A Shore Thing (6 page)

Memories swept into my gut. My dad and older brothers and other men carrying lumber into Kitt’s on Display while the kids from the village played hopscotch on the sidewalk out front. Mom hiking up her skirt and joining in while other mothers dropped off platters of food and pitchers of lemonade. After the last swath of golden paint had been swept across the walls and the stunning new sign had been hoisted above the entry door, we all cheered. That afternoon we caravanned to the Kitteridge’s property along Otter Bay, and it was then that June and Timothy gathered us around and announced the dedication of their land to the community.

On that land I tasted the lushness of my first locally grown olallieberry.

I learned to worship God with abandon and a few off-key notes when our teen group gathered there with guitars and youthful enthusiasm.

And Steven Diletto, high-school senior who hadn’t glanced at me until that last semester of school, pledged undying love for me beneath the shade of a Monterey pine—after which he left for college.

With new resolve, I picked up the phone and dialed June Kitteridge.

GAGE

SUZ’S HOPEFUL FACE GREETED Gage as he stepped into his office. “Well? Is that progress I see on your notepad?”

Gage sank into his desk chair that squeaked with every shift of his body. He hid his annoyance and offered his sister a forced smile.

She leaned over his desk to peer at his notes. “Greek. I had no idea you could write in Greek. Do you speak it too, big brother?”

Suz gave way to light laughter and it nearly turned his stomach. It wasn’t her laughter that bothered him—under other circumstances he would love hearing it. What worried him was the thought of telling her about the hiccup on the horizon of an otherwise straightforward and high-paying project.

Maybe straightforward wasn’t the best term for this project. No matter. Gage had plans to create something that would take best advantage of the land and the light, something sustainable that people would appreciate for ages to come. Surely even his nemesis might find it in her heart to appreciate that.

Suz handed him a crumpled white bag. “Here.”

Gage reached for it. “What’s this?” He opened it, the aroma too inviting to ignore.

Suz plopped into the straight-backed wooden dining table chair opposite his desk. He had planned to outfit his new office with top quality furniture. It had yet to happen. He was lucky he had a few extra pieces to pilfer from his apartment. Regardless, Suz looked content and that’s all that mattered. “A turkey burger. Just the way you like it, I hope. You haven’t changed your taste over the past year and a half, have you?”

His nose drew in the mouth-watering smell. How long had it been since he allowed himself the pleasure of takeout? “Slathered in mustard?”

Suz nodded. “Yup.”

“Roasted green chile on top?”

A playful grin brightened her face. “Sadly, two of them had to give their lives for your burger.”

“Two?”

Suz rubbed the arm of her chair. “I told them it was for a starving architect so they gave me extra.”

The bitter reality of that statement made him lose his appetite. He set the bag down onto his desk and looked away. His little sister didn’t need to know how hard things might have to become before they turned around again.

Suz’s face turned sober and she sat up. “I’m sorry.” She reached across the desk. “I was just kidding, but that was over the line. Forgive me?”

How could he be angry with that face? Suz was the miracle child their mother had given birth to when Gage was already thirteen years old. He’d always felt somewhat fatherly towards her—except when she’d drag her dolls into the room his parents always referred to as his teenage cave. Never did like finding Barbie in his closet.

He mustered up the most award-winning smile he could and glanced back at her. “Nothing to forgive. My mind’s just preoccupied. Lots to think about.”

“Like how you’re going to spend all that cash when you get the Otter Bay project going?” She smiled in a way that let him know she was teasing. And yet, a part of her had to understand that this project had the potential to skyrocket him out of obscurity and into the realm of the much sought-after. If only . . . if only he didn’t need assurances about that right now.

His sister stood. “Eat your lunch. I’m almost done setting up your filing system and then I should leave. I have an errand to do before picking up Jeremiah from preschool—I had him stay for lunch today. Okay?” She waited in the doorway, her face expectant.

He waved her on. “Of course. Go when you need to. Give Jer a hug for me and tell him I’ve got something to show him when I get home.” She smiled at him like she always did and turned to leave. “And Suz?”

Her hand still cradled the doorknob. “Yes?”

“Thanks for the burger.”

When she’d left, Gage nestled his back into his chair. He stared out the window at the colorless, cinder block wall separating his office from the building next door. Why bother putting muscle to work on something so blah? In other times, he’d look at a dull wall like that and see a blank slate with endless opportunity. Today, it held little promise at all.

The phone rang and he lunged for it. “Gage here.”

“Squawk-squawk.”

Gage rolled his eyes. “Hey, Marc.”

“How’d you know it was me?”

“I guessed.” His shoulders bobbed when he tried to stifle a laugh. “Why are you bothering me?”

“So this is how it’s going to be. You’ve got yourself a new best friend over there in beach town. Is that it?” Marc hollered off somewhere in the distance. “Hey, Lizzie, Gage just dumped me.” He came back on the line. “She says, ‘Good for you.’ Sheesh. Even my woman’s against me.”

“Listen to that one,” Gage said. “She’s not called your better half for nothing.” He relaxed against his chair. Nothing like an old friend’s voice to ward off an overhanging cloud of doldrums. He and Marc had been friends for five years. Been through good times, like Marc’s wedding, and not so good ones, like when a car accident snatched away the use of his friend’s left arm.

“You got that right. Hey, you find a church yet?”

“I did. Stopped in my first weekend here. Met a few people and one of the guys invited me to a Bible study at his home.”

“And since?”

He knew Gage well. “Haven’t had the time.”

“Not the study either?”

“Not yet. But I plan to go one of these days.” He tried to thwart Marc’s inquisition. “You remember that Suz and Jer are here now, right?”

“That working out good for you all?”

“Seems to be, although Suz’s pretty quiet about it all. Don’t want to pry, but she probably needs to talk to someone.”

“Hopefully she’ll meet a girlfriend, someone to do double duty and be your woman too.”

“Oh, brother. No time for that, let me assure you.”

“You hit your head or something? A guy always has time for women or as in my case,
woman.
”

“Lizzie’s in earshot, isn’t she?”

“You got that right.”

Gage roared, the sound tumbling through his gut. Leave it to Marc to provide him levity at just the right time. “Fine. If you must know, I met someone recently and she hates my guts.”

“Oh, so you’re handling her with your usual finesse, I take it.”

“Nice.”

Marc laughed. “Seriously, how long can she resist your charms, man?”

Gage groaned. “Please.” For the next ten minutes they caught up on each other’s lives and Gage felt lightness reemerge.

His friend laughed in his ear. “Okay, buddy, gotta go. Get yourself to that church, if you don’t want me coming out there.”

Gage nodded. “Promise.”

Chapter Six

“So that’s it, then?” Greta hung onto her belly as I drove, my shocks bouncier than I remembered. I walked nearly everywhere, but could I ask that of a mother-to-be, especially when we’re about to acquire two gallons of paint?

I nodded through my unease. “I guess it is.”

“You don’t sound too sure. Are you sure Mrs. Kitteridge said everything was okeydokey?”

I pulled into a spot in the paint store parking lot and switched off the engine. “She did say that, but . . .”

“You think she was lying?”

I released a sigh and focused on the store’s glass doors. “Not lying, no, no. She’s not the type.” I turned to Greta. “You know that feeling you get when you say something but even you don’t believe it?”

Greta nodded. “Like when you’re sick and someone says they’re praying for you and you agree and nod like you know you’ll get better just like that.” She snapped her meticulously groomed fingers.

My head bobbed up and down. “Yes, but even you don’t really believe it’s going to happen. Yes, like that. I had this feeling . . . this feeling that she had doubts even while trying to convince me that ownership of their property was still intact.”

Concern veiled Greta’s eyes. “Did you tell her what you were thinking?”

I gripped the steering wheel. “Not exactly, but I did get her to admit that they’ve toyed with finding a more permanent arrangement for the property. She said someone had approached them with promises of keeping the property open to the public.”

For a moment silence sat between us. Greta, rarely the suspicious one in the family, heightened my unease another notch. “I don’t really know about these things, but it sounds fishy. Maybe that’s why you’re feeling uncomfortable. You don’t think she lied to you, exactly, but that maybe she’s holding something back.”

I leaned back and lifted my chin, noticing all the dust particles embedded in the ceiling liner. “Maybe.” I glanced at my sis-in-law, trying to focus instead on why we’d come. “C’mon. Let’s go find little Winklebottom some nice toxic-free paint for his or her bedroom.”

Greta giggled all the way inside the store. And some store it was. Fisters prided themselves on not only stocking the latest in paints, lacquers, and finishes, but also a decorating studio in the back to rival any of the big box stores. A good thing too since the closest Home World was more than twenty minutes away.

I approached a wall-sized display in the back room. “So what’s it going to be? Stippling, sponge painting, stenciling? Ragging? Trompe l’oeil?”

Knitted brows and a delicate frown marred Greta’s normally serene expression. “Bobby would never go for all that. Don’t they have regular ol’, nontoxic paint that you can just put on with a roller?”

Her squinty eyes and contorted mouth made me want to laugh aloud, but wasn’t it against protocol to show such emotion when you’re sis-in-law was nearly ready to give birth? Wouldn’t she think I was having fun at her expense? I grabbed her hand. “Over here. Plain old no-VOC paint. And look! They actually have more than three colors now.”

The lines in her face disappeared. “Well, now, phew. But, oh no. Look at all those shades. How will I ever decide?”

If it’s not one thing, it’s another. I plunked a thick book of sample colors onto a table and she began to browse the pages one by one. My mind clipped along with each turn of a page.

At the next table, a woman with a brunette ponytail and heavy-looking black sweater pored over a catalog as a young salesman hovered nearby. The salesman, a cherry-cheeked twenty-something wearing loose-fitting khakis and the store’s signature collared shirt, hovered behind her. We might as well have been invisible.

Greta squealed when viewing a particular page. “Oh!” Her shoulders sagged. “Never mind.” We continued our search.

The salesman, apparently having acquired the nerve, approached the pony-tailed woman who continued the search for perfect paint. “May I help you, miss?”

She gasped, then placed both hands onto her chest as if trying to slow her heart. The salesman’s pink cheeks reddened further. “Whoa. You scare easily.”

The woman’s eyes appeared guarded and she didn’t meet his gaze. She turned slightly away from him. “You surprised me, that’s all.”

This did nothing to deter him and he pulled out the chair next to her and sat. “Can I help you find something?”

She shrunk back, as if questioning exactly how long he might have been watching her. After a long pause, she relaxed her shoulders. “I’d like to repaint the living room walls but I need to find paint that’s green.”

He squished his features into a quizzical state.

She straightened. “You know, as in nontoxic?” She flipped her fingers through the pages of the catalog in front of her. “I think I need low-TOX or something, but I don’t see a thing in here about that.”

The salesman fidgeted and nodded as if he had an idea. Greta’s gaze caught with mine and she lifted her forehead as if to say, “Do something.” I opened my mouth but wasn’t quick enough.

The man in the collared shirt bent his head closer to hers. “It’s really all malarkey, you know. Paint is paint, and we’ve got all kinds of it. Tell you what. You focus on the color you like and I’ll have several quarts of it mixed up for you to try on your walls.” He lowered his voice, but not enough that we couldn’t hear him. “On the house.”

Translation: while the fresh-faced salesman could spot a damsel in paint-store distress, he had no idea what VOCs were, nor why so many people were on the hunt for alternatives. By the way his customer abruptly stood and grabbed her purse from the back of her chair, it was obvious that he needed help with his pickup lines.