Thomas Kinkade: The Inn at Angel Island

Liza didn’t answer. She didn’t want to sound mad or upset, but did he really mean he wasn’t going to come at all?

“Why don’t you just bring Will with you?”

“Well, he’s in school this week. Next week starts his spring break, and he’s already got big plans. A camping trip with his buddies.”

“I see,” Liza said slowly. “Could he do that trip another time, and you can just bring him out here? There’s the ocean and the beach, an entire island to explore. Wouldn’t he like that just as well?”

“Who can tell what he likes? A mind reader, maybe. All I know is, everything I say is wrong or stupid. Or embarrassing.”

“Ouch,” Liza said sympathetically. “That must be rough. Still, I really think you should explain it to him, persuade him somehow. Tell him it’s a family emergency and ask him to help you out.”

“You don’t get it, Liza. He barely takes off his headphones long enough for even a one-word conversation.”

Liza felt bad for her brother. She knew how much he missed Will and worried about their relationship. Peter felt he hardly got to spend any time with the boy. But she felt even worse for her nephew. Watching your family split up had to be hard at any age, and adolescence was rough enough without having that monkey wrench thrown in.

“Well, he might want to come,” she pointed out. “You never know. It might improve things between the two of you, taking a little trip together? Making him feel he’s helping you solve a problem?”

“Or not,” Peter said. Liza didn’t answer. She heard him give a long sigh. She knew he was now stuck between that proverbial rock and a hard place, but she really needed him out here. Surly teenager and all.

“I don’t mean to stick you with all the work, Liza. Honestly. It’s just the way things played out this week. As usual, Gail didn’t even give me any notice, just packed him up and dropped him off yesterday after school.”

“I understand.” She really did, too. “If I could rearrange things so we didn’t have to deal with the inn this week, I would,” she told him. “But I’m here now, because you said this was when you could be here. And the Realtor’s about to start showing the inn, and there’s a lot of cleaning up to do and-”

“All right,” Peter said finally, “I’ll persuade him somehow. Though this is definitely going to cost me.”

Liza laughed. “We’ll consider it a business cost and reimburse you after we sell the inn, okay?”

“I’m going to take you up on that,” he said. “So what’s been happening on that front? Any news?”

Liza quickly filled him in on the visit with Fran Tulley.

“She does think we should make some repairs. A coat of paint, fixing the broken shutters, and replacing some missing window panes.”

“There are broken windows?” She heard a note of distress in her brother’s voice as he realized the inn had fallen into disrepair.

“You haven’t been here in a long time, Peter. Aunt Elizabeth just couldn’t keep it up. I’m surprised she was able to keep it open and people still came here…”

“She had loyal customers,” Peter said. “Everyone loved her. That’s why they came.”

That was true. There had been some very loyal guests who came every summer, as often as Liza and Peter did. Like old friends of the family, they came as much for her aunt and uncle as the ambience.

“Well… do whatever you think is necessary. We want a good price, and sometimes a coat of paint hides a lot. It can make a big difference in what a person might offer.”

It would take more than a coat of paint to make a big difference here, Liza nearly answered. But she didn’t want to make him too worried.

“Okay, we’ll go for the paint,” she said instead. “A quick job. I hope I can find somebody.”

“I’m sure there are plenty of capable workmen out there. Just ask around. Ask that housekeeper, that Mrs. North,” he suggested. “Did you tell her that we’re going to sell the inn?”

“I told her last night. Right after I came in. I wanted to get it over with,” she admitted.

“How did she take it? She must have guessed, right?”

“I really couldn’t tell what she expected-or guessed,” Liza said honestly. “She’s very hard to read. Not exactly distant but… self-contained or something.”

“Very Yankee,” Peter filled in for her.

“Maybe.” Liza knew what he meant but didn’t quite think that was it either. “She’s been very kind to me. She said that she wanted to help us any way she could. That she promised Aunt Elizabeth she would. And that was even after I told her we were selling and she would be out of a job.”

“That was nice of her,” Peter answered quietly. “Someone else might have just quit and disappeared.”

“I thought so, too. But she’s not the type to act out that way. She’s… different. I can’t quite figure her out,” Liza admitted.

She wanted to tell him how her dinner place had been set in her old spot, even though the table was as long as a bowling lane and Claire North had no way of knowing. And how Claire had chosen her favorite room. Not her old room but the one Liza had always coveted. But making something of those coincidences-for that’s what they had to be-would have sounded silly.

“So how is everything else going?” her brother asked. “How did you manage to get away from the office for two whole weeks? Won’t the building fall down?”

Liza ignored his jibe. He always teased her about being a workaholic. “I’ll fill you in when you get here. Tell me when you book a flight, okay?”

“I will,” he promised. “I hope you don’t regret having Will around. It won’t be pretty. You really can’t imagine.”

“I have some idea. I lived with you when you were fourteen, remember?”

Peter laughed, and they ended the call.

Liza’s talk with her brother had put her in a good mood.

They had been very close growing up but had grown apart during college and even further when Peter moved out to Tucson right after he graduated. She was looking forward to spending time with him. Now that they were both divorced and had lost Aunt Elizabeth, their final link to their mutual past, it seemed to Liza they needed each other more than ever.

Peter was only two years older, but she still looked up to him. She admired the way he had stuck to his original youthful goals and become a photographer. While she had let hers fall by the wayside.

Growing up, Liza had always loved painting and drawing. She could entertain herself for hours with just a stick of charcoal and a drawing pad. Maybe she had inherited her artistic tendencies from her aunt-or maybe it was all the encouragement and instruction from Elizabeth that made her want to be an artist. Probably a little of both, she thought.

Summers at the island were like art camp, learning how to use watercolors or oils, to sketch, or to make sculptures from found objects or plaster casts in the sand. Even spinning clay pots and fiber weaving were not beyond Elizabeth ’s deft hands. Her aunt was not an artist who specialized; she saw creative potential in just about anything that came her way.

But her aunt had never relied on her artwork for a living. She had always had the inn, Liza reminded herself.

The sign for the inn blew in the breeze on its rusty hinges. The creaking sound shook Liza from her thoughts. She noticed again the carefully hand-painted lettering and the border of flowers and vines her aunt had painted so long ago.

Elizabeth had never given up on her talent, Liza thought. She simply practiced her art every day in everything she touched without seeking public approval or recognition. She’d had few showings of her work and had never made the big time. But she took great joy in expressing herself. She lived and breathed her talent-and seemed completely satisfied that way.