The Inn at Angel Island (7 page)

“His room is ready,” Claire said evenly.

“He’s bringing my nephew, Will,” Liza added. “So that will mean another room will have to be cleaned. Sorry,” she added.

“No problem. How old is he?”

“Fourteen. He’ll be starting high school next fall.”

“Fourteen is a hard age,” Claire remarked, her eyebrows raising a notch.

Claire sounded so knowledgeable, Liza suddenly wondered if she had any children. But that question seemed personal. Even though the housekeeper had been close to her aunt, Liza didn’t see the point in encouraging a close relationship with her. It would only make things harder later when Claire actually had to go. Things were hard enough as it was.

“I want to start clearing things out,” Liza said instead. “Fran thinks we should empty the rooms as much as possible.” She glanced around at the parlor shelves, each one filled with books. “My aunt was a real saver.”

“She liked to use things until they had worn out their usefulness,” the older woman clarified. “She didn’t buy something new if she didn’t absolutely need it. She was a bit ahead of her time that way, wasn’t she?”

“I suppose that’s true,” Liza admitted with a smile. “I’m sure there are a lot of useful things around here that can be given to charity.” And piles of stuff that can and should be tossed, she added silently.

“There are empty boxes in the basement. I’ll go down and get some.”

As Claire set off for the basement, Liza headed for the stairs. “I’m just going to run upstairs to change my clothes. Let’s start in the front parlor.”

Liza needed to change her cashmere sweater and wool slacks for a sweatshirt and jeans. She wondered now if she had brought enough old clothes for all these dirty jobs. Even her worst jeans or workout outfits from the gym were probably too new and “good” to wear cleaning out the attic or basement.

Well, she would figure it out. There were plenty of old clothes in this house to choose from, that was for sure. As she put on her comfortable clothes, she quickly checked the messages on her BlackBerry and saw a note from her assistant. The sketches had arrived just in the nick of time.

Great,
Liza began to type back.
Make sure—

“Drat!” The connection disappeared.

She retyped her message, then hit Send—and promptly lost service again. What was it about this island that made it impossible to send a complete sentence? The Internet and cell service out here were beyond spotty.

She tried to call her office instead and got an “All circuits are busy” message from some robotic voice. She tossed the BlackBerry on her nightstand with a groan.

No choice but to face the closets. Claire was probably already in the front parlor, waiting for her. Liza truly dreaded tackling this job. Clearing this house out was going to be impossible. Like trying to dig your way out of an avalanche with a teaspoon, Liza thought as she headed downstairs.

 

 

THE closet in the front parlor was even worse than Liza had imagined. It turned out to be a black hole, a magic portal that couldn’t possibly contain the amount of clothes, cartons, and miscellaneous items that seemed to be packed within. Once Liza and Claire began pulling things out, it seemed there was no end.

No end to the memories either—another hazard of the job, along with the endless dust.

Liza would have felt completely overwhelmed if not for Claire’s quiet, calm way of sorting it all out. At times, the older woman seemed like the carved masthead on a ship, guiding Liza through the foggiest waters.

Whenever Liza would get off-track, lost in another memory, Claire would lift her chin and say, “Save, discard, or give away?”

Liza had started calling the query “the magic question,” making them both laugh each time they had to remind each other to ask it.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m usually so decisive,” Liza despaired. “I’m not like this at all, especially not at the office.”

“But this isn’t your office. It’s your past. It’s your family history,” Claire observed quietly. “Very different places.”

Yes, they were. No argument there.

An unmarked carton emerged. Liza was the one who tugged it out. It was too heavy to be another box of mismatched mittens and moth-eaten hats. She opened the lid and found the carton was filled with photo albums and envelopes stuffed with snapshots. She didn’t mean to detour and start looking at them, but once she started, she couldn’t help it.

Claire had gone into the kitchen to make them tea. She came back with a tray and set it down on a side table near a wingback chair.

“Oh, wow . . . these are amazing,” Liza said, leafing through an album of photographs that had once been black-and-white but were now yellowed with age. “Look at my aunt and uncle; look how young they were.”

Claire walked over and glanced over Liza’s shoulder. “Yes, they were a lovely couple.”

Liza couldn’t agree more. The photos showed them just about the age she was now. There were many pictures of them working on the inn, painting, or out in the garden. Pictures of her uncle in his woodshop or of the two of them relaxing at the beach, entertaining friends.

“They were a perfect pair,” Liza said quietly. Her aunt always looked so pretty and full of life, and her uncle looked so handsome and strong. She glanced at Claire. “It was a pity they didn’t have children. They would have made wonderful parents.” She turned the page and looked away. “There was a child, you know. They lost her when she was about four.”

“Yes, your aunt told me. That’s when they came out here. Your aunt said it saved her life, coming to this place.”

Liza glanced at Claire. “Yes, I think it did. She had her artwork, at least.”

“And you and your brother,” Claire added with a smile.

“For the summers, anyway,” Liza agreed. Her aunt and uncle were like a second pair of parents. But it was funny, she had never really considered how important she and her brother were to them.

Some consolation for not having children of their own.

Liza turned the page, trying to turn away her more melancholy thoughts.

“Oh, my . . . who’s that? The young Georgia O’Keeffe?” Claire pointed at a large photo in the middle of the page, then looked at Liza with a twinkle in her eye.

Of course they both recognized the little girl in a pink T-shirt and shorts, covered in paint. A child-sized easel stood nearby with a few small red and blue handprints on the otherwise blank sheet of paper.

“That was my random handprint stage. I was trying to express the deep yearning within modern society to reach out and connect with one another,” Liza explained in a mock-intellectual tone.

“I can see that,” Claire said, playing along. “A deep need for sticky fingers and stain remover as well, I’d say.”

“Exactly,” Liza nodded. “This place was like an art camp. Aunt Elizabeth always had us working on something messy and fun—pottery, painting, papier-mâché. That’s why I wanted to be an artist, just like her.”

“Is that what you studied in college?” Claire asked.

“My special area was painting. The Rhode Island School of Design . . . I tried my best after school, but I didn’t get very far,” she admitted. “Not far enough, anyway.”

Liza had worked hard at her painting, never expecting easy success. For a time, she had believed that with persistence, dedication, and a thick skin, she would finally break through. She worked part-time in the art departments of advertising agencies to pay the bills and spent all her spare time in her tiny studio apartment, which was pretty much an artist’s work space, with a stove, a fridge, and a bed shoved in one corner.

But time passed, and her successes were few. The rejections from galleries undermined her confidence more than she had ever expected. Meanwhile, her work at the ad agency was noticed and valued. She became the go-to graphic artist for the most challenging projects, where a creative flair and fine-art skills were needed.

Eventually, the part-time job that paid the rent and bought art supplies became full-time with benefits.

“Do you still paint?” Claire asked curiously.

Liza shook her head. “I don’t even own a paintbrush or a canvas,” she admitted.

“There’s plenty of that stuff around here. You find it all over . . .” Claire tugged out a large roll of canvas from the closet as if to prove her point. “I mean, if you ever want to try your hand again.”

Liza glanced at the canvas wistfully. It was true, there were enough supplies stashed around the house to open an art school. Maybe that’s where she’d donate all of it, to a local school.

She glanced at the album again and felt her breath catch, her joking mood instantly evaporating.

Claire noticed her shift in mood. Her clear blue gaze searched Liza’s face.

“Those are my parents,” Liza explained, pointing down at the photo. “We were all at the beach, jumping the waves.” Everyone looked so happy and excited—and wet. Her mother held Liza’s hand tight. Her father had one arm around her mother, and with the other he had hoisted her brother up above the water. Peter had been all skin and bones in those days.

“It’s a beautiful photo. You ought to save that one in a special place,” Claire suggested.

“Yes, I should,” Liza agreed. “Elizabeth was my mom’s sister. They looked so much alike, people thought they were twins.”

“I can see that. You look a lot like your aunt and mother as well,” Claire said.

Liza smiled briefly at her, taking the words as a compliment. She had inherited the dark brown hair, the gray eyes, and the same slim build, but she was a bit taller than Elizabeth—though not quite as tall as her mother had been.

She sighed and looked down at the photo again. “My parents died when I was in college. A car accident. They were just coming home from the supermarket one night. But it was winter, icy roads. They were hit by another car that skidded through an intersection . . .” Her voice trailed off.

Claire rested her hand on Liza’s shoulder for a moment. “Yes, I know. Elizabeth told me. What a great loss for your family, you and your brother especially.”

Liza nodded and softly closed the album. “At least we had Aunt Elizabeth and Uncle Clive.”

Now they were gone, too. Nothing lasted, did it? Certainly not happiness. You could grasp a moonbeam in your hand more easily, Liza thought.

She rubbed her hand across her eyes, and Claire handed her a tissue.

“I didn’t realize this cleaning business was going to be so . . . heart wrenching. Pretty soon I’ll be crying over the broken umbrellas and boxes of old magazines,” she quipped through her tears. “My uncle had a thing for
Reader’s Digest
, didn’t he?”

“We’ll both be crying if we have to lift another box of those. Come and sit down, have a cup of tea,” Claire urged her.

Claire sat on the antique love seat covered with faded chintz fabric. Liza finally followed, taking the armchair. She was not the type of person who took a break while working. Once she started something, she went full steam until it was done. Tea time right in the middle of a task seemed positively . . . indulgent.

But this was not an ordinary job and not an ordinary day. She sat down with a deep sigh and stirred a bit of honey into her cup, then surveyed the row of boxes and black trash bags that had already accumulated.

“We won’t get it done in a day, I guess,” she finally admitted. “But we’ve made a dent.”

“A good dent,” Claire agreed. “Save, discard, give away. That’s my motto.”

“Mine, too.” Liza nodded and smiled over the edge of her tea-cup. There would be many more closets ahead and more weepy moments. But at least now she had a magic question to guide her through. Thanks to Claire North.

Chapter Three

T
HE next morning Liza silently repeated the question, though it did not always have its magic effect. She and Claire had finally emptied the closet in the front parlor, but that project was a mere warm-up compared to the next closet they tackled in the foyer, which was even larger and deeper.

Liza, perched on top of a ladder, wrestled with an antique hat-box and finally pulled it from one of the upper shelves. She knew that people collected these things, and it might be worth something. But it hardly seemed in collectible condition. She stared at it, feeling stumped, then glanced down, about to ask Claire her opinion.

But Claire was gone, along with several black bags of discards that had piled up in the hallway.

The brass door knocker rapped loudly on the front door.

Liza climbed down the ladder and headed over to answer it. It was probably Fran. They had spoken on the phone last night, and Fran was going to drop off some papers for her to sign, granting Bowman Realty the right to show the house to prospective buyers.

Liza pulled open the door, a friendly smile in place for her favorite real estate agent.

But it was not Fran Tulley on the other side of the door. Not by a long shot.

It was a stranger, a man about her age wearing a battered leather jacket and worn jeans. And an annoyingly amused expression as he looked her over.

“Can I help you?” Liza’s tone was curt, trying to make up in attitude what she lacked in appearance. She had picked out some old, worn-out clothing last night from the bags marked for charity, and now looked like a pile of cleaning rags wearing sneakers.

“You must be Liza, Elizabeth’s niece.”

“Yes, I am . . . Are you here about a room? The inn isn’t open for guests right now.”

“Yes, I know.” He seemed amused by her answer. “I’m Daniel Merritt. Claire called me. Something about a leak in the basement?”

“Oh . . . right. Come on in.” Liza stepped back and pulled open the door.

Daniel Merritt was the handyman who usually worked on the inn, Liza remembered now. She had mentioned the leak to Claire last night, and the housekeeper had said she would call him. Liza had forgotten all about it.