История Китайской Цивилизации. Том 2. Цинь, Хань, Троецарствие, Цзинь, Южные и Северные династии (221 до н.э. – 581). Коллектив авторов
single file, until they reached the attic, which was redolent with dust and a faint fragrance of the sea. The twin beds perched against the walls, just as they had when she was a teen, looking drastically smaller to Rosa’s adult eyes. Memories flooded through her.
She pictured the stacks of decorator magazines, dog-eared and marked, that she used to pore over in that tiny space, dreaming of bright, shining places where happy families lounged in comfort and style. Her foot found the white stain on the floor, a souvenir of the giant solar system she’d painstakingly painted on the wall before coming to her senses and covering it all with a cool blue tint.
Why had Bitsy ever allowed the solar system monstrosity in the first place? Rosa sneaked a look at Bitsy’s worn face. Because Bitsy was a stalwart defender of every one of Rosa’s dreams. She’d been the only one besides Cy to whom Rosa spilled her truest feelings after her humiliating exit from law school.
And now it was Rosa’s turn to do the same for Bitsy, to transform the Pelican into the jewel of the coast, no matter what Pike thought.
She carefully set Baggy down and threw open the faded curtains that covered the round window, the room’s most precious feature. The view had not changed. Framed by the branches of a cypress tree that thrived just outside the window, the Pacific Ocean danced in an endless rhythm against the cliffs below. Rosa swallowed a lump in her throat, momentarily letting go of her worries: the teetering business and the rent due at the end of the month. “I’m so happy to be here.”
Bitsy squeezed her shoulder. “And I’m thrilled to have you back.”
“Oh, look.” Rosa pointed at the crawling waves. “There’s Larry’s fishing boat. I can’t believe he’s still sailing. He must be close to ninety by now.”
“Well, some things never change.” A tone of uncertainty crept into Bitsy’s voice. “Then again, some things do.”
“Is everything okay?” Rosa studied Bitsy closely. The woman was thinner than she remembered, her skin more wrinkled and her eyes shadowed.
“Fine, fine,” Bitsy said. She gazed out toward the ocean. “Still the best view in the house.”
“Second best.” Rosa looked out at the worn shingles on the peak of the jutting room fondly known as Captain’s Nest. The panorama from that room was truly unbeatable. As far as Rosa had ever known, though, Captain’s Nest was stuffed from floor to rafters with boxes, rendering it unusable. Even in her time growing up at the inn, the Nest was kept secure. She’d only managed to sneak in a few times when the door was left unlocked. “So you don’t get hurt,” Bitsy said many times. Not anymore. It would be the highlight of the inn, the charming nautical nook that levered the Pelican above the competition.
“Do you have a place we can store the boxes?”
Bitsy blinked. “What boxes?”
“The ones you keep in Captain’s Nest. We’ll need to get them out so we can paint, maybe do some rough texture.”
“No,” Bitsy said firmly.
“No? Well, we can find someplace else to store things temporarily.”
“No, I mean no one is going in that room.”
“But it’s the gem of this inn.”
Bitsy shook her head, lips pressed together. When she answered, her voice was low. “That room is off-limits. No one is touching Captain’s Nest.”
Rosa could not believe what she was hearing. “Bitsy, we won’t change anything without consulting you, I promise.”
Bitsy took Rosa’s hands and pressed them. Her palms were cool, the fingertips almost icy. “No, honey. No one goes in there.” Without waiting for Rosa to respond, Bitsy turned on her heel and left.
Rosa watched Bitsy go, her gait as strong and sure as it had ever been. Bitsy had an iron resolve that Rosa had witnessed firsthand many a time, but in this circumstance, there seemed no reason for such a reaction. Captain’s Nest was off-limits? Still? Puzzling over it, Rosa returned to the foyer to find Cy peering at a newspaper.
“Do you think Bitsy is okay?” she asked her brother.
Cy didn’t look up from his paper, his knee bobbing up and down. “Of course. She’s the same as ever. There’s an estate sale two blocks from here.”
Rosa tried for a firm tone. “It’s not a good time. We’ve got to meet with the Great Escapes people, and for some reason Pike doesn’t want us to...”
Cy had the same glazed-over expression he got whenever he was about to embark on a decorating treasure hunt. His uncanny nose for a bargain had netted them everything from a Japanese tobacco box to an exquisite Persian rug he bought for pocket change. “Bitsy heard they might have clocks. A clock would look completely amazing in the sitting room.”
Rosa sighed. Cy was a kind of decorating history savant. He’d been completely obsessed with clocks ever since he’d read that Thomas Jefferson designed the Great Clock in the front hall of his Monticello mansion.
“All right,” she said, hiding a smile. “But if you come back with a clock connected to a Chinese gong that chimes the half hour...”
“Jefferson’s clock chimed on the hour, not the half,” he fired back. “Did you know that gong rang loudly enough for field hands to hear it three miles away?”
“Yes, Cy. You mentioned that a time or two.” She grabbed her keys. “I’ll drop you on my way to the magazine, but remember we’ve only got five thousand for the whole place.”
“Caviar decorating on a bologna and cheese budget. I got it.”
She shot a glance into the backyard as they left. No chicken sounds, but no sign of Pike, either. She wondered how he’d squeezed his strapping six-foot-three frame into the coop.
Shaking off thoughts of Pike, she headed for the parking lot.
* * *
AFTER CY PRACTICALLY leaped from the moving car at the entrance to the estate sale, Rosa drove down Highway One, once again drinking in the vast ocean and the wheeling scores of seagulls and terns. If she hadn’t been on her way to a meeting, she would have pulled the elastic from her ponytail and let the glorious wind have its way. Instead, she kept her speed steady and professionalism intact as she made her way to the Great Escapes headquarters in Cliffside, some twelve miles north of Tumbledown. Once there, she was ushered into the neat but ordinary office of Wanda Elliot, coordinator of the contest.
The fiftysomething redhead looked ill at ease, despite her snappy charcoal suit. Rosa attributed Wanda’s discomfort to the bland eggshell paint and prosaic print on the wall. She found herself daydreaming about what the space would look like with a woven area rug and a handful of bright, odd-sized pillows tossed artfully about on the corner chairs.
Wanda sat at her desk, tapping a pencil on the glass top. “So, we’ve spelled it all out for you, the terms of the contest. If we could just have your paperwork.” She thrust out a hand and snatched the papers Rosa provided.
“I still can’t believe we were chosen to participate.”
“I’m sure. Is there anything else?” There was a small tic underneath Wanda’s eye.
“We’re just happy and thrilled,” Rosa said, raising her charm quotient with a cheerful smile. “Bitsy mentioned that she knew you.”
“Me? No. Well, yes. I mean, we’ve probably met a time or two. That’s natural, isn’t it?” Wanda’s blue eyes widened. “That a travel magazine editor and an innkeeper would meet?”
“She said she met you when she brought in pictures of the Pelican along with a history of the inn.”
Wanda looked relieved. “Ah, yes. Excellent write-up, as a matter of fact. Her nephew helped.”
Rosa jerked. “Her nephew?”
“Yes,