Beach Winds (10 page)

“
What color is this?”

“
It’s called Misty Celery. It’s a lovely soft shade of green. I think it complements the green you chose for the living room.”

“
Soft shade? It’s white.”

“
No, see the name at the bottom?” She pointed at the chip. “See? It says Misty Celery.”

“
It’s white.” He waved his hand. “Well, if you want white, then white it is.”

“
It
is
what I want. Exactly what I want. And it’s not white.”

“
Fine. I aim to please.”

She crossed her arms.
“No need to be sarcastic.”

“
I wasn’t.”

“
You were.”

He opened his mouth to retort back
and then remembered he wasn’t five. Not even fifteen. A little more than twice that, in fact. Too old for games like this. He waved the chip. “I’ll get the paint.”

He could see it churning in her expression. She was all set to contradict him again.
Brian looked at her more closely, then quickly away. That’s exactly what she was doing. She was gearing up for the next strike. Deliberately contradicting him to start a fight. He tried not to grin. Hard not to like a woman with spirit and gumption and who carried herself with a certain kind of flair.

“
Whatever you want.” He kept his back turned, certain his amused expression would give away that he was on to her game. “Want me to hang up those drapes?”

“
What?”

He pointed to the windows and the sliding door.
“Need help hanging those back up?”

“
No. I like the windows uncovered.”

He agreed with her, but he hated to spoil the fun by saying that, so he grunted.

“Well, if you disagree, please tell me.”

Brian shrugged to hide his smile. She could find an argument in a turnip.

He said, “We should take down the hardware then. No need to have it hanging out and looking like we left something undone.”

“
Take the hardware down, by all means. Could you pick up some vertical blinds?”

She tossed her head
and put her hands on her hips. He figured she was annoyed again, but he noticed how her hair looked when it brushed her shoulders. Silky hair. It picked up the sunlight.

“
Nothing high-end, though. Something that will work until the house is sold.”

Sold.
That stung. Subdued, he answered, “Whatever you say. Any other orders?”

Fran went into the kitchen and started slamming through the cupboards. He was no longer in the mood
to harass her, but she was still worked up and he couldn’t resist a last jab.

“
Don’t break those cabinet doors.”

She stopped mid-movement and looked over at him. She said coolly,
“You never answered my question. What about those strips of paper with verses? I found a couple more. Why does my uncle hide them around the house?”

“
Ask him.”

Astonished, she said,
“That’s insensitive.”

“
I didn’t say when to ask. You might have to wait awhile.”

She was still holding on to the cabinet door handle, and staring fire at him. She spoke in a civil, but icy tone.
“Thank you for the clarification, Mr. Donovan. Would you care for a cup of tea?”

“
No, ma’am. I’m not a tea guy unless you’re talking a tall glass of iced tea. What is it with you and tea?”

“
What is it? Lots of people drink tea, even the hot kind in cups.”

“
Sure they do.” He picked up his shirt and took his time sliding his arms in and buttoning it. He couldn’t help himself. “I hear it’s supposed to be calming. You know, that means it calms people down.”

“
Sure.” Her eyes narrowed. “Tea can be very calming depending on the blend, and whether anyone needs calming.”

“
Chamomile. Is that it?” He grinned, surprised he’d remembered the name. He saw instantly that she’d taken his grin to mean something else entirely which amused him all the more.

“
Chamomile? Yes, I’m familiar with the properties of Chamomile tea. I happen to be drinking Samurai Chai.”

“
Samurai?”

She kept her eyes fastened upon his face as she slowly, deliberately eased the cabinet door closed.
“Maybe one of these days I’ll give you a lesson in the art of tea.”

Her voice sounded different. He didn
’t know how to describe it, but her body had changed. Even as she gave the appearance of imminent eruption—that was it, her voice had a smoldering quality—she stood taller, straighter, ready to take on anything, anyone. He suspected he was about to meet the real Fran.

Chapter Eight

I
t was fun sparring with Brian. It didn’t come naturally to her. She preferred peace. Obviously, petty bickering was Brian’s preferred pastime.

After he
’d left she ran through their conversation in her head. She usually thought of snappy comebacks when it was too late, but she was proud of the Samurai line she’d delivered. His baby blue eyes had seemed to take on a whole new focus. Even now, it made her smile.

Then, well, she
’d realized what was happening. The swagger that had suddenly come over her, that caused her to broaden her shoulders, to lift her arm, to shift her hips, to all but pose between cabinet and counter, practically preening—that was a cliff she didn’t want to go over. She reined it all back in. Brian left soon after. She felt deflated.

She
’d do better to take care of business, the real business she was here for. Like going through Will’s papers. Reluctant to read his truly personal papers, she’d put it off, but there might be creditors she didn’t know about or maybe a storage unit that held treasured items he’d lose if she didn’t pay the rent.

Frannie
sat at the roll top desk and began searching through the drawers.

There were several packets of letters. Judging by the
yellowing of the envelopes, some were much older than others. She picked up the first bundle and the thick rubber band disintegrated. The letters cascaded to the floor and scattered. She knelt to pick them up, and with each one, her curiosity grew. Letters from home? Faded ink. Aged postmarks. She couldn’t help herself.

A letter dated 1959 began,
My Dearest Son. This will reach you at sea.
It was a newsy letter, but she didn’t know the people involved.

I
n the act of re-folding the pages, she stopped herself.

She should
’ve known these people, or at least, she should know
about
them. They were her people, too, whether she’d met them or not.

Uncle Will
’s mother would’ve been her father’s grandmother. Her own great-grandmother. Frannie did some quick math. If her dad was still alive, he’d be in his mid-fifties. Uncle Will was about thirty when her dad was born.

Except for a handful of tales, her dad hadn
’t said much about his family. Her mother certainly never had. There might be distant cousins she didn’t know about, but not all families stayed close. Her family was proof.

She flipped through Uncle Will
’s stash of letters. Clearly he hadn’t saved every letter he’d ever received, still there were quite a few and she was beginning to see a pattern. All of these were from his mother and each contained some special news among the usual chatter. In 1960, Millie wrote Will that he was now an uncle to his newly-born nephew, Edward. Her dad. A year later, Will’s sister, Penny, got married.

The
part about her Dad’s birth felt really special.

She hadn
’t known her great-grandmother, Millie, but these letters did mean something to her. She gathered them up and found a fresh rubber band in a kitchen drawer.

****

Frannie curled up that night with Millie’s letters. The penmanship was strong and clear. What did they call it? Cursive? She didn’t think they taught that in school now.

In 198
2 the big news was that her dad had eloped, and the subject was worthy of the entire letter. Per Millie, in his last year of college, Edward had met a woman. Millie didn’t call her a young lady, but a
woman
. The reference seemed to be that she was questionable in some way, but he married her. His parents threatened to stop paying for college and he said fine, he’d drop out. They backed down. Millie seemed to approve of that outcome.

Her grandparents. Marshall and Anne. Her middle name was Anne for her grandmother. She had a vague memory of them. They died
when she was six or seven, but this letter was from 1982 and grief wouldn’t arrive on the scene for several years.

So,
her mom and dad had caused a scandal. They’d never shared that with her. What else didn’t she know about their young-and-in-love days together?

Feeling
a little sneaky, and hoping for some juicy tidbits, she snuggled down to finish the letter. It ended too soon. She fumbled for the next one, which was dated a month later. When she pulled the folded pages from the envelope, a small faded photo fell out.

You asked for a photograph of Edward and his bride, and it took some doing, but
here it is. She’s a pretty enough thing. Anne hints that she’s wild, yet won’t explain. Can’t blame her for worrying. A mom’s a mom no matter how old her children get. Same goes for a grandmother—no surprise I’m worried, too. When I have the opportunity for a private chat with Marshall, I’ll ferret out the details about Edward and his wife.

She
picked up the photo and saw a much younger, very handsome version of the father she remembered, but the woman next to him, no matter how hard she stared, she couldn’t make her look like Mother. She turned it over. Someone had scrawled in pencil,
January 26, 1982. Edward and Frances.

Frances. Could Laurel have had a nickname?

Not likely. Her middle name was Marie. Maiden name was Parker.

Frances.

A first marriage, then? Prior to Laurel?

At first, she refused to consider the implications, but though she tried to keep reading, her brain wouldn
’t allow her to move on. She was Frannie. Specifically, Frances Anne Denman. Who would name their baby after a former wife? Laurel wasn’t generous or understanding by nature. Not at all.

S
he shivered. She folded the letter carefully and put it back into the envelope. She added the photo, too, and slid it into the bundle and placed the bundle into the nightstand drawer. Drawer closed. Everything was tucked away, safely out of sight.

The thermostat indicated the heat was working fine.
She pushed the sheet over the sliding doors aside to get a glimpse of the night. Must be windy because she was shaking as the cold worked its way in through all of the cracks and crevices. Frannie put water on to heat. She measured out the rooibos. The fruity fragrance of the dry tea leaves gave immense comfort. She thought of Brian. After all of his teasing, Brian and tea would be linked in her mind for a while. Better to think about him than about other things.

Foolishly, ridiculously, she wished he was here. She could talk to him. He might make fun of her, but he would listen.

But this. How could she discuss this with anyone?

She poured
the tea in her cup and stood with her face over it, letting the steam waft up. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, holding it in for as long as she could, and then released it slowly.

Frances.

The chill, damp fingers of a winter night were skipping down her spine.

She knew
it was truth as surely as she knew anything. She picked up the cup and attempted to sip, but her lower lip trembled and maybe her hand did, too. Tea dripped down the front of her nightgown. With both hands she sat the cup gently down on the counter.

Undeniably true.

She pressed her fingers to her temples. She needed to reason this through. She’d seen her birth certificate. For school, for her driver’s license. What else? A birth certificate was the kind of thing you looked at once, then hardly ever thereafter. Most people probably didn’t know where their birth certificate was, unless they kept papers like that in a safe deposit box or something. She presumed Laurel still had hers.

How could this have happened?

She went to the nightstand and reclaimed the letters. Back at the counter, and with careful deliberation, she removed the rubber band. She reread the letter about her father’s marriage. His first marriage.

The next letter was p
ostmarked 1983 during her birth month. In it, Millie announced Frannie’s birth to Will who was now a great-uncle.