Thomas Kinkade's Cape Light Page 4

  They set the boxes in the trunk. Then James walked to the front of the car and brushed snow off the windshield and hood with the broom. “Why don’t you get in and start the heat? I can handle this.”

  Zoey started the car and turned on the defroster. She found her snow brush on the backseat and started working on the outside of the car, too. The smaller brush wasn’t as effective as the broom, but the snow was very light.

  Once the back windows were done, she checked the roof. She could almost hear her father: “It’s dangerous to leave snow on the car roof, Zoey. It can slide down on the windshield and blind you while you’re driving, and you can end up in an accident.”

  Even though she rolled her eyes at these disaster warnings from her parents, she did remember them. She jumped up on tiptoe and gave the snow a big swipe with the brush, reaching as far as her arm would stretch.

  “Hey . . . what was that?” James popped up like a gopher from a hole. He had been brushing the back of the car, and she hadn’t noticed him there. Now he was covered from head to toe.

  She didn’t want to laugh, but it was hard not to. “Oh, my gosh . . . you look almost as bad as you did last night. What is it with you? Can’t you stay frost-free for a few hours?”

  “Cute.” He wasn’t wearing his hat and shook his head like a big dog, snow flying everywhere. “It’s not so bad. The snow isn’t even cold. See?”

  The next thing she knew, a cloud of snow was flying her way, courtesy of one swift, neat stroke with the broom.

  Zoey sputtered, wiping snow from her face and eyes. She wanted to yell at him, then had to laugh. “Nice move. For a city boy.”

  The snow she had wiped from her face was still in her hand, and she quickly packed it—then hurled a tight little snowball straight at him.

  “Gotcha!” She couldn’t suppress her glee as her frosty missile smacked his shoulder.

  “Correction . . . I grew up in the wilds of Connecticut. We have snowballs there, too.”

  He fired one back in an instant, popping out from behind the car and ducking down again.

  Zoey squealed and spun, trying to get out of the way, but it caught her directly on her nose. She raised her hands to her face. “Ouch, that hurt! No fair,” she moaned. She turned her back, pretending to be hurt, even though it only stung a little. “I think you broke my nose,” she mumbled against her gloves.

  James rushed from the other side of the car, slipping and sliding in the snow. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to throw it that hard. Here, let me see. Are you bleeding?”

  He sounded so worried, Zoey had a momentary pang of conscience. Still, he started it, she reasoned, and she could not resist turning slowly and meeting his concerned expression with another heaping handful.

  “Only kidding,” she said with a shrug as he coughed and sputtered under this latest assault.

  “You little weasel. I’ll get you for that.” His words were harsh, but he was laughing. At least he was a good sport.

  She brushed herself off, jumped behind the wheel, then slammed the door. She rolled the window down a crack. “Thanks for helping me clean the car,” she said sweetly. “By the way, I have three brothers. I know this stuff.”

  “Now she tells me.”

  “Next time, I’ll give you fair warning.” Zoey suddenly felt repentant for her sneaky maneuvers.

  “It’s all right. All’s fair in love and snowball fights.”

  “I don’t know about the first part, but I do agree with the second.”

  “Obviously.” He smiled at her, a warm smile that made her feel a bit weak at the knees. “Hope to see you again, Zoey. When there isn’t any snow around,” he teased.

  “Sure, see you,” Zoey replied with a brief wave. His parting words surprised her. She didn’t know how or when she would see him again anytime soon. He was only visiting for Thanksgiving and was probably leaving tomorrow night, or, at the most, over the weekend.

  He was just trying to be nice. He didn’t mean anything by it, she decided. She steered her car down the bumpy, snow-covered lane that ran from Sophie’s house to the main road. In the rearview mirror, she could still see James watching her drive away—to make sure she didn’t get stuck in a drift?

  When she reached the road, she glanced back. But he was gone. As she fixed her gaze on the road ahead, Zoey could still see him clearly, in her mind’s eye, and knew it would take a while for the image to fade.

  * * *

  Sophie had whisked the plate of eggs and bacon into the oven so the food wouldn’t get cold, but as soon as James came through the back door, she quickly set it on the table. He took off his jacket and boots and sat in his place again.

  “Did Zoey get off all right?”

  “No problem.”

  She poured more coffee in his mug and then sat in her own seat and filled her plate with bacon and eggs. “She’s a dear girl. Puts her heart into everything she puts her hand to. She helps me a lot around here. I’m not sure what I would do without her.”

  “I’m glad you have help around here, Grandma. And companionship. Zoey has a good sense of humor, I noticed.”

  Sophie had watched the snow fight from the window. Zoey had gotten the best of her grandson, using her brains instead of her brawn. Sophie smiled; some things did not change.

  “She’s also very smart and creative,” Sophie said. “She’s studying to be an art therapist. Did she mention that?”

  James looked interested and a bit surprised. “We didn’t get to it. I can see the arty side. But she doesn’t look . . . I don’t know . . . serious enough or something to be a psychologist.”

  “Oh, she’s got a serious side. She’s a deep girl. She’s been through things.” James looked curious to hear more, but Zoey’s past was not hers to tell. “So, are you going back to the city Thursday night, or heading back to Connecticut with your dad?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ll have to check work and see what my schedule is.”

  Sophie nodded. “Still working at the same café? What was it called again?”

  “Bistro Cassis. The tips are good,” James added with a shrug.

  “No shame in hard work while you get your writing off the ground. Isn’t that the plan?”

  James nodded, but avoided meeting her gaze. She could always tell when one of her children—or grandchildren—wasn’t telling her the truth. Or even shading the story.

  “What is it, James? Did you lose your job?”

  He finally looked up at her. “What gave you that idea?”

  Answering a question with a question. Dead giveaway. Sophie knew her guess had hit its mark.

  “I know you love me, honey. But when you take a six-hour bus ride and then walk three miles in the snow to visit, something’s up. You could have hopped on a train in Grand Central and been at your father’s house in less than half that time. Dry as toast in the bargain.”

  He didn’t answer, just stared straight ahead, his cheeks growing red.

  “I might be old, but I can still do simple math, and it doesn’t add up.”

  James sighed and cast her a wry smile. “Yes, I lost my job. I had an argument with the boss and he fired me. My roommate moved out a few days later, and since I needed to save money anyway, I sublet the apartment. I’ve been couch-surfing ever since. That got old fast. I ran out of couches, and I still haven’t found a new job.”

  “I see.” Sophie had suspected it was something like that. “How about your parents? Won’t they help you? All kids have tight spots like this, here and there.”

  “Tell that to my dad. If he ever had a ‘tight spot,’ he doesn’t remember it.” James sighed and pushed back his plate. “He has helped me, a few times. But he said he won’t do it again—not unless I give up on writing and work for one of his friends. Selling insurance or something. I’d rather take poison.”

  Sophie
shook her head. “Don’t even say that.” The boy had a flair for drama. “What about your mom? Maybe she’ll help you.”

  “She’s sympathetic, but always says I have to talk to him.”

  “Can’t you just try—one more time?” Sophie knew her son, Bart, could dig in his heels when he thought he was right, but he wasn’t heartless. He was probably worried about James, who still seemed a little lost two years after graduating college. It was only natural for his father to be concerned. And once Bart thought he had a solution to a problem, he didn’t have much patience for considering there might be another way. He always thought he knew best. Especially with his children.

  “You’ve only been out of school . . . two years?”

  “A year and a half,” James corrected her. “That isn’t very long to get a writing career going. Some people take decades. Not that I plan on taking that long,” he quickly added.

  Sophie had to smile. Young people never think success will take long. Which was good, in a way, she reflected. “Of course not. But it’s not the same as other careers. I understand.”

  “I’m glad somebody does. Tell that to Dad. I’m getting pub- lished—in a few places, at least. Editors like my writing; readers, too. Things are going pretty well,” James insisted. “But nothing short of the front page of the New York Times will impress Dad. All he can say is ‘Stop playing around. You have to get serious, James.’”

  Unfortunately, Sophie could hear her son saying just that.

  “What does he call serious?” Sophie asked curiously.

  “Going to law school. Or taking some mind-numbing job in a bank or a brokerage house. Anyplace like that. Where you hand over your brain and become a mindless clone. He has a lot of well-connected friends and wants me to go on interviews. I’m dreading facing him tomorrow. Once he finds out I’ve lost my apartment and my job—”

  “You’re in between jobs, that’s all.” Sophie met his glance and saw he appreciated her interpretation.

  “Even that explanation won’t go over well. You won’t tell him, will you?”

  “It’s your news to tell, dear. But I won’t lie if he asks me. I don’t want to get in between you and your father, but you’re welcome to stay here until you can figure out what you want to do. At least through the holidays.”

  “Thank you, Grandma. Honest.” His expression was a portrait of relief.

  “Not at all. It’s my pleasure. I have my own battles going on now with your father . . . and your aunts. They’re trying to persuade me—more like force me, truth be told—to give up this place. But I’m not going without a fight.”

  James looked concerned. “I hope they don’t make you leave. But I do think you need more help. That’s where I come in. I’m going to start by shoveling snow and fixing that back door.”

  “I’m impressed. Quite a to-do list already.” Sophie leaned back and laughed, pleased at her grandson’s ambition.

  “What did you think, Grandma? I would just lie around all day and eat your cooking? I might try to find a job in town, too. Even if it’s just for a few weeks, that will be something. I’m definitely not going back to Connecticut, but I don’t want to go back to New York, either. Not right now.”

  “Really?” Sophie was surprised. She thought James loved the big city. “Where do you want to go? Cross-country or something like that?”

  “I want to travel. But outside of the U.S. There’s a website that posts work on farms all over the world. It’s called Worldwide Agricultural Volunteers—WAVE for short. You can find a farming job with room and board in some interesting country and work there awhile. Then, when you’re ready, you go to a new place.”

  “That sounds very adventurous.”

  “I did it one summer during college. It was awesome. It’s what a real writer would do—have adventures, see the world, meet all kinds of people, and have something to write about. Not just give up at the first speed bump.”

  Sophie was impressed by her grandson’s spirit and persistence. And secretly pleased that he wasn’t giving in to his caring but strong-willed father.

  “That’s a good plan, James,” she said. “If I can help you without crossing your father, I will. In the meantime, let’s stick together at the Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow. Sounds like we’ll both be thrown into the lion’s den.”

  Sophie rolled her eyes, and her grandson laughed. Though, in her heart, she wasn’t really joking.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Everything is delicious, Emily. The turkey came out perfectly. And I love that centerpiece. Did you really make it?”

  Emily appreciated her sister, Jessica’s, praise. Jessica knew Emily was domestically challenged and was trying her best to be encouraging. She was also very grateful that Emily had taken on Thanksgiving this year. She had been promoted at the bank and had almost no spare time now, though Emily was fairly certain Jess and Sam would still want to have the family over for Christmas Eve, as they usually did.

  “I hedged my bets with the roasting. Draped it with cheesecloth and used a foil tent,” Emily admitted. “Jane and I made the centerpiece. We just copied a picture in a magazine.”

  Her mother, Lillian, glared at them. “Very festive,” she grumbled. “Keep fiddling with mini-pumpkins and pinecones while Rome burns. That’s just dandy.”

  Emily decided to ignore the remark, a veiled reference to the goings-on in Village Hall. Which she was not part of any longer. Despite the fact that she had been voted out of office, her mother persisted in acting as if Emily had deserted her post. Or had perhaps been ousted by some sinister scheme and was now in exile, planning her return. Or should have been.

  Dan, who never had high tolerance for his mother-in-law’s critiques, was clearly annoyed. “Fiddling while Rome burns? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Before Lillian could reply, Emily said, “More sweet potatoes, anyone? These are delicious, Jess.”

  Jessica forced a smile, her gaze darting warily from Lillian to Dan. “Gee . . . thanks.”

  “I’ll have some more.” Jessica’s husband, Sam, held out his dish. “They came out great, honey.”

  “I’ll have some as well, thank you.” Ezra Elliot, Lillian’s husband, glanced at his wife. “Some very fine food at this celebration. We appreciate all the work that went into this meal. Don’t we, Lillian?”

  Lillian shrugged. “Hats off to the cooks. I hope every family in town is sitting down to such a fine dinner. How does that old saying go—the condemned man ate a hearty meal?”

  Dan had begun eating again, but now sat back in his chair, ignoring Emily’s desperate look. “Honestly, do you need to hijack our entire Thanksgiving dinner with these grim conundrums?”

  Lillian gazed back at him. “It’s no riddle. You all know what I’m talking about. How can we sit here so complacently, chatting about pumpkin displays and Brussels sprouts, when the election of Charlie Bates as mayor has sounded a death knell to the village? And I don’t see anyone trying to do a thing about it.” Lillian stared at Emily, a spark of challenge in her eyes. As if Emily were the obvious choice to spring into action.

  Emily shook her head. “Mother, really. Let’s not talk about this now, all right?”

  “Charlie was elected, fair and square,” Dan stated firmly. “I can’t imagine what you expect anyone to do. I don’t think there’s anything to talk about, now or later. Or ever.”

  Emily knew he was being protective. But after all these years, he still didn’t understand that confronting her mother head-on was like waving a red flag in front of a bull.

  “Fight him,” Lillian replied sharply. “That’s what can be done. Fight him on this zoning issue.”

  “Lily, please,” Ezra cut in. “Can’t you let us eat our dinner in peace? Thankful for all that we do enjoy—instead of spinning gloomy disaster scenarios?” Ezra waved his arms in the air and made a face, making his gran
dchildren laugh. “Believe me, the world won’t come to an end because Charlie Bates was elected mayor.”

  Well said, Emily thought. Though Lillian did not look pleased to be laughed at. Another red flag.

  “I will not pipe down. And I’m surprised at you, Dan, of all people. You spend your days glorifying local history in those books you write. But you don’t care a whit if the very soul of this village—its historic character—is wiped out? If the streets are filled with condo developments and strip malls?”

  Dan stared straight ahead, his mouth in a tight line. Emily could see he was angry but trying to hold his temper.

  Sam spoke up. “This will all blow over. I don’t think most people want the zoning changed. Charlie just had a lucky night. You didn’t lose by much, Em.”

  Lillian gave her other son-in-law a look. Everyone knew Sam’s sunny disposition and perennial optimism annoyed her like a skin rash. “Emily should have asked for a recount. I told her that a hundred times.”

  “I decided it was best not to drag out the situation. As Dan said, Charlie won, fair and square. It’s out of my hands now, Mother.”

  Emily had campaigned on the side of zoning that would preserve the open spaces and farmland beyond the village center. Charlie was in favor of changing the zoning to allow for more development—housing developments, condos, and even commercial real estate.

  Emily had assumed—wrongly perhaps—that most people in town wouldn’t want the village to change in such a harsh way, and that she would win the election handily. But Charlie had argued that change would bring more young residents to the town and more revenue for schools and village improvements. In the end, he had managed to get more of his supporters to the polls, and she had not.

  “Since there seems no avoiding it, let’s set the record straight,” Dan said finally. “Emily ran a great campaign and made a very graceful exit. She has nothing to feel ashamed about. But she’s done with politics now, and she’s the last person who should be held responsible for the fate of the zoning laws. She’s championed these causes long enough, Lillian.”