Thomas Kinkade's Cape Light Read online

  Sophie sat at the table, and, finally, Bart did, too, taking a chair across from James. “Have you had the chimney cleaned lately?” Sophie nodded, mixing a spoonful of honey into her cup. “How about the gutters? Did you ever call the number I gave you?”

  “I just get up there with a broom or a big metal spoon and scoop the leaves out around the end of fall, when it’s all come down. I can’t see paying anyone to do that.”

  “You climbed a ladder? By yourself?”

  Sophie shrugged. “It’s not a very tall one. If I lost my balance I’d just end up in the hydrangeas. They’re big and soft enough to break even your fall.”

  “Good to know,” his father replied. He closed his eyes and rubbed his hand over his face, a gesture James knew signaled that he was trying very hard not to lose his patience.

  “Are you all right, Bart?” Sophie asked. “You’re not getting one of your headaches, are you? I’m not sure you should drive if that’s going on.”

  “It’s not a headache. I’m fine.” He opened his eyes, looking in control again. “I’ll make a list of what needs to be attended to around here and make some calls for you next week.”

  “All right. Why don’t you try Sam Morgan? He might be in between big jobs. He’s a very nice fellow,” Sophie added.

  “Okay, I will.” James couldn’t tell what his father was thinking; his expression was unreadable. He suddenly turned and looked at James. “Why aren’t you going back to the city? I don’t really understand.”

  James knew he was in the hot seat now. Grandma’s turn was over.

  “Oh, I don’t know. There are too many distractions there for my writing, and I wasn’t getting along with my roommate.”

  His father didn’t answer for a moment. “You lost your job. Is that it?”

  James sighed and stared down at the table. “Well . . . I did. But that really wasn’t all of it. I—”

  “I knew it,” his father cut in.

  “It wasn’t just that,” James insisted. “I could have found another one.”

  “Sure, another job waiting tables in some dumpy restaurant. I don’t doubt that for a minute. When are you going to get serious about your future, James? You wanted some time after you graduated to try out this writing business. Okay, we gave you time. But it’s been almost two years. Time enough for you to stop fooling around.”

  “I’m not fooling around, Dad. I’m writing every day. I’ve had articles and short stories published.” James didn’t mean to raise his voice, but he couldn’t help it. “I’ve sent them to you. Did you even read them?”

  His father sighed again. “Of course I did. That isn’t the point. It’s all very nice, but it doesn’t pay the rent if you still need to scrape by waiting tables. You need a real job, with a career track. Or even graduate school. I can get you hooked up in five minutes with twenty interviews.” His father picked up his phone and waved it around. “There are young men your age who would jump through flaming hoops to get some of the interviews and training programs I can get for you in a heartbeat, James. Be realistic.”

  James stood up from his chair. “I’m not a circus animal. You can’t just crack the whip and see me jump.”

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. You can’t hide out up here for the rest of your life, behind your grandmother.” Bart cast an accusing stare in his mother’s direction.

  She made an innocent face, and shrugged. “I invited him to stay here for the holidays. He needs to get his bearings. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.”

  Bart didn’t answer but turned back to James. “And what are you going to do after you get your bearings? Run into the woods and build a cabin, like Henry David Thoreau?”

  His father must have learned about Thoreau in school, eons ago, but James was surprised he remembered anything like that, especially since Thoreau was a writer.

  “It worked out pretty well for Henry,” James replied. “But I plan to travel. I’m going to find jobs in other countries on that website WAVE. Remember when I did that one summer in college?”

  “Your mother and I thought of that as summer camp for a twenty-year-old. We didn’t intend for you to make a career of it.”

  “Right, you’d rather I wasted away in a cubicle all day, in some mind-numbing job. I want to see the world, Dad. I want to experience other cultures and meet all kinds of people. I want to have something worthwhile to write about.”

  James watched his father’s color rise. He had pale, sandy hair, thinning on top, and there was no way for him to hide his stress and anger.

  “Be serious a moment. Be realistic. All those years of college, all the tuition—what was that for? So you can work on a farm in some backward place where they don’t even have running water? You won’t last a week. You never even liked to mow the lawn.”

  James didn’t answer. He sat back, his arms folded over his chest. His father didn’t understand. He never would. He had never wanted to do anything with his life beyond being a trust attorney. That was his choice. He was very good at it and seemed to like it. James didn’t think any less of his father for his choices. But why couldn’t he realize not everyone wanted to take the well-traveled path? Not everyone was ambitious for the same kind of success?

  His father tried again. “I understand if law school or investments don’t grab you. I get that. It’s not your style. What about social media or public relations? Or advertising? You might like that. You can write all you want in your spare time. I’ll find a nice apartment for you in the city, all your own. Anywhere you like,” he added, sweetening the bait.

  James took a deep breath. He was not tempted. He would never sell his soul for an apartment. His father should know better than that. “Sorry, Dad. I know you don’t understand, but this is my plan. I’m sticking with it.”

  Bart shook his head. “Your plan, huh? Where do you expect to get the money? Will you pick an airline ticket off one of those apple trees out there?”

  James ignored his father’s sarcasm. “I’m going to look for a job in town.”

  “Really? Well, better not rush to pack your bag. This could take a while. You’ll be lucky to get the minimum wage out here.” His father suddenly pinned his grandmother with a stare. “You’re not going to give him money, are you?”

  “Who, me? Never crossed my mind,” she insisted, though James doubted that. “But since James is staying, maybe he should try his hand on that list of repairs. I mean, if he wants to.”

  “Great idea. I can paint and use a hammer. I was going to fix a few things around here anyway. You don’t have to pay me, Grandma.”

  “Nonsense. We have to pay someone, and it’s hard to find a good repairman for small jobs. Especially this time of the year.”

  Before his father could weigh in on the idea, James quickly replied, “Great, it’s a deal. And I won’t charge nearly as much as a real carpenter or a painter would.”

  His father’s glance swept from James to his mother and back again. “No need for me to put my two cents in here. I can see that. It’s getting late. I’d better go.” He picked up his muffler and hat from a chair.

  He walked over to Sophie and kissed her cheek. “Good-bye, Mother. Take care of yourself. And please don’t overdo it.”

  “Don’t worry, son. I have James to keep an eye on me.”

  His father pinned James with a look as he stood at the door.

  “I know you think you’ve gotten your way. But this isn’t over, James, not by a long shot.”

  James wasn’t sure what to say. “We can talk more sometime, Dad, if you want.”

  His father nodded curtly, pulling on his hat. “We will, I promise you.” His pulled on the door, but it didn’t open right away, adding a comical touch to his angry exit. James kept a straight face until his father managed to get outside and close the door behind him.

 
Sophie hid a small smile behind her hand. “Oh dear. He was madder than a wet hen, wasn’t he? He got like that sometimes when he was a boy. He could get all fired up. There was no talking to him. But then, a little while later, he would settle down and forget all about whatever was bothering him.”

  James sat back and sighed. “I don’t know, Grandma. I doubt he’s going to settle down and forget about this. You heard him. I don’t think he’s going to let it go so easily.”

  “Maybe not,” Sophie conceded. “But the best way to convince someone that you mean business is to do what you said you were going to do. All the fine words in the world don’t add up to one single act.”

  “Good advice. The first thing I’m going to do is fix that door.” He got up from the table and set off for the toolbox. “I promised you Tuesday night I’d take care of it.”

  “So you did,” Sophie recalled with a smile. “Thank you, James. I’ll mark it off our list.”

  * * *

  Sophie woke on Monday morning and glanced at the clock. It was still early; sunlight had barely seeped below the edge of her bedroom curtains. She rolled over and closed her eyes again. Mac was curled at her feet, a warm mass weighing down the quilt at the bottom of the bed. He was content to sleep in, too.

  She had been an early riser all her life, up with dawn, good weather and bad. But in her later years, especially since the pneumonia, she sometimes found herself sleeping in until Mac’s cold nose nudged her cheek. It wasn’t as if she had that much to do. Especially when the orchard was in a quiet season.

  She had nearly drifted off again when she suddenly smelled coffee. Coffee? How could that be?

  She sat up and remembered—James. He must be up, even though it was barely seven. There’s a surprise. There will be coffee all ready for me when I go downstairs this morning.

  That was enough incentive to make her push the covers back and search for her slippers and robe. The drowsy dog woke and yawned, then reluctantly jumped off the bed and trotted downstairs behind her.

  “Morning, Grandma,” James said as she entered the kitchen. “I hope I didn’t wake you up, banging around down here.”

  “Didn’t hear a thing. I did smell the coffee. That got me moving.” She walked to the stove and filled a big mug.

  James sat at the table, dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, his hair still damp from a shower. He was writing in a notebook and barely looked up. “I woke up with an idea for a story. I like to get things down while they’re fresh in my head.”

  “You work. I need to be with my own thoughts, too, for a while.”

  Sophie walked to the back door and let the dog out. James had done a good job fixing it. It opened smooth as butter. She pulled the collar of her bathrobe close against the chill morning air and gazed at the trees. A frosty mist had settled on the land like a magical cloud. It would probably burn off soon, if the forecast was right. It looked so delicate and mystical now. Sophie wished she had a camera and could take a photograph.

  I might need a picture like that someday, if my children have their way and make me leave here.

  She smiled out at the trees a moment, greeting them each by name in her mind. As she turned to go in, Mac came scurrying back and ran inside. “Good dog, Mac. Time for your breakfast,” Sophie quietly crooned, mindful of James still writing.

  By the time she had given Macintosh his kibble and sat at the table with her mug, James had closed his notebook and put it aside. He smiled at her. “What’s on the agenda today? I’m at your service.”

  “Like a genie in a bottle, aren’t you? I forgot how nice it is to have someone in the house,” she said honestly. “Visits from friends and family just aren’t the same.”

  “No, I guess not.”

  She knew he didn’t really understand. Not at his age. Her children had grown up and gone their own way, as it should be. Her dear husband had passed on, too. The house had once been a noisy place, full of life. But it had grown very quiet with just her and Mac. The kind of quiet people her age knew too well. It was nice to have someone to plan the day with. Or cook for. A young man like James was her ideal customer.

  “I think we ought to start upstairs,” she replied after considering his question. “Your father is right. Those rooms need cleaning out and painting. I’ve been meaning to sort out that old stuff. I bet we can bring most of it to a charity or a shelter.”

  “Sounds like a good plan,” he said cheerfully. He looked down at his perfectly flat stomach and gave it a gentle pat. “I don’t need breakfast after that big dinner last night.”

  “Those measly leftovers?” Sophie scoffed. “That was nothing. It’s not healthy to miss breakfast. I’ll fix oatmeal.”

  “Okay, oatmeal. A small bowl. I knew I wasn’t going to get away with skipping a meal around here.”

  Sophie laughed and headed for the stove. “Honey, if you want to get along with your new roommate, you’d better forget about that idea right now.”

  A short time later they were upstairs, trying to sort out the boxes and assorted items in the large bedroom at the front of the house.

  “Best to tackle the worst first,” Sophie said, leading the way. James hadn’t been in the room in a long time. Probably since he was a boy and would stay over in the summer with his cousins, or visit with his family on a holiday.

  “This room definitely needs paint, Grandma. That brown spot on the ceiling doesn’t look good,” he added, noticing a possible leak from . . . somewhere.

  “First things first. Let’s start on the boxes and make three piles—keep it, donate it, throw it out. We may need to drive the trash to the dump. I noticed in the local paper the trash collectors are unhappy about their new contract and are ‘slowing down service.’ Whatever that means.”

  James wasn’t sure, either. “I guess we’ll have to see. I can bring it to the dump in your truck. That’s no problem.”

  There was a vast assortment of items collected in the room. James felt overwhelmed as his grandmother dived in, tossing books, clothes, and knickknacks in all directions.

  “Look at this picture album. People just don’t save photographs like they used to. It’s all stuck in their telephones or computers,” she murmured, turning the brittle pages.

  James glanced over her shoulder and saw a black-and-white photo of a young woman posed next to an apple tree. She wore a simple white blouse with a long sash tie at the neck, in the style of the 1940s or 1950s. Her skirt fell just below her knee, billowing out in the breeze. Her long hair was pinned up on one side, the waves framing her pretty face. Her arm was lifted, touching a branch of the tree, which was filled with white blossoms. She almost looked as if she were sitting in a cloud.

  “What a beautiful photo. Is that you, Grandma? Wow . . . you were a knockout.”

  His grandmother lifted her chin and smiled. “You think so? That photo was taken right before I met your grandfather. I was an old maid. That’s what people called me, anyway. My fiancé had died in the war, and I didn’t think I’d meet anyone to fall in love with and marry after that.”

  “But then Grandpa came along,” James finished for her.

  “He did, thank heaven. The good Lord sent your grandpa to me. One sunny day, I was up on a ladder, picking apples. And my brother brought your grandfather home for a visit. They were army pals. I looked down and saw him. He was so handsome, I almost lost my step and fell into his arms.”

  James smiled at the story, though he had heard it many times before. His grandmother turned the page and there was his grandfather Gus, wearing an Army uniform that hung loose on his tall, rangy body. His dark hair was slicked back, his eyes bright. He had been very handsome, and had remained so in his later years, when James knew him.

  “Look at this one. Now, this is old. I ought to enlarge it and hang it up somewhere.” Sophie pointed at a sepia-toned photo, a family portrait formally posed in a
studio. Dark velvet curtains framed the family in fancy clothes, the many children and the father carefully positioned, with everyone standing except the mother, who sat on a chair with a high back, a toddler on her knee.

  “That’s my mother, Mary, and my dad, Jim. You were named after him,” Sophie added.

  “Yes, I know. But I don’t think Dad has any pictures of him. I’ve always wondered what he looked like.”

  “There aren’t too many. He was a shy man, never liked photographs. I don’t know how my mother got him to sit for this one. Those boys are my brothers, and that little curly-headed girl on my mother’s knee is me. Can you believe it?”

  “You were cute,” James said.

  “Wasn’t I?” His grandmother sounded as if she couldn’t believe that she’d ever been that young. “We weren’t exactly poor, but not wealthy, either. Those aren’t our clothes, though. They were rented out for the portrait. Some women even rented their wedding dresses in those days,” she confided with a laugh.

  James thought that was interesting. “Did your parents grow up around here? How did they start the orchard?”

  “My mother’s family lived in Salem. Her father had a big clothing store there. They were fairly well-to-do. She met my father at a church social. They liked each other right away. He was from Ireland, recently landed. He was working for a cousin out here, in Cape Light, who owned a poultry farm. The courting wasn’t easy. He didn’t own a car. But they managed. Obviously,” she added with a smile.

  “Sounds very romantic. But how did they end up out here?”

  “When they married, my grandfather persuaded them to settle in Salem. He rented a nice house for them and gave my father a job in his store. My father tried it, but he didn’t like being a salesman, and he didn’t care anything about clothes.”

  “He had to be his own person, march to a different drummer,” James guessed.

  “That’s right.” Sophie smiled. “That must be where you get it from.”

  “So, what did he do? Go back to the poultry farm?”