The Inn at Angel Island

Chapter Two

LIZA woke to the sound of her BlackBerry, buzzing like an electronic insect trapped in a jar.

Groggily, she reached around the covers and nearly rolled over on her laptop before locating the device. She picked it up and squinted at the message. An e-mail from her assistant, Sara, marked “Urgent.”

Was Sara in the office already? Liza checked the time.

Nine forty-five? She quickly sat up in bed. How had that happened? She barely slept past seven most mornings and rarely needed an alarm.

The room was pitch-black for one thing, the heavy shades and curtains blocking the light, except for a slim crack of sun that showed under the fringed edge. She had been in a deep sleep, tired from the drive in the rain, exhausted enough to sleep late, and already there was some emergency going on.

She quickly opened the e-mail, bracing herself. It was not good news. Liza’s boss, Eve, wanted the sketches of the new logo that was part of a pitch for a new account. For some reason, which was not explained, Eve needed the sketches by one o’clock that afternoon.

The account hadn’t signed on yet at the agency, and there was a call for all hands on deck to bring this one in. Liza was once again pitted against Charlie Reiger in a contest to see who had the best logo ideas.

Eve had originally said the sketches weren’t due until next week, but it seemed she had changed her mind. Now Liza had to scramble. At least she had brought the sketches with her, though they weren’t quite finished.

Knowing Charlie, he had probably given his ideas to the art department and already had four-color samples with complete, finished graphics ready to submit.

Liza jumped out of bed and pulled open the package of artwork she had brought along. She found the sketches easily, but her heart dropped when she looked them over. They were rougher than she remembered. She wondered if there was some sort of quickie graphics place or print shop she could find around here. Not on the island, of course, but back in Cape Light?

No, there wasn’t time. It was nearly ten o’clock. She would never find a place, get the work done, and get the material faxed in by one o’clock. It simply wasn’t possible.

She stared at the sketches again, then began to rummage through the art supplies she had packed. Quickly, Liza grabbed a pencil and some markers and added a few polishing touches. Hardly perfect, but better, she thought. They would have to do. She had to send them in and hope Eve would use a bit of imagination when she reviewed them. Well… more than a bit.

Liza hurriedly got dressed, placed the sketches in a large envelope, and ran downstairs. She wished now she had brought her printer along. She could have scanned the sketches and e-mailed them to the office in about two minutes. It had been dumb to forget the printer of all things. Now she had to find someplace where she could make a copy and send a fax.

She checked the kitchen, but it seemed that Claire had not arrived yet. The housekeeper probably wouldn’t be able to help her anyway, Liza reasoned.

She grabbed her coat and purse and headed outside, having no real idea of where she was going. She got in her car and decided to try the General Store first. If they couldn’t help her, then she would head into town.

The ride to the small village center was brief but scenic. The ocean stretched out on the left side of the road, and there were rolling meadows on the right. The inn had few neighbors, though there were some large old houses built around the turn of the century nearby-some, but not all, in better condition than the inn, Liza noticed.

There was also some farmland. There had always been a farm here on the island, but it seemed the ownership had changed hands since her last visit. What was once a nondescript farm was now an herb farm where she saw a flock of goats grazing. “Gilroy Goat Farm,” a sign read. “Organic herbs, goat cheese, fudge, soaps & lavender.” There was a barn and several small outbuildings, one painted light purple, where she guessed the lavender was sold. Liza made a note to stop there when she had more time.

She drove on a bit farther, passing a few cottages and lots of open land, then finally came to the small commercial center of the island, the place where the two main roads met. There was an open area and space for cars to park around a small square with benches and a fountain. The fountain was not running at this time of year, but in the summer it was a nice place to sit, shaded by a large tree and edged with flowers.

Liza parked and ran inside. The store was wide and low, and she was immediately transported to the past by the very distinct scent of the place-a mix of wooden floorboards, fresh-brewed coffee, soap powders, produce, and who knew what else.

For a small space, the store held an amazing variety of stock, just about everything a person might need, from motor oil to mayonnaise, dog biscuits to diapers, tea bags to tent pegs.

She wondered if Walter and Marion Doyle still owned the place. Liza recalled seeing them at her aunt’s memorial service, but that didn’t mean they still lived out here and ran the store.

Liza glanced around and soon spotted Walter behind the deli counter, packing up an order for a big, burly man wearing high rubber fishing boots.

Marion was closer, stocking a shelf with boxes of throat lozenges. Liza walked over and caught her glance. “Hi. I’m looking for a fax machine. Do you have one here?”

“A fax machine?” Marion shook her head. “We don’t have one of those. We have express mail delivery, though. Your package might get delivered by tomorrow, depending on the zip code.”

Liza remembered now. The General Store on the island also served as the post office, with a section of PO boxes right past the deli counter. Marion Doyle had always been the postmistress, selling stamps and weighing packages. Now she had express mail to offer. But tomorrow was too late. An hour from now was too late.

“That’s all right. I need to have some sketches at an office in Boston by one o’clock…” Liza glanced at her watch. It was already a few minutes past eleven.

Marion straightened up and frowned a moment. “Let me see… I think there is one around here. I just can’t remember where…” She turned to her husband. “Walter? This lady is-”

“Doesn’t Daisy have one? I don’t think she uses it much,” he added. “It might not even be hooked up.”

“That’s right.” Marion nodded. “You can try her.”

“Daisy?” Liza knew she was grasping at straws now. “Does she live somewhere on the island?”

Marion laughed. “Daisy Winkler runs the tea shop across the square. Just knock on the door. She’s usually in there, even if the place isn’t officially open… Hey, aren’t you Liza Martin, Elizabeth Dunne’s niece?”

“Yes, I am. I didn’t think you’d recognize me after all this time, so I didn’t introduce myself,” Liza explained, feeling a bit embarrassed at the lapse. She had easily recognized Marion and Walter, who had not changed very much since her childhood. Her explanation was partly true, but Liza had also wanted to avoid getting bogged down in small talk. Now she couldn’t avoid it.

“It’s good to see you, dear. I heard you were coming back for a visit,” Marion confided. “Claire North mentioned it when she was in here shopping yesterday.”

For the chowder ingredients, Liza realized. That figured.

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” Marion admitted. “You’ve changed so much since I saw you last.”

Liza wasn’t sure when that was. Or what to say. Was that a compliment or a comment on how little she’d been around to visit her aunt?

“It’s been a while,” Liza replied vaguely. “This place looks the same though, exactly the way I remember it.”

Marion smiled widely. “Seems to work for us. If it ain’t broke-”

“Don’t break it,” her husband finished with a laugh. Something about that was wrong, but Liza wasn’t about to take the time to figure it out. “How long are you staying?” he asked.

“Are you going to open the inn this summer?” Marion added, before Liza could answer the first question.

They both looked at her expectantly. Liza was put on the spot. All she wanted was a fax machine. How had she gotten into this conversation?

“Actually, my brother and I are putting the place up for sale.”

“Really?” Marion seemed shocked.

Walter wiped down the counter with a paper towel. “There’ll be a lot of that going on pretty soon. Can’t say I’m surprised.”

With all the improvements on the north side of the island going on, he meant. But Liza didn’t want to start in on that topic either. She had lost enough time and had to get back to the hunt.

“Well, guess I’ll try Daisy. Thanks for your help,” Liza said.

“I don’t know that we helped you very much.” Marion sounded genuinely concerned. It was very kind, considering that they were practically strangers.

“Good luck.” Walter’s expression made her heart sink.

Liza sighed out loud. Her head was pounding, maybe because she hadn’t eaten a bite or even had a sip of coffee. Caffeine deprivation could be ugly. “May I have a pack of those pain tablets, please?” she asked, pointing to the brand she wanted.

“Sure thing. Here you go.” Marion handed them across the counter.

“How much will that be?” Liza opened her purse.

“Oh, they’re on the house. I hope you feel better. You’re not having such a good day so far, are you?”

“No, I’m not,” Liza admitted.

“Well, I hope it gets better. Just remember, don’t sweat the small stuff-and it’s all small stuff,” Marion added in a jaunty tone.

Liza nodded but didn’t reply. She really hated those cheery little inspirational slogans. People who said them either had to be in deep denial or were just plain lying.

She stepped outside and blinked at the strong sunlight. The day was chilly but fair. No sign of rain. That was a plus. At least the bridge would be open.

“Don’t sweat the small stuff ”? What was that supposed to mean? This wasn’t small stuff. This was big stuff. Liza had worked so hard and come so far. She wasn’t going to let herself be beaten out steps from the finish line. Not if she had to swim to the mainland with the sketches between her teeth.

Liza retrieved a water bottle from her car, downed her headache pills, and surveyed the tiny town center. Right next to the General Store, she spotted a storefront window covered by a red first aid symbol. The sign above read, “Medical Aid-Walk-in Clinic. Emergency Services. Visiting Nurse.”

She wondered if they had a fax machine. Her problem was definitely an emergency, though not of a medical nature. There was an automotive garage on the corner of the block with one lonely old-fashioned-looking gas pump in the small lot. That place had always been there, though if a vehicle needed serious repairs, it usually had to be towed to the mainland, Liza recalled. She doubted they had a fax.

On the opposite side of the street, she noticed another storefront office. This one had even more official-looking lettering on the window that read, “State of Massachusetts Environmental Protection Agency.” And another sign below that read, “ Angel Island -Village Office.” Between the two bureaucratic offices, there must be a fax machine, she reasoned. But as she drew closer, she could tell both were closed.

She checked the hours listed near the door and saw that the state office was open only once a week, and the village office had limited morning hours three times a week. Though there was a number to call and a night court held once a month.

What in the world did people visit night court for out here?

Speeding tickets? Inappropriate trash dumping?

She passed another little shop that had colorful signs for homemade ice cream. Now that place was definitely new. If only it had existed when she was a kid. A hand-written sign on a sheet of notepaper was stuck to the inside of the glass door. “See you in the spring!” Liza wondered how the shop survived here, even in the summertime.

Finally, she ended up at Daisy Winkler’s place, her last hope. The small cottage stood diagonally opposite to the General Store on the town square. Surrounded by a sagging picket fence, the building was two stories high but in dollhouse proportions. Painted pale yellow with a violet door and gingerbread trim on the roof, eaves, and porch, it looked like something out of a fairy tale, and she doubted that anything even remotely technological was going on within. But Marion had said there might be a fax machine here, and Liza had to ask.

Liza walked up to the cottage and opened the creaky wooden gate. She passed a painted sign that hung near the path. “Winkler Tearoom & Lending Library-Books Are Our Best Friends.”

Liza remembered this cottage but didn’t recall its present incarnation. When she was younger, it had been an antique shop, one that she was rarely allowed to visit with her aunt, in fear that she and Peter might break something. But the name Winkler definitely sounded familiar.

A brass bell with a pull chain hung near the door, and Liza rang it. The tinkling sound hardly seemed loud enough to alert anyone inside, but she soon heard steps approaching. A small face peered at her through the front window, then the curtain quickly snapped back, making Liza wonder if she passed inspection.

The front door soon opened. A small, birdlike woman stood in the doorway, peering up at Liza through thick round glasses. Liza assumed it was none other than Daisy Winkler. Who else could it be?

She had wild, curly hair, a rusty reddish gray color. A bunch of curls gathered on her forehead, and the rest swirled in a haphazard upswept style around her head. She wore a golden-colored crocheted sweater over a dark burgundy skirt that nearly reached her ankles. Liza’s gaze lingered on the skirt. Yes, it was velvet and possibly Victorian. A bit formal for a weekday morning, but this woman clearly had her own sense of style. She held a messy pad in one hand and a pencil in the other. There were also at least two more pencils stuck in her bird’s nest of a hairdo.

The little woman smiled, looking pleased to see a visitor. “Can I help you? We’re not open yet for tea, but you’re welcome to browse in the library.”

“I’m not here for the library… not this time,” Liza amended, not wishing to offend her. “Marion Doyle at the General Store said you might have a fax machine I could use?”

Daisy looked suddenly and deeply concerned. Her smooth brow wrinkled. “A facsimile machine? Yes, I know what you mean. I do have one that I use occasionally. To send my poems to my editor,” she added, catching Liza’s eye. “But it’s not working right now. Something is… funny. I have to get it fixed. Otherwise, I’d be happy to let you use it, Miss-?”

“Liza Martin. That’s okay. I’ll try to find one someplace else.” Liza tried to keep the desperate note from her voice.

“I’m so sorry, Ms. Martin,” Daisy Winkler said sincerely. “You might try the environmental office down the way. I think Mr. Hatcher has a fax machine.”

“I took a look before coming here. The office is closed right now.”

“What a pity. You’ll need to go into town then, I suppose. There’s a drugstore on Main Street in Cape Light. They might have a fax machine,” she added.

Liza wasn’t sure how reliable this tip was. Daisy looked a little… out there.

“Thank you. I’ll check before I drive over,” Liza said, backing away from the door.

Daisy started to follow her. “Good idea. Call and check. Please come back when you have a few minutes to spare and browse the bookshelves… Wait!”

She stared at Liza in alarm, and Liza stood stone still, wondering what the crisis could be. Daisy quickly riffled through her pad, tore off a sheet of paper, and stuffed it in Liza’s front pocket.

“Here’s a poem for you. I hope it helps.”

A poem? How could a poem help? Liza decided the woman must be batty.

“Uh, thank you. Thanks for your help. Sorry, but I have to run.”

“Any time. That’s what neighbors are for,” Daisy called after her, and waved from the doorway. “See you soon, Liza Martin.”

Liza waved back but didn’t answer. She quickly crossed the street, jumped in her car, and headed down the road the way she had come. She would drive into Cape Light and try her luck. The fax machine in the drugstore might be working. If not, someone there would surely know where she could go.

She passed the goat farm and rounded the next curve. The inn came into view, and she noticed a dark blue car parked in front. A woman stood on the porch. She had been peeking into the front parlor window, Liza noticed, but now took a cell phone from her bag and held it to her ear.

Fran Tulley! The real estate agent.

In the midst of her emergency, Liza had forgotten all about their appointment. That was not good…

Liza wasn’t sure what to do. She had an impulse to hit the gas and speed past the inn, so she wouldn’t have to waste time e xplaining her dilemma to some chatty real estate woman.

But she knew that was not very polite and a poor way to start off a business relationship. She quickly slowed the car and then drove up to the inn. She heard her cell phone go off and realized who Fran was calling.

Liza got out of her SUV and trotted up to the porch.

“Ms. Tulley? I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Liza Martin.”

“Oh, there you are. I was just trying to call you,” Fran said cheerfully. “Don’t worry, I haven’t been here long. I just wondered if there was some miscommunication.”

“To tell you the truth, I’m in the middle of a work emergency. I’m not sure we can meet right now.”

“What’s the matter? Can I help you at all?”

Liza explained the situation and Fran nodded. “Don’t worry, we have a fax and a scanner at my office. I can send the sketches for you.”

“Would you?” Liza felt as if some superhero had just swooped out of the sky to save her. “That is so generous of you to help me like this-”

“No big deal.” Fran patted Liza’s arm. “It’s different around here. We all sort of look out for one another. You’ll do me a favor sometime, I’m sure.”

Liza wasn’t so sure about that. Unless Fran needed a big favor in the next two weeks.

“When did you say your office needs them?”

“By one o’clock,” Liza answered quickly.

Fran checked her watch. “It’s eleven thirty. Why don’t we get started, and I’ll make sure I leave for town in about an hour. That will give us plenty of time.”

Liza wished she would go back to town immediately and send the sketches. But the plan made sense. And Fran had come all the way out here, expecting to look at the house.

“Fine. Where should we start?”

“Let’s start out here, I guess,” Fran replied. “I’m curious to see how the place has held up.”

It had not held up that well, but Liza didn’t want to sound negative. She smiled and followed Fran as she headed around the side of the inn.

Fran gazed up at the building, making the occasional note on a legal pad as she walked the property. It was cool and breezy outside, and the sun was shining. But the inn looked no better in the sunlight than it had last night in the rain, Liza thought. Maybe even worse.

“This was once such a beautiful place.” Fran shook her head and tucked a strand of hair under her wool hat. “Such a shame for it to get run-down like this.”

“Yes, it is,” Liza agreed. “My aunt tried her best. But she was all alone at the end and in poor health.”

“Oh, yes, I know. Elizabeth was a wonderful woman. I knew her from church,” Fran added.

Everyone seemed to know one another around here. From church or… wherever. Liza wasn’t surprised.

“Your aunt had a beautiful garden back here and one in front, too. She was famous for her roses,” Fran recalled. She turned to Liza. “I don’t suppose it was kept up? That could be a selling point.”

“I’m not sure. I don’t think so,” Liza said honestly.

Unless Claire North had continued working on it. Liza would have to ask her about that. Claire had mentioned that they grew tomatoes last summer, but that didn’t mean they still kept a big garden. Just a few plants could yield piles of tomatoes.

They went in through the back door and began to tour the rooms on the first floor. Fran didn’t say much, though she made a few notes on the pad and used an electronic device to measure the rooms. She took photos of the kitchen and several of the large rooms downstairs, the front parlor and dining room.

Fran checked the condition of the pocket doors, which were solid oak. “Not bad,” she told Liza. “They don’t even stick much. And those plaster medallions on the ceiling are the real thing, not the plastic molds you can buy these days at the hardware store.”

Liza hadn’t known you could buy ceiling medallions at the hardware store. She hadn’t even known what the ornate plaster carvings around the light fixtures were called until this morning.

They climbed to the upper floors, where Fran took photos of a few bedrooms, those that were in the best condition and nicely decorated. She even took a few shots that showed the ocean views from different windows.

Liza found that encouraging. Some people didn’t care what a place looked like, as long as they could see the water. You could see the ocean from nearly every room of the inn. That was one of the wonderful things about it.

They finished the tour and went out again through the front door. “I’m going to take this information back to the office and work up some figures,” Fran said, pausing on the porch. “I want to have my broker, Betty Bowman, help with the asking price. She’s very good at it. There’s so little property out here for sale right now, it’s hard to find anything comparable. But we definitely need to figure in the rising market value. We don’t want to put it out there too low.”

“No, of course not,” Liza said quickly. “What about fixing the place up a bit? Will that help?”

“Some paint would help. You’d be surprised. Just the minimum to make it presentable. You can fix the shutters and those broken panes of glass-” She pointed out a window on the third floor that had been patched with cardboard. “You should clear out whatever you can inside. The less clutter, the better. Just try to stage the place with the nicest pieces of furniture.”

Liza nodded. She’d heard that term before-staging a property-and knew there were professionals who came in and did that for a seller. She would have to read up on the Internet and figure it out herself.

“I’m going to start cleaning up today,” Liza promised. “How soon do you think you can begin showing it?”

“Not long. A day or so. It sounds as if you don’t want to wait until the paint job is done.”

“No, I don’t,” Liza said firmly. “I only have two weeks off from my job. I don’t even want to stay here that long.”

“We’ll go as fast as we can,” Fran promised. “If we don’t get any offers, I’ll keep showing it after you leave. Let’s figure out the asking price and any conditions you and your brother might have about the sale.”

“Conditions? What kind of conditions?”

Fran shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes in this situation, people want to make sure the building will still be run as an inn…”

“We don’t care. Someone might want to restore it to a private house. That’s what it was originally.”

“Yes, I know. And someone else might want to buy it just for the property. As a knockdown. Would you be comfortable with that scenario?”

A knockdown. Liza had never even considered that, but of course, it seemed so obvious. So definitely possible.

The wind off the water suddenly gusted up, and Fran grabbed on to her hat. Liza turned her back a moment, grateful for the chance to get her thoughts together.

“I’ll have to talk that over with my brother,” Liza said finally.

Peter’s answer was easy to predict. He needed the money from the sale of the inn immediately. His divorce had made a big dent in his finances, and his business had hit a slump in the ailing economy. She doubted that sentimental feelings would win out over his checkbook.

“Yes, talk it over. I’m sure this is very stressful for you both, right on top of losing your aunt.”

“Yes, it is,” Liza admitted.

Not to mention the other dramas going on in her life right now: the tournament of champions at the office and her divorce.

“Well, I hope to guide you through the process as painlessly as possible. With all the action going on out here and all the articles in the newspaper, this island is becoming a hot spot. I just sold a little cottage on the north side, near the new beachfront. There were so many offers, we had to have an auction,” Fran said proudly.

“Really?” That was encouraging. Would they need to have an auction for the inn? Liza wondered.

“If you have any questions at all, please feel free to call me, day or night.” Fran handed Liza a business card and a thick packet of information about Bowman Realty. “I’ll be speaking to you soon, once I come up with some numbers.”

The two women said good-bye, and Fran headed for her car.

Just as Fran’s car pulled out of the circular drive, Liza saw another car pull up and recognized Claire North behind the wheel. The battered dark green Jeep suited her. It was just the kind of car Liza expected her to drive. Sturdy and nondescript.

Claire parked and walked up to the inn, carrying a cloth tote filled with groceries. Liza stepped forward to greet her, feeling relieved that Claire had not been around to overhear the conversation with Fran. Especially the part about possibly knocking down the inn.

“That was Fran Tulley from Bowman Realty,” Liza explained. “She’s going to show the inn for us.”

“Yes, I recognized her. We go to the same church, Reverend Ben’s church,” she explained. “Everyone knows her husband, Tucker. He’s a police officer in Cape Light.”

Liza should have guessed. It was such a small town. There were not even six degrees of separation among the residents around here, more like one-or even zero. She couldn’t imagine living in a place like this, where everyone knew everyone else and their business. She wondered how her aunt had coped with it. Elizabeth, for all her innate hospitality, had always been such a private person.

“Have you heard from your brother? What time do you expect him?” Claire asked.

“Oh… he’s not coming today. He’s stuck in Tucson for some reason. I’m not sure when he’ll get here. I haven’t spoken to him yet.”

“I see. I’ll get his room ready, though. I have a feeling he won’t be too much longer.”

Claire sounded so definite. Liza wondered if she had some inside knowledge. Impossible, of course. The woman was simply eccentric.

Claire went inside, and Liza checked her watch. It was just past twelve. So just past nine in Tucson? She always got the time change wrong, but it seemed late enough to call her brother.

Liza walked up to the porch and sat on the steps, then pulled out her cell phone. The air was cool, but the sun felt strong. Spring was coming, even out here. In the daylight she could see that the lawn in front of the house was sprinkled with snowdrops, the first flowers of spring, and other promising bits of green seemed to be sprouting up as well.

Across the road in front of the inn, a stretch of vacant land sloped down to the beach. The land was unbuildable, her aunt had once told her, and their wide, wonderful view would never be blocked out by a new building there. Liza hoped it would stay that way, despite all the predicted development.

Well, she wouldn’t be here to see what happened either way.

She took a deep breath of the cold, salty air and felt it seep into her lungs. She had heard that something about air at sea level was good for you, the positive ions or something. Or was it the negative ions?

Her BlackBerry buzzed, the vibration startling her. She snapped out of her reverie and checked the caller ID-Peter- Tucson. “Hey, I was just going to call you. What’s going on?”

“Something’s come up. Sort of a good news/bad news situation. Gail went away with her boyfriend, so I have some extra unscheduled time with Will. That’s the good news,” he added. “But it’s the bad news, too. If I have Will here for the next two weeks, it means I’m stuck in Tucson.”

Liza didn’t answer. She didn’t want to sound mad or upset, but did he really mean he wasn’t going to come at all?

“Why don’t you just bring Will with you?”

“Well, he’s in school this week. Next week starts his spring break, and he’s already got big plans. A camping trip with his buddies.”

“I see,” Liza said slowly. “Could he do that trip another time, and you can just bring him out here? There’s the ocean and the beach, an entire island to explore. Wouldn’t he like that just as well?”

“Who can tell what he likes? A mind reader, maybe. All I know is, everything I say is wrong or stupid. Or embarrassing.”

“Ouch,” Liza said sympathetically. “That must be rough. Still, I really think you should explain it to him, persuade him somehow. Tell him it’s a family emergency and ask him to help you out.”

“You don’t get it, Liza. He barely takes off his headphones long enough for even a one-word conversation.”

Liza felt bad for her brother. She knew how much he missed Will and worried about their relationship. Peter felt he hardly got to spend any time with the boy. But she felt even worse for her nephew. Watching your family split up had to be hard at any age, and adolescence was rough enough without having that monkey wrench thrown in.

“Well, he might want to come,” she pointed out. “You never know. It might improve things between the two of you, taking a little trip together? Making him feel he’s helping you solve a problem?”

“Or not,” Peter said. Liza didn’t answer. She heard him give a long sigh. She knew he was now stuck between that proverbial rock and a hard place, but she really needed him out here. Surly teenager and all.

“I don’t mean to stick you with all the work, Liza. Honestly. It’s just the way things played out this week. As usual, Gail didn’t even give me any notice, just packed him up and dropped him off yesterday after school.”

“I understand.” She really did, too. “If I could rearrange things so we didn’t have to deal with the inn this week, I would,” she told him. “But I’m here now, because you said this was when you could be here. And the Realtor’s about to start showing the inn, and there’s a lot of cleaning up to do and-”

“All right,” Peter said finally, “I’ll persuade him somehow. Though this is definitely going to cost me.”

Liza laughed. “We’ll consider it a business cost and reimburse you after we sell the inn, okay?”

“I’m going to take you up on that,” he said. “So what’s been happening on that front? Any news?”

Liza quickly filled him in on the visit with Fran Tulley.

“She does think we should make some repairs. A coat of paint, fixing the broken shutters, and replacing some missing window panes.”

“There are broken windows?” She heard a note of distress in her brother’s voice as he realized the inn had fallen into disrepair.

“You haven’t been here in a long time, Peter. Aunt Elizabeth just couldn’t keep it up. I’m surprised she was able to keep it open and people still came here…”

“She had loyal customers,” Peter said. “Everyone loved her. That’s why they came.”

That was true. There had been some very loyal guests who came every summer, as often as Liza and Peter did. Like old friends of the family, they came as much for her aunt and uncle as the ambience.

“Well… do whatever you think is necessary. We want a good price, and sometimes a coat of paint hides a lot. It can make a big difference in what a person might offer.”

It would take more than a coat of paint to make a big difference here, Liza nearly answered. But she didn’t want to make him too worried.

“Okay, we’ll go for the paint,” she said instead. “A quick job. I hope I can find somebody.”

“I’m sure there are plenty of capable workmen out there. Just ask around. Ask that housekeeper, that Mrs. North,” he suggested. “Did you tell her that we’re going to sell the inn?”

“I told her last night. Right after I came in. I wanted to get it over with,” she admitted.

“How did she take it? She must have guessed, right?”

“I really couldn’t tell what she expected-or guessed,” Liza said honestly. “She’s very hard to read. Not exactly distant but… self-contained or something.”

“Very Yankee,” Peter filled in for her.

“Maybe.” Liza knew what he meant but didn’t quite think that was it either. “She’s been very kind to me. She said that she wanted to help us any way she could. That she promised Aunt Elizabeth she would. And that was even after I told her we were selling and she would be out of a job.”

“That was nice of her,” Peter answered quietly. “Someone else might have just quit and disappeared.”

“I thought so, too. But she’s not the type to act out that way. She’s… different. I can’t quite figure her out,” Liza admitted.

She wanted to tell him how her dinner place had been set in her old spot, even though the table was as long as a bowling lane and Claire North had no way of knowing. And how Claire had chosen her favorite room. Not her old room but the one Liza had always coveted. But making something of those coincidences-for that’s what they had to be-would have sounded silly.

“So how is everything else going?” her brother asked. “How did you manage to get away from the office for two whole weeks? Won’t the building fall down?”

Liza ignored his jibe. He always teased her about being a workaholic. “I’ll fill you in when you get here. Tell me when you book a flight, okay?”

“I will,” he promised. “I hope you don’t regret having Will around. It won’t be pretty. You really can’t imagine.”

“I have some idea. I lived with you when you were fourteen, remember?”

Peter laughed, and they ended the call.

Liza’s talk with her brother had put her in a good mood.

They had been very close growing up but had grown apart during college and even further when Peter moved out to Tucson right after he graduated. She was looking forward to spending time with him. Now that they were both divorced and had lost Aunt Elizabeth, their final link to their mutual past, it seemed to Liza they needed each other more than ever.

Peter was only two years older, but she still looked up to him. She admired the way he had stuck to his original youthful goals and become a photographer. While she had let hers fall by the wayside.

Growing up, Liza had always loved painting and drawing. She could entertain herself for hours with just a stick of charcoal and a drawing pad. Maybe she had inherited her artistic tendencies from her aunt-or maybe it was all the encouragement and instruction from Elizabeth that made her want to be an artist. Probably a little of both, she thought.

Summers at the island were like art camp, learning how to use watercolors or oils, to sketch, or to make sculptures from found objects or plaster casts in the sand. Even spinning clay pots and fiber weaving were not beyond Elizabeth ’s deft hands. Her aunt was not an artist who specialized; she saw creative potential in just about anything that came her way.

But her aunt had never relied on her artwork for a living. She had always had the inn, Liza reminded herself.

The sign for the inn blew in the breeze on its rusty hinges. The creaking sound shook Liza from her thoughts. She noticed again the carefully hand-painted lettering and the border of flowers and vines her aunt had painted so long ago.

Elizabeth had never given up on her talent, Liza thought. She simply practiced her art every day in everything she touched without seeking public approval or recognition. She’d had few showings of her work and had never made the big time. But she took great joy in expressing herself. She lived and breathed her talent-and seemed completely satisfied that way.

Liza could see now that her aunt had been a true artist through and through. No matter what the outside world might say.

Liza gave the ocean one last look, then rose from the steps and went into the house. She had a lot of work to do. Sitting around and thinking over the past wasn’t going to get anything done.

She was in the foyer, hanging her jacket on the coat tree, when Claire came down the stairs.

“I just spoke to my brother. He won’t be here for a day or so,” Liza reported. “He’s going to call me when he’s booked a flight.”

“His room is ready,” Claire said evenly.

“He’s bringing my nephew, Will,” Liza added. “So that will mean another room will have to be cleaned. Sorry,” she added.

“No problem. How old is he?”

“Fourteen. He’ll be starting high school next fall.”

“Fourteen is a hard age,” Claire remarked, her eyebrows raising a notch.

Claire sounded so knowledgeable, Liza suddenly wondered if she had any children. But that question seemed personal. Even though the housekeeper had been close to her aunt, Liza didn’t see the point in encouraging a close relationship with her. It would only make things harder later when Claire actually had to go. Things were hard enough as it was.

“I want to start clearing things out,” Liza said instead. “Fran thinks we should empty the rooms as much as possible.” She glanced around at the parlor shelves, each one filled with books. “My aunt was a real saver.”

“She liked to use things until they had worn out their usefulness,” the older woman clarified. “She didn’t buy something new if she didn’t absolutely need it. She was a bit ahead of her time that way, wasn’t she?”

“I suppose that’s true,” Liza admitted with a smile. “I’m sure there are a lot of useful things around here that can be given to charity.” And piles of stuff that can and should be tossed, she added silently.

“There are empty boxes in the basement. I’ll go down and get some.”

As Claire set off for the basement, Liza headed for the stairs. “I’m just going to run upstairs to change my clothes. Let’s start in the front parlor.”

Liza needed to change her cashmere sweater and wool slacks for a sweatshirt and jeans. She wondered now if she had brought enough old clothes for all these dirty jobs. Even her worst jeans or workout outfits from the gym were probably too new and “good” to wear cleaning out the attic or basement.

Well, she would figure it out. There were plenty of old clothes in this house to choose from, that was for sure. As she put on her comfortable clothes, she quickly checked the messages on her BlackBerry and saw a note from her assistant. The sketches had arrived just in the nick of time.

Great, Liza began to type back. Make sure-

“Drat!” The connection disappeared.

She retyped her message, then hit Send-and promptly lost service again. What was it about this island that made it impossible to send a complete sentence? The Internet and cell service out here were beyond spotty.

She tried to call her office instead and got an “All circuits are busy” message from some robotic voice. She tossed the BlackBerry on her nightstand with a groan.

No choice but to face the closets. Claire was probably already in the front parlor, waiting for her. Liza truly dreaded tackling this job. Clearing this house out was going to be impossible. Like trying to dig your way out of an avalanche with a teaspoon, Liza thought as she headed downstairs.

THE closet in the front parlor was even worse than Liza had imagined. It turned out to be a black hole, a magic portal that couldn’t possibly contain the amount of clothes, cartons, and miscellaneous items that seemed to be packed within. Once Liza and Claire began pulling things out, it seemed there was no end.

No end to the memories either-another hazard of the job, along with the endless dust.

Liza would have felt completely overwhelmed if not for Claire’s quiet, calm way of sorting it all out. At times, the older woman seemed like the carved masthead on a ship, guiding Liza through the foggiest waters.

Whenever Liza would get off-track, lost in another memory, Claire would lift her chin and say, “Save, discard, or give away?”

Liza had started calling the query “the magic question,” making them both laugh each time they had to remind each other to ask it.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m usually so decisive,” Liza despaired. “I’m not like this at all, especially not at the office.”

“But this isn’t your office. It’s your past. It’s your family history,” Claire observed quietly. “Very different places.”

Yes, they were. No argument there.

An unmarked carton emerged. Liza was the one who tugged it out. It was too heavy to be another box of mismatched mittens and moth-eaten hats. She opened the lid and found the carton was filled with photo albums and envelopes stuffed with snapshots. She didn’t mean to detour and start looking at them, but once she started, she couldn’t help it.

Claire had gone into the kitchen to make them tea. She came back with a tray and set it down on a side table near a wingback chair.

“Oh, wow… these are amazing,” Liza said, leafing through an album of photographs that had once been black-and-white but were now yellowed with age. “Look at my aunt and uncle; look how young they were.”

Claire walked over and glanced over Liza’s shoulder. “Yes, they were a lovely couple.”

Liza couldn’t agree more. The photos showed them just about the age she was now. There were many pictures of them working on the inn, painting, or out in the garden. Pictures of her uncle in his woodshop or of the two of them relaxing at the beach, entertaining friends.

“They were a perfect pair,” Liza said quietly. Her aunt always looked so pretty and full of life, and her uncle looked so handsome and strong. She glanced at Claire. “It was a pity they didn’t have children. They would have made wonderful parents.” She turned the page and looked away. “There was a child, you know. They lost her when she was about four.”

“Yes, your aunt told me. That’s when they came out here. Your aunt said it saved her life, coming to this place.”

Liza glanced at Claire. “Yes, I think it did. She had her artwork, at least.”

“And you and your brother,” Claire added with a smile.

“For the summers, anyway,” Liza agreed. Her aunt and uncle were like a second pair of parents. But it was funny, she had never really considered how important she and her brother were to them.

Some consolation for not having children of their own.

Liza turned the page, trying to turn away her more melancholy thoughts.

“Oh, my… who’s that? The young Georgia O’Keeffe?” Claire pointed at a large photo in the middle of the page, then looked at Liza with a twinkle in her eye.

Of course they both recognized the little girl in a pink T-shirt and shorts, covered in paint. A child-sized easel stood nearby with a few small red and blue handprints on the otherwise blank sheet of paper.

“That was my random handprint stage. I was trying to express the deep yearning within modern society to reach out and connect with one another,” Liza explained in a mock-intellectual tone.

“I can see that,” Claire said, playing along. “A deep need for sticky fingers and stain remover as well, I’d say.”

“Exactly,” Liza nodded. “This place was like an art camp. Aunt Elizabeth always had us working on something messy and fun-pottery, painting, papier-mâché. That’s why I wanted to be an artist, just like her.”

“Is that what you studied in college?” Claire asked.

“My special area was painting. The Rhode Island School of Design… I tried my best after school, but I didn’t get very far,” she admitted. “Not far enough, anyway.”

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.