Sea Glass Inn (3 page)

In a town with good reason to be wary of newcomers, Pam had been accepted as a local right from the beginning. Thanks to Tia. Tia was instrumental in raising Cannon Beach’s art scene to a national level, attracting tourists from across the States to the events and shows she planned. She had talked up Pam’s reputation when she first opened her gallery, and the rest of the business owners had accepted Tia’s endorsement of her as gospel. Pam had made her gallery a success, and no one seemed to mind that she hadn’t lived up to her reputation as a productive artist. Except Tia. She regularly scolded and cajoled in her attempts to make Pam paint, seemingly undeterred by the months or years between Pam’s works.

Their styles couldn’t be more different, Pam mused. As much as she tried to fade into the background, Tia forced her way front and center with her garish clothes and loud comments. Still, as different as Tia was, Pam couldn’t help but respect her contribution to local art and feel grateful for her support in the community. Pam wouldn’t admit it out loud, but she usually enjoyed small doses of Tia’s flamboyant conversation. But today Tia had seemed prepared to discuss Melinda’s impending failure for a long time, so Pam had finally lit one of her cigarettes. Tia hated the smoke, and Pam felt only a little guilty using that as a way to escape her company.

Pam stubbed out a second cigarette in her ashtray and stepped out of her car. She had no intention of accepting Melinda’s commission for more of her sea glass paintings, and her first inclination had been to call her and decline the offer. After talking to Tia, though, Pam wanted to check out the old house herself. If the needed repairs were as extensive as Tia claimed, maybe Pam could warn Melinda in time to save her some money and useless effort.

The former Lighthouse Inn was one of the landmarks of Pam’s childhood, but it had been empty and in disrepair so long she could barely remember how it used to look. She had never seen the inside of the old building, so she decided to make a rare neighborly visit and turn down Melinda’s offer face-to-face. Although she had meant to tour the place when it was on the market, she hadn’t gotten around to it, and this seemed as good an excuse as any to snoop around the property.

Pam slammed her car door. She had plenty of acceptable excuses for coming here in person, enough of them to let her ignore the one reason she needed to stay away. Her interest in Melinda Andrews was dangerous. She had felt an almost overwhelming urge to step up and defend Melinda against Tia’s gleeful predictions of failure. Pam pictured Melinda’s beautiful features shrouded with disappointment when her house foreclosed, and she wanted to brush her hands over Melinda’s face and wipe away her sadness. Who knew why? All Pam knew was Melinda admired her painting—something they definitely didn’t have in common. Her interest in Melinda was simply physical attraction. Or fascination with anyone who would take on such a monumental project as the old inn.

But fascination led to sympathy and caring too much. That led to heartbreak. Pam recognized the early stages of her same old pattern, and she was determined to stop herself before she got any more entangled in Melinda’s fate. She had watched enough businesses go under to know not to get personally involved. Just last year she had been disappointed when the new candy shop closed after just two months, but she hadn’t imagined personally consoling the owner.

True, Melinda was easier on the eyes than old Joe Morrison, but neither of them was Pam’s concern. Succeed or fail, Melinda would have to face the consequences of her investment without Pam’s help.

Pam went to the side of the house and peered over the fence into the overgrown backyard. The cement patio was barely visible under a mess of decaying furniture and stuffed trash bags. Weeds had taken over the yard, so Pam was hardly able to tell where flower beds had once ended and lawn began. A small raised porch at the back of the house promised a great view of Haystack Rock, but she wasn’t convinced the rickety structure could support her weight. Besides, rusty tools and plastic toys, their shapes and protruding edges barely visible where they had fused with the thick undergrowth, littered the path.

Pam couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a tetanus shot, so she stayed on the safe side of the fence and gingerly climbed on a haphazard pile of rocks to see the rest of the yard. An old building, tucked under the red limbs of a sheltering madrona, ran along the north side of the fence. Gaping holes lined with lichen-covered wood had once framed large south-facing picture windows. Probably a studio or sunroom before time and gravity had stripped away its door and gave its roof a scalloped effect. Pam let herself imagine the studio fully restored, full of natural light and space, before she turned away from the fence and walked up the cracked sidewalk to the front door.

Melinda had better have an army of workers and a sizable fortune at hand to help her. The inn looked months away from being ready to receive guests.

After a few minutes of knocking and ringing the apparently nonfunctioning doorbell, Pam opened the unlocked door and stepped inside. “Hello?” she called, standing on the threshold. She felt like she was walking into someone’s home, even though she knew it was meant to be a public place. She finally moved into the hallway and shut the door behind her. She stood in stunned silence as her eyes adjusted to the dark interior. The short walk from her car to the front door had done its best to lower her expectations, but she was still surprised by the cluttered and run-down foyer. The backyard looked like an idyllic meadow compared to the chaos inside the house.

Pam moved slowly around the various pieces of furniture and into the large living room. A mattress, bare except for a single rumpled pillow and blanket, lay on the ratty carpet that might have been green. The incongruously intimate setting and her sudden vision of Melinda sleeping there—alone?—disconcerted Pam. She abruptly turned away and went into the next room. There were open boxes everywhere, with some of their contents and packing materials strewn around as if someone had been searching for particular items and not unpacking in any sort of logical way. The mess distracted Pam’s attention momentarily from the dingy walls and stained surfaces. A cracked ceiling and peeling wallpaper decorated what looked like a once-elegant dining room. The walls were scantily clad in the remnants of decades-old fashions, the dark cherry paneling and rose-colored wallpaper a faded testament to how many years the room had been neglected. Pam shook her head as she waved a cobweb out o her way. Melinda shouldn’t even bother to unpack. The place didn’t look worth the effort.

The sound of something dropping upstairs reminded Pam why she was there in the first place, and she climbed the steps to the second story where a muffled noise guided her to one of the bedrooms.

Melinda sat in the center of the room, crying. Had she been this way since she arrived yesterday? Was the pillow downstairs wet with her tears? Pam hesitated in the doorway, unnoticed, as she took in the scene in front of her and tried to see it objectively, tried not to be moved by Melinda’s obvious and understandable distress.

Pam’s own painting was propped against the wall with a hammer lying next to it. Melinda sat facing the window, her face in profile to Pam. She was wearing cream-colored slacks and an apricot blouse with the sleeves rolled up. She sat surrounded by evidence of work, but her clothes were remarkably clean for all the dust in the house.

Because she cared too much about how she looked or because she was a careful person? Either way, her elegant outfit wouldn’t last long in this house. But the colors were just right. A hint of sand, of the beach, but neutral enough so they didn’t detract from Melinda’s face. Her brown hair was neatly styled in a classic bob, shorter than it had been in August and tucked behind her ears, Pam noticed with approval.

No longer hiding the line of her jaw or her slender neck, instead exposing them to be admired. Touched. Her features were delicate and aristocratic, but a slightly pointed chin saved her face from being too proportionate. For only a moment Pam acknowledged the desire to paint Melinda’s portrait. Just like this, with her eyes staring out but looking inward, like she was seeing a memory. Melinda was all angles and curves, from her too-prominent collarbones to the hair softly framing her small ears. Pam blinked and clenched her fists, and the urge passed.

Pam’s presence in the room felt too invasive, the moment too intense and unguarded to share. Pam wasn’t sure which one of them she needed to protect, which one was more vulnerable, but she had to be the one to leave. She was about to turn and sneak away unobserved when Melinda turned and saw her standing there. Pam watched her unguarded expression shift from surprise to recognition.

“I knocked,” Pam said, mesmerized by the hazel eyes, shining with tears, that were watching her. “I’m Pam. Pamela Whitford.

From the gallery.” Pam waved toward her painting, cringing inside at her halting speech. She was a sucker for crying women, especially beautiful crying women. She had to get the hell out of the house before she agreed to paint more seascapes, paint the walls, paint the damned garden fence.

“You’re my artist?” Melinda asked.

“Yes,” Pam said. Her easy acquiescence to the possessive note in Melinda’s voice confused her. She rarely accepted the title, let alone the modifier, and she took a step back in an attempt to put more distance between them. “And you’re Melinda Andrews, proud new owner of the Lighthouse Inn?”

“Mel,” she corrected with a short laugh. “And that probably should be stupid, not proud, new owner of the Sea Glass Inn.”

Pam shrugged, wanting to hide the fact that she had thought the same thing when she first walked into the old house. “I remember the Lighthouse from when I was a kid. My grandparents and I spent holidays at Cannon Beach, and I always thought it was the most beautiful place.”

“So you used to stay here?”

“No, we rented a cabin just outside of town,” Pam said, smiling at the memory of lazy summer days on the beach. “The Lighthouse was much too posh for us.”

“Posh,” Mel repeated, glancing around the dimly lit room with a wry frown. “That is the first word that comes to mind, isn’t it?”

Pam laughed. “Well, at least the
p-o-s
part…” At Mel’s confused expression she tried to explain. “Piece of shit? Sorry, that was a bad joke.”

Mel shook her head and weakly attempted to laugh along with Pam. “No, you’re right. The house is a mess. And I can’t even hang a painting let alone fix the rest of the problems.”

Her voice trailed off with a sniff, but she slapped her hands to the floor and pushed herself to her feet so she was nearly eye level with Pam. Pam shifted her gaze away from Melinda’s still-red eyes and noticed a bent nail stuck in the wall above her painting which was the only bright spot in the room. Blue and tan brushstrokes sketched out a sandy beach and summer sky, but the ocean’s waves were crusted with blue and white sea glass. Pam remembered every moment she’d spent at work on it, picturing the relentless waves of time that shattered a person’s life into unrecognizable fragments. She turned away from the pain it represented and focused instead on the simple problem of getting the heavy painting securely on the wall. She spent her days hanging other people’s artwork. There would be no emotion attached to that act.

“I can help you hang it, but it weighs too much for a nail,” she said, deciding now wasn’t the time to suggest that the distraught Mel either paint or paper the stained wall before she decorated it with a picture. “We’ll just need a…”

“God, don’t
tell
me,” Mel said as she covered her ears like a child.

“What?”

“I’ll figure it out myself,” Mel insisted. “I’ll get a book or go to a hardware store, but let me do it.”

Pam frowned. Mel had moved from tearful to controlled to angry in a matter of seconds. From sensual to downright sexy. “How is that different from having me—”

“It just is,” Mel said, facing Pam with a determined look on her face. “Don’t ask me why, but it is. This is my inn, and I’ll take care of it.”

Pam raised her hands in surrender. She had to get off Mel’s emotional roller coaster before the next big plunge. Every time Mel’s confidence appeared to inch higher, Pam’s stomach dropped a little deeper. Tears made her want to help, but confidence made her want to rip off some clothes. “Okay, lady, have it your way. I was just trying to help.”

She turned and headed down the stairs. She should feel relieved because she certainly didn’t need to get caught up running someone else’s business. Step in to help with one small chore, and soon she’d be the inn’s handywoman. She should be glad to escape and not unaccountably hurt.

Mel watched Pam leave and ran her hands through her hair, still expecting it to be as long as it had been a week ago. She was angry.

Angry with her tears, her frustration, her inability to do more than make a useless hole in the bedroom wall. But not angry with Pam.

She jogged after her and caught up just before Pam could let herself out the front door. “Wait, please,” she said, pulling on Pam’s arm.

Pam tugged away and crossed her arms over her chest, but she at least stopped long enough for Mel to apologize. “My husband took care of every detail like this,” Mel said. She stayed close to Pam, wanting to reach out and reestablish contact. Anchor herself to the soft, worn cotton of Pam’s shirtsleeve. But she had no reason to reach for her, no excuse for fondling a relative stranger, except that she had been so long without intimate human contact and she craved even the fleeting warmth of a simple touch. And she wasn’t about to explain her lonely desire to Pam.

But the Pamela Whitford of her fantasies—the intellectual artist Mel had conversed with so often in her mind—gradually fused with the real Pam. The Pam who stood right before her, looking strong enough to weather the waves she had painted, strong enough to help Mel. But Mel didn’t want help. She wanted,
needed,
to stand on her own. She struggled to control her racing thoughts and find a way to explain why she had rebuffed Pam’s attempt to hang the painting, without thrusting all her personal issues into the open where they didn’t belong.