Firefly Beach (2 page)

By late afternoon, she had cleared out the entire first floor, stacking empty boxes and packing materials on the windowless side of the house. The kitchen, living room, and entryway were tidied and decorated. Books sat neatly on the bookshelves. Dust-free knickknacks settled on the mantel, along with a photo of Beth’s mother, the only picture of a person on the entire property.

Later that evening, Beth toured the house, evaluating her progress. The studio was a disaster, but the main floor felt like home. She made a cup of herbal tea and sat on the couch, looking out the bay window into a clear evening sky.

She noticed the firefly swirling and swooping near the cliff. A sweet sadness resonated in its graceful movements. Beth decided that the firefly was, like herself, a loner, mourning for what had slipped from her hands – or wings, in the case of the firefly – yet filled with hope for what lay ahead. “What are you hoping for, firefly?” she whispered. Then she laughed. “Have I become so pathetic I’m talking to insects?” She stood, collected the mug and coaster from the coffee table, and turned toward the kitchen.

Out of the corner of her eye, Beth saw the firefly zoom at what seemed like a hundred miles an hour, covering the distance in a fraction of a second, flying straight up to the window and then disappearing, dropping out of sight. Slowly Beth turned to face the window, her heart pounding in her ears. She no longer saw the firefly circling near the coast. Except for the waxing moon, it was dark behind the cottage, all the way to the horizon.

Beth shuddered, staring out the window for several minutes. Her face had grown ashen, and her heart continued to pound mercilessly. When she was able to pull herself away, she dashed upstairs, turning on lights as she ran. The creaking of the stairs frightened her so she doubled her speed taking them two at a time. When she reached the bathroom, she shuffled through her cosmetic bag looking for her emergency stash of anti-anxiety medicine.

This is ridiculous.
She gazed in the mirror after downing two pills and splashing her face with water.
You are a grown woman afraid of the dark…or afraid of a dancing speck of light. Your imagination is playing tricks on you,
she thought with some uncertainty.
It was a metaphor. Think about it; something about being a lonely firefly going up in a burst of flames. It’s just a bunch of nonsense.

After giving herself a good scolding, or more likely, after the anxiety medication began to take effect, Beth tiptoed through the house turning off lights before she cozied up under the covers.

It was nothing,
she reminded herself before drifting off into a drug-induced sleep.

* * * *

The next morning, Beth awoke with a slight headache. She chided herself again for her ridiculous behavior the evening before.
All over an optical illusion
, she thought scornfully. After enjoying a simple breakfast and a pot of coffee, her brain began to clear.
Today is the day to unpack and set up the studio.
Focusing on the important project at hand, she forgot all about the firefly.

By mid-afternoon, she had made significant progress. One-third of the floor was bare, with boxes stacked along the wall next to the door. Two easels stood near the windows, and art supplies rested tidily in a variety of matching plastic containers. The sections of a set of long, flat drawers, intended for storing various types of paper, awaited assembly. Beth rubbed her neck as she tried to read the Chinese translated instruction sheet to no avail.

She looked at her watch. It was 3:07 p.m. She realized that she needed to go into town for groceries before nightfall, so she laid the instruction sheet down next to the piles of screws and plasterboard, and headed for the bathroom to take a much deserved shower. She undressed, wrapped a towel around her chest, and turned the faucet handle. A loud blast bellowed from the spout. Then the water gurgled, spat, hissed, and refused to make another appearance.

“Damn!” shouted Beth, who disliked surprises more than moving boxes. She turned the faucet to the off position and tried again. Nothing. She crossed to the bathroom sink. Nothing. She ran to the kitchen sink, where she was greeted with another belch and hiss and then nothing. She threw up her hands and groaned.

“Good working order, my ass,” she grumbled, as she grabbed her cell phone and shuffled through her purse for Rod Thompson’s number. She tightened the bath towel securely before she dialed.

“Hello,” a deep, unpleasant voice answered.

“Mr. Thompson,” she began, holding her temper in check. “This is Beth LaMonte.”

“Yeah?” Mr. Thompson said impatiently. “Didn’t you get the key?”

“Oh, I’ve got the key all right, sir. I’ve been here for a day and a half.”
Thanks for the heartfelt welcome,
she thought. “But the water just cut out on me.”

“What did you do?”

Beth’s jaw dropped and she looked at her cell phone in disbelief. “What did I do?” she asked, raising her voice a little. “I turned on the faucet, that’s what I did. And then,
bang,
a big splat of water followed by nothing. No water, Mr. Thompson.” She took a deep breath before continuing. “I need you to get someone here to fix it.”

A long silence followed, then a heavy sigh. Beth gritted her teeth, hoping to quell the slew of obscenities on the verge of pouring from her mouth.

“I’ll call Lou,” he murmured, his gruff voice melting into annoyance. And before Beth could respond, he hung up the phone.

Beth sat down on the couch for a moment, a little dazed. She gingerly placed her phone on the coffee table as if it were a diseased handkerchief unfit for handling. She stared out the window at the bay, reminding herself that it was still a beautiful place with an amazing view, and that wonderful opportunities awaited her; new beginnings for which her grieving spirit yearned…a fresh start.

At this point, I’d settle for a fresh shower. But I’d better put my clothes on in case this Lou happens to be a plumber.
She headed for the stairway.
And, hopefully he or she actually plans on coming over today.

Beth decided to put her energy into setting up the bedroom. She needed to take a break from the studio, so she filled and organized her dresser drawers and arranged the bedside table. She figured she would be lucky if Mr. Thompson sent a plumber out before morning.

The doorbell rang an hour and a half later. Beth was pleasantly surprised. She raced down the stairs and pulled open the door.

“Lou Schmidt, ma’am. Plumber.” He nodded politely. He was a broad shouldered man in his early sixties, with gray hair swept away from his face, a moustache, and kind blue eyes. He wore a blue and green flannel shirt and a faded pair of jeans. He extended his right hand in greeting, and in his left hand he carried a red toolbox.

Beth shook his hand enthusiastically. “I’m so glad you could come. Thank you. Thank you,” she responded opening the door and ushering him in. “Whew. You are a godsend.”

“I’m a Rodsend, really, ma’am,” Lou said, attempting to be humorous. Instead it sounded dreadfully goofy and the poor man blushed.

But Beth grinned. “A Rodsend indeed.”

“So you’re getting no water. Is that my understanding?”

“Yes, nothing. Nothing in the bathroom and nothing in the kitchen. The spouts sputtered, rather loudly,” she said, grimacing, “and then they stopped flowing.”

“Uh huh,” Lou said, already distracted, looking around the kitchen. “Did you shut off the main valve?”

Beth looked flustered. “Uh…I don’t even know where that is, I’m afraid.”

“It’s okay, ma’am. I’ll find it.” Lou headed toward the laundry room attached to the kitchen. “Go ahead and continue whatever it was you were doing and I’ll check it out.”

“I
was
going to take a shower.” Beth laughed nervously, smoothing down her tangled hair. “But I’ll settle for unpacking.”

Lou crouched in the space where a washer would eventually be installed, already absorbed in his work. Beth slipped upstairs and resumed tackling the boxes in her bedroom.

Thirty minutes later, she heard Lou calling from the base of the stairs.

“Ma’am?”

She hurried down to meet him. “Stop with all the
ma’am
stuff, please. I feel old enough as it is.”

“Fourteen years in the Navy, ma’am…uh, Miss…uh, LaMonte,” he said, shrugging. “It’s a hard habit to break.”

Beth crossed her arms and scowled at him playfully. “Well,
sir,
” she teased. “This
ma’am
respectfully requests that you knock it off. Call me Beth, please.”

Lou glanced at his feet. “I have some bad news,” he blurted out. “I’m going to need to order some parts from Portland. I should get them the day after tomorrow. In the meantime…” His voice trailed away as Beth’s face grew red with anger.

“Two days without water?” she yelled, not so much at him as at the circumstances. “In all this packing dust?” She swept her arms dramatically in an arc.

“Listen,” Lou began. “My wife runs a bed and breakfast,
The Virginia Point Cove.
We don’t have any guests scheduled to arrive until Friday. You could stay with us for a couple of nights,” he offered. “On the house, so to speak.” He chuckled, making another failed attempt to be humorous.

“Lou
Schmidt,
” Beth exclaimed, realizing why the name sounded familiar. “Your wife is Mary?”

“Yes, ma’—” He caught himself just in time, but she glared at him anyway.

“I…I can’t ask you to take me in.”

“Beth, it’s what we do. Mary would be delighted. You already know her?”

“We’ve spoken on the phone.” Beth fidgeted with her hands. She wanted to take him up on his offer. A hot shower and a moving-box-free environment sounded very inviting. “It would be nice to get tidied up. I need to take my paintings to Mr. Downy’s shop tomorrow.”

“Oh, you’re the painter. Mary told me all about you. In that case, it’s settled. You must come.”

Beth cast him a wary look. How could Mary possibly tell him
all about
her? Mary knew next to nothing about her. Beth frowned and continued to fidget nervously.

“In all honesty,” Lou continued. “Just between you and me. You’d be doing me a favor. The Mrs. drives me crazy when we have no guests, chattering on about nothing. A man needs a little quiet now and again, if you understand me.”

Beth pursed her lips to one side. She was not very interested in chatty women herself, but she hoped to rejoin the land of the living, so on an impulse she said, “Lou, I would be honored to accept your offer.”

“Perfect. The truck is a bit cluttered. If you’re bringing your paintings, you may want to take your own car.”

“No problem.”

“I’ll wait. You can follow me. Do you need time to get ready?”

“I’ll just grab a suitcase,” she hollered as she raced up the stairs.

“Take your time. I’ll call Mary and let her know we’re on our way.”

A few minutes later Beth returned with a small, flowered valise in tow. She set it by the hall closet and went back upstairs to retrieve three paintings wrapped in brown paper. Lou helped her put everything neatly into her Honda.

“All right then,” Lou declared. “Let’s go.”

Chapter 3

The Cove

The Virginia Point Cove was a beautiful, two-story Colonial home built in the 1850s. White with midnight blue trim, it sat a couple of blocks away from Main Street on Spruce Road and Knox Lane. Six steps led to the small, covered front porch located precisely in the middle of the house. Around it, eight symmetrically placed, shuttered windows reflected the afternoon sun. An American flag jutted out at a forty-five degree angle, centered above the door. Two-foot high shrubs ran along the sides of the house marking the property, and a pair of pots filled with pink petunias hung from the porch roof. On either side of the stairs, flowerbeds graced the entire front of the house. Rose bushes flourished near the porch. Freshly turned dirt around the annuals indicated recent planting, while several perennials were already in full bloom. An assorted mixture of dahlias, bleeding hearts, oriental poppies, zinnias, and a variety of wildflowers greeted Beth as she ascended the stairs.

A slightly plump woman in her early sixties burst out the door, bubbling with hospitality. Her wiry gray hair hung past her shoulders, a bit Bohemian for Beth’s taste. But Mary had warm, hazel eyes and an accepting smile, and she swiftly drew Beth in, washing away her negative first impression. Mary wore a blue cardigan sweater with a dark blue cotton t-shirt and black jeans. “Beth LaMonte,” she cried with open arms, crossing the distance between them to offer Beth an embrace.

A startled Beth returned the embrace listlessly. “Mary, it’s good to meet you. And it is so generous of you to take me in on such short notice.”

“Nonsense.” Mary waved her hands dismissing Beth’s needless concern. “What are we here for? We’re prepared for guests night and day. Come along then. Lou, please grab her suitcase,” she hollered after him. “In,” she said to Beth, pointing inside. “I’ve got dinner on the table.”

Beth shrank and took a step back. “You didn’t have to—”

“Stop, for goodness sakes,” Mary scolded. “Or I’ll have to slap you right here on this porch. I’m dying to learn all about our new resident artist.”

Beth smiled shyly and relaxed her shoulders. She allowed Lou to relieve her of her suitcase, and she followed Mary across the threshold.

An antique writing desk stood near the door and a faux quill pen rested on its surface next to a leather guestbook. The guestbook, open to the most recent page, awaited the next visitor’s signature. A creeping plant sat in one corner of the desk. Its vines wound around the back right leg, almost reaching the ground. To the right of the desk a narrow stairway, padded with an auburn antique rug runner, led to the second floor. Beyond the stairs, visitors were welcomed by a sitting room complete with a sofa, two chairs, a glass coffee table and several large windows. Along the windows two small, narrow tables accommodated numerous houseplants. To the left of the entrance, a hallway disappeared into the back of the house. Beyond that there was a library with five full bookshelves, three cushy maroon recliners, and one dark, antique armchair. The foyer glowed in a warm, pinkish shade of off-white and a floral print border ran along the edge where the walls met the ceiling.