The Inn at Angel Island (20 page)

Did she really sound like that? Liza rubbed the back of her neck, which was stiff from painting the bathroom ceiling. Peter’s words had hit a nerve.

“Well, I guess I do have mixed feelings,” she admitted. “The longer I stay here, the more I remember. Don’t you?”

“Of course, I have memories, Liza. That’s part of the territory. We both knew this wouldn’t be easy.” He wasn’t exactly shouting, but his tone was hard, drawing a line.

It made Liza angry that he couldn’t just step back a minute and look at the situation from another perspective.

“Of course, I knew it wouldn’t be easy. But I didn’t realize it would be so hard. You can’t honestly tell me this isn’t hard for you, can you?”

His expression darkened. “Are you getting cold feet on me? Is that it?”

Liza took a breath, then shook her head. “No . . . it’s not that at all. I know we have to sell it. That’s what we agreed.”

And her melancholy feelings were irrelevant, she added silently.

“Maybe I wouldn’t buy it myself because it’s so run-down,” she said finally. “So that’s where I’m coming from.”

“Maybe,” Peter said quietly. “I’m just tired tonight. I’m sorry I yelled at you.”

“I’m sorry I lost it, too. It’s okay.” Liza picked up some dirty dishes and patted her brother’s shoulder as she passed him on her way to the sink.

Neither of them spoke for a while. Then she said, “There is one way you can make it up to me.”

He turned and looked at her. “What?”

“I noticed that pack of Wing Dings the Doyles gave you just sitting in the refrigerator . . . and there’s nothing around for dessert.”

Peter laughed and shook his head. “Okay, I know when I’m beat. We’ll share it. You deserve it for putting up with me.”

Liza smiled in answer. She loved her brother, but she did deserve half of those Wing Dings. She knew it. And so did he.

 

 

ON Monday morning the inn was a beehive of activity. Peter, Will, and Liza continued their work on the bathrooms. Liza should have known they wouldn’t whip through the rooms in one day. It would take more like two or three. Painting always took longer than you expected. But the results were so obvious and transforming, it was satisfying work.

As opposed to cleaning out closets or even sorting china. She had left those chores to Claire today, who carried on without Liza in her typical orderly way.

Daniel had arrived early with several assistants and another large contraption that sprayed paint onto the outside of the house. He had told her they would have to apply a coat of primer before the house paint went on, and that she and Peter needed to choose the colors.

“White with black shutters. Simple and saleable,” Peter said at once. “Who could object to it?”

“I do,” Liza argued. “It’s so . . . boring.”

Some old houses looked very good with that classic combination. But the inn had a whimsical spirit. You couldn’t just smother the place with white paint and black shutters.

It would just seem so wrong.

After some discussion—and Peter realizing there was no extra charge for a real color—Liza won out with her choice, a soft, warm cream for the house, the same color the inn had been when they were growing up. She quickly ran to show Daniel the shade she had chosen on the paint sample wheel before Peter changed his mind.

“Good choice,” Daniel noted. “That’s just what I would have picked. We’re on the same wavelength.”

“About paint colors at least,” she said quietly, without looking at him.

He smiled. “What about the shutters?”

“I’m not sure. Any ideas?”

“I have a few . . . but I don’t want to rush you.”

She met his playful glance, and a spark raced through her veins. Was she imagining this? These clever, double-edged exchanges?

Sometimes a paint chip is just a paint chip, Liza. You’ve just got a silly crush on him.

But something in Daniel’s warm gaze belied that theory. There was definitely more than paint chips on his mind.

She smiled at him blandly and backed away, holding the color wheel. “I’ll just take this with me and get back to you about the shutters.”

“Take your time.” Daniel smiled and nodded. He knew he had rattled her and seemed pleased about it.

She stalked off in a mild tizzy.

Yes, she was officially divorced. But it still seemed way too soon for this. Way too soon for someone like Daniel. She needed to start with someone far more boring and tame, she reasoned, as she retreated to the first-floor bathroom and set up her paint supplies. She needed to wade in the kiddy pool awhile. Daniel was the deep end. A leap off the high diving board in fact—and no lifeguard on duty.

Liza decided her best course of action was to avoid him. She was working inside, and he was working out. It shouldn’t be too hard, she kept telling herself, though it was tempting to peek out the window every time she heard him pass by.

Somewhere around lunchtime, she realized she needed to go out to the shed to find some sandpaper. There had to be a scrap or two on the workbench, she thought.

She heard the dull drone of the paint sprayer on the other side of the house and the men shouting instructions to one another. The coast was clear.
I’ ll just dash in and out of the shed without running into him,
Liza figured.

Wrong, she discovered too late. Daniel was in the yard, touching up the back wall of the house while his crew continued spraying the far side of the building. She nearly walked right into him before she realized it.

He turned and smiled at her. “Hey, how’s it going? Doing some painting?”

“That’s right.” She nodded and lifted her chin. He seemed to find the idea of her painting amusing for some reason. “The half bath downstairs.”

“Get any on the walls yet?” he asked in a serious tone.

“Very funny.” She tried not to laugh, but she had practically coated herself with blue paint, shaking a can with a loose lid. “The lid on one of the cans wasn’t closed properly. I’m actually a very neat painter,” she defended herself. “I use lots of tape, and I hate a drippy job.”

“I’m impressed. Maybe you can work for me sometime.”

“Maybe,” she replied, playing along with him. “Are you a good boss? Or do you shout a lot?”

He laughed. “Hey, aren’t I supposed to be the one asking the questions?”

“I never said I was interested in the job,” she clarified. “I’m just curious.”

He smiled and held her gaze. “Good. Cause I’m curious about you, too.”

Liza felt her stomach drop and suddenly looked away.

She had no idea what to say next and no idea what had gotten into her today. It had to be paint fumes making her light-headed. Staring off the end of the high diving board again . . .

Liza heard the BlackBerry in her sweatshirt pocket buzz, alerting her that a message had come in. She quickly reached for it. Daniel gave her a disapproving look, and for a moment she thought he might try to grab it away from her again. She quickly stepped out of his reach, just in case.

“I have to take a look at this. It’s my office . . . excuse me,” she said to Daniel.

“See you later.”

“See you,” she replied, her gaze lingering on him as he turned to join his crew.

Liza clicked open the e-mail. It was from her boss, Eve. She read it quickly, not liking what she saw.

Great. Now Eve had just handed Charlie one of Liza’s juiciest plums on a silver platter. What if Harry Berlinger no longer wanted Liza to handle his account by the time she came back? Then what?

Liza was fuming. She went back inside and started to paint again, but her hand was shaking, making a zigzag line. She tossed the roller down, sloshing it in the tray.

Should she call? No, not now. She was too upset. Eve was out of the office all day anyway. She wouldn’t even reach her. Besides, what could she say? She could hardly tell Eve to yank Charlie from the account. Keeping clients happy was the priority, and she had to be a team player about this.

And what about the promotion now? Liza had thought she had it in the bag. Was Eve having second thoughts? If her boss was feeling even the slightest doubt, Liza was sure Charlie would fan that spark into a three-alarm blaze in no time.

And here she was, stuck on this island, unable to protect her own turf or defend herself.

Get a grip, Liza,
she coached herself
. You’re starting to get all crazy and paranoid. It’s probably just as Eve said. Harry Berlinger is throwing temper tantrums, and you don’t even have a fax machine out here. You’ll just have to wait and see how this all plays out.

Liza e-mailed a quick note back, saying she understood and that she would check in with Charlie to make sure things were going smoothly.

“I do have a few concerns however. Please give me a call when you get a chance,” she added at the bottom of the note.

Liza thought it was better to be up front about her fears, even if they sounded silly. What was that old saying? “Just because you’re paranoid, it doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you.” Maybe Eve trusted Charlie, but Liza knew better by now.

With that plan settled, Liza returned to her painting project. Painting might be messy, but it seemed gloriously simple and undemanding, especially when compared with the grueling emotional roller coaster of office politics.

I can always work for Daniel if the advertising career doesn’t work out,
she consoled herself.

At the moment, it didn’t seem like such a bad alternative.

 

 

THE day passed quickly. Everyone reported in at dinner on their progress, tired but happy. Even Will seemed proud of his accomplishments. Peter had promoted him from a mere assistant to being in charge of his own job, the second-floor hallway.

“I didn’t realize how dingy the hall looked until Will started with the fresh paint,” Peter said, a touch of pride in his voice. “It really brightens up the space.”

“It makes a huge difference,” Liza agreed. She glanced at her nephew. “You’re doing a great job, Will. I thought we’d have to skip that area; the hall is so long.”

“He’s got the energy, and he’s stronger than he looks.” Peter smiled at his son. “I didn’t realize I’d be bringing so much extra man power.”

Will looked embarrassed by their praise. “No big deal. I’m just hanging out. What else am I going to do?”

Stay up in your room with the door locked? Like you did the first few days?
Liza replied silently.

But of course, she didn’t say that. That phase seemed over with, thank goodness. And thank goodness Peter was starting to take a new tack and treat Will more like an adult. It was good for him to let go a little and see what Will could do on his own without grown-ups hovering over him.

Will did go up to his room right after dinner. Not pouting, though, as he sometimes did, but just because he was tired. Peter and Liza brought some coffee into the front parlor. Liza sat on the chintz love seat and worked on her to-do list.

Peter strolled over to the oak table that had become his work space. The photo albums were piled on one side, and he began rearranging several old shoe boxes he had labeled with white index cards.

“How are we doing?” Peter asked, glancing over her shoulder.

“Hard to say. Seems every time I cross one thing off, I have to add two more.”

“There’s something wrong with that system,” he said. He walked over to the table, then handed her a book that looked much like the others, with a cracked binding and a dusty black leather cover. “Look what I found. One of your old sketchbooks . . . and look what was with it.”

Liza’s breath caught as she took the book from him, then a slim wooden box with a hinged lid. She looked over the box first. Her initials were carved on top, E.G.M.—Elizabeth Grace Martin. She traced them with a fingertip. She had been named after her aunt, her mother’s sister, but everyone had always called her Liza while she was growing up. She rarely used her full name, except on legal documents.

“Uncle Clive made this for me, remember?”

Peter sat down at the table and nodded. “I remember. It was your birthday.”

“That’s right.” She opened the top of the box, wondering if there was anything still inside. Soft drawing pencils and pieces of charcoal sat there, patiently waiting for her. She fingered them gently. They looked old and crumbly but were usable. When was the last time she had taken them out?

She opened the book next and found some of her old sketches. She glanced at Peter, feeling slightly self-conscious, as if looking through the sketchbook were a private act of some kind. But he seemed to be concentrating on the photos, not even aware of her in the room right now.

She turned the pages slowly, examining each drawing. A star-burst lily cut from the garden and tilted in a cup. Aunt Elizabeth’s old gray cat, Cleopatra, sunning herself in the tall grass. A sketch of Liza’s own hand and also her foot. Uncle Clive reading the newspaper. Aunt Elizabeth sitting on the back-porch steps, shelling peas.

Several more. The last few rough and unfinished.

Then the book went blank.

The same way her art career had trickled off and ended.

Liza sat back, holding the book in her lap. It was hard to look at sketches like these, made at a time in her life when she was young and hopeful, fully believing that if she worked hard, her talent would prevail and she would succeed.

As if hard work and a little talent were all it took. But, of course, it was much harder than that, and most who tried would never make it.