Thomas Kinkade - The Inn at Angel Island

Liza could see now that her aunt had been a true artist through and through. No matter what the outside world might say.

Liza gave the ocean one last look, then rose from the steps and went into the house. She had a lot of work to do. Sitting around and thinking over the past wasn’t going to get anything done.

She was in the foyer, hanging her jacket on the coat tree, when Claire came down the stairs.

“I just spoke to my brother. He won’t be here for a day or so,” Liza reported. “He’s going to call me when he’s booked a flight.”

“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.”