Page 51 of A Beach House Beginning

“Why? Did she believe you were guilty?” she asked with a frown. He could almost see her mind working, possibly condemning his sister. He couldn’t have that.

“I tried to keep Maggie and her family away from all the ugliness,” he said quickly. “She had enough on her plate, with new twins and her husband opening his law practice. She didn’t need to be dragged down by worry.”

“You don’t think she worried about you, whether you were in regular communication or not?”

“Probably,” he admitted. In truth, he hadn’t wanted the baby sister he adored to see what a mess his life had become.

“We’ve texted and emailed back and forth a few times since I was released. I was going to swing by and visit on my way to Oregon but it didn’t quite work out.”

She studied him and he had a feeling she saw right through his excuses and explanations.

“A birthday gift is a lovely way to reconnect,” she finally said, her tone gentle. “Though perhaps the best thing you could give Maggie for her birthday would be a video call from her brother and niece so she can catch up on your life.”

That was not a bad idea. Because his contact with the outside world had been limited while he had been incarcerated, he had lost the habit of remembering he could pick up the phone at any time now.

“Maybe I can do both. Send her a gift and also catch up over the phone.”

She smiled. “That works. I can’t help you with the phone call, but let’s try to find something wonderful to send her. We have one section of pottery created by local artists. Would you like to take a look?”

“Definitely. I would love to give her something that represents the Oregon Coast.”

He looked at the offerings on the shelves she indicated and was immediately drawn to a small, delicate bowl the same iridescent colors found on the inside of an abalone shell. It was even shaped a little like a shell.

“That is beautiful,” he said, holding it up to admire the colors.

Her gaze softened. “That is by one of my favorite local artists. She is eighty years old, a real character who lives alone on an isolated stretch near Heceta Head and throws pots every day. You should meet her on one of her visits to town.”

“I would like that,” he said. He had never been one for art galleries or museums when he was younger but his time in prison had given him a true appreciation for those who could create beauty no matter their situation.

“This one works for me. That was easy. I might even make it back before my lunch hour is over.”

“I can wrap it up for you. If you would like to pick out a birthday card while you’re here and write a message, we can even ship for you. We have some nice original birthday cards as well as some all-occasion.”

While it would certainly take a weight off him not to have to deal with the inconvenience of mailing, he suddenly caught sight of that glaring white bandage on her hand.

“I don’t think you should be wrapping up anything right now, with your bum hand. Just slip it in a bag and I can take it home. Brie can help me deal with it tonight.”

She made a face. “I appreciate your concern, Wes, but I’m really fine. I’ve already packaged things for other shoppers today and didn’t drop a single thing. If I have trouble, someone else here can handle that part of it.”

She was a difficult woman to win an argument against.

“Thank you, I guess. Though I don’t feel good about it.”

She laughed. “Sorry about that.”

He wanted to gaze at her for whatever time was left of his lunch hour but forced himself to head to the cards, where he finally found a lovely hand-painted card he knew Maggie would appreciate as much as the bowl.

Jenna handed him a pen from behind the counter and after a moment’s reflection, he wrote a quick message wishing her the happiest of birthdays and expressing his love. It seemed inadequate but he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

When he finished the card and slipped it into the envelope, he handed over his credit card and Jenna ran it through.

It sometimes struck him how amazing it was to be able to walk into a store and purchase whatever he wanted. For three years, he had been limited by the prison commissary and what friends on the outside could provide him.

All of his pre-arrest personal assets had been restored to him following the acquittal, along with a healthy settlement for wrongful prosecution. He had plenty of money right now. He couldn’t work forever fixing motorcycles. He knew that, but he wasn’t in any hurry to change the status quo.

After years of the grind to build his company, then the stress and helplessness of the past three years, Wes found he enjoyed the work he was doing.

He liked taking something broken and repairing it to be as good as new...and sometimes better.

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