Thomas Kinkade - The Inn at Angel Island

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.

THE 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.

And she’d also pictured the “regular handyman” around this place as someone much different.

Older for one thing. Balding. Paunchy.

Daniel Merritt was none of these.

Tall, dark, and… ironic was more like it.

Liza closed the door and turned. Daniel Merritt stared down at her curiously. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, as if that would help.

Skip it, Liza. Doesn’t matter.

Uh… yeah. Right.

“Looks like you’ve been doing some cleaning up around here.” He glanced into the big parlor. “Quite a project.”

“No kidding. Know anyone who wants some sheet music from the 1950s? We have a nice collection from extremely corny Broad-way musicals.”

Daniel smiled. “I’ll ask around.”

“Thanks. You never know.”

“That’s true. Many people wouldn’t own up too quickly to that passion.”

She smiled back at him, surprised by the clever comeback. Okay, a handyman could have a sense of humor. Even out here.