Firefly Beach (12 page)

Kenny heard his mother pleading. “No, Mack. Stop. Please.”

Kenny slipped stealthily to his door and closed it as quietly as possible. But his father must have heard him. Loud, stomping footsteps came barreling toward Kenny’s bedroom and the door flew open. His father towered over him with a two-day beard, reeking of sweat and alcohol. He wore a stained t-shirt and gray sweatpants.

“What are you doing in here? Are you listening to us?”

“Nuh…nothing…no, sir.”

“Are you still working on that stupid toy?” his father asked, gesturing toward the model airplane.

“Yes, sir. I’m just finishing up.” Kenny tried to smile, but he was shaking. “The decals are drying.”

“What a stupid waste of time. Doesn’t your mother give you enough chores?”

“No…ah, yes…I mean, I do my chores. I bought this with my own money, and I only work on it during my free time.”

“Don’t get smart with me,” Mack barked. “You have too much free time. This weekend you need to clean out the garage.”

“But I did that last month.”

“What did you say?” His father stepped briskly toward Kenny and shouted in his face.

Kenny tried to hold his breath against the smell. He said nothing.

“I
said
what did you say?”

“Uh…nuh…nothing,” young Kenny responded, quivering.

“Nothing, my ass, you little punk.” His father reached for the airplane.

“No!” Kenny blurted out.

Mack turned in fury. “Are you saying
no
to me? I can’t look at this piece of shit plastic you wasted your time on?”

“No…uh, I mean yes…sorry.”

In a matter of seconds, which passed in slow motion in Kenny’s memory, his father’s face transformed into the image of a deranged beast, fire engine red with a grimace from hell. He threw the airplane as hard as he could across the room against the far wall. It shattered into several pieces. Kenny stood rigid, his chin up, looking over – not at – the wreckage.

His father laughed. “I guess it’s back to the drawing board.” He continued to laugh as he exited the room and slammed the door behind him.

Eventually Kenny crossed the room, kneeled on the floor, and gathered up the pieces. He loosely arranged them into their proper shape. He could hear his parents arguing in the kitchen. Then he heard his mother screaming and crying. He threw the airplane into the garbage, lay down, and put a pillow over his ears.

The older Kenny pushed the memory out of his mind, mangled it and buried it as deep as it would go. Then he stood, crossed the room, and began to gather the scattered tools.

Chapter 13

Sleuthing

Early Tuesday morning Rod Thompson set out on
The Bottomless Blue.
He threw the dock lines loose, put the engine in reverse, and backed out carefully, correcting for wind and current. He slipped past the breaker wall at 5:06 a.m. He was not seen in Virginia Point again until the following week.

* * * *

Beth worked diligently all day. She finished the painting of the bed and breakfast by noon, and by dinnertime
Old Charlie
stood proudly, drying in the fresh air that wafted through an open window. Beth absentmindedly closed all of the blinds before sunset. But the diary seemed to sing like a siren from her dresser drawer, and she was unable to resist its summons.

“Muses, sirens,” she mumbled. “I should have majored in Greek mythology.” Wearing a slightly guilty smile, she eagerly retrieved the diary from its hiding place. “Where were we?” She opened the cover and found her place.

Thursday, July 17

Sarah is being a real bitch. I finally told her about John and she acted all weird, you know. She says Dad is right and that he’s too old. I think she’s just jealous, that’s what I think. But she’s still my friend, so I don’t entirely hate her…yet.

Well, I’m going to take a walk and think. Thanks for listening.

Love,

K

Friday, July 18

Hello, Diary:

I’m feeling much better today. I’ve decided to take matters into my own hands. I’m just going to schedule my drop-in visits to the garage for the days I know Dad is running errands. Brilliant, right? I’m going to go this afternoon. Wish me luck!

L,

K

Saturday, July 19

Dear Diary:

It went pretty well yesterday. I hung out with John while Dad was visiting a client, Mr. Campbell. That old fart thinks he deserves house calls. Dad’s known him for a long time, so he heads on out there to take a peek under the hood of Mr. Campbell’s Oldsmobile every now and again when the old guy “smells trouble.”

Anyway, it was fine by me. I got to spend a couple of hours with John. We talked a little…about his travels and about my straight A’s in history classes. I told him I enjoyed history, especially World War II. That’s not typically a girl thing, so I think it impressed him. Sometimes we didn’t say anything at all, and it was okay…comfortable. I’ve never experienced that before. It was weird and good at the same time. I handed him some tools when he needed them. We just passed the time.

I made sure I cut out of there before Dad showed up. John grinned at me when I left. I can’t tell you how gorgeous that grin is. It made me tingle all over. I think he likes me. I really think he likes me.

Well, that’s all for now.

Love,

Katherine

Monday, July 28

Oh, man. What a nightmare. Dad dreamt up a surprise vacation for us the Sunday before last. I feel like I’ve been gone a month. I really missed Mr. Cutie-Pie. I’ve got to find some time to catch him alone this week.

Anyway, Dad must be going bonkers. He’s just trying to keep me away from John. I know it. We drove north along the coast. It was pretty nice in some ways. But I was edgy the whole time. Dad could feel it, and I think it made him a little sad. I used to love taking spontaneous vacations with him. But this time I was sort of mad, so I didn’t care if I was hurting his feelings. He’s got to realize that I’m seventeen now. I’m not exactly his little girl anymore. If he doesn’t start treating me like an adult, I swear I’m going to go out of my mind.

Anyway, I didn’t dare bring you, Diary. Dad is all over me. I’m going to take some time this afternoon to scout out a really good hiding place for you. If Dad reads you, I’m a dead woman.

Love,

Katherine

Tuesday, July 29

How do you like your new hiding place? I’m pretty clever, huh? Dad will never find you now. This is my beach. No one comes here. I’ve got you wrapped in a Tupperware container inside the metal box to keep you dry. If you start to get crinkly, I’ll have to choose another place. But in the meantime, this is the perfect spot.

I’m going to try to catch a glimpse of Mr. Cutie-Pie today. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.

L,

K

Friday, August 1

Dear Diary:

Sorry I haven’t visited for a few days. It is a little harder to get to you on the beach. If I sneak down here too often, Dad will smell something fishy in the air. I don’t need him casing out my private beach.

Anyway, it has been a very good week. I got to visit John twice. Once at the garage, and one morning when he was home sick. I brought him some chicken soup and crackers. When he answered the door, he looked like hell, but he was still cute in his robe with his hair flying in every direction.

At first he did not know what to say when I was standing there. I think he was a little embarrassed. But after a moment, he flashed me his famous grin. I heated up the Campbell’s on the stove, and I sat with him at the kitchen table. He kept saying that I should go so I wouldn’t get sick, but he never stood up and led me to the door, so I stayed. I’ll bet he was just trying to be polite. He seemed to like having me there.

Before I left I did the craziest thing. I invited him to visit my beach this weekend if he felt better. Can you believe I asked him? I told him it was my secret beach, mum’s the word, you know. That way my dad won’t catch wind of anything. And John will think the sneaking is just to keep my hideout a secret. I really hope he comes. Keep an eye out.

Love,

K

Beth fell asleep with the diary on her chest.

When she awoke, she hastily found a bookmark, tucked it in the pages, and returned the diary to the dresser. Then she showered, got dressed, and headed for the studio. She wrapped
Old Charlie
and
The Cove
in brown paper and packed them neatly in her car. She dropped the lighthouse off at
Kelp Corner.
Bobby Downy was waiting with another commission check.

“Thank goodness. We’ve just sold the lighthouse and my walls are going to look bare.”

Beth grinned. She unwrapped the lighthouse painting and held it up for Bobby to see.

“Marvelous.
Old Charlie.
He is stunning. I’ll have him sold by the end of the week,” Bobby declared.

“That would be wonderful,” Beth said joyfully but discouraging thoughts popped into her head.
Assuming his confidence is well-founded, that means I’ll have to complete another painting by Friday. Painting for a living is harder work than I expected.
She smiled, nonetheless. And after a moment, she laughed at herself.
It’s a pain in the ass when dreams come true, isn’t it?

She dropped by the bed and breakfast. She was nervous, yet excited, to hear Mary’s opinion of her work. Mary, Abigail, and Lou were sitting on the patio when she arrived. Lou answered the door and led Beth to the ladies, who were eating sandwiches and chatting joyfully.

“Oh my stars!” Mary exclaimed when she saw Beth. “Is that it? Is that my painting?”

“Uh, yes, but—”

“No buts. Unwrap it. I’m on pins and needles.”

Mary’s excitement exacerbated Beth’s anxiety. “If you don’t like it,” she explained, “I can always sell it at Bobby’s and paint a new one.”

“Nonsense. I haven’t even seen it yet. You will have to work on your salesmanship skills if you’re going to make a living out of this, dear.”

Beth unwrapped the painting with the back facing Lou and the ladies. Then she turned it around slowly. There was complete silence for a moment and Beth’s stomach lurched.

Finally, Mary gasped. Her eyes started to water. “It is gorgeous,” she whispered. “It is exactly what I wanted,” she added with gusto. “Good show.”

She stood up and took the painting in her hands. Then she handed it to her mother and gave Beth a huge hug. Lou and Abigail fawned over the painting for a moment. Then Mary snatched it from their hands and whisked it to the entryway. Down came the painting of the starfish, and up went the painting of
The Virginia Point Cove.

“Lou,” Mary shouted.

Lou ran after Mary. Beth and Abigail trailed close behind.

“We need to put the nail a little higher. What do you think?”

“I agree,” Abigail said.

Beth stood quietly, not offering her opinion. She was slightly embarrassed, but glowing. A special feeling welled up within her, a feeling of accomplishment coupled with hope for personal significance.

“I’ll get my toolbox,” Lou hollered as he left the room and headed toward the garage.

Mary continued to gaze at the painting. “What do I owe you, dear?”

“Oh, uh…” Beth stammered. “Bobby is selling them in his shop for three hundred twenty-five.”

“I’ll pay three hundred seventy-five then.”

“But—”

“I promised you top dollar, and I don’t go back on my word. When you become famous and start selling them for thousands, I’ll brag to all my friends about what a
steal
I got.” She pointed to the painting and grinned proudly.

Shortly after the painting was properly adjusted, Abigail announced that she was going to take a walk. “Would anyone like to join me?”

“No, thank you,” Mary said. “I’ll clean up the patio.”

“I would like to come,” Beth piped up. She thought it might be a perfect time to ask some questions about Katherine. She had defaulted on her promise to the firefly that she would locate the young lady. Beth did some quick math in her head.
I guess she is hardly a “young lady” anymore. She is older than me, for goodness sake.
The idea struck her as odd, since she only knew Katherine through the diary’s giddy, teenage narration.

Beth followed Abigail out the door. She ran to catch up with her. Abigail maintained a quick gait. Beth envied the spry woman and her accomplishments.
She has a loving family she can visit as well as her own life in Florida. And she is in great shape,
Beth realized as she struggled to keep pace. Beth imagined Abigail in Palm Beach, celebrating her golden years, content in her solitude, complete with her achievements. She wondered if such a day would come in her own life. Then she realized that she was already closer to that goal than she had been only a few weeks ago. She set aside her envy and thought about the author of the diary.

“Did Katherine have red hair?” she asked suddenly.

“No, not really. She had brown hair.” Abigail laughed. “But she certainly had the temperament of a passionate, Irish redhead. So I suppose you could say she had a redheaded spirit.”

Beth was somewhat disappointed. She had hoped that she had telepathically captured the true image of the diary’s author. It was a ridiculous idea, but then, so was seeing floating balls of light. Perhaps it was enough that she had been inspired to paint a portrait, and that she was having an unexpected success. It was a whole new avenue for her painting career. Plus, being able to capture the essence of someone might be as important as accurately drawing his or her physical image. Beth pondered for several minutes before asking her next question.