Thomas Kinkade: The Inn at Angel Island

Predictions were very positive. More visitors would come, and real estate values would rise. Liza wasn’t sure who would even be interested in coming here. The place still seemed so remote and out of the way. But that was another good reason to sell the inn now, while everyone was still so optimistic.

Fortunately, her aunt had put Liza’s and her brother’s names on the deed while she was alive, so the property automatically transferred to them upon her death and was not part of the probate process. At least they had been spared that hassle. There would certainly be more hassles to come before it was all over; Liza was sure of it.

The ride over the land bridge was brief, the winds stronger across the open stretch of water and just wild enough to hint at the island to come, which had always been rustic and untamed. Liza suddenly realized she hoped the island hadn’t changed much since her last visit.

The inn was a short drive from the bridge. Liza found her way easily, though she had not made the trip in a long time.

She felt strangely excited, driving slowly down the dark, narrow roads. She rolled down the windows, feeling the moist breeze on her skin and smelling the salty air, sensations that brought back a wave of memories.

There weren’t many opportunities to get lost out here. But she was surprised at how clearly she remembered the route. Everything looked exactly the same: the high marsh grass on the roadside, the dark shadows of houses popping up here and there, even the bent old trees that stood like sentinels and served as landmarks, directing her way. Straight on Old Dock Road, veering right on Mariner’s Way, just past the huge willow at the crossroads.

The beach appeared on the left side of the road, at the bottom of a high bluff. Liza could see the water shimmering in the moonlight. The sky had cleared, and stars sparkled like pinpoints of light in the dark blue sky. There were always so many stars out here; it was really astounding. She could hear the waves rolling in, the sound of the surf muffled and distant, the way it had sounded every night when she fell asleep in her summer bedroom.

Suddenly, on the right side of the road, the inn came into view. Liza stopped a moment and gazed out the window before pulling up the drive. She had always loved this house, three stories high with matching bay windows on the first and second floors. The windows on the second floor were fronted by a balcony, and there was even a turret on the right side of the building not far from the front door.

When Liza was a little girl and had heard the extravagant Victorian called a Queen Anne style, she had instantly known the term was perfect for the house. It was definitely a place worthy of royalty, something right out of a fairy tale.

Set on a large piece of property that sloped toward the road, the house faced the bluffs and the expanse of ocean that stretched out below. In the summertime, the wraparound porch was filled with sitting chairs, Adirondacks, wickers, and straight-backed rockers. During the inn’s busiest weeks, the seats would be filled with guests, from morning to night, sipping lemonade or ice tea, reading or knitting in the shade. Or just gazing out at the sea. But the big porch stood empty now, except for a few cardboard cartons and dark lumps covered with black plastic. The remaining chairs were stored for the winter, Liza suspected.

A light on the walkway leading up to the porch glowed. A sign swung in the wind. “Angel Inn-All Are Welcome.” Her aunt Elizabeth had painted and hand-lettered that sign, Liza recalled, though the scroll of vines and flowers on the border was now hardly visible.

Up on the porch, there was another small light on over the door. Liza couldn’t see too much of the building, but what there was to see was not encouraging. The roof sagged, and the paint was dingy and peeling. There were shutters missing, and others hung broken and dangling. The sight was painful to her. The day her aunt had been buried out here, Liza had driven past the inn without really seeing it, and hadn’t had the heart to stop and go inside.

No sense lingering now, she reasoned. There would be time enough tomorrow in the daylight for a full, depressing inventory.

Liza drove her SUV up the curved drive and parked near the porch. The front door swung open, and Liza saw Claire North silhouetted in the doorway. With Claire’s back to the light and her face in shadow, it was hard to see the older woman’s expression. Was she smiling? Liza wasn’t sure.

She had met Claire only once before, at her aunt’s memorial service, which had been held in the old stone church on the green in the town of Cape Light. Liza knew that her aunt had depended on Claire a great deal and valued her friendship. But in their brief meeting and during a few recent phone calls, Liza found the woman very hard to read. Liza wasn’t sure if that was simply Claire’s personality or some reaction she should take personally.

Liza walked to the rear of the vehicle, pulled out her bags, closed the hatch, and started toward the house. For the first time, she wondered about Claire’s expectations. Did she think Liza and Peter might keep the inn, running it as absentee owners with Claire in charge? Didn’t she realize they would sell it?

Liza and her brother had agreed that it was only fair that Claire hear about their plans right away. Liza was hoping, though, that she could put off that conversation until Peter arrived.

She walked up the porch steps, forcing a smile and a friendly greeting, the one she used to win over difficult clients.

“Hello, Claire. You didn’t have to wait. There was a lot of traffic. I meant to call and let you know I’d be late…”

But she’d forgotten, Liza realized. She had forgotten all about the housekeeper and had not expected her to be waiting here. Claire did not live at the inn, though she had a room on the third floor, where she stayed over in case of bad weather. Her real home was in a cottage on the other side of the island. Liza’s aunt Elizabeth had told Liza that when Claire had first started working for her.

“I didn’t mind waiting.” Claire stepped forward and helped Liza with her bags. Her welcoming smile and warm tone caught Liza off guard. “It must have been a hard drive in all that rain. You must be very tired.”

“It wasn’t that bad.” Liza downplayed the aggravating journey.

“Well, come on in and dry off,” Claire urged her. “Any more luggage?”

“Not much. I’ll get it later.” For some reason, Liza didn’t want Claire waiting on her. It made her feel uneasy and a little guilty.

Liza set her big purse and laptop on a hall table. Claire shut the door, then turned to face her. “Your coat is wet. I’ll hang it up for you.”

“Okay, thanks.” Liza shrugged off her damp wool coat and handed it over.

Claire hung the coat on a coat tree near the staircase, then positioned the tree closer to a large old radiator.

Very efficient, Liza thought. Though without her coat, she felt a sudden chill. Claire quickly took notice of that, too.

“I’ll turn up the heat a bit. It is a raw night.”

As the housekeeper stepped away to adjust the thermostat, Liza glanced around, feeling a bit stunned by the sights that were so familiar yet, at the same time, almost forgotten. The wallpaper patterned with vines and flowers. The Tiffany lamp softly glowing on an Eastlake-style table. The blue and red Oriental rug beneath her feet. Such familiar and comforting sights. But all a bit faded and worn looking now-the wallpaper peeling at the edges and stained in spots, the rug almost threadbare.

The place even smelled the same, a mixture of sea air, cooking, and her aunt’s special blend of lavender and rosemary. Elizabeth would gather the herbs from the garden and hang bunches in various spots around the house. Liza spotted a bunch, tied with a thin blue ribbon, just beside the doorway.