By the Bay (2 page)

This morning she woke up early to worry about her niece.
In her mid
-
twenties at a time when most girls married young
, she was throwing her life away by coming back here to see her mother through
another rough spot in a road
way
of illness. Christine had long
been difficult, high strung and often irrational, but these days she was sinking in and out of madness with as little awareness of the everyday as a crazy old coot. Christine might only be in her
fifties
, but in the last few years she’d hopelessly lost her way, both mentally and physically, and now Jillian who had fought her way out of this trap was back again.
Florence
hadn’t sent for Jillian. It was the last thing she wanted. If she’d had the chance, she would have urged her niece to run away as fast as she could and to never look back.

But that well meaning busy-body who lived next door to her sister had gotten Jillian’s address from Chris and written a letter detailing the poor woman’s suffering and practically begging Jillian to come home.

As if she and
O
wen
weren’t perfectly capable of seeing to Chris’ care.

Her anger rose with each step she made down the street toward
t
he cottage where her sister lived in the rather rundown area by the bay.
Chris had moved in here with her new husband years
ago and even though
Davis Blake
had been gone
over
two decades
now
, she stayed on, her life fixed in place as though she expected him to come home at any minute from his latest
work day.

Muttering to herself about how she’d like to give Chris a good shaking, she marched up to the
front
door and knocked hard.
She was surprised when Jillian answered the door. Since she’d come home, she’d been dull and lifeless, which was hard when you were usually a sparkling redhead with lively blue eyes.

If she’d only dress
up some
, try a little makeup, Jillian would be beautiful, or so her loving aunt thought.
Florence
thought her niece gorgeous enough for Hollywood and thought it a shame that no producer would ever come across her hidden away as she was at the end of the world.

But today she didn’t need makeup. Her lips were coral, her alabaster skin brightened by soft color and, though many women disdained freckles, the sprinkling across Jillian’s nose
was
, in fact, adorable.

What had happened to bring the life back into that beloved face? Whatever it was,
Florence
prayed blessings on it. It broke her heart to see Jillian old and worn out before her time. She was
only twenty four
and she’d never had a serious relationship that her aunt knew about. Instead she’d devoted herself to her mother and her studies, living life in books rather than reality.

Life is too precious to throw away
, she wanted to say.
Instead she demanded, “Got a cup of coffee for a wayfaring stranger.”

“You bet
.
” Jillian stepped aside, waving her into the house. “We would be so glad to have company for breakfast.”

Florence
followed her niece into the little kitchen at the back of the cottage where wide windows looked out on a yard thick with vegetation, still in bloom even though it was nearly Christmas. Orange
trees
,
deep pink and purple
bougainvilleas
and other plants
ornamented the yard that
she and Owen
tried as best
they
could to keep up even though the restaurant consumed most of
their
waking hours.

He thought the flowers would cheer Christina
.
Florence
had given up on trying to
lift her sister’s dark moods years ago. If it hadn’t been for Jillian, she would have quit even coming over.
Or so she told herself.

For once Chris was actually out of bed and sitting at the little kitchen table, a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in
front
of her.
Florence
had already eaten her usual light breakfast, but she accepted a plate from her niece and sat down across the table from her sister while Jillian
served them with mugs of coffee and then took her own place.

Jillian dived into her food like a hungry young woman, but her mother only nibbled, taking a tiny bite of toast, th
a
n sipping the coffee. “Too much cream,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

Jillian jumped to her feet. “I’ll get you another mug.”

“No.” Chris closed her delicate hand around the mug. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve got used to making do since you abandoned me, my darling.”

Jillian’s delicate features flushed with guilt. “You know I had no choice, Mother, there was
little
work for me here. We had to have the money.”

“We would have managed.” A gentle smile drifted across Chris’ face, dismissing the matter of income in what had been
so recently
the hard years of the depression as insignificant. Easy enough,
Florence
thought cynically, when you weren’t the one who had to do the earning.
While
Jillian had been a school girl, her mother had supported them by working in a nearby grocery store, but even while going to teacher’s college, Jillian had worked at whatever she could get to bring in their living, and after graduation,
hadn’t found opportunities much improved
until
Florence’s
older sister,
Dorothea
, had found a better
situation
for her in Kansas.

Florence
had hoped she would find a fine young man up there and get married and have a family. But the pull of her invalid mother had proved too
strong
and here she was back in Port Isabel again.

Florence
found her sister to be a puzzle. Older than the other
s
in the family of
girls
, Christine had taken over the care of the children at fourteen when her mother died. They’d been living in east Texas at the time, which had been only the latest step the family had taken in several generations of migration from the poverty of the
post civil war south.

Florence
had looked up to her oldest sister who could cook, clean and sew to match any woman in the rural neighborhood and when handsome Davis Blake swept into the community and carried her sister off as his wife, she had been heart-broken. When, a few years later, the Blakes invited h
e
r to join them in south Texas she’d eagerly accepted. Gradually most of the family had moved to the Rio Grande Valley, drawn by the presence of the sister who had been like a mother to them in their growing up years.

“I could do with a touch of marmalade for my toast,” Chris spoke up now.

“I’m afraid we don’t have any, Mother, but we have some of that grape jam that Aunt
Connie
sent over, if you’d like that.”

Chris raised her hand, her still beautiful face showing her distress that she should in any way be a bother. “Don’t trouble yourself, dear. Grape jam just isn’t the same.”

Again Jillian looked vaguely guilty, though her aunt couldn’t imagine why. All sorts of shortages were happening because of the war and it wasn’t her fault that the local grocer had a limited selection of some delicacies.

When had Christine turned into this delicate, fretful woman who was sucking the life out of her daughter? It had been so gradual that no one seemed t
o have noticed other than
Florence and her sisters
, but it was the way Jillian had been brought up as though it was her task in life to make up to her mother for losing the love of her life back when her daughter was only a few months old.

Though
only in her
early fifties
, she couldn’t be trusted alone. She might leave something cooking on the stove and burn the house down or she might allow some stranger in the house to take advantage of her.

Though at times, like now, she seemed to think as well as ever.

It was hard to know what to make of Christine these days, but she would do everything she could to see that she didn’t sap the last chance of a real life out of her daughter.
She was the only one who cared enough to try to help Jillian.

Though the effort sometimes seemed as futile as trying to keep the sand dunes on Padre Island fixed in place.

Chapter Three

It was a relatively sane day.  After Auntie left, Mother entertained herself by telling stories of their growing up years in the piney woods of East Texas. The loss of her mother had been the first blow in what Christine Blake considered a tragic life.

“
My mother died
,” she said, lingering over her coffee, “when I was only fourteen. When I think of how close we have been, my darling, I know how much I missed
losing my mother
having to grow up so young and take care of the others. I worked from sunup to sundown, cooking, scrubbing, looking after the
girls
.”

She smiled dreamily at Jillian. “When your father came to
town
it was as though Prince Charming came to rescue Cinderella. It was a real life fairy tale and I knew everything would be different when I went off with him.”

Jillian liked to think of those happy days before she was even born. She encouraged her mother to talk of when they’d first bought this cottage and Daddy had gone to work as a police officer. Sometimes she thought that her own birth had been something of an intrusion into their romantic idol.

After all the prince and Cinderella must have been forced to
grow
up when they had a baby.

While her mother nattered on and on, Jillian moved briskly about the kitchen, putting things aright. She knew from experience that she
could end up spending all day at her mother’s side, a passive listener, while the tasks of the day were left undone.

“Such a short time,” Mother mourned, “and then I lost my dearest Davi
s
. I thought I would die. I wanted to die,” She looked up with a tearful smile. “But I had to live for you, my darling, for my beautiful little girl.”

Jillian knew better than to offer encouragement. Christine didn’t like to hear words that suggested anything but that she had suffered endlessly. But somehow, Jillian found herself saying, “You must have been glad with Auntie moved here to be with you.”

A long sigh. “
Davis was still alive then, but
I had to look after her. There was no one else.”

She was able to drive down to the local market for a few supplies while Mother was sleeping and stopped by the café to give
Owen
a
hello
hug and ask Aunt
Florence
if she knew anybody who might be available to stay with Mom a few hours a day while she went to work.

“You’ve got a job already?” Auntie asked.

“No choice. I haven’t been able to save up much on a teacher’s salary and we’ve got to eat and pay the bills. I stopped by at the school and they’re taking me on to fill in for someone who has been called up.”

“What grade?”

“High school history.”

“But you teach little kids.”

“Only thing available,” Jillian said wryly. She didn’t see that it would do any good to admit that she was scared to death at the idea of teaching high school students. The little ones were her specialty. They were sweet and loving. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

To her amazement, a scowl deepened the lines in her aunt’s face. “Don’t talk clichés to me, Jillian,” she snapped. “You’re better than that.”

Jillian glanced uneasily around at the few customers who were in the café at this time of day, most of them fishermen lingering over coffee and 
Florence’s
homemade pie. Nobody seemed to be paying attention.

Only
Owen
, across from them, watched his partner with a little smile on his face.

“But Auntie,” she protested warmly, unaccustomed to this kind of display of temper over nothing from her favorite aunt.

Auntie thundered her fist down on the table, making it jump. “You’ve never had a life of your own. You haven’t had a serious boyfriend, or a pet, or . .
.or anything that Christine didn’t pick out for you. Underneath that pretty face, underneath that sweet manner, there’s got to be a woman of spirit who won’t let her life be eaten up by someone else. You deserve a home and children of your own, girl.”

Auntie had hinted her disapproval for years, but this was the first time she’d come right out with it. Jillian guessed it was because she’d come back from Kansas to be with her mother.