Karis Walsh.

Sea Gla.s.s Inn.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

Writing the words is the easy part. I humbly thank the people who do the hard work behind taking a ma.n.u.script and turning it into a quality book. A grateful thank you to Radclyffe, for creating this amazing company, filling it with dedicated and talented people, and inviting me to be part of it. To Cindy and Toni and our eagle-eyed proofreaders, for turning out beautiful print and electronic books. To Sheri, for designing such a lovely cover that captures the essence of my book-this one is going in a frame on my wall. Finally, to Ruth, my editor. From idea to proposal to completed ma.n.u.script, this book has her fingerprints all over it. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

On a personal level, this book was inspired by a deep love of the ocean and by the friends and family who share this love. Thank you to Mom, Dad, Staci, Brad, Madison, and Morgan. And to my grandparents who are missed so dearly. I'm thankful for our cherished memories from the sh.o.r.es of Washington and Mexico and Hawaii.

To Corina, for lounging on the beaches with me in sunny Spain. And to Colette, for spending days scrubbing oil-covered birds with me at Ocean Sh.o.r.es. All of you are with me every time I stand on a sh.o.r.e and watch the waves.

Dedication.

With love, for my dad.

Because he taught me to notice.

Chapter One.

Melinda Andrews clicked the windshield wipers to their highest setting as yet another logging truck sailed past in the oncoming lane and sprayed her car with muddy water. She fought to keep her spirits lifted as she drove along the rain-soaked winding road that led from Salem to her new home on the Oregon coast, but she lost another inch of ground in the battle at every turn. Growing up, she had spent vacations on the coast with her family, and somehow the area had been frozen in endless summer in her memory. The signs that winter was fast approaching the ocean communities caught her by surprise. The spruce and firs lining the highway were still green and full, but the deciduous trees had dropped their leaves after an early cold snap. The side of the road was covered with a blackish slime as the leaves decayed on the forest floor, and a depressing gray sky loomed through the bare branches.

Mel allowed her memories to resurface and color the drab October afternoon. The August sun. The promise of adventure. The summer day when she had first looked at Pamela Whitford's painting of the ocean and had the crazy idea she wanted to live there, be part of the coastal community.

Her son, Danny, had been at football camp and her divorce had just been finalized, so Mel had escaped to the only place she had ever felt alive and happy. She had come to the ocean alone and wandered the busy streets with a welcomed sense of anonymity. She could still hear the distant chime that sounded as she'd pushed through the Seascape Art Gallery's door and entered the brightly lit s.p.a.ce. She had stood there in awe, immersed in a maze of panels zigzagging through the room, each covered with a different artist's vision of ocean life.

From watercolors to collages, a swell of waves and beaches enticed tourists to pay ridiculous prices and take home a small piece of their vacation experience. Mel had fallen under the same nostalgic spell as she stood in front of an oil painting and watched the light glistening off the mosaic of sea gla.s.s that accented the sweeping brushstrokes.

It spoke to her of broken pieces made whole again, and Mel knew she had to own it.

The decision to buy the painting had everything to do with its beauty and the hope it inspired as Mel started her new life. It had nothing to do with the gallery owner who'd come up behind Mel as she stood transfixed in front of the painting. Mel could still recall her voice, so husky and soft, and how it managed to stir to life all the feelings and desires Mel thought she had shut down long ago.

"You like this one?" the owner had asked, her voice hesitant as if she didn't want to push for a sale. She smelled like an ocean breeze, salty and fresh and alive.

"It's beautiful," Mel had said, turning away from the picture to face the woman. She was tall and casually dressed, in long cargo shorts and a faded polo shirt. Her sandy-brown hair was cut short on the sides but was long enough on the top so Mel could see its tendency to curl. She looked windblown and confident, more ready to walk along the beach than run a high-end gallery. Her appearance was rough around the edges, like her voice, giving her dimension and texture like the gla.s.s gave the painting. Even though they stood a few feet apart, Mel had known the woman's hands would be the same.

Rough-gentle. Demanding. Giving. The pain of wanting, apparently not as dormant as Mel had believed, had lanced through her, and she'd suddenly felt out of place in her ironed slacks and silk tank. To cover her confusing thoughts, she'd gestured toward the painting. "I like the way the waves are edged with gla.s.s, like they're shattering on the beach."

"The endless destruction of the surf," the woman had added, her blue-green eyes locked with Mel's.

"Change, not destruction," Mel had said, surprised at the conviction in her voice. She rarely felt this confident talking about art, especially to an expert, but she knew how the painting spoke to her.

"Breaking apart old patterns and habits so something new can form."

"That's a more positive way of looking at it," the woman had said, giving Mel a lopsided smile. "But isn't something always lost when that happens?"

"Sometimes loss is good," Mel had countered, trying to convince herself as much as the gallery owner. "It opens the door for new possibilities."

The proprietor had just shrugged but didn't argue. And Mel had felt a sudden and desperate need to grab hold of the truth of her statement. She was afraid to let go of the glimpse of hope she had just found in the beauty of shattered fragments inspired by the artwork.

And in the long-forgotten glimmer of arousal inspired by the gallery owner. Indulging in a rare moment of personal extravagance, Mel had bought the painting.

And as if the single act of doing something for herself had cracked open the box she'd built around her dreams and started a new trend, she'd gone directly from the gallery to the realtor's and bought her painting a new home.

The painting had been mildly extravagant, the house ridiculously so. The thought of her new home, a sprawling and dilapidated old inn, was enough to jar Mel back to the present. She took advantage of a temporary double lane and pa.s.sed the slow-moving minivan she had been impatiently following for several miles. She couldn't explain her sudden haste to get to Cannon Beach. Her drive was harrowing on the slick and steep mountain road, but she had a premonition that once she saw the inn again, the journey to it would look pleasant in comparison.

Her new home. No matter how many times she repeated the phrase, Mel could barely picture the house in her mind, let alone accept it as a replacement for the elegant rambler she had lived in for the past fifteen years. Every previous trip to the ocean had included a stay in an upscale oceanfront hotel suite. Beds made, bugs removed, freshly baked cookies on the reception desk. This time she would be the one responsible for all those amenities, all the work required to make the long-neglected old inn habitable not only for her, but for a new crop of guests.

The real estate agent had a.s.sured her the house only needed the right person and a little effort to return it to its former glory as a B and B, but Mel should have asked how many centuries had pa.s.sed since the house had been such a success. Unfortunately, she didn't remember asking many questions. She remembered signing her name on the papers, but the decision-making process-what little there had been of one-was still a blur. She had gone directly from the gallery to a real estate office on that beautiful August day, not pausing long enough to think through her half-formed, capricious plan. She asked about a large home she had seen on a bluff, overlooking the ocean, with a weathered for sale sign on its lawn. The agent had talked about low interest rates and cash bonus options while Mel's mind wandered into some vague and distant future. She could hang Whitford's painting on the wall, gaze at the real waves below, decorate each room with charming, color-coordinated furnishings...

The thought of living full time in one of her favorite places had seemed like a dream come true. As she had walked through the small town of Cannon Beach with hordes of tourists and the memory of happy family trips surrounding her-and with the encouragement of her eager realtor-Mel had found it easy to imagine filling a large, empty inn with paying customers.

Now she berated herself for being so hopelessly gullible. She had lived in Salem for years, only a few hours from the coast, and she knew how often it rained in Oregon. Yet in her mind she had pictured year-round sunny days. Given the likelihood that the current weather would be the norm from October to May, she had no idea how she would be able to make a bed-and-breakfast turn enough profit to repay her loans.

For once in a life filled with safe, rational, carefully studied choices, she had acted on a foolish, expensive whim. She had no training in the hotel business, and being an innkeeper hadn't been part of her life's plan. But neither had she planned on being alone at forty. Or being divorced, with all the accompanying baggage, from her eighteen-year marriage to Richard. She'd always imagined she would feel free-relieved-if she ever had the chance to remove the shackles of her conventional life, but instead she felt her throat constrict, her stomach clench in panic. For better or worse, she had tied her fate to a dilapidated house and weedy yard when she signed her name on the loan papers. Unless she declared bankruptcy, Mel saw no way to gracefully back out of the deal.

After a lifetime of clouding herself and her desires with other people's expectations, she longed for truth, for transparency. But she didn't even seem capable of offering it to herself. She tried to picture the house as she navigated the wet highway, but the only images she could call to mind were from her fantasies and daydreams. She had walked through the old house with her realtor and pictured each room fully decorated and fully occupied. She'd imagined a sanctuary for gay and lesbian travelers, a place where they could find the acceptance and freedom to be themselves she had so often longed for.

But now, try as she might, she couldn't recall the actual state of the house, and that scared her. She didn't think her arts and crafts experiences as a Boy Scout den mother qualified her to renovate an inn, especially if the rooms needed more than a simple coat of paint.

And she had a nagging suspicion that the problems with her new home would be deeper than simply cosmetic. In fact, she would be surprised if the d.a.m.ned house hadn't collapsed under the first autumn rains.

She had a vague recollection of the inspection report, but she hadn't read much beyond "structurally sound" before she'd put the papers in the bottom of one of her moving boxes. And filed the memory of the house's actual condition in the back of her mind.

She only had herself-and the artist Pamela Whitford-to blame for her rash decision. The painting had been the catalyst for Mel's move, but she had been seduced by more than the art. She had fallen for the artist herself, or at least a fantasy version of her. She felt somehow connected to the hand that had drawn those crashing waves, embedded the rough sea gla.s.s in the still-wet paint. For the past months, Mel's daydreams had been full of images of Pamela drinking wine and discussing art with her as they watched the sunset from Mel's back porch. A rickety back porch Mel had to learn to repair if she wanted any part of her fantasy to come true.

What had she seen in the house? A chance to erase the nagging regrets she felt after a lifetime of self-denial and safety. To reinvent herself. To start over. But now, two months later, the reality was finally starting to surface. Mel headed toward a new life with the wrapped painting on the seat beside her and her earlier optimism lying in broken pieces in her heart. Desperate to regain some hope for the future, Mel pulled off the road when the shoulder widened. A sign marked it as a scenic-view spot, but all Mel could see beyond the trees were rain and clouds. She dug a business card and her cell phone out of her purse and hoped she had enough signal to make the call.

"Seascape Gallery."

Two simple words, but the seductive sound of the gallery owner's voice slammed Mel right back to that summer day.

"h.e.l.lo?"

Mel raised her hand to her chest as if she could slow her racing heartbeat with her touch. She forced herself to start talking. "This is Melinda Andrews. I bought a mosaic from you in August. Do you remember me?" Please say yes, she added silently.

Pam's grip on the phone tightened. Of course she remembered Melinda Andrews. She could visually recall every person who had bought one of her paintings since she had opened the Seascape Art Gallery eight years ago. Of course, it helped that she had only sold seven of her own pieces amid the hundreds by other artists, but Pam would have remembered Melinda even if she hadn't bought anything.

Pam could picture her distinctly from a few months earlier as she'd moved through the gallery wearing the excited glow reserved for tourists to the coastal town of Cannon Beach. Locals only came to Pam's shop to complain about those tourists, and their irritation was usually reflected in their expressions. Pam had just walked out from the back of the shop, called by the chime on her door, when she'd seen Melinda standing by the front window. The sunlight caught something wistful, longing, in her eyes as she stood in front of the mosaic. Her carefully combed hair and too-pressed linen-and-silk outfit-a sure sign of a well-to-do traveler-had faded into the background as Pam had watched her connect with the blue-gold waves Pam had drawn.

Pam had known Melinda would buy the painting no matter what price she put on it.

"No," Pam lied. She fought down her desire to sketch the slight curve of Mel's nose, the sharper line of her chin, and instead doodled a series of connected triangles across a piece of paper. "I'm sorry, but I have so many customers it's difficult to keep track of them all."

"Oh. Of course." Melinda's voice didn't mask disappointment well. "It doesn't matter. The painting I bought is by an artist named Pamela Whitford. I'd like to buy a few more of her mosaics for my new inn. I bought an old house and I'll be running it as a bed-and-breakfast. I'm calling it the Sea Gla.s.s Inn, so I'd like to have some art using sea gla.s.s in each of the rooms. Do you have more of her work in your gallery?"

Her sentences ran together as if she needed to spit them out as quickly as possible. Pam couldn't tell if Mel's haste was due to nervousness or excitement, but she knew for certain it should have been the former. New businesses were as common as seagulls on the coast. She had seen so many people, drawn to what they imagined was some idyllic way of life, attempt to open a little surf shop or inn or restaurant. They expected to wander through town in sandals and cutoffs and make money off tourists without stress. But, over and over, Pam had watched the businesses pick their owners clean and leave their empty carca.s.ses on the sand, like gulls pecking at seash.e.l.ls. The long hours spent catering to the tourists during the high season. The creative effort needed to survive the rest of the year. Pam knew from experience that the schedule was grueling even for someone driven heart and soul to support her ocean-side, reclusive life. She accepted the workload, but she hadn't come to Cannon Beach expecting paradise or an easy life free from pain. So she hadn't been disappointed.

"Congratulations," Pam said, silently adding the words Melinda really needed to hear. Oh, honey. Back out of the deal while you can. You'll be bankrupt before the next tourist season even starts. "I don't have any Whitfords in the gallery right now, but I'm sure you'll be able to find something here to decorate your rooms."

"I guess...maybe...but I really wanted..." Her words died away and Pam forced herself to remain silent. "If I could just get in touch with her, maybe she'd take a commission for more paintings."

"She's difficult to reach." Pam hedged, not wanting to admit she was the artist Melinda was trying so desperately to find. Pam couldn't accept a commission for more work when she could barely finish one painting a year. She started them frequently and would lose herself for a brief time until something broke her focus and the deceit of painting would come rushing back to her conscious mind. And make her stop.

How could she create something so lasting, so permanent, when she knew too well how transitory beauty and love really were? All she could promise Melinda was a big enough pile of broken canvases to fuel a decent beach fire.

"But I'll try," Pam said.

Pam didn't know why she made the weak promise, but Melinda accepted it with obvious grat.i.tude. Pam hung up after taking down her cell number and sat behind the front desk, her hand stiff from holding the phone so tightly. She looked at the paper on the counter and sighed. She had scrawled Melinda's number and a series of geometric patterns in ink across the consignment form for a group of seal sculptures. She folded the paper and tucked it behind the register.

Now she'd have to ask the artist to sign a new form. And find a way to disappoint the beautiful Melinda.

Pam rarely had trouble disappointing people who wanted her paintings, and she was surprised by her reluctance to do so to Melinda. Even more surprising, Pam wanted to see her again, to draw her, maybe in pastels. Pam chose a pale green background to set off Melinda's hazel eyes and the chestnut tones in her dark hair before she could stop herself. She had painted hundreds of portraits, had made a living at it, but there were very few people she had felt this yearning, this itch to paint. Not to capture Melinda's beauty-Pam had seen plenty of gorgeous women, but she was usually content to admire and appreciate them in person, in the flesh, in bed. But Melinda offered something more, something Pam couldn't define. Something she didn't want to define but that her disloyal hand wanted to grab onto, suffuse with color and texture. Melinda had stood here, determined to look at Pam's painting and not only accept the wave's destructive power but to uncover the hope in it, while Pam-unable even to glance at her own work-had listened to her and almost believed.

A group of three twentysomething women entered the gallery.

Pam's part-time a.s.sistant, Lisa, sat at a table surrounded by colored pencils. She was chewing on the end of her long blond ponytail and working on a drawing, but she stood up to greet the customers. Pam waved her back to her seat. Lisa more than earned her wages during the busy tourist seasons, and Pam liked to give her time and s.p.a.ce to work on her own art when business was slow. Besides, she needed a distraction from Melinda.

She walked over to the women and smiled with more enthusiasm than she felt when the one with long dark hair made eye contact. She was too young for Pam's usual taste, and within a few minutes Pam knew they didn't share any artistic values. The three were immediately drawn to the cheap, ma.s.s-produced-but popular-trinkets and prints Pam carried out of necessity. They bypa.s.sed the original, quality pieces by talented local artists without even a glance. But the dark-haired woman glanced at Pam again, for a few seconds longer than before. Pam's hands still tingled from the imagined contact as she posed Melinda for her portrait. Shifting Melinda's shoulders so her face caught the light. Unb.u.t.toning the top of her silky blouse and letting her hands linger as they exposed her neck a little more. Pam forced an image of the dark-haired tourist into her fantasy, and she was relieved to feel the too-intense physical arousal caused by Melinda's phone call ease into something safer. Something sufficient for tonight.

"Where are you ladies from?" Pam asked, directing the question only to the woman cruising her.

"Portland," she said. "We had a long weekend off work, so we came here for a few days."

Pam smiled again. Temporary. Exactly what she was looking for.

Chapter Two.

Mel woke with the sun the following morning. She had arrived at the house the night before, thankfully when it was too dark to see just how bad her present circ.u.mstances were. The real estate agent had accepted delivery of her belongings, apparently instructing the movers to dump everything just inside the door. Mel had turned on as few lights as possible and had torn the protective plastic off her mattress and dropped it on the living-room floor so she had someplace to sleep. Now she wanted nothing more than to pull the blanket over her head and pretend she was safely back in her old life, but the relentless and unexpected sunlight streaming through the curtainless windows forced her to get up.

Boxes and furniture spilled out of the foyer and into the living and dining areas of the house. Barely enough to furnish one or two of the guest rooms, but quite enough to be annoyingly in the way. Mel squeezed past a bed frame and two mismatched end tables and found her overnight bag where she had left it next to the front door. She suspected most of the unwanted residents of her new house-the mice and spiders she was certain occupied the abandoned building-would congregate in the downstairs suite that would be her private part of the house, so she decided to use one of the upstairs guest rooms for her shower.

Faded strips of green wallpaper curled off the wall, exposing dingy yellow paper underneath. The fixtures were coated with grime, and hard-water marks stained the sink and tub. But the shower worked and the toilet flushed. She was thankful for the small gift of functional plumbing as she stood under the spray of hot water and tried not to touch the sides of the shower stall. A wave of resentment rose like a fist in her throat, no matter how hard she tried to swallow it down.

She hadn't been overly happy in her Salem home, but at least she had had something there. A routine, a role that had defined her. Here she had nothing but an endless list of impossible ch.o.r.es. Nothing but a life wiped clean and demanding to be rewritten in every detail, from where she did her grocery shopping, put gas in her car, or got her hair cut to how she organized the rhythm of her days. Here she was alone.

Mel dried off with a towel she had luckily thought to bring. She took a carefully folded and coordinated pastel-colored outfit from her small suitcase and shook out the wrinkles before she put it on. She had packed for an afternoon of shopping and brunch, not a day full of dusty, dirty work. She sighed at the naivete she had still possessed less than twenty-four hours ago. When she had first walked through the house, she had been full of dreams of the future. Now all she could think of was the past. From where she stood, overwhelmed and unprepared, the loveless but predictable life she had left suddenly looked safe and appealing.

Then she walked out of the bathroom and stopped short, an involuntary gasp escaping her lips as she really noticed her surroundings for the first time. Sunlight, even though autumn weak and diffused by clouds, streamed into the large corner bedroom. The two west-facing windows showed an expanse of ocean beach. Mel stepped closer. Haystack Rock was to her right, buffeted by the spray of waves. A steep staircase of weathered wood led from her backyard to the beach, winding between two small ocean cottages that were low enough so they didn't obstruct her view. A lone woman, bundled in a heavy coat and with her long hair blowing free in the wind, walked along the sand and occasionally stopped to throw a piece of driftwood for her dog. The relentless sound of the surf finally reached past Mel's daydreams and regrets and brought her back to the present with the constancy of a heartbeat.

Mel struggled with the rusty clasp and tugged until the reluctant window opened. Just a few inches, but it was enough. The ocean breeze brushed her skin with a hint of moisture, of salt. The briny smell of seaweed, strewn across the damp sand in lacy patterns, chased away the musty smell of the long-enclosed room. Mel smiled when a seagull took off noisily from the beach, scolding the dog that ran past it in search of its stick. Yes, she had been deluding herself about the state of the house and her ability to restore it. But the ocean of her daydreams, the setting she had chosen for her new life, was real and tangible and perfect. She felt a renewed surge of hope. She would hang Whitford's seascape in this room, across from this magnificent view and over the s.p.a.ce where the guest bed would eventually be.

One easy job, one step toward recreating her life in this beautiful place. Mel trotted down the steps to hunt through her boxes for a hammer and nail.

Pam drove to the old Lighthouse Inn and parked behind a mud-spattered blue Honda. During an emergency trip to Cannon Beach's tiny-and expensive-grocery store, she had been flagged down by another local gallery owner, the head of the town's art commission.

Pam usually shopped at the Safeway in Seaside where she could shop in anonymity, less likely to be forced into conversation with an acquaintance, but she had picked a particularly bad day to run out of cigarettes. She had no polite way to avoid talking to Tia Bell, so she had forced a smile on her face and obediently crossed the quiet street to the art gallery. Instead of asking the usual intrusive questions about Pam's painting, however, Tia had only wanted to chat about the foolish woman who was attempting to start a new B and B in town. The entrepreneurs who descended on the town every year were alternately a joke and a source of irritation to locals. Each year there were a few new ones who came into town and provided entertaining stories of spectacular failures. Pam had done her share of joking and complaining about the fly-by-night ventures, but she was always aware of the undercurrent of concern shared by the local business owners and the nervousness they all felt when empty storefronts and out-of-business signs marred the small town's prosperous and utopian image, intruding on the attempt to shield happy vacationers from the realities and failure.

In a town with good reason to be wary of newcomers, Pam had been accepted as a local right from the beginning. Thanks to Tia. Tia was instrumental in raising Cannon Beach's art scene to a national level, attracting tourists from across the States to the events and shows she planned. She had talked up Pam's reputation when she first opened her gallery, and the rest of the business owners had accepted Tia's endors.e.m.e.nt of her as gospel. Pam had made her gallery a success, and no one seemed to mind that she hadn't lived up to her reputation as a productive artist. Except Tia. She regularly scolded and cajoled in her attempts to make Pam paint, seemingly undeterred by the months or years between Pam's works.

Their styles couldn't be more different, Pam mused. As much as she tried to fade into the background, Tia forced her way front and center with her garish clothes and loud comments. Still, as different as Tia was, Pam couldn't help but respect her contribution to local art and feel grateful for her support in the community. Pam wouldn't admit it out loud, but she usually enjoyed small doses of Tia's flamboyant conversation. But today Tia had seemed prepared to discuss Melinda's impending failure for a long time, so Pam had finally lit one of her cigarettes. Tia hated the smoke, and Pam felt only a little guilty using that as a way to escape her company.

Pam stubbed out a second cigarette in her ashtray and stepped out of her car. She had no intention of accepting Melinda's commission for more of her sea gla.s.s paintings, and her first inclination had been to call her and decline the offer. After talking to Tia, though, Pam wanted to check out the old house herself. If the needed repairs were as extensive as Tia claimed, maybe Pam could warn Melinda in time to save her some money and useless effort.

The former Lighthouse Inn was one of the landmarks of Pam's childhood, but it had been empty and in disrepair so long she could barely remember how it used to look. She had never seen the inside of the old building, so she decided to make a rare neighborly visit and turn down Melinda's offer face-to-face. Although she had meant to tour the place when it was on the market, she hadn't gotten around to it, and this seemed as good an excuse as any to snoop around the property.

Pam slammed her car door. She had plenty of acceptable excuses for coming here in person, enough of them to let her ignore the one reason she needed to stay away. Her interest in Melinda Andrews was dangerous. She had felt an almost overwhelming urge to step up and defend Melinda against Tia's gleeful predictions of failure. Pam pictured Melinda's beautiful features shrouded with disappointment when her house foreclosed, and she wanted to brush her hands over Melinda's face and wipe away her sadness. Who knew why? All Pam knew was Melinda admired her painting-something they definitely didn't have in common. Her interest in Melinda was simply physical attraction. Or fascination with anyone who would take on such a monumental project as the old inn.

But fascination led to sympathy and caring too much. That led to heartbreak. Pam recognized the early stages of her same old pattern, and she was determined to stop herself before she got any more entangled in Melinda's fate. She had watched enough businesses go under to know not to get personally involved. Just last year she had been disappointed when the new candy shop closed after just two months, but she hadn't imagined personally consoling the owner.

True, Melinda was easier on the eyes than old Joe Morrison, but neither of them was Pam's concern. Succeed or fail, Melinda would have to face the consequences of her investment without Pam's help.

Pam went to the side of the house and peered over the fence into the overgrown backyard. The cement patio was barely visible under a mess of decaying furniture and stuffed trash bags. Weeds had taken over the yard, so Pam was hardly able to tell where flower beds had once ended and lawn began. A small raised porch at the back of the house promised a great view of Haystack Rock, but she wasn't convinced the rickety structure could support her weight. Besides, rusty tools and plastic toys, their shapes and protruding edges barely visible where they had fused with the thick undergrowth, littered the path.

Pam couldn't remember the last time she'd had a teta.n.u.s shot, so she stayed on the safe side of the fence and gingerly climbed on a haphazard pile of rocks to see the rest of the yard. An old building, tucked under the red limbs of a sheltering madrona, ran along the north side of the fence. Gaping holes lined with lichen-covered wood had once framed large south-facing picture windows. Probably a studio or sunroom before time and gravity had stripped away its door and gave its roof a scalloped effect. Pam let herself imagine the studio fully restored, full of natural light and s.p.a.ce, before she turned away from the fence and walked up the cracked sidewalk to the front door.

Melinda had better have an army of workers and a sizable fortune at hand to help her. The inn looked months away from being ready to receive guests.

After a few minutes of knocking and ringing the apparently nonfunctioning doorbell, Pam opened the unlocked door and stepped inside. "h.e.l.lo?" she called, standing on the threshold. She felt like she was walking into someone's home, even though she knew it was meant to be a public place. She finally moved into the hallway and shut the door behind her. She stood in stunned silence as her eyes adjusted to the dark interior. The short walk from her car to the front door had done its best to lower her expectations, but she was still surprised by the cluttered and run-down foyer. The backyard looked like an idyllic meadow compared to the chaos inside the house.

Pam moved slowly around the various pieces of furniture and into the large living room. A mattress, bare except for a single rumpled pillow and blanket, lay on the ratty carpet that might have been green. The incongruously intimate setting and her sudden vision of Melinda sleeping there-alone?-disconcerted Pam. She abruptly turned away and went into the next room. There were open boxes everywhere, with some of their contents and packing materials strewn around as if someone had been searching for particular items and not unpacking in any sort of logical way. The mess distracted Pam's attention momentarily from the dingy walls and stained surfaces. A cracked ceiling and peeling wallpaper decorated what looked like a once-elegant dining room. The walls were scantily clad in the remnants of decades-old fashions, the dark cherry paneling and rose-colored wallpaper a faded testament to how many years the room had been neglected. Pam shook her head as she waved a cobweb out o her way. Melinda shouldn't even bother to unpack. The place didn't look worth the effort.