked at the crust of her pizza slice.
Let it go. Change the
subject. Go home.
“Will Danny come live with you?”

“No. He’s in his senior year, and I wouldn’t pull him away from his friends and his school. We have plans for him to spend weekends here, and holidays.” Mel balled up her napkin and half-eaten slice.

“Do you…most people think I’m a bad mother for doing this. They don’t understand.”

Pam reached for the wadded napkin and briefly let her fingers brush against Mel’s. A son. A woman determined to be a permanent fixture in town. Complicated. Pam didn’t do complicated. She needed to leave, but she couldn’t stop asking questions, drawing out Mel’s story. “What don’t they understand?”

Mel stared out at the ocean, and Pam watched the emotions play over her features. She could read Mel’s expression as easily as if she had words written across her face. Love for her son, guilt, determination. Whatever decisions she had reached, Pam knew they hadn’t come lightly. Pam had originally thought Mel was crazy to come here, delusional if she thought she could rebuild this inn. But she hadn’t realized how much Mel had at stake. Her identity, her family. Pam might feel a physical pull to Mel—aggravated by Mel’s admission that she was a lesbian—but there was too much emotion in play. Pam wanted simple and easy and transitory. Mel was pouring her heart into creating exactly the opposite.