Appointment at Christmas Bay Read online

  “Hey, girl.” She yawned and stroked the dog’s head. “A spider lies hidden in my one ear,” she whispered. “That’s how it goes.”

  Strange. She hadn’t thought of Michelangelo at any length since undergraduate school, especially his poems. Too many other masters to dissect in the Italian Renaissance.

  Juliette peered at the clock—7:30 a.m.

  I have a voice like a hornet in an oil jar.

  Another line of the poem, perhaps. One of the books in their library might have the rest. Over the years, she and her parents built a varied and substantial collection.

  She sat up and got as far as the edge of the bed. Life felt different, not so much better or worse, just changed. The morning sunlight dappled the plantation shutters on the tall windows and softly illuminated the room furnished in seaside hues, mostly white, blue, and green.

  During the torment of her comps late spring, Juliette sometimes pictured the peace and comfort of the house, in particular this room, knowing she’d spend the summer there. Only this morning it lacked the pleasure she’d imagined. She blinked a few times to wake-up and brush aside the foreign feeling.

  Anyway, maybe the world changed, but the house remained the same. Her parents kept her grandmother’s better furniture and collectibles and over the years added spruced-up castoffs from their Houston house. Evelyn Prescott’s clever touches made the large home fresh and tasteful.

  In fact, one of her paintings from back when she did things like that inspired much of the décor. A colorful piece with beach umbrellas and sunbathers reminiscent of the 1930s, it occupied a full wall in the foyer for a quarter century.

  Renters, usually vacationing families, returned to the convenient location every year. Her parents also leased the house for teas, showers, and seasonal events, especially on the Strand where tourists flocked to the shops and restaurants. Consequently, their offer to stay for the summer was overwhelmingly generous, and Juliette jumped at the chance.

  Beyond grateful, why did she suddenly feel like a stranger in paradise? Juliette rolled her tired shoulder muscles. Maybe twelve hours of sleep backfired. She stared at her left hand as she scratched Skipper’s head. Not an ounce of pain or hint of a scar.

  Yesterday’s events, the agony of her injury and strange lady with the fervent prayers, sharpened her tired mind. Today, someone had to believe her.

  She changed into a white sundress with tiny seashells, one of her fifties-styled designs, and listened for the floors to creak in her parents’ bedroom next door. Lexi and Connie also had bedrooms upstairs, and the three of them shared a bathroom. Who knew what their habits were, but her parents usually woke early.

  They’d be leaving soon. Her father taught a history class at the community college, a part-time job most semesters since retiring from the university. But if she wanted their empathy, it’d have to wait. The three other bedroom doors in the hallway were closed.

  Barefoot, she crept downstairs and let the dog out front. A gentle breeze waved the twin crepe myrtles in the yard, and a few puffy clouds passed across the electric-blue sky. She gulped a few breaths of the fresh air. For a split second, she wondered why her car wasn’t in the driveway until she remembered. By the time she went to bed last night, Harry hadn’t reached the wrecker service to find out where it ended up.

  The horror of losing control of the car and sloshing through the marsh drained her energy momentarily. It might not even be salvageable.

  She sighed, trying to keep to practicalities. She needed the files back soon as possible. At least, she’d set up the computer, printer, and fax machine.

  She turned back to the kitchen, put on a pot of coffee, and when enough brewed for one cup, headed to the library, which connected through a laundry room.

  Most of her time this summer would be spent there. With its eastern exposure, the wall of windows soaked up the sunlight and offered a view of the small, lush backyard. A cranberry sofa and two comfortable leather chairs sat at one end and a large, walnut writing table at the other. Opposite the windows, built-in bookshelves towered to the ceiling, divided by pocket doors which opened to the living room. The workplace she imagined for weeks lacked purpose without the bulk of her research material.

  With the coffee mug, Juliette settled at the desk where she’d planned to work today and propped her feet next to the laptop. A spider web lies hidden in my one ear… How did the rest of that poem go?

  Unable to remember, she finally got up and surveyed the collection, which, thanks to her, had numerous titles related to the Italian Renaissance. She found a few that might have Michelangelo’s work and settled back at the desk. One general, coffee-table book probably wouldn’t have the poem, but she perused its colorful pages and stopped at a painting of the Archangel Michael.

  Was he real? She never considered the possibility. Christian art was like any other art. Every culture reflected its beliefs creatively. Modern scholars of ancient Greece didn’t buy into Zeus or Athena. On the next page, a full-sized photo of Michelangelo’s Pietà stared back at her. Italian for “pity” and the name for any art depicting the dead Christ laying across Mary’s lap, it too was art, or it had been to her.

  Her heart fluttered at the sculpture. Jesus. The woman shouted his name in the confines of the car. Then last night as she fell asleep, Juliette thought about the idea God might really exist. How did all the pieces fit together?

  Was it all a dream like the one with Michelangelo? Her fingers shaking, she pushed the book aside but still in view while she looked in another book for the poem. Just as she opened it, someone pattered on the pine floors in the living room, and her parents appeared in the doorway.

  “Good to see you up.” Her mother walked behind the desk and hugged her shoulder. “But we wanted you to rest today. How long have you been working?”

  “Not long.” Juliette sipped her coffee.

  “You look rested, darling,” her father said. He leaned to Michelangelo’s Pietà and pinched his brows. Today, she viewed the sculpture with new eyes, but what was her father thinking?

  “Yes, she looks lovely,” her mother added. “Paul Quinn called this morning. What did he say, dear?”

  “That he has some business in town. He offered to drop your cell phone off about noon.” Her father closed the book and looked out the windows.

  “That’s right. Tell her about the car, Louis.”

  “Mother and I didn’t want you without transportation. A company should be calling within the hour about delivering a rental.”

  “Thanks, Daddy.”

  Her mother kissed her head. “Okay, darling. We need to get on the road.”

  Juliette trailed them through the living room where they squabbled about whether they needed gas. At the door, she rested in each embrace. If she wanted to bring up any final words about the accident or hear how they slept on it and couldn’t get over the wonder of God healing her hand, now was the time.

  Before she could bring it up, her father opened the door, and the dog bounded in. Skipper whimpered, made a few laps around them, and dashed back outside.

  “Oh dear,” her mother said. “So rambunctious.” She looped her husband’s arm at the steps and waved to Juliette to follow. “We love you, darling. We’ll talk to you later this evening.”

  Juliette hugged each one and waited while they climbed in the car. Disappointment filled her heart, but she smiled and waved as they drove away.

  Their house faced west, and the front porch, despite three comfortable wicker chairs and a loveseat, was inhospitable by afternoon. But this morning a gentle breeze blew, and she settled into one of the chairs.

  It wasn’t a private spot by any means. A few cars already tooled down Postoffice, and across 19th Street, a woman pulled weeds from her flowerbed in front of a nice home recently painted like a big gingerbread house, brown with hot pink accents. Her parents mentioned the man and his wife were both nurses at the hospital. Hopefully, neither worked in the ER yesterday afternoon.


  Skipper darted off the porch and barked at a prancing cat on the sidewalk. A few feet from the fence, she danced in place, a cute little shuffle she did when excited. Juliette marveled at her moves. God made dogs? The sky and palm trees? That meant he created everything. What about the terrible things in the world? Why heal her hand and let those go?

  It didn’t add up.

  She wondered what her father thought about the pietà. His expressions could be inscrutable. Definitely, any interest in that kind of thing clashed with the family identity. They were thinkers, travelers, scholars.

  They weren’t Christians.

  The odd thought popped in her head, an off-key note in their well-orchestrated lives. But that was it—the divide.

  The door swung open, and Lexi stepped out dressed in a denim skort and t-shirt. Connie followed in combat-green shorts and a tan tank top. She smiled and pushed her cropped, uncombed hair off her face.

  “Morning.” She sat down in the chair next to Juliette. “We’re getting ready to fix some eggs. Can you join us?”

  “Frittatas, Mom,” Lexi called from the yard where she played with the dog.

  Connie raised her brow at Juliette. “We’ll see,” she whispered. “It’s something her dad made, but I’m not going to compete with him, no matter what she says.”

  “I can hear you, Mom,” Lexi singsonged. “I told you I can do it.”

  “I know,” Connie called out. “Settle down.” She shook her head. “However it turns out, we’re going to have lots.”

  Juliette sighed. “My stomach probably can’t handle more than a little yogurt right now but thanks.”

  Connie scooted to the cushion edge about to get up. “By the way, are you okay? Your parents mentioned the accident.”

  “Yeah—” Juliette paused when Lexi bounded up the steps and sprawled across the loveseat cushion with palm fronds.

  Connie smoothed her shorts. “You’re welcome to use my car if you need it.”

  “Mom and Dad arranged for a rental.” Juliette wished Connie would visit a little longer, but she looked poised to go back inside. “Did Lexi tell you about my injury?”

  “I suppose she did.” Connie’s brows pinched, and her eyes darted across the street. “She mentioned washing a towel and clothes. I hope you don’t mind, Juliette. We’ve got a bad case of boredom, I think.”

  “So, Lexi, you told your mom the story?”

  The girl didn’t look up while she coaxed the dog to the loveseat. “Yeah, but I don’t know if it was true.”

  Every muscle in Juliette’s body tensed. “But you saw all the blood stains.”

  She shrugged. “That didn’t mean it was your blood.”

  Connie got up. “Go inside, honey. Get whatever we need for this fritter out of the refrigerator, please.”

  “Frittata,” Lexi said already fleeing.

  “I’m sorry, Juliette,” Connie said. “She’s been though so much the last six months or so. This divorce hit her hard. It didn’t help her dad decided to spend the summer in Brussels.” She looked up at the porch ceiling, sighed, and seemed to shake off the ghosts. Her face brightened. “Do you mind if one of her friends comes this weekend. She needs some company and has been itching to get over to Moody Gardens.”

  Juliette nodded, numb. “Sure. No need to ask about things like that. Just make yourself at home.”

  “We appreciate it.” Connie put her hand on the brass door handle. “Listen, maybe I should level with you.” She suddenly sounded like the professor she was with a deeper voice and features ironed into a placid, non-expression.

  “Yes?” Juliette straightened her shoulders.

  “From what Lexi said, I understood you related the accident in spiritual terms. We don’t espouse any faith, even the traditional one of my own family, Buddhism. If you don’t mind, I prefer Lexi and I steer clear of any religious controversy.”

  “Controversy?” Juliette’s hands trembled in her lap.

  “Maybe that’s the wrong description.” She opened the door. “Please, I don’t want to be offensive. It’s just that—”

  “Even if that’s what happened?”

  Connie tightened her lips. “Sounds bad, doesn’t it. It’s more that the description doesn’t fit the context of our beliefs.” She rolled her hand. “The problem’s with us, not you. I hope you understand.”

  Juliette nodded. Actually, she did, listening to it that way. When Connie left, she leaned back in the chair, beads of sweat pouring down the sides of her face.

  What was wrong with all these people? Or was she the problem?

  ****

  Paul Quinn waited at the parts counter at Gulf Shore Boats and Repair for a water pump, hoses, and a few fuses. Freeport would have been closer, but if he had to be in Galveston to return the woman’s phone, he might as well do his business nearby.

  At the computer, the clerk scanning the items adjusted his reading glasses. “Looks like three-hundred and nineteen dollars.”

  Paul swiped his debit card. He couldn’t cover repairs like this much longer.

  The clerk handed him the receipt. “Hey, come back if we can help you with that engine.”

  “Oh, man. Like I said, hopefully that can wait until next summer.”

  He headed out to the truck. In a lot adjacent to the parts building, new boats, sleek and beckoning, attracted his attention. By now, he planned to have a newer one himself. That was back when he was counting birds in the bush—clients that never materialized. While the economy boomed, he purchased a truck with cash and financed an as-is beach house, expecting a new vessel to come next.

  The boat store was located north of the island. From the causeway, West Bay sparkled like a million diamonds and reminded him of Juliette’s engagement ring clotted with blood. He was interested to see how she fared after the accident yesterday.

  The traffic on Broadway wasn’t as bad as he thought for almost noon on a summer day. He passed old buildings and some new. Galveston was like an antique porcelain doll with chips and frayed clothes. For every refurbished house or business, five more needed rescuing.

  He turned left on the Prescott’s street and down a few blocks stopped at the address Mrs. Prescott gave him in the historic district bordering the shops and restaurants on the Strand. The place instantly underscored his pauper status.

  His eyes swept over the premises, which he judged to be two lots. The two-story Victorian home, champagne-pink with wood shutters, sat on one, and to the right, an overgrown lawn. The place looked fragile somehow and reminded him of chantilly lace or china.

  Two young, crepe myrtles with lavender blossoms mirrored each other across the front sidewalk, and a few sago palms and spiky irises without blossoms solely occupied the garden. As if a fence around the perimeter wasn’t enough, pink oleanders bordered the driveway that ran parallel to Postoffice Street.

  Suddenly nervous, Paul clutched the young woman’s phone and exhaled. A wiry dog bounced up to the wrought iron gate and stuck her long, pointed nose through the bars. He got out of the truck and offered his hand.

  “Do you bite, little girl?”

  When she wagged her tail, he proceeded through the gate. She circled around him all the way to the porch. Just as he hit the first step, a preteen girl opened the door.

  “Skipper, come here.” She snapped her fingers and pushed her glasses up. The dog slipped past her and ran inside.

  Paul smiled. “I’m here to return a phone.”

  “I can take it,” she said. Thin as a reed, she looked so serious he couldn’t help a broad smile.

  “Okay.” He was about to turn around when Juliette appeared.

  She looked nothing like she did when he gave her a lift. Her sundress accentuated her waist, and she wore pale-pink lipstick. Fair skinned with her brown hair held back by a sash that draped the front of her dress, she was pretty enough, more than that graceful, and like the house, delicate.

  “I’ve got it, Lexi.” Juliette said. She smiled at him seeming ner
vous.

  “Here’s your phone,” Lexi said. “Maybe Harry called.”

  “He already did. On the house phone.” She stared down the kid who disappeared into the house.

  “Thanks for coming all this way.”

  She smelled like lemons. He had the strangest sense being around her. But he wasn’t himself these days. “Sure.” He cleared his throat and looked around. “Nice place. Bet it’s not as old as it looks, is it?”

  “Ha, correct. The original home burned down in the sixties, and my grandmother rebuilt it.” Juliette wandered over to a white wicker chair. “How did you know?”

  “Maybe it’s the scale.” He leaned against the porch railing.

  “Interesting you noticed.” She tilted her head and gazed at the street. “Have you heard of the Uffizi Gallery? It’s in Florence. There’s a painting there by Caravaggio called the Sacrifice of Isaac.”

  Paul shrugged. What was she talking about?

  She continued. “Abraham has a knife in his hand, and he’s looking back at an angel—”

  “She’s working on her PhD,” a voice called down from the upstairs balcony.

  Paul leaned back and looked up at the girl hanging over the banister. “Is that so?” Is that why she knows so much?”

  “Just about art history,” she called down. A few footsteps and muffled voices followed her reply.

  “What’s all that?” he asked, turning back to Juliette whose crossed leg bounced in annoyance.

  She sighed. “That’s her mother shutting down the haunting. Anyway, there’s another painting in New Jersey.”

  “Is there?” He couldn’t get over how different she looked, but did she take meds or something? Why the art lecture?

  “It’s the same title—The Sacrifice of Isaac—also by Caravaggio. Only many scholars believe someone else painted it.” She folded her hands in her lap. “Some things can’t be so easily authenticated.”

  Something about her gripped him. “That’s true.” He rolled his neck and put his hands in his pockets. “Well, stay safe.”

  “They don’t believe me,” she whispered. “My roommate and parents. Harry.” A tear spilled down her cheek, and she swiped it away.