Thomas Kinkade: The Inn at Angel Island

Did he really think he could cut her out of the loop so easily? She would call the client herself as soon as she could. And why hadn’t Eve just called her directly about the problem?

Because that was the way their boss, Eve Barkin, operated. Eve liked to fan the flames of rivalry to get the best work out of her top two account executives. She had even been dangling a promotion between them for months now. Liza knew that she was the obvious choice. She had more experience, the most important clients, and far more creative ideas than Charlie. Everyone in the office said she would get it. But Eve liked to keep life interesting, treating Charlie like a valid contender.

Eve had promised that nothing would be decided until Liza returned to Boston, but Liza hated leaving the office and giving her nemesis a clear field. She only hoped Eve could see through good old Charlie, with his five-hundred-dollar suits and two-hundred-dollar haircuts.

And she hoped the ordeal on the island-settling her aunt’s estate and selling the inn-would be over quickly, so she could get back to her job and her life, which pretty much amounted to the same thing these days.

Liza would only be gone two weeks, but she felt as if she would be away for months. She had definitely packed a month’s worth of work, stuffing her briefcase, a large knapsack, and a portfolio with layouts and sketches. Thank heavens for the Internet and all the high-tech contraptions she relied on. She only hoped the island had good reception.

Sorting out the inn and everything in it was going to be a nightmare, but at least she didn’t have to do it alone. Her brother, Peter, would be here by tomorrow. He lived in Arizona now, a photographer with his own business, struggling lately to stay afloat. He had told her that he was taking on a lot of little jobs, the kind he used to sneer at in better days. These next two weeks were the only break in his schedule for months, which had determined the timing of their visit.

It was probably better for both of them to just get this ordeal over with. There would never be a good time to travel back to Angel Island. To sort through her aunt and uncle’s belongings and put the gracious old Victorian up for sale. There was no good time to go back and be reminded of all the happy summers she and Peter had spent there as children.

Maybe that’s why Liza had rarely returned. She didn’t want to remember. Those memories were bittersweet, even painful at times. Especially now, when her life was not turning out anything like she had expected.

As she traveled farther north, the traffic thinned. Liza finally spotted her exit and turned off the highway, then headed onto a county road toward the village of Cape Light.

She felt half-relieved the awful drive was almost over-and half wished the trip would take even longer.

Except for her last visit, after her aunt died, Liza had not been back to the island in a long time. Maybe once or twice in the last few years? She had felt bad about that and did call her aunt every couple of weeks to stay in touch. She and Peter had lost their parents in a car accident when they were both in college. Her aunt and uncle had been the only close relatives left. Still, once Liza graduated from college and got busy with her own life, it was hard to get to visit them except on holidays.

Once she really dug in at the advertising agency, Liza was always so busy; she almost never took vacation time. Work usually spilled over to the weekends, and her limited free time was always filled with other things. She had better things to do than travel out to this remote, barely inhabited little chunk of land. How her aunt and uncle managed to live here all those years-and seem so happy in this rough, primitive place-she’d never know.

Sure, she had loved it as a child, but as she grew older and her tastes changed, it seemed too quiet and downright dull. There wasn’t even a good restaurant here-or any type of restaurant at all that she could remember.

That seemed selfish, now that she thought about it. But it was true. After Uncle Clive passed away, Aunt Elizabeth seemed to accept Liza’s infrequent visits. She claimed to be busy, too, running the inn with just the help of one full-time employee, a woman named Claire North. Aunt Elizabeth was not the type to make Liza or her brother feel guilty about being inattentive to her. She had always been, and was to the very end, totally independent.

Liza did feel guilty now. Elizabeth had passed on in late January when a bout of bronchitis that had lingered all winter suddenly flared up into pneumonia. Her once-robust aunt was not strong enough to fight it and passed away very quickly.

Or so it seemed to Liza-as if there had been no warning at all. She had been very concerned when she heard that her aunt’s condition had worsened into pneumonia. Still, she fully expected her aunt to recover; Aunt Elizabeth had assured her that she would. Before Liza could manage to get over to the Southport Hospital, the next call had been the worst news of all and a great shock. Leaving Liza stunned… and full of regrets.

There were so many reasons why it was hard to come back here.

Liza suddenly decided to turn down a road that led to Main Street in Cape Light, though staying on Beach Road was a more direct route to the island. She wanted to see if there were any changes in the small town.

Driving slowly and peering out the window, she did spot a few: signs changed over shops and a new fire station. But she had to look closely to notice the differences. For the most part, Cape Light looked very much the same as it had when she was a child.

The lights were still on in the Clam Box, she noticed. The bright red neon letters “OPEN” glowed in a window alongside a faded poster that read, “Try Our Famous Clam Rolls and Blueberry Pancakes-Box Lunches to Go.” That poster had always been there, though Liza wasn’t sure the clam rolls were famous beyond the town limits.

The town’s landmark eatery had been Aunt Elizabeth’s favorite dining spot. Liza didn’t recall the food as anything special, but as a kid, she had loved sitting on the spinning stools at the counter, feasting on hot dogs or hamburgers and fries-or on a hot afternoon, a big, drippy ice-cream cone. She bet the place still looked the same inside, too.

It was half past eight and she was definitely hungry, but she didn’t stop. The rain fell lightly now, and Liza knew that if the bridge to the island was still open, it might not stay that way for long.

When Liza arrived at the bridge a short time later, the yellow gate was up, signaling that it was safe to cross. The water on either side looked inky black and bottomless. The night sky was just about the same color, with thin, low clouds stretched like cottony threads across a glowing crescent moon.

She steered her car onto the two-lane bridge, which had a rail and a paved shoulder, edged by large gray boulders, on each side. A few tall highway lights lit the way, but she still drove slowly down the narrow black ribbon of highway. From the middle of the bridge, she could see the coastline curving around to Cape Light’s harbor and the cluster of lights in the village.

Waves crashed against the rocks on either side of the road, threatening to spill over, and Liza felt a stiff wind push against her compact SUV.

Why the town didn’t build a real bridge to the island, she had never understood. Maybe they wanted to keep it private and challenging to reach. It kept people out. Or maybe it was sheer economics: Because so few people lived out there, or even visited, it didn’t seem an efficient use of taxpayer dollars.

But that was all supposed to change-and very soon, she had heard. Angel Island had just been designated a Historic National Seashore. Improvements were coming, including a ferry service from the nearby village of Newburyport, about ten miles north along the coast. The ferry would land on the beach at the north side of the island, which would be improved with bathhouses, a dock, and a boardwalk, all the amenities day-tripping tourists expected.