Beach Winds Read Online Free PDF Page A

some time sprucing it up. A little paint and a tweak to the decor would make it more marketable.
    The decision to paint kept her moving forward, but without the risk of irrevocable actions. No commitment needed. Painting mistakes could be fixed easily. She ’d hang out here and let Mother stew by herself for a while. Mother would be plenty surprised when she saw that her daughter could handle this and so much more.
    Impulsively, she pulled into a home improvement store parking lot. Might as well get the supplies before she crossed back over the bridge to the island.
    With the paint cans and supplies loaded in the trunk, she built up such a vision, imagining plans for the makeover of Captain’s Walk , that when she actually entered the house, its dreariness almost overwhelmed her, but it didn’t keep her down long.
    She ’d never painted a house before, but really, how hard could it be?
    ****
    The smell of plastic drop cloths, pristine and fresh from the manufacturer’s packaging, complemented the sawdust smell of the new stepladder unmarred by use. The paint cans contained nice off-white tones that aligned with what was already on the walls. Those unopened cans held a lot of untried promise. She opted not to tape the trim despite the clerk’s recommendation. She had a steady hand and was innately neat.
    Frannie put on a pair of navy khaki slacks and, in a concession to practicality, she found an old button-down shirt in Will’s closet. She would start in the middle of the wall using the brush. The roller seemed vaguely intimidating.
    She pried the lid off and dipped the brush delicately into the paint. There was not yet a drop on the wall when her phone rang, its vibrations drumming on the kitchen counter. Not a ring she recognized. Better to grab it now than after she’d started applying paint. She went for it and answered one-handed.
    “ Frannie?”
    “ Mother?” Not her ring. “Where are you calling from?”
    “ I borrowed a phone. I left mine at home.”
    Likely story . “What do you need?”
    A moment of silence. “Need? Not ‘how are you?’ but ‘what do you need?’ I need to know when are you coming back home.”
    “ When we spoke this morning, I told you I wasn’t sure. I have obligations here.”
    “ No longer. Good news. I’ve arranged with an attorney to handle all that for you. He does this professionally and will take care of Will’s business affairs properly. You don’t need to worry about it.”
    “ He already has an attorney and I don’t need help. I’m doing fine.”
    “ Frannie—”
    “ No, mother.” She looked down and saw white blobs of paint on the vinyl floor. The brush.
    “ I have to go.”
    She threw the phone aside and grabbed for the paper towels. She hadn ’t anticipated drips, including the ones she’d stepped in and that now marked her path. Run, she told herself, and headed for the plastic cloth. It slipped beneath her feet and kept moving. As it moved, so did the open gallon.
    In horror, in slow motion, she slid toward the can like a runner coming in to home plate feet first. She sacrificed the brush so that she could try to swivel. She needed both hands to save the can. And she did. Or most of it. The top couple of inches of paint sloshed over the rim, but she righted it before the whole gallon spilled.
    Hurriedly, she gathered the plastic sheet up around it like a dam to contain the spreading lake of almost-white.
    Painting was easy, or should have been.
    Her hands were covered in paint. One leg of her navy khakis was now substantially off-white and sticking to her leg.
    The phone began ringing again.
    She sat up and wiped her paint-covered hands on the dry leg. Fine. Now, she had a pair of painting pants. Designated painting gear.
    In the midst of disaster, she started laughing. Well, as disasters went, this one was pretty minor. Frannie laughed out loud. She laughed until she felt the tears beginning to burn her eyes.
    Enough. She gulped in air. Walk away