Thomas Kinkade - The Inn at Angel Island

She glanced at her laptop again but the cool, fresh air and fair weather distracted her, calling her outdoors. This could be her last day on the island, she realized. Or close to it. It might be her last chance to get out and enjoy herself here. There didn’t seem to be any sense in staying indoors to do any sort of work.

Liza grabbed her sweater and down vest, then went downstairs, where she scavenged the kitchen for a few snacks and her refillable water bottle. She stowed her necessities in a small, light pack, along with her sketch pad and cell phone, and slung it over her shoulder.

There was a note from Claire on the kitchen table, written in even, square handwriting. The housekeeper had gone up to the General Store for some vegetables to make soup and would be back soon.

Liza wrote a note back, explaining that she was going out for a while but noting that Fran Tulley would be by with some clients around eleven.

“Thank you for the pot of bulbs I found in my room,” she added at the bottom. “That was very thoughtful.” As always, Liza added to herself.

She headed out the back door, suddenly aware of just how much she would miss Claire when she left here. It had only been two weeks, but she’d grown accustomed to the older woman’s calm, steady ways-and her incredible cooking.

What would Claire do if they sold this place? She seemed so attached to the inn, an integral part of it. While Liza was sure that Claire could find work easily, it was hard to picture her working anywhere else. Claire seemed to belong here, Liza mused.

Liza found the bike she preferred in the shed, hooked the helmet to the handlebars, and tugged the bike outside.

She wondered where Daniel was this morning. She’d seen his truck and heard men working outside earlier, but it was quiet now.

If things worked out with the Hardys, she wouldn’t be seeing him anymore either, she realized. She would miss him, too-or maybe just miss what might have been.

She slipped on her helmet and started off on the bike. She had no plan in mind, just to ride long enough to make her too tired to think. The Angel Wing Cliffs should do it, she decided, and headed off in that direction.

Liza rode for about an hour along the main road, which offered an ocean view most of the time. By the time she reached the cliffs, she was more than ready to take a break.

She stopped on the side of the road near a large smooth boulder, where the cliffs were in full view and the shoreline stretched out below. They had stopped at this very spot the day she and Peter had come out here with Will. The weather had been chillier then. It felt more like spring today, and there were more signs of the season. The brush and trees scattered on the cliff top looked as if they had been touched with an artist’s brush, tipped in bright green paint.

The sun was high in the clear sky, beaming down on the empty road. She rolled the bike over to a shady spot under a tree. The tree was still bare of leaves, but she could see small green buds on the branches, nearly ready to burst.

Tired from riding, Liza took off her helmet, then took a bottle of water from her pack. The water was still cool and tasted wonderful. Such a simple pleasure, she realized, cold water when you’re tired and thirsty.

She sat on the side of the road and gazed around. She hadn’t seen a car or another biker, or even anyone walking on the road since she started the ride. She felt as if she were suddenly the only person left on the island. It wasn’t a bad feeling either.

It was so very quiet. She heard the sound of the waves dashing on the shoreline far below and the breeze rustling the branches of bushes and trees. A flock of birds hopped among the brush, chirping and squawking at one another before growing silent again.

Liza took out the food she’d brought-an apple and a wedge of cheddar cheese and a few whole grain crackers-and ate every bite. The snack revived her, but she wasn’t quite ready to get back on her bike. Stowing her trash in the pack, she noticed her sketch pad and took it out.

It was open to a sketch of the seabirds on the shoreline that she had drawn the other day. Liza looked at it for a moment, then flipped to a fresh page. She took out her soft umber pencil and started to sketch the view before her, the Angel Wing Cliffs and the shoreline below.

Perhaps it was a trick of the sunlight at this time of day, but Liza could see the cliffs clearly as wings today. The rugged white cliffs seemed both solid and gently yielding, almost ready to expand and lift off the earth. It was really an inexplicable sight, impossible to describe in words, and Liza struggled to capture some small sense of it in her drawing.

Her aunt had painted this same view of the cliffs in watercolors and oils. Many famous painters were fascinated with a particular landscape, painting it over and over in all types of light, in different seasons, and with different techniques. Van Gogh and the haystacks. Monet and the water lilies. Aunt Elizabeth had been that way about the cliffs, and Liza had seen many versions of this landscape among the paintings in the attic.

Of course, lots of people who came to the island chose this spot to paint or photograph. But it made Liza suddenly feel close to her aunt, in touch with Elizabeth’s spirit, to recall those efforts and work at that vision herself.

After she filled a few pages, the light and the wind shifted, subtly changing the scene. Liza felt she was ready to close her sketchbook but sat with it in her lap a moment and ran her finger along the edge of the binding.

She had practically laughed at the sketchbook the night Peter had handed it to her. Her old efforts seemed so amateur, even embarrassing. But now, she held them in her lap like a treasure, a glimpse into her past, a touchstone she had lost and forgotten about but now rediscovered. An important part of herself she had pushed aside but now embraced.

With her eyes closed against the sunlight and the rhythmic echo of the waves below in tune with her own heartbeat, Liza felt as if the entire world had very slowly come to a full stop. A sense of complete and utter calm filled her like a white light. She felt part of something larger, connected to the ocean waves and blue sky, the rocks and sand, the trees and birds.

It was a rare and indescribable feeling. Even as she experienced it, she knew she could never explain it to anyone. For the first time in a long time, she felt whole. And certain. As she slowly opened her eyes and looked at the world around her, her surroundings somehow looked different and new. Or perhaps she was the one who felt different deep within.

She wasn’t sure exactly. But she was sure of one thing. She knew what she had to do.

Liza returned to the inn in the late afternoon. Peter was sitting on the porch in an Adirondack chair. She left her bike on the gravel drive and walked up to him.

“How’s it going? Did the Bramble take anything?”

“One or two items. That woman who owns the place, Grace Hegman? She’s very fussy and drives a hard bargain. You wouldn’t think so from that display in her window.”

Liza could tell that Peter was out of sorts. Was he just annoyed after dealing with Grace Hegman? Or was it something more? She walked onto the porch and sat in a chair next to him.

“I called Fran Tulley,” he reported. “She said the Hardys were here a long time, but we shouldn’t expect any word until tomorrow. Maybe even Monday,” he added glumly. “They need to review their information and figure things out. I hate all this waiting.”

“I know,” Liza said sympathetically. But what she was thinking was, no news is good news. From her point of view anyway.

She stared out at the ocean, realizing that she had fully expected to return here and be facing a firm offer from the Hardys. The delay in their reply seemed an amazing, eleventh-hour reprieve.