Tales From Sea Glass Inn (11 page)

Tomorrow, during a break from work at the
center, she would drive to Seaside and talk to Amy’s vet about the possibility
of collaborating on a practice in Cannon Beach. She’d appreciate the contacts
and equipment an established vet would bring to the venture because she had few
of her own. She was excited about the idea of settling down, but the details
were overwhelming. She’d never had to find a place to live or grocery shop or
cook or to set up cable and utilities. She’d lived in dorms and had been
offered varied types of housing by the communities she’d helped, but an
apartment of her own would be a new experience. She felt like a
twenty-year-old, moving out on her own for the first time.

She’d need a car, she decided as she careened
around a gentle curve. Mel probably wasn’t planning on lending hers to Jenny on
a full-time basis.

Jenny drove to the center and scanned the
parking lot, searching for Helen’s car. She wasn’t there, but a short drive
through town brought Jenny to the bakery. Although a Closed sign hung in the
doorway, Helen’s SUV was parked outside and a light was on in the back room.
Jenny pushed on the door and it swung open, making a chiming sound that echoed
through the empty store.

“Sorry, we’re closed, but…” Helen’s voice
trailed off when she came out of the kitchen and saw Jenny in the doorway.
“What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you,” Jenny said. She wanted
to close the space between them in two strides and fling herself into Helen’s
arms, but she approached her slowly instead. “I drove my parents to the airport
and just got back in town.”

“Ah,” Helen said. She turned and went back
into her kitchen. “Soon you’ll be going to the airport yourself, I suppose,”
she called over her shoulder.

Jenny followed her into the back room and
leaned against the counter while Helen jabbed her fist into a bowl of dough.
Flour misted over her apron and shirtsleeves. Jenny laughed.

“You can’t seem to bake without getting
ingredients all over you,” she said. She moved closer and used her thumb to
dust flour off the arc of Helen’s cheekbone. “That’s one of the many things I
love about you. You dive in and do everything wholeheartedly.”

She heard the catch in her voice when her
hand made contact with Helen’s warm skin.

“
Many
things?” Helen asked. “What else?”

Her voice sounded rough with what Jenny hoped
was a matching desire for her.
Please.
“I love how you gave everything you had to help the town, but you were still
surprised when people were willing to help you in return. You never expected
anything for what you gave. I love how you felt in my arms the other night. I
love how—”

Jenny forgot what she was about to say when
Helen suddenly pressed her lips against Jenny’s open mouth. Jenny tangled her
hands in Helen’s hair and kissed her back, exploring the taste of her with an
eager tongue. Flour and cinnamon and vanilla. The scents and flavors of home.

Jenny reluctantly pulled back. She needed to
explain herself first, make amends. “I’m sorry I said no when you wanted to
come with me. I knew how hard you’d worked to find a place and settle down. I
couldn’t bear to have you give up your dreams for me, especially not when I
understood exactly what it was like to grow up without the things other people
take for granted. A house and friends and a family that is always there for
you. I wanted you to have everything.”

Helen shook her head. “You don’t understand.
You became my new dream. We’re good together, Jenny. I’ve been searching for
love my whole life, but I thought it would be in the shape of a house with a
picket fence or in the form of freedom to live as I liked. But it looks
different to me now. It looks like you.”

Jenny cupped Helen’s cheeks in her hands and
kissed her again. The temptation to linger was strong, especially when Helen
scooted onto the counter and settled Jenny’s hips between her thighs. Jenny
felt the ache of arousal and a wet heat at the point of contact with Helen. She
had to keep talking before she forgot how to speak.

“I was looking for love, too. From my
parents, as if they’d finally realize what I needed and care more about me than
the next child in line at their clinic. From myself, because I never felt I was
doing enough. But things changed for me here. You changed me, Helen. Watching
you give of yourself to these people and this place made me want to do the
same.”

Helen frowned and tightened her thighs. Jenny
moved her hands to Helen’s waist and helped anchor them together.

“All you’ve ever done is take care of others,
Jenny. I didn’t teach you that. It’s the other way around. I didn’t even want
to volunteer until you.”

Jenny caressed Helen’s lower back, sliding
her hands under Helen’s ass and reveling in the warmth discernable even through
her jeans. She felt Helen shift restlessly as her fingers flexed and probed.
“Maybe we make each other better,” she said, nuzzling Helen’s ear when she
spoke. “We’re a good team.”

Helen moaned softly when Jenny rubbed her
hips between Helen’s legs. “Does this mean you’ve changed your mind? I can come
with you?”

“No,” Jenny said. Helen grew still but sighed
and melted into Jenny with her next words. “It means I’m staying here with
you.”

Ariana Knight slid her hand along the polished wood
banister as she followed Melinda Andrews up the stairs and to the rooms she’d
be renting for the next month. The place was perfect for her. The Sea Glass Inn
had all the charm and character of an old house, but everything was freshly
painted and papered in bright, clean colors. The ocean was beautiful, and Ari
had barely been able to keep her eyes on the road and off the rocky shoreline
as she drove up Highway 101 from her home in the mountains of Northern
California. She’d be able to write here. To pour out her pain and grief on the
page and finally process the emotions inside enough to make them go away and
stop hurting her.

“You have a bed and desk in each room, so you
can use them however you like,” Mel said as she put Ari’s suitcase on a folding
stand. Ari dropped her heavy backpack next to it and went over to the window.
Seagulls careened around the monolithic Haystack Rock, and only a handful of
people were out on the beach.

“The beaches are open to the public again,
but a few areas are still roped off,” Mel continued. “Every now and again,
especially if we have an autumn storm, more oil will wash onshore, so we have a
place to wash and store beach shoes by the back door to keep from tracking it
in. Tourism normally drops during the fall and the numbers are even lower than
normal this year. You’ll have plenty of peace and quiet for your writing.”

Mel was obviously trying to maintain the
cheerful demeanor of an optimistic innkeeper, but Ari heard the strain in her
voice. She had read about the spill three months ago and the damage to Cannon
Beach, and she had felt an odd kinship with this place. They each needed to
heal. Ari hadn’t been able to write at home, and she had decided a retreat at
the beach was the answer. She’d bring some tourist dollars to the near-vacant
town, and in return she’d get the inspiration she desperately needed. Something
about crashing waves and screeching gulls seemed to speak to other authors she
knew. Maybe they’d reach inside her, too, and release the emotions she felt
bottled up inside.

“This is wonderful,” she said. “I can already
feel the ideas starting to flow.”

She tried to justify the lie by telling
herself she just wanted to reassure her host. Mel had been very honest from the
start about the state of the beach and the town, but Ari was self-employed as a
novelist and she understood the financial burden of unpredictable paychecks and
dry spells. Mel’s relief had been palpable even over the phone when Ari called
to rent the suite of upstairs rooms for an entire month. She didn’t want to
admit she was already feeling as blocked here as she had been at home because
Mel might worry she’d back out of her extended stay. Maybe the sea air just
needed more time to penetrate her sorrow and transform it into words.

Mel paused by the window. “My partner Pam has
a studio in the garden. She said you’re welcome to use it anytime. It’s set up
for painting more than writing, but there are benches and tables, and it’s a
very bright space.”

Ari looked across the yard and saw the low
wood-frame building with huge picture windows. The back garden was blooming
with asters and mums, and a chipped old boat made an interesting corner
arrangement. Just beyond a row of shrubs was the rough-waved Pacific Ocean and
some towering rock formations. “I think the view might be too distracting,” Ari
said with a smile. “How does Pam focus on her canvas when all that beauty is
beckoning?”

Mel gave her a sad smile as she turned away
from the window. “Once Pam starts a painting, everything else seems to fade
away for her. She did all the mosaics for the inn and she’s a gifted artist,
but the oil spill and all the damage it caused, especially the sea life that
was harmed, seemed to shut her down. She hasn’t painted for months now. I
hope…I
know
she’ll find her way back to art again, but the spill caused more harm than one
can see on the surface.”

Ari understood what it was like to lose the
outlet of writing when she was hurting or confused or angry. She couldn’t face
the emotions in their raw form and had to mold them into sentences and images
before she could manage them. Even hearing about another blocked artist made
her insides churn with anxiety. She put a hand on her stomach, wanting to write
away the knots and tension she felt growing inside, and said, “I’m sure a dry
spell is nothing to worry about, especially after facing such a horrible
tragedy. She must want to paint the sorrow she’s feeling, and I’ll bet she gets
back to work soon, now that the worst is over.”

“She will,” Mel said with a decisive nod. Ari
had a feeling Mel was the type to make things happen. Once she set her mind on
getting Pam to paint again, she’d probably not rest until she had her in the
studio with brush in hand.

Ari had never had someone take such an
interest in her writing as Mel did in Pam’s painting. Mel seemed to understand
Pam’s need to create. Ari’s editors and publishers were supportive and
encouraging, but they didn’t have a stake in her work and life beyond a
financial and friendly concern. Ari’s girlfriends, few and far between, had
been drawn to her as an author at first, fascinated by her bohemian lifestyle
and titillated by the fantasies she created. The reality of life with her never
seemed to live up to their expectations, though. She’d get stressed over a
missed deadline, or they’d get jealous over her consuming passion for writing,
and they’d disappear, leaving her to type stories of loneliness and frustration
until those residual feelings disappeared as well. Mel seemed as unsettled by
Pam’s block as Pam herself must be.

Mel walked to the doorway. “I’m glad you’re
here, Ariana. Mostly because I can’t think of a better or more lovely place for
a writer to stay than within sight of the ocean, but also because I know it
will be good for Pam to have someone else creating art here. I’m sure the sight
of you working will inspire her to paint again.”

Ari forced her features into what she hoped
was an encouraging smile and not a grimace of terror. She couldn’t even
motivate herself, let alone be Pam’s muse. She’d come here to ease the
pressure, not add more. She carefully wore a mask of competence and ease
whenever she talked about her writing to others, and Mel had clearly mistaken
it for the real thing. She wasn’t asking Ari to do anything Ari herself hadn’t
claimed was natural to her. Just write diligently, and Pam would be inspired to
follow suit. No one ever saw the turmoil Ari felt inside.

“I’m glad I’m here, too,” she said. Was it
true? Yes, it was a pretty place, and yes, every writer friend she had seemed
to see the ocean as a place of inspiration and boundless creativity. But maybe
this wasn’t the right venue for her. Too late. She had to give it at least a
month, and then she could go home again. Or maybe to an artist’s colony in New
Mexico? An igloo in the Arctic or a tree house in the rain forest? Flowing
words and phrases must be waiting somewhere…

“I’ll leave you to unpack now,” Mel said.
“I’ve left brochures and lists of attractions and restaurants on the table over
there. I know you’re here to write and not to sightsee, but if you need a break,
there are some spectacular places where you can hike or drive. If you need
anything at all, just ask.”

Once Ari was alone, she explored her new
rooms. The third-floor suite had spectacular views and good natural light. Mel
had put her suitcase in the first and smallest room, with slate-gray walls and
bright white trim. A large oil painting of a jellyfish hung on the wall behind
the bed. Fascinated, Ari stood in front of the painting and watched a sunbeam
dance across the mosaic of white and clear sea glass embedded in the oils.
Somehow Pam had brought life and movement where others might expect only
stagnant inertia. Ari wished she had the same ability.

She turned away and checked out her second
room. This one was brighter in color and mood. Rosy walls and a teal quilt on
the bed were offset by the antique mahogany furniture. Ari didn’t have much of
an eye for design—she’d hired decorators for every room in her house except for
her office—but she recognized style and class when she saw it. Dominating the room
was another of Pam’s paintings, this one of a kite festival. The sky in the
painting was filled with kites of different colors accented with primary-toned
sea glass. The crowds of people were out of focus, but individualized and given
depth with simple brushstrokes.

She couldn’t help but see symbolism in the
paintings. She should assign the gray room as her bedroom, where she’d sleep in
the presence of the slow-moving, land-bound jellyfish. The other room, with
kites soaring in the breeze like she hoped her words and stories would do, was
perfect for her office. She sat on the teal bed for a moment and tried to
picture writing in there. Anywhere. She couldn’t. She got up and moved her
suitcase from the gray room to the rose one. She unpacked her clothes and
carefully arranged them in the dark wood dresser and the closet. She’d sleep
with the kites and work with the jellyfish. She felt as if she was lumbering
along anyway. She might as well keep company with the beautiful blob of goo.