Thomas Kinkade - The Inn at Angel Island

The first book in the Angel Island Novel series, 2010

Dear Friends,

Some of my fondest memories from childhood are of summer vacations with my family. It was a long drive to the old Victorian inn that looked out on the ocean, and I couldn’t wait to arrive. I would spend my days on the beach, happily building sand castles, collecting shells, and chasing waves. When evening drew near, we would return to the inn to watch the sunset from the porch. All the guests would then gather around the oak table in the dining room for delicious, home-cooked dinners, prepared with fresh ingredients that were grown on surrounding farms or plucked straight from the sea. It was, I now realize, a kind of paradise. Back then I believed that something so perfect had to be a gift from the angels. It filled me with a love of the wild beauty in the natural world and a sense of the truly divine. It has been a constant source of inspiration for my paintings-a place of light that my mind returns to again and again.

Even the sweetest things must one day end, and that particular inn, sadly, is no longer standing. In some way, I have been searching for it ever since. That is why Katherine Spencer and I have created The Inn at Angel Island, the first in the Angel Island series that captures the essence of that welcoming, homey inn-a place where all travelers find comfort and solace, a place to renew and restore one’s faith in oneself and in God.

Come with me then and meet Liza Martin, who, along with her brother, Peter, has just inherited the Inn at Angel Island. For Liza, the inn is a far-from-welcome gift. She has too many conflicts in her own busy life-a high-powered job that may be at risk, an ex-husband who claims he still loves her, and a deep grief for the loss of her aunt Elizabeth. Her brother Peter comes to the island with his own troubles-precarious finances and an even more precarious relationship with his fourteen-year-old son, Will. The charming but dilapidated old inn seems to be a complication that no one needs, and Liza and Peter are determined to sell it-until Angel Island, with its white beaches, soaring cliffs, and quaint little village, begins to work its magic on them, opening their hearts to what they really need.

All you have to do to is cross the land bridge from Cape Light to Angel Island. There you will discover a wild, unspoiled, romantic haven, a place to reclaim one’s dreams and one’s faith. I hope that, like me, you will often return to the Inn at Angel Island, where you will find a soft, cozy bed, a home-cooked meal, and a warm welcome. May it always be your home away from home.

Thomas Kinkade

OF course, it was raining. Nothing about this trip was going to be easy. Liza Martin already knew that. Why should the weather cooperate?

The drive from Boston to the north shore was hard enough at the end of a workday, the traffic easily making it two hours or more. But the timing couldn’t be helped. A client emergency had erupted at four, just as Liza was heading out of the office, trying to beat the commuter crush and the dismal forecast.

So here she was, on a Tuesday night at the height of the rush hour, driving all the way up to Angel Island in steady rain. She had turned the wipers to high speed and slowed her car to a careful crawl. At least it isn’t snow, she reminded herself, which was not out of the question even in late March in New England.

She hoped the skies were clearer beyond the city. On a night like this, heavy rain and high surf could wash out the land bridge that connected the tiny island to the town of Cape Light, making it impossible to cross the harbor.

When Liza was a little girl, staying with her aunt Elizabeth and uncle Clive for the summer, visitors often came to the island for the day and were then stranded when a storm blew in. Aunt Elizabeth never paid much attention to weather forecasts and never failed to be delighted by these unexpected overnight guests. Those stormy summer nights, with so many interesting people milling around the old house, were among Liza’s fondest memories. Her aunt and uncle must have enjoyed it, too; Liza often thought those nights were what had inspired them to turn their rambling old house into an inn.

Liza slowed for a light, letting the sound of the storm outside bring back those rainy nights on the island when her uncle would play the piano and everyone would sing. They would even move back the furniture in the front parlor and dance when the mood was right, often by candlelight when the power went out or with Aunt Elizabeth shining a flashlight on the keyboard, swaying the beam to and fro in time to the rhythm. There would be card games and ghost stories and shadow shows on the big wall in the front parlor, her uncle’s specialty.

Liza recalled how she would always feel disappointed the next morning to see the sunshine and the clear blue sky. But other charms of the island would quickly distract her, like an early morning beach walk, where she would sift through the odd treasures the wild surf had tossed on the shoreline the night before. She and her brother, Peter, would race each other to the best shells, arguing over the vilest remains of some defunct sea creature. Her aunt would follow, laughing at them and playing judge and arbitrator with endless patience.

How did Aunt Elizabeth manage to put up with us, Liza wondered. And do it so cheerfully? It couldn’t have been easy, though her aunt and uncle always acted as if their season with Liza and Peter was the highlight of their year. They had no children of their own, so perhaps it really was, Liza reflected.

It was hard to believe her aunt would not be there tonight, waiting for her. It had been nearly two months since she had passed on. Liza had come up for the funeral and burial, of course. But she knew that the reality of the situation, the hard truth of it, had not yet sunk in. Some part of her still expected to see her aunt’s tall, willowy form, silhouetted in the doorway, watching and waiting for her.

The memory made Liza feel sad. She knew that she should have come to visit more often. In some way it seemed pointless to go there now. Aunt Elizabeth was gone. It was too late.

A buzz from her BlackBerry cut into her thoughts. Liza quickly answered, speaking through her wireless headset.

“Hi, Liza, it’s Charlie,” a familiar voice replied. “Sorry to bother you, but something came up with one of your clients right after you left. I thought you should know.”

Charlie Reiger, her former assistant and present office rival. She’d figured as much. A glance at the dashboard clock read half past seven. The office was empty by now with only the workaholics and mischief-makers left. Charlie fell into both categories.

“What is it, Charlie? Which account?”

“Berlinger Tires. Harry Berlinger sent back comments on the new ad proofs by messenger. He doesn’t like the colors or the type-face. The boards landed on Eve’s desk, so she passed them off to me. I put the art department on it, and we’re working up a new version for him.”

“That sounds like a good plan,” Liza said in a reasonable tone, though she felt herself simmering. “You’ll e-mail the revised proofs to me first, so I can take a look before they go back to Berlinger, right?”

“Sure thing. That goes without saying,” Charlie insisted.

She nearly laughed at him. Right, Charlie. As if I believe that for a second. “Thanks. I’ll keep my eye out,” Liza answered. Charlie double-checked her address on the island, then said good night. Liza clicked off the call, fuming. She hated it when he got his sticky paws anywhere near her clients. It was like leaving a hungry dog alone with a roast beef.