The Inn at Angel Island (2 page)

Eve had promised that nothing would be decided until Liza returned to Boston, but Liza hated leaving the office and giving her nemesis a clear field. She only hoped Eve could see through good old Charlie, with his five-hundred-dollar suits and two-hundred-dollar haircuts.

And she hoped the ordeal on the island—settling her aunt’s estate and selling the inn—would be over quickly, so she could get back to her job and her life, which pretty much amounted to the same thing these days.

Liza would only be gone two weeks, but she felt as if she would be away for months. She had definitely packed a month’s worth of work, stuffing her briefcase, a large knapsack, and a portfolio with layouts and sketches. Thank heavens for the Internet and all the high-tech contraptions she relied on. She only hoped the island had good reception.

Sorting out the inn and everything in it was going to be a nightmare, but at least she didn’t have to do it alone. Her brother, Peter, would be here by tomorrow. He lived in Arizona now, a photographer with his own business, struggling lately to stay afloat. He had told her that he was taking on a lot of little jobs, the kind he used to sneer at in better days. These next two weeks were the only break in his schedule for months, which had determined the timing of their visit.

It was probably better for both of them to just get this ordeal over with. There would never be a good time to travel back to Angel Island. To sort through her aunt and uncle’s belongings and put the gracious old Victorian up for sale. There was no good time to go back and be reminded of all the happy summers she and Peter had spent there as children.

Maybe that’s why Liza had rarely returned. She didn’t want to remember. Those memories were bittersweet, even painful at times. Especially now, when her life was not turning out anything like she had expected.

As she traveled farther north, the traffic thinned. Liza finally spotted her exit and turned off the highway, then headed onto a county road toward the village of Cape Light.

She felt half-relieved the awful drive was almost over—and half wished the trip would take even longer.

Except for her last visit, after her aunt died, Liza had not been back to the island in a long time. Maybe once or twice in the last few years? She had felt bad about that and did call her aunt every couple of weeks to stay in touch. She and Peter had lost their parents in a car accident when they were both in college. Her aunt and uncle had been the only close relatives left. Still, once Liza graduated from college and got busy with her own life, it was hard to get to visit them except on holidays.

Once she really dug in at the advertising agency, Liza was always so busy; she almost never took vacation time. Work usually spilled over to the weekends, and her limited free time was always filled with other things. She had better things to do than travel out to this remote, barely inhabited little chunk of land. How her aunt and uncle managed to live here all those years—and seem so happy in this rough, primitive place—she’d never know.

Sure, she had loved it as a child, but as she grew older and her tastes changed, it seemed too quiet and downright dull. There wasn’t even a good restaurant here—or any type of restaurant at all that she could remember.

That seemed selfish, now that she thought about it. But it was true. After Uncle Clive passed away, Aunt Elizabeth seemed to accept Liza’s infrequent visits. She claimed to be busy, too, running the inn with just the help of one full-time employee, a woman named Claire North. Aunt Elizabeth was not the type to make Liza or her brother feel guilty about being inattentive to her. She had always been, and was to the very end, totally independent.

Liza did feel guilty now. Elizabeth had passed on in late January when a bout of bronchitis that had lingered all winter suddenly flared up into pneumonia. Her once-robust aunt was not strong enough to fight it and passed away very quickly.

Or so it seemed to Liza—as if there had been no warning at all. She had been very concerned when she heard that her aunt’s condition had worsened into pneumonia. Still, she fully expected her aunt to recover; Aunt Elizabeth had assured her that she would. Before Liza could manage to get over to the Southport Hospital, the next call had been the worst news of all and a great shock. Leaving Liza stunned . . . and full of regrets.

There were so many reasons why it was hard to come back here.

Liza suddenly decided to turn down a road that led to Main Street in Cape Light, though staying on Beach Road was a more direct route to the island. She wanted to see if there were any changes in the small town.

Driving slowly and peering out the window, she did spot a few: signs changed over shops and a new fire station. But she had to look closely to notice the differences. For the most part, Cape Light looked very much the same as it had when she was a child.

The lights were still on in the Clam Box, she noticed. The bright red neon letters “OPEN” glowed in a window alongside a faded poster that read, “Try Our Famous Clam Rolls and Blueberry Pancakes—Box Lunches to Go.” That poster had always been there, though Liza wasn’t sure the clam rolls were famous beyond the town limits.

The town’s landmark eatery had been Aunt Elizabeth’s favorite dining spot. Liza didn’t recall the food as anything special, but as a kid, she had loved sitting on the spinning stools at the counter, feasting on hot dogs or hamburgers and fries—or on a hot afternoon, a big, drippy ice-cream cone. She bet the place still looked the same inside, too.

It was half past eight and she was definitely hungry, but she didn’t stop. The rain fell lightly now, and Liza knew that if the bridge to the island was still open, it might not stay that way for long.

When Liza arrived at the bridge a short time later, the yellow gate was up, signaling that it was safe to cross. The water on either side looked inky black and bottomless. The night sky was just about the same color, with thin, low clouds stretched like cottony threads across a glowing crescent moon.

She steered her car onto the two-lane bridge, which had a rail and a paved shoulder, edged by large gray boulders, on each side. A few tall highway lights lit the way, but she still drove slowly down the narrow black ribbon of highway. From the middle of the bridge, she could see the coastline curving around to Cape Light’s harbor and the cluster of lights in the village.

Waves crashed against the rocks on either side of the road, threatening to spill over, and Liza felt a stiff wind push against her compact SUV.

Why the town didn’t build a real bridge to the island, she had never understood. Maybe they wanted to keep it private and challenging to reach. It kept people out. Or maybe it was sheer economics: Because so few people lived out there, or even visited, it didn’t seem an efficient use of taxpayer dollars.

But that was all supposed to change—and very soon, she had heard. Angel Island had just been designated a Historic National Seashore. Improvements were coming, including a ferry service from the nearby village of Newburyport, about ten miles north along the coast. The ferry would land on the beach at the north side of the island, which would be improved with bathhouses, a dock, and a boardwalk, all the amenities day-tripping tourists expected.

Predictions were very positive. More visitors would come, and real estate values would rise. Liza wasn’t sure who would even be interested in coming here. The place still seemed so remote and out of the way. But that was another good reason to sell the inn now, while everyone was still so optimistic.

Fortunately, her aunt had put Liza’s and her brother’s names on the deed while she was alive, so the property automatically transferred to them upon her death and was not part of the probate process. At least they had been spared that hassle. There would certainly be more hassles to come before it was all over; Liza was sure of it.

The ride over the land bridge was brief, the winds stronger across the open stretch of water and just wild enough to hint at the island to come, which had always been rustic and untamed. Liza suddenly realized she hoped the island hadn’t changed much since her last visit.

The inn was a short drive from the bridge. Liza found her way easily, though she had not made the trip in a long time.

She felt strangely excited, driving slowly down the dark, narrow roads. She rolled down the windows, feeling the moist breeze on her skin and smelling the salty air, sensations that brought back a wave of memories.

There weren’t many opportunities to get lost out here. But she was surprised at how clearly she remembered the route. Everything looked exactly the same: the high marsh grass on the roadside, the dark shadows of houses popping up here and there, even the bent old trees that stood like sentinels and served as landmarks, directing her way. Straight on Old Dock Road, veering right on Mariner’s Way, just past the huge willow at the crossroads.

The beach appeared on the left side of the road, at the bottom of a high bluff. Liza could see the water shimmering in the moonlight. The sky had cleared, and stars sparkled like pinpoints of light in the dark blue sky. There were always so many stars out here; it was really astounding. She could hear the waves rolling in, the sound of the surf muffled and distant, the way it had sounded every night when she fell asleep in her summer bedroom.

Suddenly, on the right side of the road, the inn came into view. Liza stopped a moment and gazed out the window before pulling up the drive. She had always loved this house, three stories high with matching bay windows on the first and second floors. The windows on the second floor were fronted by a balcony, and there was even a turret on the right side of the building not far from the front door.

When Liza was a little girl and had heard the extravagant Victorian called a Queen Anne style, she had instantly known the term was perfect for the house. It was definitely a place worthy of royalty, something right out of a fairy tale.

Set on a large piece of property that sloped toward the road, the house faced the bluffs and the expanse of ocean that stretched out below. In the summertime, the wraparound porch was filled with sitting chairs, Adirondacks, wickers, and straight-backed rockers. During the inn’s busiest weeks, the seats would be filled with guests, from morning to night, sipping lemonade or ice tea, reading or knitting in the shade. Or just gazing out at the sea. But the big porch stood empty now, except for a few cardboard cartons and dark lumps covered with black plastic. The remaining chairs were stored for the winter, Liza suspected.

A light on the walkway leading up to the porch glowed. A sign swung in the wind. “Angel Inn—All Are Welcome.” Her aunt Elizabeth had painted and hand-lettered that sign, Liza recalled, though the scroll of vines and flowers on the border was now hardly visible.

Up on the porch, there was another small light on over the door. Liza couldn’t see too much of the building, but what there was to see was not encouraging. The roof sagged, and the paint was dingy and peeling. There were shutters missing, and others hung broken and dangling. The sight was painful to her. The day her aunt had been buried out here, Liza had driven past the inn without really seeing it, and hadn’t had the heart to stop and go inside.

No sense lingering now, she reasoned. There would be time enough tomorrow in the daylight for a full, depressing inventory.

Liza drove her SUV up the curved drive and parked near the porch. The front door swung open, and Liza saw Claire North silhouetted in the doorway. With Claire’s back to the light and her face in shadow, it was hard to see the older woman’s expression. Was she smiling? Liza wasn’t sure.

She had met Claire only once before, at her aunt’s memorial service, which had been held in the old stone church on the green in the town of Cape Light. Liza knew that her aunt had depended on Claire a great deal and valued her friendship. But in their brief meeting and during a few recent phone calls, Liza found the woman very hard to read. Liza wasn’t sure if that was simply Claire’s personality or some reaction she should take personally.

Liza walked to the rear of the vehicle, pulled out her bags, closed the hatch, and started toward the house. For the first time, she wondered about Claire’s expectations. Did she think Liza and Peter might keep the inn, running it as absentee owners with Claire in charge? Didn’t she realize they would sell it?

Liza and her brother had agreed that it was only fair that Claire hear about their plans right away. Liza was hoping, though, that she could put off that conversation until Peter arrived.

She walked up the porch steps, forcing a smile and a friendly greeting, the one she used to win over difficult clients.

“Hello, Claire. You didn’t have to wait. There was a lot of traffic. I meant to call and let you know I’d be late . . .”

But she’d forgotten, Liza realized. She had forgotten all about the housekeeper and had not expected her to be waiting here. Claire did not live at the inn, though she had a room on the third floor, where she stayed over in case of bad weather. Her real home was in a cottage on the other side of the island. Liza’s aunt Elizabeth had told Liza that when Claire had first started working for her.

“I didn’t mind waiting.” Claire stepped forward and helped Liza with her bags. Her welcoming smile and warm tone caught Liza off guard. “It must have been a hard drive in all that rain. You must be very tired.”

“It wasn’t that bad.” Liza downplayed the aggravating journey.

“Well, come on in and dry off,” Claire urged her. “Any more luggage?”

“Not much. I’ll get it later.” For some reason, Liza didn’t want Claire waiting on her. It made her feel uneasy and a little guilty.

Liza set her big purse and laptop on a hall table. Claire shut the door, then turned to face her. “Your coat is wet. I’ll hang it up for you.”

“Okay, thanks.” Liza shrugged off her damp wool coat and handed it over.

Claire hung the coat on a coat tree near the staircase, then positioned the tree closer to a large old radiator.