Ezra
Holly had called to take him up on his offer, her voice bright with enthusiasm. “Dr. Schwartz, consider yourself commissioned.”
“But you haven’t seen my work yet,” he reminded her.
“I don’t need to,” she told him. “I’ve had painters in here all winter, and though they tested for lead, none had any fine art experience. Besides, you’re a neurosurgeon.”
“Retired,” he reminded her.
“Still. If parents trusted their children’s brains with your hands, I can trust you with my bird.” Holly was not done. “Plus, Bruce likes you.”
It was decided.
Despite Holly’s confidence, restoring the mural at the Cranberry would not be a small undertaking.
It was possible it would take him longer to complete than he was willing to hang on. It was quite possible he’d muddle the whole thing. With this weighing upon him, the moment he hung up with Holly, he put on a nice shirt and drove straight to the Eldredge Public Library in town.
On the other side of the heavy oak door, time seemed to stand still inside the Eldredge. The Romanesque revival was an architectural gem, and stepping into its cool recess made Ezra wonder why he had not visited in so long. He had his answer when he got to the circulation desk.
“May I help you?” the woman behind it asked.
Ezra blinked, suddenly unsure. The woman was probably his age, her short haircut pragmatic, the front of her red sweater adorned with navy-blue cats. She pushed her glasses farther up the bridge of her nose. “Sir?”
He should not have come here. Ezra didn’t like talking to strangers.
Or asking for help. Worse, this whole mission was ill-conceived; who did he think he was, offering to restore a historic mural in an inn he had been in exactly once and had no reason to return to again?
But then he thought of the look on Holly’s face when she’d first shown him the mural, and later, the little patent leather shoe.
Holly, he realized suddenly, was probably very close in age to his daughter, Amy.
It occurred to him that Holly’s earnestness also reminded him of Amy. Was that what all this was about?
“I’m not sure,” he managed. “I’m doing a project, restoring an old wall mural. I was hoping to find some material on retouching paintings.”
Ezra waited for this woman in her cat sweater to inform him they had no such specific content, that his request was no less ridiculous than a pizza delivery kid coming in to ask how to compose a symphony. One didn’t need to be a neurosurgeon to see that coming.
It turned out he’d underestimated both the librarian and her collection. Twenty minutes later Ezra left with two restoration books, a pamphlet on conservator work from the Atwood Museum, and a feline motif Post-it note with the name of a gallery owner the librarian referred him to.
Still, after all his research, Ezra felt ill-prepared as he made his way over to the Cranberry. Bruce met him in the doorway. “Hello, dog,” Ezra said.
They headed through the lobby. The downstairs was busy in a pleasant way.
Behind the kitchen door came the assuring clink and clatter of cookware and the aroma of something fresh baked.
Ezra followed his nose to the small bar and gazed upon the spread: scones and small pots of what looked to be whipped butter and jams; a large bowl of assorted fruit.
Carafes of coffee that smelled of chicory and made him think of a trip he and Rachel had taken to New Orleans, years ago for a medical conference.
He couldn’t recall what the conference was for, but he’d never forgotten the coffee.
“Hello, Dr. Schwartz. I’ve got fresh cream if you’d like some.” Linus’s eyes traveled to his messenger bag, filled with art supplies, and the museum book under his arm. “You’re all Holly’s been talking about this morning. Follow me.”
After snagging a scone with his free hand, Ezra did as told.
Linus talked even faster than he walked.
“We weren’t sure what you’d need, but we’ve set up a workspace for you and sectioned off the fireplace area so you won’t be disturbed.
Though I can’t promise you’ll have total privacy. Our guests can be quite… curious.”
Sure enough, they’d sectioned off the fireplace area with a velvet rope.
Behind it was a chair and tray table, along with a roll of paper towels and a small waste basket.
Three glass mason jars lined the table. “For your brushes,” Linus said, straightening them.
It reminded Ezra of walking into the OR on surgery days, the sterile trays of surgical instruments at the ready.
Only this time his patient was two-dimensional and of the avian class.
Linus was right: there were plenty of passing stares. “Is there anything else I can bring you?”
Ezra began unpacking his materials. “Thank you, I think I’m set.” The goldfinch was speaking to him, and he wanted to get straight down to work. Bruce must have sensed it; the dog flopped at Ezra’s feet and curled up.
“I’ll be in the lobby if you need anything further,” Linus said.
But Ezra didn’t hear him. He was too busy studying the goldfinch, his focus already straying from the makeup of the bird to its condition.
Sure enough, there was flaking about the edge of one wing and also around the base of the clouds.
Fortunately, it wasn’t too bad. It appeared that the painters Holly had hired that winter to repaint the rooms had worked carefully around the goldfinch.
He thought about the tips the gallery owner had given him, as he pulled out his materials and laid them on the table.
Solutions and adhesives. Q-tips and cotton balls.
Then his brushes and his sponges. It was going to be a larger project than a few days of touch-ups.
Several days, at least. Maybe a week. In his mind the Sunfish skittered by on the water, its red-and-white sail taut with wind.
This was more than a mere change of course.
If he stayed here and did this, it meant more time.
For the next hour, Ezra gently cleaned the mural. That work had him out of the parlor as much as in it. He’d brought distilled water for the project, but there were a few things more he needed.
With no sign of Linus, he went to the only place he heard sounds of staffers: the swinging kitchen door. Unsure, Ezra rapped his knuckles against it. The voices and clatters went on. He pushed it ajar and peeked inside.
The kitchen was commercial, but not in that sleek stainless steel way of most restaurants that weren’t too far from an OR.
This kitchen had a large butcher block island in the center with warm buttercream cabinetry that wrapped around it on all sides.
The counters were some kind of dark granite, the stove a behemoth Viking range.
To one side were two steel prep areas, with an assortment of pots and pans hanging from overhead racks.
A side door with gingham curtains appeared to open to the yard.
It resembled a kitchen you’d find in a private home, warm and inviting, only larger.
A woman with a long blond braid and a red bandana worked at the sink, her back to him.
Ezra cleared his throat. “Excuse me?”
She turned from the pot she was scrubbing.
“Sorry to bother you. I was looking for Linus, but since I can’t find him, now I’m looking for buckets.”
“Buckets?” Her brow knit in confusion.
“Jars work. Or bowls, if that’s easier. I only need two.” Then for good measure, “Please.”
“Hang on. You’re a guest?”
“Apologies.” He stepped inside. “I’m Ezra, the neighbor. I’m here to help restore the mural in the parlor.”
This elicited a surprisingly generous grin. “I know who you are. You’re Bruce’s new friend.”
Hearing his name, Bruce barked.
“So it seems. You must be the chef who created that heavenly dinner I enjoyed a few nights ago.”
She ducked her chin. “Greta. Pleased to meet you.”
“Truly. That was quite a meal. Not only delicious, but…” He paused. “Reminiscent. Of so many things.”
“Really?” This seemed to surprise her.
“Really. It made me remember things I haven’t thought of in years.” Just saying it now stirred the childhood dust in his brain. “My grandmother, my childhood friend.” He stopped. “I’m getting off track. I was hoping to locate a container for a small amount of water.”
“You’re the reason Linus asked for jars. Will that do?”
As Greta retrieved the jars, a man appeared at the side door.
Greta’s face fell when she saw him.
“Just grabbing some formula,” the young man said, ducking past her for the fridge. He held a satchel around his shoulder.
“I can warm it for you?” Greta suggested. Ezra heard hopefulness in the offer. Too much of it, for his comfort.
“No worries,” the man said. He seemed in a hurry.
“Oliver, this is Ezra,” Greta said. “He’s painting the goldfinch for Holly.”
“Retouching,” Ezra began to explain, but Oliver’s gaze had fixed itself on Greta. Even from the door, Ezra could see the sad-eyed want in his eyes. He wondered if he should leave.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Oliver said, and then, as if the trance was broken, he quickly let himself out. All the oxygen in the kitchen seemed to follow.
“No bother,” Greta murmured in his wake. She looked down at the jars in her hands. Then, as if remembering him, back at Ezra. “Oh. Right. Here you go.” When she handed him the jars, he couldn’t help but notice the tremble in her hands.
“Thank you. For the jars and the dinner the other night.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, but her smile did not reach her eyes this time, and the result on him was surprisingly affecting.
Ezra left the kitchen, his senses once more overcome.
The goings-on of the busy inn were one kind of distraction, but what he’d witnessed in the kitchen seemed a rather personal one.
And none of it was any of his business, he reminded himself.
He was there for one reason only; getting involved meant stirring emotions, and Ezra needed to avoid feeling anything for anyone except this project.
Fortunately, the parlor had emptied. The good beach weather was certainly to blame, but Ezra didn’t notice the high sun outside the window or the salt air breeze coming in through the bay window. So deep was his focus that he did not even notice Holly come up behind him.
“What’s the artist’s verdict?” she asked. Seeing the warmth in her expression softened his mood.
“Today is evaluation and cleaning,” he said, pointing out the areas of damage that needed to be stabilized before any retouching could take place.
Holly picked up a tube of oil paint from the table, admiring the color. “So no painting today, then?”
He shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s the very last step. Cleaning and prepping is a delicate process. I don’t want to disturb any of the original, but I want to do a thorough job so that the next layer of paint adheres properly.”
“What about color matching? I’m guessing that will be tricky, with the original being so old?”
“Maybe not. Modern paints are comprised of different pigments, so there is a far greater range of colors. Don’t worry. I’ll take my time finding the right match before I put brush to wall.” He turned to look at her. “It’s going to be a bit of a process, I’m afraid. Probably a week, at least.”
This news appeared to come as a surprise. “I see.” She paused. “The thing is, I have a wedding party coming in tomorrow, and they’ve reserved use of the entire inn through the weekend. So we’d need to pause your work for a little while.”
“Pause?” Restoring the painting had been his idea; he’d thought of it as a final curtain call, where he could decide when he exited the stage. “For how long exactly?”
Holly could tell she’d upset him. “It’s just four days, but I imagine it can’t be easy to work with all the interruptions around here this time of year. If you’d rather, we could put this on hold for the offseason.”
“Offseason?” he barked. Ezra cleared his throat.
There was no need to startle the young woman.
“No, no, I’m afraid that’s just not possible.
I won’t be here.” The words came out before he could stop them, tumbling into the parlor like a dark cloud.
God, he hoped she would not understand what they meant.
“I see.” Holly was still puzzling this out in her mind, he could tell. “Are you going to visit your daughter?”
At the mention of Amy, Ezra felt his insides give. “Yes,” he lied. “I am. So I need to get this project done as soon as possible.” He stared at his shoes, unable to meet Holly’s gaze.
“Of course we want nothing more than to accommodate your schedule, since you’re the one helping us. I just need the parlor Thursday through Sunday. After that it’s yours again.” She paused. “I’m sorry I didn’t clarify that earlier. I’m not used to commissioning artists.”
A small laugh escaped him. “I’m not used to being commissioned.”
Commissioned or not, in his heart Ezra was an artist. As much as the thought pained him, he would make this work for Holly. Even if it meant sticking around a few extra days; even if it meant changing course once more.