The Inn at Angel Island (32 page)

“Guess I’ll bring this old lamp. It needs to be rewired, but maybe she’ll take it. It looks like real brass.” Peter’s appraisal interrupted her thoughts. He tramped out onto the porch again, carrying a pole lamp, the frazzled cord dragging. “By the way, Fran thinks it would be better if we weren’t here when the Hardys come,” he added as he passed by. “So they can look around without anybody getting in the way.”

Fran dreaded the thought of Peter hovering and ruining her sale, Liza suspected. But she couldn’t tell her brother that.

“Okay, I’ll make sure I’m not underfoot.”

Peter stood at the bottom of the steps, looking up at her.

“Do you want to come into Cape Light with me?”

She considered the offer, then shook her head. “I don’t think so. I’ll work around here awhile, then maybe go down to the beach or take a bike ride.”

“All right. I think I’ve got the best of the lot. If Grace Hegman takes this load, I can always come back for more, right?”

“Absolutely,” Liza agreed, though she wondered what he had actually packed. She hadn’t been watching very closely, she realized. There were a number of items she didn’t want to part with, including some chipped china dishes and broken lamps. Had he taken any of those? Then she decided she just didn’t care.

What was the sense of haggling? It felt as if this place were slipping away from her, like grains of sand sifting through her fingers, and she just couldn’t hang on to any of it.

Peter had pulled out his cell and begun texting someone. He stared at the phone and released an impatient sigh.

“Do you believe this? I’ve been reduced to texting my son while he’s under the very same roof. What is the world coming to?”

Liza would have laughed if her brother hadn’t seemed so distressed. “Why don’t you just go up and knock on his door?”

Peter’s mouth grew tight. “Tried that, he won’t answer. He’s pretending that he’s sleeping, but I know he’s awake in there.”

“What’s the matter? Did you argue?” Liza hadn’t witnessed any squabbles last night, but emotional weather between father and son had been unstable the last few days.

“He got a message from a friend last night that the camping trip was great, and now he’s mad at me for missing it.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Liza replied. “I thought he was enjoying the island—at least, he seemed to be into painting and repairing the place.”

“He’d probably tell you it is ‘okay,’ ” Peter said.

“Maybe it is. But I bet it doesn’t compare to an outdoor adventure with his friends. I remember what it was like at that age to feel like you missed out.”

“Well, that’s the way it goes sometimes. Life isn’t fair. The sooner he figures that out, the better,” Peter muttered. “There will be other camping trips. I’ll take him myself next school break.”

“Good idea. You ought to tell him that,” Liza replied.

“If he ever comes out of his room, I will. Guess I have to drag him out.”

Peter shook his head, then pulled open the door and went inside. Liza followed, dreading the scene to come. Luckily, Will was coming down the stairs just as they reached the foyer.

“There you are. It’s about time,” Peter greeted him.

Will gave a long, dramatic yawn. “What’s up?”

“We’re going to town to that antique store, remember? I need your help unloading things.”

Will rolled his eyes. “More grunt work. This is child labor, you know. And I’m not getting paid a dime.”

Peter’s expression tightened. “You’re getting an iPhone out of the deal, as I recall. Or you
might
get it if you stop giving me so much attitude.”

Will’s mouth dropped open. “What do you mean,
might
?”

“I mean, your smart mouth is putting that agreement in jeopardy,” Peter said evenly.

“I can’t believe you! You said it was a done deal. All I had to do was get on the plane,” Will reminded his father in an outraged whine. “No way! That totally stinks!”

Peter’s face grew bright red. “That’s it, Will! One more word out of you, pal, and no new phone. And the one you have will be turned off.” Peter paused, letting his words sink in. “Now, go outside and get into Aunt Liza’s car.”

Will stared at Peter defiantly. He looked like he was going to mouth off again, then just blinked, his eyes bright and glassy. With an angry sigh, he stomped down the stairs, brushed past the adults, yanked open the front door, then slammed it on his way out.

Peter let out a long, shaky breath. “Another cheerful outing with my boy. What a joy,” he said drily.

“Peter . . . I know you have to set some boundaries for his behavior, but put yourself in his place. This visit hasn’t been much fun for him. I think he’s been a pretty good sport most of the time. I bet his friend just rubbed it in about the trip, and that’s what got him all upset.”

“I know that. But he’s got to figure out that he can’t blame me for everything that goes amiss in the universe either.” Peter scratched his head, looking baffled by the mysteries of fatherhood. “Don’t worry, he’ll cool off. We’ll work it out somehow. I think once he gets hungry for lunch, he’ll decide to acknowledge my presence again.” He offered Liza a small smile. “Let’s just hope there’s some good news later about the Hardys, right?”

Liza nodded quickly, even though her idea of good news and Peter’s were two different headlines.

Peter and Will set off for Cape Light, and Liza went up to her room. She glanced at the laptop on the table by the window but didn’t open it. Instead, she drew the shade and lay down on her bed. She rarely napped during the day, not unless she was sick. But she did feel off today in a way—not exactly sick but not completely well either.

She noticed the white feather on her nightstand and picked it up, twirling it in the dim light. It was so pure and silky. As if it had fallen from an angel’s wing, she thought, instead of some ordinary bird.

Maybe a sign from above was not like a fortune cookie, predicting your future, but more like a marker in the road, an arrow, pointing out a new direction, saying, “You can go this way if you choose. Didn’t you notice?”

Liza considered all that had happened and decided the feather was telling her she could continue with her artwork if she chose to do so. It was not too late to follow her bliss, her heart’s desire.

Liza resolved that was what she would do, no matter what happened with the Hardys. She closed her eyes and felt herself drift off to sleep.

The next thing she knew, a gust of wind blew through the curtains and caused the shade to flap like a bird’s wing. She opened her eyes and glanced at her watch. She had only slept for a few minutes but felt much better. Refreshed and ready to start her day again, she got up and walked over to the window and raised the shade.

A small blue ceramic pot sat on the windowsill. She hadn’t noticed it before. It was filled with white pebbles and bulbs. Small green shoots pushed themselves up from the center of the wrinkled brown orbs. Liza wondered what type of flowers would bloom from the bulbs—paper whites or daffodils? Her aunt used to force bulbs in the late winter, to lend the house some fresh flowers before the spring. Liza had never learned the knack or had the patience.

This had to be Claire’s handiwork, she realized.

Liza took a closer look and noticed the pot was handmade, one of her aunt’s creations, probably unearthed during the clearing out of closets.

Aunt Elizabeth had finished the pot with a blue glaze and a bright green stripe. She had also inscribed a saying along the rim. Liza lifted it up to read the words.

And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God.

Liza couldn’t recall the last time she had been inside a church, not counting her aunt’s memorial service. But she easily recognized one of Aunt Elizabeth’s favorite bits of scripture. The words helped her feel calmer. No telling what the day—or the Hardys’ visit— would bring. Liza decided she would try to take a page from her aunt’s book and hold on to the view that no matter what, all would work out for the best.

She glanced at her laptop again but the cool, fresh air and fair weather distracted her, calling her outdoors. This could be her last day on the island, she realized. Or close to it. It might be her last chance to get out and enjoy herself here. There didn’t seem to be any sense in staying indoors to do any sort of work.

Liza grabbed her sweater and down vest, then went downstairs, where she scavenged the kitchen for a few snacks and her refillable water bottle. She stowed her necessities in a small, light pack, along with her sketch pad and cell phone, and slung it over her shoulder.

There was a note from Claire on the kitchen table, written in even, square handwriting. The housekeeper had gone up to the General Store for some vegetables to make soup and would be back soon.

Liza wrote a note back, explaining that she was going out for a while but noting that Fran Tulley would be by with some clients around eleven.

“Thank you for the pot of bulbs I found in my room,” she added at the bottom. “That was very thoughtful.”
As always,
Liza added to herself.

She headed out the back door, suddenly aware of just how much she would miss Claire when she left here. It had only been two weeks, but she’d grown accustomed to the older woman’s calm, steady ways—and her incredible cooking.

What would Claire do if they sold this place? She seemed so attached to the inn, an integral part of it. While Liza was sure that Claire could find work easily, it was hard to picture her working anywhere else. Claire seemed to belong here, Liza mused.

Liza found the bike she preferred in the shed, hooked the helmet to the handlebars, and tugged the bike outside.

She wondered where Daniel was this morning. She’d seen his truck and heard men working outside earlier, but it was quiet now.

If things worked out with the Hardys, she wouldn’t be seeing him anymore either, she realized. She would miss him, too—or maybe just miss what might have been.

She slipped on her helmet and started off on the bike. She had no plan in mind, just to ride long enough to make her too tired to think. The Angel Wing Cliffs should do it, she decided, and headed off in that direction.

Liza rode for about an hour along the main road, which offered an ocean view most of the time. By the time she reached the cliffs, she was more than ready to take a break.

She stopped on the side of the road near a large smooth boulder, where the cliffs were in full view and the shoreline stretched out below. They had stopped at this very spot the day she and Peter had come out here with Will. The weather had been chillier then. It felt more like spring today, and there were more signs of the season. The brush and trees scattered on the cliff top looked as if they had been touched with an artist’s brush, tipped in bright green paint.

The sun was high in the clear sky, beaming down on the empty road. She rolled the bike over to a shady spot under a tree. The tree was still bare of leaves, but she could see small green buds on the branches, nearly ready to burst.

Tired from riding, Liza took off her helmet, then took a bottle of water from her pack. The water was still cool and tasted wonderful. Such a simple pleasure, she realized, cold water when you’re tired and thirsty.

She sat on the side of the road and gazed around. She hadn’t seen a car or another biker, or even anyone walking on the road since she started the ride. She felt as if she were suddenly the only person left on the island. It wasn’t a bad feeling either.

It was so very quiet. She heard the sound of the waves dashing on the shoreline far below and the breeze rustling the branches of bushes and trees. A flock of birds hopped among the brush, chirping and squawking at one another before growing silent again.

Liza took out the food she’d brought—an apple and a wedge of cheddar cheese and a few whole grain crackers—and ate every bite. The snack revived her, but she wasn’t quite ready to get back on her bike. Stowing her trash in the pack, she noticed her sketch pad and took it out.

It was open to a sketch of the seabirds on the shoreline that she had drawn the other day. Liza looked at it for a moment, then flipped to a fresh page. She took out her soft umber pencil and started to sketch the view before her, the Angel Wing Cliffs and the shoreline below.

Perhaps it was a trick of the sunlight at this time of day, but Liza could see the cliffs clearly as wings today. The rugged white cliffs seemed both solid and gently yielding, almost ready to expand and lift off the earth. It was really an inexplicable sight, impossible to describe in words, and Liza struggled to capture some small sense of it in her drawing.

Her aunt had painted this same view of the cliffs in watercolors and oils. Many famous painters were fascinated with a particular landscape, painting it over and over in all types of light, in different seasons, and with different techniques. Van Gogh and the haystacks. Monet and the water lilies. Aunt Elizabeth had been that way about the cliffs, and Liza had seen many versions of this landscape among the paintings in the attic.

Of course, lots of people who came to the island chose this spot to paint or photograph. But it made Liza suddenly feel close to her aunt, in touch with Elizabeth’s spirit, to recall those efforts and work at that vision herself.

After she filled a few pages, the light and the wind shifted, subtly changing the scene. Liza felt she was ready to close her sketchbook but sat with it in her lap a moment and ran her finger along the edge of the binding.

She had practically laughed at the sketchbook the night Peter had handed it to her. Her old efforts seemed so amateur, even embarrassing. But now, she held them in her lap like a treasure, a glimpse into her past, a touchstone she had lost and forgotten about but now rediscovered. An important part of herself she had pushed aside but now embraced.