The Inn at Angel Island (28 page)

“I didn’t see these last night. I hope the Christmas decorations didn’t get ruined,” she said over her shoulder. “Aunt Elizabeth had such beautiful ornaments and lights.”

“Here, let me help you.” Daniel stepped over and began moving the cartons with her. They worked together for a few minutes without speaking, yet Liza felt strangely connected to him, relaxed and easy in their partnership.

Finally, he stood up and brushed some dust off his hands. “Anything else you want to get out of the way?”

She stood up, too, and brushed a few stray strands of hair off her face. He reached down and helped her, smiling gently.

“Why do I always look like such a wreck when I see you?” she asked in a quiet, plaintive tone.

“I don’t know. But I have to tell you, I’ve rarely seen such an unattractive woman. It’s . . . alarming.” The way he was staring at her in the hazy light and the smile in his warm brown eyes suggested he was more charmed than alarmed.

He cupped her face in his hand and leaned down and kissed her. Liza closed her eyes, feeling herself melt. Her arms slipped around his waist as he pulled her closer. Liza wasn’t sure how long they stood there, how long the kiss lasted. She lost all track of time.

She heard someone coming up the stairs, and she quickly pulled away. What had come over her? What had come over him?

“Liza, are you up there?” Peter called, as he slowly climbed the narrow flight that led to the attic.

“Yes . . . I’m here with Daniel. We’re just looking at the damage,” she shouted back.

Sort of . . .

She glanced at Daniel. He looked as dazed as she felt. Which was some comfort. They shared a swift, secret smile. Then he put on his game face and walked toward the steps to greet Peter.

“So, what do you think? A total disaster, right?” Peter ran his hand through his hair. “What a thing to happen. What timing.” He looked over at Liza before Daniel could reply. “Fran Tulley just called. The Hardys wanted to come back today, but I had to tell her about the roof. She’s going to tell them and see what they want to do. She didn’t sound too optimistic.” Peter’s tone was glum. “She thinks they may be scared off.”

Liza glanced over at Daniel. “Daniel says he can fix it in a few days.”

“A few days?” Peter turned to Daniel. “Will it really take that long?”

“Two days at least. Depending on the weather,” Daniel told him.

Daniel began to explain the different stages of the repair, and Liza decided it was the perfect time to slip away and let her brother take over.

Liza yearned for a shower and a change of clothes. The situation would look better after that, she was sure of it.

She knew there was plenty of work to be done today, but for some reason, the hole in the roof had taken the pressure off. Like getting a flat tire on a road trip. You had no choice but to stop and wait. And appreciate your surroundings.

And think about being kissed in the attic by the most amazing man you’ve met in ages?
a little voice chided her.

Yes . . . that, too, Liza silently acknowledged.

 

 

LIZA came out of her room a short time later, wearing jeans and one of her good sweaters, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She heard noises up in the attic, the sound of a saw and hammers. Daniel didn’t waste any time getting to work, that was for sure.

She also heard Claire talking with someone down in the foyer. It was Fran Tulley, she realized as she drew closer.

“Oh, there she is,” Claire said, turning to watch Liza come down the stairs. “Fran is here to see you, Liza. I’ll leave you two to your business. I have something on the stove.”

The housekeeper headed back toward the kitchen as Fran and Liza greeted each other.

“Hi, Fran, I didn’t know you were going to stop by. Peter said he spoke to you this morning.”

“I was in the neighborhood and thought I should see the roof firsthand. This way I can prepare people.”

“Daniel Merritt just started working on it,” Liza assured her.

“Oh, that’s good. Very good.” Fran followed Liza up the first flight of stairs toward the attic. “I’m afraid the Hardys have backed off,” Fran reported. “For now at least. I told them the damage probably wasn’t much and would be fixed quickly. But they got spooked. Some people feel superstitious about lightning.”

“What do you mean?”

Fran shrugged. “There’s a lot of magical thinking attached to lightning. It’s so sudden and explosive and powerful. Some people believe it’s some sort of sign from the heavens.”

Liza didn’t believe in that stuff. She didn’t even think about it. Not usually.

As they climbed up the last narrow flight, they heard voices, and Liza realized that Peter and Will were in the attic with Daniel.

“Everyone’s here,” Fran said, sounding pleased as they stepped into the attic. “Peter, Will, good to see you.”

Daniel met Liza’s glance, and she could tell that he was not nearly so pleased to have such a large audience.

“How’s it going?” Fran said, walking over to him. “Looks like you’ve found another big project here.”

“Or it found me,” Daniel answered. He nodded toward the huge chunk of tree branch on the attic floor. There was sawdust all around, and Liza was relieved to see that everything nearby had been covered with drop cloths.

“Daniel’s cutting up the branch. Then we’ll lower it out the window to the ground with some ropes and pulleys,” Peter explained.

So he did need some help, Liza realized. Or maybe he was just humoring her brother and making him feel as if he were doing something productive.

Will seemed to be the only one actually helping Daniel. He wore large gloves and a plastic eye guard. He held one end of the trunk as Daniel prepared to cut into it again.

“Be careful, Will. Don’t get too close to that saw. I wish you’d let me do that part,” Peter told his son.

“I’m okay, Dad. Just chill, will you?”

“No need for attitude, Will.” Peter’s voice rose. “This is serious.”

“I know, I know. Give me a break. You’re always criticizing. You know everything, right?” Will stepped back from the branch, glaring at Peter.

There was a momentary standoff until Daniel stepped in. “Will’s doing a good job. Just let him handle this last part. He’s already got the gear on,” Daniel pointed out.

Peter curtly nodded and stood back. Daniel positioned the saw again, but this time Fran interrupted him.

“How long do you think it will take, Daniel?” she asked.

“A few days. If I can get this branch out of the way and get started.”

Liza seemed to be the only one who caught his sarcasm. And Will, she noticed, who was quietly laughing.

“That’s not so bad,” Fran said, considering.

“Could you let the Hardys know that?” Peter asked. “Tell them we’re fixing the roof.”

“Of course I will,” Fran assured him. Then she peered up at the hole again, frowning. “This is a setback, no way around it. I don’t think we should bring anyone else to view the property until this repair is made. It’s just going to throw people off. There’s enough to overlook already.”

No denying that, Liza knew. Even her brother couldn’t argue the point.

Daniel held up his saw. “Just want to warn you all. I’m going to count to five and start this up again. Ready, Will?”

Will adjusted his goggles and nodded.

“You don’t have to tell me twice. What a racket.” Fran quickly headed for the steps. “So long, Daniel. Good luck.” She turned to Peter and Liza. “Keep me posted. And don’t worry. Sometimes you just can’t force these situations,” she added. “You just have to sit tight and wait it out.”

Liza glanced back at her brother as she headed down the steps, wondering how he was taking that piece of advice. Not well, she decided, not well at all.

 

 

LIZA walked Fran to the front door, then wandered into the front parlor. Claire was sorting out more clothing, heavy woolen coats and sweaters that she was going to bring to a local homeless shelter.

“The weather’s getting warmer, so I guess they’ll hold on to this stuff until next fall,” she said, packing the last bag. “It will go to use though, either way.”

“I’m sure Aunt Elizabeth would approve,” Liza said. “Do you need any help putting that in your car?”

“Nah. This is the last bag. I’m fine.” Claire tied the end of the black bag and stood up straight again. “What are you up to today? Outside or in?”

Liza shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. I might hang the curtains in the bathroom downstairs. But it seems too nice to stay inside.”

“That’s the best thing about a big spring storm. It makes the air so clear and sweet,” Claire agreed.

So it had. The storm had left the air sparkling clear, and now the sun shone down brilliantly. It was far too beautiful to stay inside, but Liza couldn’t think of any outside jobs she wanted to tackle either.

“Why don’t you take a break from this house today, Liza?” the older woman suggested. “Maybe that lightning bolt was trying to tell you something,” she added with a smile.

“You think so?” Liza asked, curious. “I can’t imagine what that might be.”

Claire shrugged. “I don’t know exactly. Whenever I’m tired and confused, I take a nice long walk on the beach. That’s where I feel calmer. And closest to God. That’s what helps me sort things out.”

Liza nodded. She respected—and even envied—Claire’s strong faith, though she didn’t come close to sharing it. Liza wasn’t a churchgoer, hadn’t prayed for years. Well, maybe once or twice in some desperate crisis, after her parents had their accident, probably. Liza didn’t think God felt very positively about people who only called in an emergency. But Claire was right about two things: Liza did feel tired and confused, and she did need some time away from the inn.

“Off I go. See you later.” Claire picked up the big bag of clothes and headed out to her car.

Liza gazed out the bay window at the stretch of clear sky and blue-green ocean. A beach walk would do her good, she decided.

As Liza left the parlor, she saw her sketchbook and pencil box still sitting on the end table where she had left them the other night. They seemed to be waiting for her like dear old friends.

She picked up the art supplies and tucked them under her arm. She wasn’t sure if she had the courage to start drawing again, but it would be nice to look over the sketches once more, she thought. The images brought back such happy memories.

Wearing her scarf and jacket, with an apple and a water bottle tucked in her pockets, Liza crossed the road in front of the inn. She felt as if she were sneaking away, on some secret errand. Behind her, the steady sound of hammering and the sound of the saw broke the perfect quiet of the clear morning.

No one will miss me,
she thought.
Not for a while anyway.

As she climbed down the steep hill that led to the beach, she felt her cares and concerns about the inn lifting. The sight of the beach after a storm was captivating. She had forgotten how beautiful it looked, with long ropes of reddish brown and green seaweed flung about like strange confetti, as if there had been a wild party there the night before. Shells and stones were scattered in patterns that marked the tides, and little cliffs and alcoves had been carved from the shoreline by the strong surf.

The waves were still rough today, rushing to the shoreline, one after the other, and crashing with a thunderous roar.

Liza walked against the wind, her hands dug in her pockets and her head down. She felt as if the salt air were practically blowing her cares away. Claire was right. She did feel closer to something vital and elemental here. Was it God? Well, that was one word for what she felt, she acknowledged. The rough, wild sea did seem like the very soul of the Earth, the source of life, the source of everything.

Liza walked until her legs felt weary, then sat in the sand, resting against a large flat rock. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, feeling the sun on her skin.

It was warmer here today than she had expected. She felt herself slowing down, almost getting drowsy. But the cackling and calls of seabirds nearby wouldn’t let her drift off completely.

She opened her eyes and watched a flock of small birds—terns maybe? Or maybe herring gulls? Her uncle Clive had been a big birder. He knew the proper names of all the species common to the area. There were eighty-seven species of gulls alone, Liza recalled, though only a few lived locally.

Neither Liza nor Peter shared Clive’s avian passion, though Liza loved to watch the seabirds feed and fly along the shore like this. Of all the creatures on earth, birds had such graceful lines and eloquent expression in their smallest gesture, the tilt of their heads, the gaze of bright eyes, or the arch of a delicate wing.

Without giving it much thought, she opened her sketchbook, took out a soft pencil, and began to sketch the flock. After a few minutes, she rose from her spot and crept up slowly to observe them at closer range.

One or two of the birds looked up inquisitively at her but soon returned to pecking at mounds of seaweed, searching for tasty bits of broken crabs or other delicacies in the sand.

Liza’s hand moved awkwardly at first. Her fingers felt so clumsy. She couldn’t draw a decent line. Frustrated, she tore off page after page. But finally, she stuck with a sketch and saw a tiny bit of improvement. She finished one drawing, flipped the page, and moved on to another.

The birds were fast, never staying in one pose very long. Which was a good thing, she thought. A lot like the fast-sketching sessions she was forced to do in art school. A model would hold a position for no more than three minutes, then switch to a new one. Students would rush to capture the pose in bold, swift lines.

“Don’t think, just draw,” was her favorite teacher’s motto.

Liza could almost hear her professor’s voice, shouting at her over her shoulder. The impulse had to flow from the eye to the hand, bypassing a certain analytical, editorial part of the brain that always made a muddle of things.