Page 27 of Just Beachy

“Absolutely!” If nothing else, I can make sure that Grand doesn’t invest in Myra’s venture. Giving art lessons to children could be fun for her—she’s great at it and some of my happiest memories were made in her home studio, where I was encouraged to express myself. And while I know it wouldn’t be smart for her to risk her money on a bookstore, it would be good for Grand to have someplace to be on a regular basis and people to interact with.

• • •

The house isa Craftsman bungalow (I know this because I fell in love with the style five minutes after I arrived in California) with a wide front porch, tapered square columns, and a low-pitched gable roof.

We step into the living room with its center fireplace flanked by built-ins beneath double-hung windows, beamed ceilings, and dark wood wainscotting and moldings. The wood floors are scuffed but appear original. Leaded and stained glass in the prairie style give off a muted glow. We walk through the living room, dining room, two former bedrooms, one bath, and kitchen, which open onto one another without benefit of hallways. The enclosed back porch runs the width of the first floor and overlooks a shaded alley.

Upstairs we peek into a smallish bedroom-turned-office with a dormer window that looks out over the street, across the green space and rooftops, to what I think is Bella Flora’s barrel tile roof. Two double-hungs on the west-facing wall provide a stellar view over Gulf Way, Paradise Grille, and the sidewalk that borders the white sand beach.

“It’s adorable,” I say as we head back downstairs.

“It certainly is,” Grand agrees. “I don’t think I could have resisted it, either.”

Outside we pause on the front porch and watch the palm trees that line the street and Gulf Way sway in the cool breeze.

“So what do you think it needs?” Myra asks me.

“Well, originally, I assumed I’d call and see if Avery and Chase could come take a look to give us input on possible renovations. But honestly, I think the physical space is already great for what you have in mind.”

“I concur,” Grand says. “Maybe a fresh coat of paint, which I’m sure the three of us could handle. And I’d love to paint a mural for the story time/book club area.”

“Oh, that would be wonderful.” Myra smiles. “And a bit of a relief. That would leave more money than I was expecting to purchase furnishings and inventory.”

“What do you say, Sydney?” Grand asks. “Are you free to get started tomorrow?”

“Absolutely.” I grin. Now I’ll have a legitimate reason not to audition. Compared to facing rejection, a little painting and arranging furniture will be a piece of cake.

Fourteen

“Whose idea was this?” Iask two days later as I swipe my hair out of my face and feel a glob of “Extra White” paint, billed as a “clean white with nearly invisible warm undertones,” land on my cheek. I try to wipe it off and feel the paint coat my right earlobe.

My pleasure at having a genuine reason to blow off auditions and avoid rejection evaporated thirty minutes ago when I climbed the rickety ladder and started on the living room ceiling. (I am, after all, the only one here who is not in her eighties!) The windows are thrown open to keep the paint fumes to a minimum, and the breeze is cool and fresh. They definitely knew how to take advantage of cross breezes back in the day.

I’ve made it to the middle of the ceiling and am admiring my handiwork when I hear footsteps on the front porch followed by a knock on the front door.

“Come in!” I shout.

The door creaks open and Kyra steps inside. “Wow!” She does a slow turn, taking in the room. “This place is awesome!”

“It is, isn’t it?” I climb down and carefully tuck my paint pan and roller up against the ladder on the drop cloth.

“And that’s a great white. But I think you’re wearing almost as much of it as the ceiling is.”

“Tell me about it.”

Grand and Myra come out of the bedrooms they’ve started painting and pull bottled waters out of the ancient fridge.Theyare perfectly clean with just a few speckles of paint on their sneakers, which, frankly, look intentional.

The people who are not covered in paint hug hello.

Kyra shoots me a smile. “Avery’s planning to come by and check things out, but she and Chase are tied up at the Y today.”

“No worries.” Grand smiles. “We’ve got this.” She and Myra high-five each other. I’m assuming they leave me out of their “up high, down low” because my hands look as spattered as my face feels. “Why don’t you take a break and give Kyra the grand tour?”

I jump on her suggestion, which feels a bit like a last-minute reprieve from the governor, and even though this place doesn’t belong to Grand or me, I can’t help feeling gratified by Kyra’s enthusiasm for the bungalow.

When we reach the enclosed back porch, I talk her through our plans for the space and Grand’s ideas for a mural that will cover the wall and wrap around the runof clerestory windows. Then I expound on our ideas for book clubs and story time and kids’ art and maybe even acting classes.

“How wonderful to see you giving this place a facelift and a purpose again,” Kyra says when I walk her to the door. “I’m sorry I can’t stay and help, but why don’t you meet me at Harley’s for a drink when you’re done for the day? Just text me when you’re on your way. And bring Grand and Myra if they’re up for it. Something tells me they’ll love the place.”

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