Sea Glass Inn Part 2

Pam would have agreed to add ten paintings to her commission if Mel asked her to. She took a step backward and held out the pizza box.

"Fortuna's Pizza," she said. "If you're going to be a local, you'll get to know them very well. Best pizza in town, and they deliver."

Mel laughed. "Are you moonlighting as their delivery woman?"

"No, but I haven't seen you in town for a few days. I wasn't sure if you were eating."

Mel fought off the pleasure she felt at Pam's concern. And at having any company at all in the big, lonely house. Pam had been thinking about her. The realization felt as tangible as a caress, as comforting as a hug. But Pam was just being polite and welcoming.

Typical small-town businesswoman.

"I like the color," Pam said, gesturing at the walls.

"Thanks. I wanted to keep it light. Neutral," Mel said, keeping her voice casual as if the project had been as simple as choosing the right paint. For the first time in her life, Mel was responsible for every decision, every aspect of a mammoth project, with no input except for Walter's occasional suggestions. Pam's obvious approval of her color scheme wiped away some of the self-doubt Mel had been battling. But, despite her uncertainty, Mel was proud of the work she had done. Even if Pam didn't necessarily understand all that had gone on beneath the layers of paint, Mel certainly did. She had spent hours on the rooms. Was.h.i.+ng the walls and ceiling, priming them, painting. Moving from molly bolts to s.p.a.ckle and roller brushes and painter's tape. The rest of the house might look dingy in comparison, and she had only done a tiny percentage of the needed renovations, but Mel felt a thrill of accomplishment and pride in her newfound self-reliance. Though she had a long way to go, she was beginning to trust her ability to get there. But the road was sometimes lonely, and she was happy to share even the surface of her success with Pam.

To share something with anyone. Mel couldn't rely on Pam forever, expect her to put her own life on hold just because Mel missed the companions.h.i.+p of sharing her life with someone. Mel had never spent so much time on her own. At night, while working, while eating.

Eating. The house had consumed so much of Mel's time and attention that she had barely bothered to do more for herself than take an occasional shower or eat a simple meal. Her stomach rumbled as the smells of yeast and basil and tomatoes finally overcame the paint fumes and caught her attention, driving the question of what it would be like to have Pam keep her company at night away from the forefront of her mind. Having Pam there to talk about her renovations was a pleasant enough change. And to share a meal? What had once been an everyday occurrence was now a cause for celebration. "I have a bottle of wine downstairs," Mel said. "Why don't we eat outside?"

Pam followed her down the stairs and out the back door. Mel had cut an uneven, choppy path through the backyard with an ancient lawnmower she had found in the shed, but the dull blades on the push mower had been woefully inadequate for the job at hand. After an hour of rolling over sections two or three times before they were cut and stopping every few feet to pry rusted c.r.a.p out of her path, Mel had been sweaty and cranky. She would have thrown the mower in the ocean if she'd had enough energy to carry it down the stairs to the beach.

None of the tools or appliances in the old house seemed sufficient for anything beyond basic survival, if that. Except for a relatively new microwave and a fancy wine refrigerator-and Mel had brought both with her-the kitchen looked like a relic from pioneer days. Those two appliances, along with the coffeemaker Mel had bought on her first day, at least covered her personal needs, but they wouldn't be enough when she had an inn full of guests. Still, she'd make it work until she could focus beyond the essential renovations.

Mel led the way along her messy trail. She could have done a neater job if she had used a pair of scissors to cut the gra.s.s, but at least the destination made up for the untidy journey. Mel sat on the top step of the staircase leading to the beach and uncorked the wine while Pam set the pizza and napkins between them. The weathered roofs of neighboring cabins flanked them, and the stairs led steeply down to the sandy beach.

"I've been lucky with the weather," Mel said, cringing inside at her inane choice of conversation topic. She had spent her time alone belatedly adding up the money and time she would need to make the inn ready for guests. The phrase "home equity line of credit"

had seemed so innocuous and benign when she had signed the loan papers. Now it had turned into a monster devouring her profits before she even made them. She was afraid to bring up anything more serious than the weather in case her worries about finances and her ability to actually carry out this project leaked out. She didn't want to spill out her private stresses, but she felt them so close to the surface she could barely keep them contained. "I haven't had to wait long between was.h.i.+ng and priming because everything dries so quickly with the windows open."

"Don't get used to it," Pam said around a mouthful of pepperoni.

"We'll probably have a storm this weekend."

Mel took a gulp of her wine. "How can you tell?"

Pam gestured at some innocent-looking clouds on the horizon.

"You can see where two systems are colliding. It's called a mackerel sky." Pam leaned back on one hand and looked at the scene before her. The term fit. The tapestry of the sky was filled with wispy clouds, like scales on a fish, echoing the pattern of foam on the choppy ocean.

A bluff in the distance provided a good focal point. Its dark outline and straight fir trees contrasted nicely with the frilly clouds. She'd center the painting...

Pam caught herself, focused on the words, not the images. The habit had become automatic, but never effortless. "Cirroc.u.mulus. There's a warm front coming in," she explained. She sat up and held her hands out in front of her, sliding the right one over the left.

"Warm air rises, so it flows over the pressure system we have in place. Droplets freeze in the upper atmosphere and form those clouds."

Mel squinted at the bright sky. "They don't look very threatening."

"They're not," Pam said with a shrug. "But they signal change.

Sometimes nothing more than a s.h.i.+ft in temperature or some light rain. Sometimes a big storm. You'll recognize the signs after you've been here a few seasons." Pam was surprised to find she believed Mel might be able to stick it out. She certainly was putting in the work required by her demanding old house.

Pam was impressed as h.e.l.l because she understood exactly what Mel had gone through just to get her rooms looking so fresh and bright. Pam's gallery had been neglected by its former tenant.

Water stains, sloppy patching of holes, layers of garish paint. It had taken her hours of steady work to get just that small s.p.a.ce back to a presentable condition. Exhausting work. Now that they were out in the natural light, she could see Mel's bright smile was a little too forced. And her slumped shoulders and the dark circles under her eyes showed how tired she must be.

The urge to touch Mel caught Pam by surprise. To rub the aches out of her shoulders, to stroke her hair until the worried lines on her face relaxed. Pam reminded herself Mel was straight. Unmarried, but uninterested.

"How long have you been divorced?" she asked. Pam decided to keep their conversation on safe subjects. Weather, ex-husbands, anything to make her lose interest in Mel as a woman. And just see her as a client who needed to be politely turned away.

"We filed six months ago. We had been married eighteen years, but I'm a lesbian," Mel said. Pam heard a slight hesitation in her voice, as if she wasn't yet accustomed to openly defining herself.

"I've known for years, but we stayed together anyway for Danny. My son."

Pam didn't interrupt. So much for a safe subject. She busied herself by serving them each another piece of pizza, refusing to meet Mel's eyes while she talked. Pam pulled some stringy mozzarella off her slice and put it in her mouth, licking sauce off her fingers. She had eaten almost half the pie, but her sudden feeling of hunger wouldn't be eased by more pizza.

"I thought we had a deal, to remain married so we could give Danny a conventional home and family. I kept my part of the bargain and didn't tell anyone I was gay. I thought what we had was enough."

"But your husband didn't?" Pam guessed as Mel's voice faded to a stop.

"No. He asked for the divorce. He's getting remarried."

Pam picked at the crust of her pizza slice. Let it go. Change the subject. Go home. "Will Danny come live with you?"

"No. He's in his senior year, and I wouldn't pull him away from his friends and his school. We have plans for him to spend weekends here, and holidays." Mel balled up her napkin and half-eaten slice.

"Do you...most people think I'm a bad mother for doing this. They don't understand."

Pam reached for the wadded napkin and briefly let her fingers brush against Mel's. A son. A woman determined to be a permanent fixture in town. Complicated. Pam didn't do complicated. She needed to leave, but she couldn't stop asking questions, drawing out Mel's story. "What don't they understand?"

Mel stared out at the ocean, and Pam watched the emotions play over her features. She could read Mel's expression as easily as if she had words written across her face. Love for her son, guilt, determination. Whatever decisions she had reached, Pam knew they hadn't come lightly. Pam had originally thought Mel was crazy to come here, delusional if she thought she could rebuild this inn. But she hadn't realized how much Mel had at stake. Her ident.i.ty, her family. Pam might feel a physical pull to Mel-aggravated by Mel's admission that she was a lesbian-but there was too much emotion in play. Pam wanted simple and easy and transitory. Mel was pouring her heart into creating exactly the opposite.

"He'll be in college soon," Mel said, her voice stilted. "And when he comes back to visit, Richard will have a new house, a new family.

I would have been the displaced one. On my own. With nothing to offer."

Pam glanced back at the house when Mel did. It was barely visible from their seated position. "I thought if I could make a home of my own, someplace I had helped to create, he might be proud to come here. Proud of me. Not sorry for me. I wanted to have something to offer."

"A legacy," Pam said.

Mel gave a half shrug, half nod. Pam gave in to the urge to reach over and give Mel's hand a brief squeeze before she let go and hugged her knees to her chest. Mel seemed to have locked herself away in her memories and worries, and Pam was relieved to sit in silence, struggling to ignore her sudden craving for a cigarette. She understood what it meant to love a son so much you would do anything for him.

Mel had gone from hiding her ident.i.ty to stepping out on her own, all for her son. At a time in her son's life when most parents were resisting change, trying to hold on to the past, Mel was looking forward. And daring to move forward, leaving behind everything she knew in the process. Pam believed that a mother who was proud and independent was a much greater gift than one who was hiding her s.e.xuality and her potential. She only hoped Danny would be able to appreciate what Mel was doing. Pam sighed. There was no way she could back out of the commission now. She had no choice but to help Mel in the only way she could. By painting for her.

Chapter Five.

Pam stared at the painfully white canvas and tried to summon the nerve to make the first brushstroke. The initial touch of color was the hardest. It stained the perfectly blank linen, started a process while her mind screamed that it was all meaningless and not worth the effort. She looked around for something to distract her, to give her an excuse to abandon the image simmering in her head, but nothing offered itself. The small A-frame was clean, the laundry done, the bed made. Even her springer spaniel, Piper, wouldn't oblige her by begging to play or go for a walk. The brown-and-white dog dozed in the weak autumn sunlight, oblivious to her owner's inner turmoil.

If it hadn't been for the memory of Mel's handshake when she accepted the commission for more paintings, Pam would have shrugged off the rare urge to capture the scene she noticed that morning. She and Piper had gone for a walk at low tide, just after sunrise, to a large basalt formation about a half mile down the beach.

One of Pam's favorite spots, the tide pools created by the cl.u.s.ter of rocks captured such interesting sea life. Usually she brought a nature guide with her to force her mind to concentrate on identifying one thing at a time. This morning, however, she had forgotten her book at home. Instead of looking at each piece of the little ecosystem-naming and breaking down the characteristics of each creature in the shallow water-she had started to notice the interplay of elements, of light and shadow, in the microcosm in front of her.

Before she knew it, she was framing sections of the scene that could work as paintings. She'd walked around the formation until she found the right perspective, where the rising sun caught the seven-foot-tall hunk of basalt with a deep pool at its base. A cl.u.s.ter of starfish clung to the edge of the pool, illuminated as if by a spotlight as they seemed to reach for a wave that receded into the shadows and left them stranded. Pam's hands had clenched as she'd tried to ignore her rush of desire to paint, but then she'd remembered Mel's hand firmly gripping her own. She had returned home to take care of some suddenly pressing ch.o.r.es before she finally gave in and hauled out a canvas and her paints.

Pam had labored under the unexpected weight of the easel and the lightweight frame of her canvas. She'd had to move them three times before she was satisfied with the way the light hit the rough cloth. She'd pulled the kitchen table close so she had a place to set her brushes and paints. The effort of moving everything into place had been exhausting, and she hadn't even started to paint. She'd wanted to sc.r.a.p the project and sit down with a drink, but she had come too far to stop. The image of the rock had pounded too insistently in her head, trying to get out.

Resigned, she dropped her box of brushes on the table with a bang loud enough to make Piper raise her head. She settled down again as Pam quieted her movements, opening the box and taking her brushes out one by one. She feathered each against her hand, the bristles pliable and soft on her palm. She must have cleaned them thoroughly after her last bout of painting-the seascape Mel bought-but the act was so ingrained, so automatic, she couldn't remember doing it. She took her time arranging the brushes in rows, their ends perfectly even, before she started to unpack her paints.

She opened the first tube and closed her eyes as the viscous, smudgy smell of the oils. .h.i.t her nose. No turning back now. Even stronger than any visual cue, the scent of her art connected her to the first drawings she had made as a child. Waxy crayons, chalky pastels, cheap sets of watercolors. Sometimes she could ignore the landscapes, the faces, the images that inspired her. But once snared by the smell of the paint, she couldn't stop the rest of the painting from pouring out.

Pam took a deep breath and smeared a line of black paint on the canvas, outlining the jagged silhouette of the back side of the large rock. She was surprised her hand didn't shake as she sketched the dark outline since her willingness to return to painting for this woman was so frightening.

Of course she found Mel beautiful-there was nothing unusual about that. She could admire beautiful women. Sleep with them.

Even take care of ch.o.r.es or projects for them, often against her better judgment. But draw for them? Not even a sketch on a bar napkin. Agreeing to paint for Mel, opening herself to friends.h.i.+p and connection, was dangerous. For years, she had survived by avoiding close relations.h.i.+ps, ignoring any attraction that might lead to something deeper than a one-night stand. Tourists and itinerant visitors to her small seaside town were fine, offering s.e.x with no strings or commitment, but Mel seemed determined to stay.

Even though Pam would normally bet her life savings that a new entrepreneur hoping to open and run a successful bed-and-breakfast would fail as so many had before, there was something about Mel that made her hesitate. If anyone had a chance to fulfill her dream and build an inn that would be a haven to tourists, it would be Mel. She seemed to represent family and permanence, sanctuary and home-myths that Pam had foolishly fallen for long ago.

The memory of what she had lost, the very things Mel was fighting to create, hit her with such force. In the belly, in the heart, in her mind, everywhere she was most vulnerable and most susceptible to the pain. She wanted to smash her canvas, snap the brushes in half, throw her tubes of paint against the wall. Destroy, not create. She had trusted in forever only to have it torn away. She couldn't allow it to happen again, regardless of how tempting Mel could be. All Pam had to do was deliver her promised paintings-no matter how painful it was to finish them-and get Mel out of her life.

The colors Pam slashed across the canvas were dark and shadowy.

Black for the basalt, with a hint of red flame from its volcanic past.

Deep purples, blues, and greens for the anemones that remained in place and mocked the starfish as they strove to save themselves. Stark blue-black mussels and white barnacles that clung to the rock. The textures were thick as she layered coats of paint on the canvas. But when she moved to the ocean's waves, her colors softened, her paint lightened into teal and aqua, with a whitish foam that marked the edge of the surf. She added a glint of sunlight on the water and allowed it to illuminate several tiny fish in the tide pool, some fronds of seaweed that softened the harsh edges of the rocks, and a tiny waterfall where the ocean's waves still drained into the pool.

Once she started to paint, her brain and hands seemed to move automatically, translating the image in her mind into a series of strokes and hues until the first stage of the painting was finished. She didn't even stop to consult the hastily made sketch she had drawn when she returned from her walk-on her kitchen counter since no paper had been available. It seemed as if she blinked three hours after that first brushstroke, waking out of a trance, and stepped back from the almost-complete picture. She had captured the scene, caught the starfish in their dying moment. Nothing left to do but add the fractured, polished mosaic of sea gla.s.s. Her first thought was that she had somehow painted more optimism into the image than she had expected. Where she had seen only hopeless, helpless starfish, there was somehow a sense of reaching, striving for a salvation that seemed possible.

But as the hypnotic effect of creation gradually evaporated, the image that was never far from her mind returned full force. She somehow transposed a vision of the child she had loved-the boy her partner had taken from her-onto the painting. She suddenly could see her son, who had been lost to her for so many years, kneeling next to the pool and reaching toward the starfish. The brief respite from despair was over, the glorious amnesia brought on by concentration and immersion was gone. Finis.h.i.+ng a painting was even more painful than beginning as Pam's mind returned to the present, and a rush of grief, held at bay for a brief time, returned in force.

Piper had left her bed to sit by the back door, and she whined softly, asking to be let outside. Pam grabbed a box off the kitchen table and followed her dog into the small backyard. She sat in a weathered Adirondack chair and sifted through the box's contents while Piper wandered around the tiny patch of lawn. She hadn't been lying when she'd told Mel that sea gla.s.s was getting harder to find, but she hadn't let on how much she had collected over the years since she had started coming to the ocean with her grandparents. She sorted through the gla.s.s until she had a good-sized pile of red tones, from pale pinks to rich burgundies, to use on the starfish bodies. She added some lavender-colored gla.s.s as an accent and then called Piper inside for dinner. She poured some kibble in a bowl for her dog and a few fingers of tequila in a gla.s.s for herself. She hesitated and then poured a little more. Pam sat on the couch with her drink and turned on the television, ignoring the painting she had turned to face the wall so she wouldn't have to see it.

Pam called Mel a few days later to tell her the starfish painting, the first of her commissioned pieces, was completed. She felt a stab of disappointment when the call went to voice mail. She hung up without leaving a message. Even though the process had been difficult, now that her mosaic was finished she wanted to share it with Mel. Because she was relieved to be finished with a painting. Exhausted and relieved and ready to have it out of her house. And maybe because she wanted to see the painting through Mel's eyes, to replay the August afternoon when she had found Mel in her gallery, standing in front of the seascape. To use Mel as a buffer between her and her art, a filter so she could maybe bear to look at it.

She picked up the phone and dialed again, waiting through Mel's businesslike message.

"Hey, Mel, this is Pam. From the gallery." Brilliant. Like Mel knew at least six different Pams in Cannon Beach. Be cool. "I finished one of your mosaics."

Was Mel on a date? Not an unreasonable explanation for her absence on a Friday night. And it wasn't like Mel would have trouble finding someone...Pam's silence had stretched a little too long. "So, um, give me a call when you want me to bring it over. Or you can come get it. Whatever."

Pam gave her address and mercifully put the call out of its misery.

Yes, very cool. She had no reason to be so tongue-tied. Or to care what-or whom-Mel was doing on her weekend. Mel's social life was none of her concern, and the only reason she called again a few hours later was because she wanted to get the painting off her hands and Mel's check into her account. And that was the same reason she drove by Mel's inn the next day, only to find the big house dark and empty, no blue Honda in the driveway.

Pam slowly drove home along the winding road that edged the ocean and collected Piper for a walk on the beach. The brief glimmer of satisfaction she had felt when she'd finished the starfish painting disappeared as she realized Mel might have given up on her business and left town. She had expected it to happen, but her disappointment caught her by surprise. No matter, she decided. Tia would be glad to have the painting in her upcoming art walk, and life in Cannon Beach would go on as usual, minus yet another hopeful entrepreneur. Pam pulled her jacket tighter as the wind increased. It was blowing from the south, pus.h.i.+ng dark clouds across the sky. Pam whistled for Piper and turned back toward her house, hoping to get home before the approaching storm.

Chapter Six.

Mel jumped to her feet with the rest of the crowd as Danny rushed eight yards for a touchdown. She hadn't seen him since she'd moved to Cannon Beach. She had initially been upset that she didn't have a chance to talk to him the moment she got back to Salem, but now she was relieved to have the extra time to get herself together.

Even the sight of him in his helmet and uniform, barely recognizable as her son among his teammates, triggered an unantic.i.p.ated range of emotions. Happiness, guilt, doubt. She had expected to feel them, just not all at once, clamoring for her attention and threatening to steal her self-control. Mel settled back onto the bleachers when Danny left the field with the offense. She moved as one with the other fans, blending in with the sea of green on the home team's side of the stadium, but she felt like an outsider. At the game, in her former city, as she brushed against her old life. She felt out of sync, different, in the very place she had called home for so many years.

Although she hadn't spoken to Danny yet, she had managed to run into Richard and his fiancee, Lesley, earlier at the concession stand. All very polite, very grown-up. Mel had walked away after the few minutes of casual chitchat with an irrational feeling of anger. And regret.

Regret. She hated the word. It implied poor choices, no second chances, sadness. In some ways, she regretted not leaving her marriage sooner. Starting over when Danny was a child, when she was younger. When she might have had the chance to build a new family like Richard had done.

But as she sat in the stands-an island of turmoil and second-guessing amidst the cheering fans-she rejected each of the negative implications of her regret one by one. She hadn't made poor choices.

She had considered what was best for Danny at every crossroads in her adult life. Yes, she might have missed her second chance at romance and true love, but she had a new opportunity, a new life waiting for her in Cannon Beach. And of course she had moments of sadness and loneliness and doubt when she was alone in her decrepit inn, but she also had pride and accomplishment and the happiness that came with freedom. She'd reveled in the first tastes of those emotions, and they'd whetted her appet.i.te for more.

No, Mel didn't want to return to her old life. Not a chance. But she envied the ease with which Lesley had taken her place. Mel's own transition hadn't been simple. She had been thrust into her new life with all the pain and agony she remembered from childbirth. But she was surviving. Growing stronger. Mel filed out of the stands with the rest of the crowd and went in search of Danny. Circ.u.mstances had changed, but now she'd be able to be a role model for the kind of life she wanted him to have from the start, one of honesty and hard work and self-determination.

She found Danny on the sidelines, surrounded by his friends, and she waved with what she hoped was a casual smile when he looked up and noticed her. She had communicated with him every day since she'd left, either by phone or e-mail, but seeing him in person overwhelmed her. As a teenager, he was so easily embarra.s.sed by any show of parental affection, so she was determined to keep her cool.

But Danny detached himself from the crowd of players and pushed his way through the stream of spectators, grabbing her in a big hug as soon as he was close.

"I missed you," she whispered as she gave him a squeeze before they stepped apart.

"Me, too, Mom," he said, not looking directly at her as he leaned against the bleachers, his helmet tucked under an arm.

"Great game," she said, changing to a less personal subject.

She was surprised to see her own emotions echoed on Danny's face.

She brushed her hand over her eyes. Just a few tears, but she didn't mind. She'd earned them. "Over a hundred yards rus.h.i.+ng was pretty impressive."

"Thanks," he said. He shrugged and gave the shy grin he usually wore when his accomplishments were the topic of conversation.

"Their team sucks, but the stats still look good on my record. Are you ready to go to dinner? I'm starving."

Mel laughed as he ran off to get his gym bag. At least some things never changed. The normalcy of picking up her son after his game, taking him to dinner, just being his mother seemed magnified somehow, turned into something precious because it was the one constant in her sea of change. The one truth that had always been with her, that she would fight to protect.