The Inn at Angel Island (19 page)

“I know what you mean,” Peter said. “This place is filled with memories. It’s a memory museum, Liza. But what choice do we have? We have to sell it, and this is the perfect time.”

“Yes, I know.” She took a breath. “But not everyone around here agrees with that logic.”

Peter looked confused. “Who do you mean?”

“Claire North. She doesn’t say much, but I have a feeling she disapproves of us getting rid of the place like this.”

“Has she told you that?”

Liza shrugged. “Not in so many words. But she doesn’t have to say it. I can just tell. Besides, Claire’s not the type to be so blunt. I just get this feeling from her sometimes that she doesn’t think we should sell the inn so quickly. And”—Liza winced—“that she thinks I should have come out more often to see Aunt Elizabeth. Especially at the end.”

There, she had said it. It had been hard to get the words out, but if anybody would understand, it would be Peter. Maybe he also had regrets at the way his relationship with Aunt Elizabeth had faded over the years.

He bowed his head a moment, then looked up at her. “That
might be
what Claire’s thinking,” he said finally. “But maybe that’s what
you
really feel, and you’re projecting those opinions on her. Did you ever think of that?”

“That’s possible,” Liza conceded. “It’s complicated.”

She glanced at her brother but didn’t say more. She wasn’t sure he would understand. As much as she wanted to sell the inn and get back to Boston, there was a part of her that clung to this place. A part that couldn’t accept or believe she’d never be able to come back here, to sit in this kitchen or lounge on the porch, gazing at the wide blue sky and endless sea.

Liza was just starting to see how this place was part of her, and giving it up was like slicing off a little piece of her soul.

Peter spoke about memories. But this was deeper. Did he feel that way at all?

She was about to ask him when he leaned over and patted her hand. “This is a difficult time for us, Liza. You’re in a very emotional state.”

“I can’t argue with that,” she admitted ruefully. “And I do like Claire. I don’t know how I would have managed here an hour without her.”

“She’s been great. We’ll have to do something special for her when we go.”

Liza nodded. She knew he meant a gift of money, though with Peter’s parsimonious streak, they would probably wind up arguing about the sum. She doubted Claire expected any sort of gift, money or anything else. She wasn’t that kind of person. Liza wanted to give her something from the house that would have meaning to her. She just wasn’t sure what that could be.

“I’ll finish up here. Why don’t you go up?” Peter got to his feet and picked up a few dirty cups and dishes from the table. “I think you could use some sleep. It’s been a big day.”

“They’ve all been big days lately. Is it just me, or have you noticed that, too?”

“Even more reason to get a good night’s rest. We might get an offer on the inn tomorrow,” he said optimistically. “That would be a big day.”

“Yes, it would,” Liza agreed. She might be able to leave here by Monday if that scenario played out.

Wouldn’t Charlie Reiger be surprised to see her back? For some reason, the image didn’t cheer her as much as it should have.

Liza said good night to her brother and went upstairs. As she entered her room, her laptop, sitting on the small table by the window, caught her eye. She really ought to thank Jeff for the flowers.

It wasn’t late. But calling him seemed risky. She wasn’t sure what to say if he picked up. She doubted she could maintain a calm, friendly distance. A safe distance. She had been touched by the gesture and felt confused about her feelings for him now. All things considered, it was probably best to send a note. A carefully worded e-mail that would express her gratitude for his thoughtful gesture yet leave no room for him to interpret that she had second thoughts about their divorce.

She didn’t . . . did she? Liza sighed. She had acted pretty cool about the roses, but the gesture had gotten to her more than she wanted to admit. Maybe there
was
still unfinished business between her and Jeff.

Well, if there is,
she told herself,
I’m going to finish it.
She thought for a moment, then typed out a quick e-mail:

Feeling satisfied with her message, Liza sent it off.

She turned off her laptop, climbed into bed, and shut off the light. It had been a long day, and she was very tired. By this time tomorrow, they might have an offer, and this entire ordeal might be over, she reminded herself. For better or for worse.

Chapter Eight

S
UNDAY was a day of rest for most people, but not at the Angel Inn, Liza reminded herself. It was sunny and mild, and Peter and Will, who had run down to the beach to shoot some early morning photos, looked as if they wouldn’t have minded hanging out at the beach until sunset. Liza quickly dished out the day’s jobs along with the scrambled eggs and toast she had cooked for their breakfast.

“I’ve got a good one for you today, Peter. Take down the wallpaper in the bathroom on the second floor, the one next to your bedroom.”

“Take it down? It’s falling down.”

“See, I gave you the easy job. It’s half done already.” Liza gave her brother an encouraging smile. “There’s some solution to melt the glue somewhere. I found it in the basement with the painting supplies. You just rub it on, and the rest of the paper will peel right off. Then the walls need to be scraped and painted. Including the ceiling . . . mold spots,” she snuck in quickly.

“Those need to be washed with bleach.”

Liza was surprised. “So you do know what to do.”

He shrugged. “Close enough.”

She never thought of her brother as the handy type, but he did own a house and was economical. He must have learned a few home-repair tricks over the years.

“I’ll start on the half bath down here,” Liza told him. “It shouldn’t take long. Claire found a pair of perfectly good curtains for the windows. She even ran them through the washer.”

Peter glanced at Will, who had said hardly a word during breakfast. Liza could hear the hum of his iPod from across the table. The music volume and ear buds seemed to eliminate any possibility of conversation. Peter leaned over and gently tugged one from his ear.

Will looked startled. “Hey, what are you doing? You’re going to ruin my earphones.”

“You’re going to ruin your ears. That music is way too loud, Will. Turn it down or I’m taking that thing away.”

Will scowled but adjusted the volume. “Anything else?”

“Yeah. What about helping me paint the bathroom today?” Peter said.

“What about it?” Will echoed.

Liza saw Peter reach deeper for some patience. “I’d like you to help me. We were just talking about it, but I guess you missed the conversation.”

“I heard you,” Will cut in. “Take down the wallpaper. Mold spots on the ceiling.”

“Sounds like a band,” Liza said, trying to make a joke.

“Mold Spots on the Ceiling?” Will gave her a blank look. “Right,” he said kindly.

She couldn’t be faulted for trying. She did think that he secretly wanted to laugh but wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. He hadn’t argued about helping today, she realized. Maybe things were easing a bit between him and Peter. She hoped so. That would be one good thing coming out of this ordeal.

A short time later, the three-person crew was busy at work on their projects. Liza had found some perfectly good paint, robin’s-egg blue, down in the basement and decided to use it. She had begun to play a game with herself, a challenge to be resourceful and use up what was in the house.

By the time Fran came by late that afternoon with a fresh set of “lookers,” both Liza and Peter were too engrossed in their bathroom projects to be any bother. The real estate agent seemed very pleased with the progress.

“Kitchens and bathrooms make a big impression,” she told Liza privately. “Even if they plan to renovate, they want the rooms to look fresh until they get around to their own repairs.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” Liza replied. Unfortunately, there were two more bathrooms besides the two they were working on today, and one of them had a Grand Canyon-sized crack down the middle of the ceiling.

Maybe she could get Daniel’s advice on that repair? It was definitely out of her league. He might help her fix it. Though the thought of working with him and a tub of spackle in such close quarters made her quickly nix the idea. It would definitely redefine the term
sticky situation
. She didn’t need to complicate her short stay here even more, did she?

The truth was, though, that Daniel was the very nicest of all the complications so far. She did miss seeing him today, which was a secret she wouldn’t have admitted to anyone.

Claire North didn’t work on Sundays, and Liza definitely missed her, too. Even more than Daniel in some ways, she realized. Claire’s presence balanced out the male energies in the house. But it was more than that. Claire was like the tiller on a sailboat, Liza decided. A solid, steadying force who helped Liza keep things on the right track. She was a good sounding board, even about small, silly questions—Which china cups should she keep or give away? What color should she paint the bathroom molding: stark white or cream?

Liza certainly didn’t begrudge Claire her day off. She and Peter both knew they were lucky to have the housekeeper’s indefatigable help these final weeks. It couldn’t be easy for her, taking this place apart, Liza reflected. But she seemed so accepting, even cheerful at her work.

Liza wondered what Claire was up to today in her cottage on the other side of the island. She tried to picture the place. It wasn’t like Daisy Winkler’s ornate Victorian confection, she decided. It would be an old structure but far simpler. Did Claire entertain? Go out to visit friends? Or remain home alone for the day? Although she seemed completely at ease in her own company, everyone around here seemed to know Claire and think very highly of her. She probably had lots of friends.

Liza knew that Claire attended the church on the green in Cape Light, Reverend Ben Lewis’s church. So she had probably gone there this morning. Liza recalled the church, the cool, dark interior and soft amber light from the stained-glass windows, the gentle music and quiet prayers. She pictured Claire sitting there, calmly taking in the sermon and service, and suddenly pictured herself there, too. Trying to absorb some of that soul-deep serenity. Perhaps church was the source of Claire’s infallible inner calm.

But it doesn’t work like that, Liza reminded herself. Going to church wasn’t like soaking in a tub of warm water, easing out your spiritual aches and pains. You had to have faith. You had to believe in . . . in something to get the benefit. Didn’t you? What was it that Reverend Ben had said about her aunt Elizabeth? That she was a woman of faith.

Distracted by her thoughts, Liza painted over the edge of the masking tape. “Oh . . . drat!” She quickly wiped the smear and stood back.

She had done enough for today, she decided. She was getting tired and messing up her work. It was time to make dinner anyway.

By the time Liza called Peter and Will to the dinner table, they both looked as if they might droop right into the dishes of pasta she had prepared. She had found a bottle of tomato sauce in the pantry, pepped it up with some sautéed mushrooms, and made a simple meal with bread and salad.

“This is pretty good,” Peter said between mouthfuls. “But you have to admit, Claire’s cooking is awesome.”

“No argument there,” Liza agreed. Claire was not a sophisticated cook, using the latest “hip” ingredients. Her dishes were comfort food, and yet too subtle and intricate to be called that either. Just like the woman herself, her cooking more or less defied definition.

“That may have been one of the reasons Aunt Elizabeth had so many return customers,” Liza added. “It certainly wasn’t the decor these last few years.”

“Speaking of return customers, what did Fran say about the couple who came today?” Peter asked. “Any interest?”

“She called while I was cooking. They liked the place but are worried about energy costs,” Liza reported. “Daniel already told me the building needs new windows and insulation. I guess that scared them off.”

“Aunt Elizabeth managed. She would close off the third floor in the winter. Didn’t Fran tell them that?”

“I’m not sure, but I don’t think it would have made much difference. If people don’t want the place, they don’t want it.”

Peter frowned at her a moment. “How about that couple who came yesterday while we were biking? The Hardys? Weren’t they due back today?”

“They’re coming back next week. They want to bring a friend, an architect.”

“An architect?” His glum expression brightened. “That’s a good sign. Why didn’t you tell me that before?”

“Oh . . . I don’t know.” She shrugged and looked down at her plate. “An architect might say the place is falling down and not to bother.”

“Always the positive view, Liza,” he said sarcastically.

“I’m just being realistic,” she defended herself. She didn’t mean to raise her voice but realized too late that she had.

“I know that’s what you think you’re doing. But sometimes I wonder if you really want to sell this place,” Peter retorted, his voice equally loud. “I’m starting to think that deep down inside, you don’t want anyone to buy it. I’m afraid that if someone actually makes an offer, you’ll point out reasons why they shouldn’t.”