"They're pretty good," Danny said. He sat in his chair again, and Piper planted herself under the table at his feet.

"I'd like that," Pam lied. "But I really need to head to my house this morning. The contractor is coming today."

He wasn't scheduled to arrive until eleven, but Pam had to get out of Mel's house. She called Piper, but her dog had apparently decided she would rather stay with Danny, and she refused to budge.

Mel handed Pam a bag of m.u.f.fins to take with her. "Piper will be fine with us today," she said. Pam looked concerned, and Mel wanted to rea.s.sure her even though she had a feeling the animal wasn't the cause of Pam's deep frown. She had seemed upset since she'd walked in the kitchen. Mel was used to Pam's nervous energy when they were together, as if Pam was long unaccustomed to being in close quarters with another person. But this was different. Pam looked at Danny with the same expression of pain she had whenever she saw one of her own paintings or whenever Mel talked about Pam's art.

"Okay, I guess," Pam said. "I'll be back a little after five."

"See ya," Danny said.

"Yeah. 'Bye," Pam said. She b.u.mped into Mel as she backed out of the kitchen. "Sorry."

Mel reached out a hand to steady Pam, but she edged away and left the room without another word.

Mel had put out her hand as a reflex. To help Pam rebalance. To try and absorb some of Pam's tension. To rea.s.sure her Piper would be okay with them, even though she really didn't think Pam was worried about leaving her dog for the day, unless she'd be lonely without her.

Mel felt a mix of hurt and relief at Pam's avoidance of her touch, but she was too focused on her own emotions to be able to decipher Pam's. She had felt unaccountably awkward introducing Danny to her, even though Pam was simply a friend staying in the house. Not a lover. Occasionally in Mel's mind, perhaps, but not in reality.

"Let's get started on the flooring, Danny," Mel said, employing her regular answer to the confusing feelings Pam roused in her. Work.

Mel didn't know what she'd do when work on the inn was finally complete, and she'd have to face some of her tumultuous reactions to Pam. Maybe by then she'd have a steady stream of guests, and she'd be too busy keeping up with their laundry and demands to acknowledge her ever-increasing arousal in Pam's presence. Or her interest would be transferred to one of her guests, and her attraction to Pam would be proved temporary and meaningless. And easier to forget. Or ignore.

But work on the inn was mercifully far from complete. Mel knelt next to Danny in the living room and explained how to cut the laminate flooring, how to snap it in place, how to seal the edges. She occasionally repeated one of Walter's expressions, making Danny snicker when her voice slipped into an imitation of Walter's nasal tone.

They laughed and chatted as they worked, and Mel's mind was at least somewhat occupied and off Pam. How different this was from her first day, when she had sat on the floor in despair, refusing to let Pam help her. She had moved from observer to partic.i.p.ant to teacher.

With Danny's help, and her own improving skill, she laid the laminate floor in half the time it had taken her to do the smaller bedroom she had started with the week before. The job looked neat and professional, and she and Danny celebrated by taking a picnic lunch to the beach.

Mel watched Danny throw pieces of driftwood for Piper to fetch, and she finally allowed herself to dwell on Pam's changing moods.

She had been avoiding Pam the past few days, but she had noticed Pam seemed to be staying out of her way, as well. Mel hadn't seen her painting at all since she had come to the house, and she had been so concerned about her own loneliness and attraction to Pam that she hadn't really considered how difficult it might be for Pam to be away from her own home. Away from her routine and privacy. Mel had seen the starfish painting in the small laundry room. Maybe Pam painted in there, alone and quiet, without Mel and her projects and now her active teenaged son surrounding her.

An idea started to form in Mel's imagination, a way to give Pam a studio s.p.a.ce while also creating a useful extra room for her inn.

And a way to selfishly have a chance to stay in touch with Pam after she moved back to her own home and completed the commissioned paintings. With her vision in mind, Mel began mentally listing the supplies she'd need to buy and the steps she'd have to take to complete the project. Her first step was to share her idea with Pam as soon as she got home.

Mel drove Danny into town to pick up a pizza for dinner, and she left him in the living room hunting for a movie for them to watch while she took Piper back to Pam. She had noticed a now-familiar cloud of smoke in the backyard when she'd gone into the kitchen for pop and ice. The dog raced over to Pam for a brief reunion before she set off to explore the backyard. Mel followed more slowly, enjoying the sight of Pam leaning against the weathered madrona. The old tree had watched over countless guests at the old house, and Mel hoped it would see many more when she finally opened the Sea Gla.s.s Inn for business. She felt a kinship with the tree. Aged and battle scarred, observing life quietly from a distance. She could so easily picture Pam painting in the refinished studio while she and the madrona watched from the sidelines.

"Thanks for keeping Piper today," Pam said once Mel was near.

"She's easy company, and Danny loves dogs," Mel said. "I hope you don't mind we took her in the car."

"Not at all. She likes to go for rides." Pam exhaled a deep puff of smoke.

"How did it go with the contractor?" Mel asked. After her efforts to avoid Pam over the past few days, Mel was surprised to feel disappointment at the thought of Pam moving back home so soon.

Pam shrugged. "He's starting work next week. Typical though, he won't make any promises about how long it will take. Hopefully I won't be in your hair too much longer."

"I like having you here," Mel admitted. "That's something I wanted to talk to you about. I got a call this morning from a couple who are planning a wedding in Cannon Beach. Their venue canceled at the last minute because of some water damage from the storm, and they want to have the ceremony here in a couple of weeks."

"Oh, and you need me out of here by then," Pam said, pushing off the tree and stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray she kept by the staircase to the beach.

"No." Mel hastened to a.s.sure her. "They only need a couple of rooms for the weekend, so there's plenty of s.p.a.ce. But I need to fix up the backyard for the ceremony. And I wanted to get the windows and roof replaced on this old studio so we can have the reception here."

Mel gestured at the sagging building next to them. She had walked through it after the phone call, and the framework seemed sound. New gla.s.s, some scrubbing of floors and walls, a fresh coat of paint. Nothing she couldn't handle. When she had first arrived here, the project would have seemed impossible. Now she not only could visualize the necessary steps, but she had faith in her ability to actually do them. Even though she hadn't done the work yet, her newfound self-confidence felt d.a.m.ned good.

Pam went over to the building and leaned against one of the empty window frames. "I can see that," she said with a slow nod.

"It's a good size for a reception room, and it'll get lots of natural light. Sounds like a good investment if you want to draw more wedding parties here."

"Exactly what I was thinking," Mel said, excited to have Pam sharing her vision. "And when I'm not using it for guests, I thought it would make a nice studio for you."

"What?" Pam turned to face her.

"I just thought...with the light and s.p.a.ce...even when you move back home, you could use this place for painting." Mel's confidence in her plan rapidly disappeared as Pam's entire demeanor seemed to shut down before her eyes. Pam crossed her arms over her chest, and her closed expression mirrored her body language. Pam got tense whenever her art was discussed, but there was always some sign of emotion visible behind her tight expression. Pain or reluctance or embarra.s.sment, Mel wasn't sure. But now Pam had shut off all connection. A brick wall wouldn't have been more impenetrable. Mel didn't want to admit she was reluctant to lose Pam's company, and now she was afraid of losing even their still-young friendship, so she tried to use logic to convince Pam her idea wasn't crazy.

"You don't seem to have much room at your house to work. It wouldn't cost you anything, of course, since it'd be nice for me... well, for my guests to walk by on the way to the beach and know you're painting in here."

Pam couldn't believe what Mel was suggesting. "You want to put me on display?" Mel had already exposed too much of Pam's private pain by forcing the commission on her and highlighting the infrequency of Pam's inspired moments. Now she wanted a parade of guests to watch her stare at a blank canvas? Mel was creative and industrious and talented, and she was under the impression Pam was the same. Once she had been, but not now. But like Mel's insistence on seeing the starfish painting in a hopeful, life-affirming way, she continued to believe Pam was capable of creating at will. Affirming her gift. Embracing it. Pam might be able to keep up her charade if she could get the commissioned work done and get out of Mel's life, but working here every day-or, rather, sitting around not working every day-would expose her as the fraud she knew she was.

"No one would disturb you. It'd be a unique experience for people to watch a real artist at work, especially since your artwork is hanging in the rooms. Something to draw people to my inn, and a great advertis.e.m.e.nt for your gallery. And I'm sure you'd sell plenty of paintings. Guests will want to bring a piece of the ocean home with them, like I did when I bought your seascape."

Pam leaned her hand on the madrona's trunk for support. She felt as revealed and unprotected as the blood-red, barkless wood under her palm. Mel had changed the rules. A simple business deal had become an unacceptable obligation. Pam had to refuse the offer. Admit she couldn't possibly be an artist in residence because she was no longer a true artist. Mel would see firsthand how Pam had failed her art, her talent. She couldn't let Mel's guests witness her disgrace, as well.

"I'll make it a nice place for you. We can add lighting, and a heater so the temperature is good for your-"

"Listen, I don't care if you add a hot tub and a steady supply of nude models. I am not going to entertain your guests for you."

"I'm not asking you to draw caricatures of them riding surfboards." Mel's voice rose to match the angry tones Pam heard in her own. "I'll have this big room sitting here empty most of the time, so why not let you use it?"

"Don't do me any favors. I promised you the mosaics, and you'll get them. But I don't owe you anything beyond that."

Pam whistled for Piper and stomped into the house. She paused at the bottom of the stairs. Danny was most likely in the living room, judging by the smell of pizza and the sound of television coming from that direction. Through the small windows by the back door, Pam could see Mel still standing by the madrona, looking out toward the ocean. Pam shook her head and trudged up the stairs with Piper at her heels. She didn't belong here. She needed to finish her paintings and move back into her own home. Back to the solitude she had built around herself.

Chapter Eleven.

After Danny left on Sunday afternoon, Mel spent a self-indulgent evening in front of the television to help drive away the sudden quiet in the house. But on Monday morning she got back to work. She pulled a pile of new purple towels out of the dryer and started to fold them. Once she had hung Pam's starfish painting on the lavender wall in the front bedroom, the rest of the decor had been easy for her to envision. She wanted to keep the rooms simple and uncluttered, with Pam's mosaics as the main focus, and she had to be patient and wait for each new piece before she could finish the room around it. For some reason, Pam refused to be encouraged in her painting. Mel tried to be respectful of her talent and methods, but she still felt hurt by Pam's indignant reaction to her offer of the studio.

She didn't want to put Pam on display and charge admission, and she couldn't understand why Pam was so opposed to letting anyone watch her paint. Mel had seen plenty of artists working in galleries or on boardwalks along the coast, and they didn't seem to mind having an audience.

She carried the neat stack of towels upstairs and came to an abrupt halt on the landing. Pam stood in the oceanfront bedroom, her back to her seascape painting, actually holding a paintbrush and palette for the first time since she had come to stay in the inn. Mel held her breath, not wanting to disturb Pam even though the concentration on her face looked impossible to shake. Mel had a feeling she could march through the room playing a tuba and Pam wouldn't even glance her way, but she didn't move as she watched Pam swirl a brush across the canvas. Mel could only see the easel and the back of the canvas.

She was surprised to realize she wasn't even curious about the subject of the painting, even though she had been anxiously waiting for Pam to get back to work. Somehow this moment was only about Pam and the act of creating. Not about the work of art.

Mel hugged the towels to her chest. She had recognized the strength in Pam's other paintings, and she had expected the creative process to be one of pa.s.sion, a bright red fury of action. But this was childlike and vulnerable, as if Pam were crying the paint onto the canvas. Mel backed up a couple of steps before she turned and crept down the stairs. Walking in on Pam naked would have been less a violation, and Mel suddenly understood why she couldn't possibly be exposed while she worked. She wondered how Pam managed to return to normal after being so raw and open. Mel had thought her own chaotic emotions and personal upheaval had colored her interpretation of Pam's paintings and made her find such intensity in them. Now she knew the power had come from Pam herself.

Pam caught a flash of color at the edge of her line of vision, and the thought of Mel hovered at the edge of her mind, but she pushed both aside and focused on the unfolding painting in front of her. She arced her brush across the canvas, outlining a curved trail of sea foam across the sand with a confusing sense of confidence. She had awoken with an image in her mind of a stormy sea, a world in turmoil, and she had unsuccessfully tried to ignore the insistent desire to paint.

She thought she needed to reproduce the storm that had broken her house and sent her to Mel's, but instead, when she finally gave in and brought out her paints and drop cloth, she had immediately started sketching a debris-covered beach. Driftwood and sh.e.l.ls, kelp and dirty foam. Sandpipers and gulls searching for food. Waves receding from the shattered beach. The aftermath of a storm. The meaningless destruction of a once beautiful and serene place.

Even though Mel had given her permission to paint anything she chose, Pam had nearly managed to convince herself that a raging storm wouldn't be appropriate for the peaceful sanctuary Mel wanted to create. The logic of subject matter hadn't been enough to stop the compelling need to put brush to canvas. Pam stepped back from the picture, the constant and tense movements of the past two hours replaced by a sudden sag of exhaustion. Looking at the completed painting, she decided the active fury of the storm itself would have been better than the impotent, pa.s.sive anger left in its wake.

She had painted her own rage and hurt into the littered seascape, but maybe she would be the only one to notice. She was growing accustomed to the way Mel interpreted her work, so she might see a lovely place for a picnic where Pam saw nothing but her own pain.

Pain she felt because Mel had exposed her inability to paint by forcing the studio on her and because, simultaneously, Mel was breaking down the shields Pam had erected to keep herself from painting. Pain when she looked at Danny and instead saw only a reminder of her lost son and an image of the unfinished portrait she had of him. Pain when she sat at breakfast with Mel or pa.s.sed her on the stairs with all the intimacy of a married couple. Pam set her palette and brushes aside and rubbed her arms. Her skin felt raw to the touch, and she knew she wouldn't be able to step back into the world this way.

Pam took her box of sea gla.s.s and quietly headed down the stairs. Maybe she could steal past Mel, hide out behind the old house for an hour or so with only the sound of waves and circling seagulls for company. She was accustomed to being alone the few times she'd managed to paint over the past eight years. Before, when she had lived with Diane, she had learned to hide away from her company as well. Pam would be unprotected and vulnerable, still caught in the emotion of her art, while Diane would be moody and angry. Pam didn't believe Mel would have the same issues of jealousy as Diane had, but Pam couldn't trust Mel to understand how she felt, and she silently cursed when she came around the corner at the bottom of the stairwell and nearly ran into her.

"Oh, hi," Mel said. "There's soup on the stove if you're hungry.

I'll be working in the dining room and could use some help when you're done. I guess I got used to company after having Danny here this weekend. And I...well, I thought you might not mind helping out today. Unless you'd rather be alone, go for a walk."

Pam watched Mel disappear into the dining room without another word. The relief of not having to respond immediately left Pam a little more relaxed, and she realized she was hungry. She went into the kitchen and lifted the lid off the heavy enamel pot, taking a tentative sniff of its simmering contents. Not clam chowder, thank G.o.d. Seafood would have reminded her too much of her painting.

Tomato, but not the kind from a can like she usually made herself.

She dished up a bowl before settling at the kitchen table. She had noticed a basket of heirloom tomatoes on the counter this morning.

Mel must have magically transformed them into this velvety deep-red soup. Sweet and creamy and comforting. Soothing enough to help Pam relax and move on to the next stage of her mosaic.

In between bites, she dug through the box of sea gla.s.s, looking for inspiration. She considered using whites and grays for the sea birds, or brown and black for the cliff face. Eventually she found herself pulling out an a.s.sortment of browns and greens, deep and murky colors. She would scatter them over the sandy beach on her painting, representing nothing but broken bits of sea gla.s.s left behind by the storm.

She finished her soup and left the pile of sea gla.s.s on the table.

She thought about slipping out the back door and taking Piper to the beach, but her curiosity and improving mood brought her to the dining room instead. This was the first time Mel had asked for help with any of her home-improvement projects, and Pam wondered what she'd be asked to do. Hopefully nothing requiring deep thought or decision making. The morning of painting had exhausted her, and even the simple task of choosing pieces of sea gla.s.s had depleted what little mental and emotional energy she had left.

She stopped in the doorway of the dining room, captured by the sight of Mel on a stepladder. She was carefully applying painter's tape to the ceiling, leaning precariously to one side so her sweatshirt rode up and revealed a few inches of her small waist and smooth back. Pam stuck her hands in the back pockets of her jeans to keep them still. Not because she felt an urge to paint Mel, but because she wanted to touch her. The yearning to feel Mel's skin under her palms surprised her.

She was about to sneak out of the room when Mel turned her head.

"Hi," said Pam. "You needed help?"

Mel pointed at a pile of painting supplies with her free hand.

"I'm going to be painting the trim around the floorboards next, so it'd help if you could sand off the old paint."

"Oh, okay," Pam said, surprised. She had expected to be asked to do a ch.o.r.e requiring more strength or challenge, not one of the routine and simple tasks Mel always seemed to want to do on her own. She picked up a piece of sandpaper and settled on the floor with Piper beside her.

"I'm sorry I snapped at you about the studio," Pam said after a few minutes. "It was a nice offer."

"No problem," Mel said as she moved the stepladder and climbed it again. She didn't look at Pam. "I understand."

Pam wasn't sure what exactly Mel thought she understood, but she didn't question her. She scrubbed at the carved molding, removing the faded and cracking paint. She settled into the silence and rhythm of her task, shifting position after each section was finished, and felt the tension of painting gradually ease out of her shoulders and mind. The work was mindless and repet.i.tive as she slowly erased the ugly surface of the molding. Maybe she should worry about being caught up in Mel's renovations, in her dream. Maybe she should be concerned that she'd be called on to complete more ch.o.r.es after this one. But she let it go. The room was quiet except for the occasional sc.r.a.pe of Mel's stepladder or a snore from Piper. Companionship with no expectations. Pam focused on the steady sweep of her sandpaper as it gradually exposed the smooth grain of the wood beneath the old paint.

Chapter Twelve.

Pam sat cross-legged in the studio the next weekend, a sketch pad on her lap. Gaping holes, long since emptied of their windowpanes, let a light mist into the studio, but the roof still provided protection from the worst of the weather. Pam nibbled on the tip of a graphite pencil as she stared out at the overgrown backyard and listened to Mel and Danny chatting about his football game from the night before. She didn't know why she was there. Well, she was there because Mel had asked her for a favor. What she didn't know was why she had said yes. Guilt? She couldn't accept Mel's offer to use the studio for painting, but she could at least sit in it and sketch. She was giving Mel something. All she was capable of giving.

Mel hadn't mentioned the studio since last weekend, but Pam thought about it every time she walked into the backyard. Of course it would be a perfect place for an artist to work when it was completed.

She had admitted as much the first time she saw it. Light and airy, it afforded a view of the ocean and would have the ever-changing panorama of a yard full of vacationers, once the inn was open for business. Couples strolling toward the beach, locked in their private worlds even as the whole horizon opened up before them. Children running through the yard, pulling kites or toys or their parents' hands as they rushed headlong toward the ocean. A constant supply of subjects and inspiration. But not for Pam. Today Mel only wanted a rough draft, a general plan for her garden, and Pam wasn't sure she could do even that small job. But the rubbery taste of her eraser, the dusky smell of graphite, took over. She slid her pencil across the pad, noticing every tiny b.u.mp in the lightly textured paper.

Pam drew an outline of the yard. She wasn't a landscaper or a wedding planner. And who spent a rainy weekend in October gardening? She penciled in a stone walkway leading from the house to the beach access, then an offshoot path to the far corner of the yard. Pam sketched a small fountain in the corner. She could see the wedding taking place there, and a couple of wooden benches would make it an ideal place for guests to read or sit at other times of the year. Not that Pam planned to be around to see them. Once her house was fixed, the commission completed, Pam would be free to return to her quiet and comfortable life. Far away from the happy tourists who would eventually fill Mel's inn.

The voices behind Pam faded away as she added a gra.s.sy area big enough for a game of croquet or a family barbecue. She feathered in fronds of hardy gra.s.ses and switched to a sharper pencil to draw the leaves of some rosebushes and ornamental plants. A few dwarf apple and maple trees would add height and texture, but they would be easy to maintain and would withstand coastal storms. And they wouldn't block the light streaming into the studio. She didn't draw the studio itself. Instead, she sketched a line to mark the edge of the yard.

When Pam finally set her pencil down, she realized Mel and Danny had stopped talking and were watching her.

"Awesome," Danny said. "You drew so much detail, I bet I could find those plants at a nursery just from your sketch."

"It is beautiful, Pam," Mel added. She leaned over Pam's shoulder and pointed at the fountain. "I love this private area. It'll be perfect for the ceremony."

Pam inhaled and caught the smell of roses, suddenly transported back to the morning when Mel had shown up at her bedroom door wearing only a robe. Wet hair, flushed skin, the curve of Mel's b.r.e.a.s.t.s where the robe dipped open. Pam felt the tingle of Mel's breath against her neck, calling her back to the present, and she wanted her own breath, her hands, her lips on Mel's skin. Pam cleared her throat and looked out into the rainy yard. She had been focused on the vision in her head and hadn't stopped to consider all the labor standing between reality and her finished sketch.

"Maybe I should make something simpler since you only have a week to get this done," she said, flipping to a fresh page in her sketch pad.

"No," Mel said as she s.n.a.t.c.hed the pad from Pam's hands.

She turned back to the drawing. "We'll need to start by mowing the gra.s.s and cleaning out the old brush. Then we'll cut out the path. I'll measure and go buy the paving stones..."

She turned to a blank page and slipped the charcoal pencil from Pam's unresisting fingers. Danny poked Pam in the ribs as Mel continued to list ch.o.r.es.

"See what you did?" he whispered. "We'll be slaving away all afternoon."

Pam still felt uncomfortable around Danny, but his easy familiarity softened her a little. He spoke like a put-out teenager, but he had driven to Cannon Beach that morning just so he could help Mel prep her inn for the upcoming wedding party. Even Pam could see how much he enjoyed being part of Mel's new life. Pam stood apart, determined to keep her distance from Mel and Danny, but she was able to watch them interact. She was an outsider, allowed temporarily inside the family's private world. They had experienced so many changes in the past months, and she could see how they anch.o.r.ed each other. Stability and trust. An unwavering faith that no matter what happened, they would always be mother and son.

Danny obviously loved his mother, but at times Pam saw him looking at Mel as if seeing her for the first time. And he was, in a way.

Seeing her not just as a parent but as a woman who was capable of following her dreams, working hard to make a better life. And while Mel never stepped out of her natural role as his mother, she also never hesitated to show her vulnerability, to admit when she didn't know something or to ask his opinion, to let him share as they rebuilt their lives and renovated the inn. Pam was happy the two of them had found this common project to draw them closer. But she didn't want to be involved. Their bond was strong, permanent. Their connection to Pam was circ.u.mstantial, transitory. Nice while it lasted, but not to be trusted. She'd made that mistake before.