Return to the Beach House (2 page)

Seeing that she’d already vacuumed, Andrew was reluctant to cross the plush Aubusson area rugs and leave footprints. “Are you about ready? We’re leaving in a few minutes.”

Grace popped her head around the corner. “No problem. I can do the bookshelves when I get back.”

After glancing at the gleaming walnut wood, Andrew noted that not even a speck of dust reflected in the sunlight coming through the sliding-glass door. Julia could not have found a more dedicated or fanatical caretaker for her beloved beach house. Responsible, caring, loving, and dedicated, Grace was the antithesis of her biological mother, Rose, and had survived years of neglect and callous indifference—basically raising herself while her mother indulged in the “free” life of a vagabond.

Only it wasn’t free. Grace had paid a heavy price in her deep-seated belief that if she’d only been better or prettier or smarter, her mother wouldn’t have abandoned her so many times. When Grace was eight and Child Welfare entered the scene, Rose handed her over without so much as an alligator tear. Three years and four foster homes later, Grace came to live with Andrew and Cheryl. It took eight months before she flashed a genuinely spontaneous smile and an entire year before she could get into the car without asking if she would be coming back.

Grace crossed the room, skirting the carpet with the dexterity of a gymnast on a balance beam. Dressed in cutoff jeans and a tank top, her thick, sun-bleached hair cascading over her shoulders, and her face glowing with the unique light of youth, she looked like the iconic Super Bowl advertisement of a seemingly ageless Cindy Crawford reaching for a Pepsi.

Since she had turned fifteen two and a half years ago, total strangers had approached her to tell her how beautiful she was. At first the attention had scared her. Now she simply ignored it. Andrew reacted, however, with a fierce protectiveness, no matter how many times Cheryl tried to convince him that not every man who looked at their daughter was consumed with carnal longings. He just wished Grace was a little more like her older sister, Rebecca, who had learned through her time in the foster care system—before being adopted by Andrew and Cheryl—how to stop unwanted attention with a withering look. Instead, no matter how obnoxious the behavior directed at her, Grace was unfailingly polite, far too trusting, and painfully eager to please—an ulcer-producing combination for a father of daughters.

Grace dug her keys out of her pocket and locked the door. “Tell me again what time the Kirkpatricks are arriving tomorrow.”

“The best estimate I could get was sometime after noon. Is there a reason you need an exact time?”

“I thought I’d go by the nursery and pick up a couple of phals. If that’s okay with you. I saw some whites and a couple of yellows in the back room that still looked pretty good.”

Andrew grew orchids commercially, shipping stock throughout the United States and Canada. He specialized in phalaenopsis, not only because they were long-lasting and shipped well, but because he loved growing them. The back room was where he kept the plants that didn’t meet the shipping standards because they either were too far along in their blooming cycle or had unattractive color breaks. More often than not, after a second bloom, the color deviants ended up in the trash. But there were enough surprises in the process that Andrew found it hard to just automatically dump them.

“I think that’s a great idea,” he said. “Rebecca is getting an order ready to ship. I’ll have her set a couple aside for you, and she can bring them home tonight.”

“She’s not going to the airport with us?”

“Trust me—your mom doesn’t expect a major send-off, and all your brother cares about is getting a window seat. It’s perfectly okay with them to be dropped off at the curb.” Andrew put his arm around his daughter’s shoulder and gave her a hug. Grace worried more about hurt feelings than Bobby’s preschool teacher did with a roomful of four-year-olds on their first day in class.

“Well, it’s important to me.”

“A-mariachi-band-and-balloons important?”

She laughed. “Close. But I’ll compromise with parking the car and walking them to the security gate.”

“You know Bobby is going to have a fit if you try to hug him in front of all those people.”

“I can handle a five-year-old.”

Andrew unlatched the garden gate. “You bribed him, didn’t you?”

She acted shocked. “Would I do something like that?”

“If it’s chocolate, your mom will shoot you.” Bobby reacted to an ounce of chocolate the way most people reacted to downing half a dozen Red Bulls. And of course, he was the kind of kid who ranked chocolate above any other food, including pizza.

“Hmm . . . I could slip him some M&Ms and they wouldn’t let him on the plane.”

Andrew’s heart broke a little at her attempt to use humor to cover her fear of people she loved leaving her. “They’re only going to be gone a month,” he said tenderly. “You’ll be amazed how fast it passes.”

“I just don’t like good-byes,” she admitted.

“I don’t like them either. I’m just better at hiding it.” He tapped his finger on the end of her nose. “And it helps that they’re only going to L.A., not across the country.”

For what had to be the tenth time, Grace asked, “Why did this happen? What makes someone’s brain stop working the way Grandma’s did?”

“Figure that one out and you’ll not only be richer than Bill Gates, you’ll save a hell of a lot of heartache.”

“Do you think Grandma April knows what’s happening to her?”

“She knew in the beginning. I doubt she does anymore.”

“How sad to watch someone you love disappear like that. Especially your own mother.” She leaned into Andrew as they crossed the space that separated their house from Julia’s. “At least Mom knows Grandma April isn’t leaving her willingly. I guess that’s something.”

PART ONE

June

Chapter 1

Breathtaking.

Alison Kirkpatrick was at a loss for any other way to describe the view from the back deck of the beach house. She considered calling her friend Linda to tell her about it, but Linda had little interest in the world west of the Hudson River.

Alison needed new friends. Especially now that her best friend, her widowed daughter-in-law Nora, had remarried, and her grandson Christopher was about to go away to college. There were nights it was all she could think about. No matter how long she stayed in bed, sleep was as likely as any real bipartisanship in politics. She either grabbed her iPad and read one of the books she had on her digital bookshelf or wound up in the kitchen digging through the freezer for the Ben and Jerry’s she liked to tell herself she bought for Christopher. She’d never understood people who turned to alcohol for solace when there was ice cream.

As weary of her self-imposed moodiness as she was her increasingly boring life, she purposely put aside the reason she was spending the next month in what had turned out to be a surprisingly delightful rental with an incomparable view and went back into the house to finish unpacking. The doorbell rang before she made it to the bedroom.

Standing on the porch, flashing an orthodontist’s dream smile, was a girl Alison guessed to be near the same age as Christopher.

“Mrs. Kirkpatrick?” she asked.

“Yes . . .”

“Hi. I’m Grace Wells. I live next door”—she pointed to her right—“the house on the other side of the walkway.”

“Hello, Grace Wells,” Alison said. “How can I help you?”

“Hopefully, I’ll be the one helping you. Not that I expect anything to go wrong,” Grace added quickly. “But if it does, I’m your contact person while you’re here.” When Alison didn’t respond, Grace prompted, “For the house? In case you have any questions? Or problems? You know—like how something works or what the dinging sound coming from the refrigerator means. By the way, the dinging means one of the doors is open.”

“Oh yes. I remember now. Your name was on the contract Julia sent. I was expecting someone . . . a little older.” More to the point, she’d expected a rental agency with limited hours and voice mail. How nice to discover she’d been wrong.

“I have backup should anything really big need fixing. And my dad’s really good with the smaller stuff.” She shifted from one foot to the other. “I just came by to introduce myself and give you this.” Grace put her hand on the binder she had tucked under her arm.

“Would you like to come in?” Alison opened the door wider and stepped to the side.

Grace hesitated. “If you’re busy, I could come back later.”

“Actually, your timing is perfect. I’d like some company.” Alison led the way into the living room. “I assume you’re the one I have to thank for the orchids?”

“My dad has a commercial nursery in the valley. The yellow phals are my favorites. He has a thing for the whites.”

Alison indicated a chair beside the fireplace. “I’m sorry I don’t have anything to offer you except water. I haven’t had time to go to the store yet.”

“I’m fine,” Grace said, settling on the edge of the cushion.

Alison sat on the sofa and pointed to the binder. “You brought that for me?”

“It’s nothing special,” Grace said dismissively. “I made up some lists of places I thought you and Mr. Kirkpatrick might want to visit while you’re here. There’s the usual tourist stuff, but I included places no one writes about, places the natives go, like Garrapata Beach. It’s great for picnics and not nearly as crowded as the beaches by the wharf. Or if you’re into golf, according to my uncle, DeLaveaga is one of the best public courses in California. And someplace hardly anyone goes is Fremont Peak State Park. It has the best views from anywhere around here, especially if you’re into photography. My sister won first place at the state fair with a picture she took there.”

Grace put the binder on the coffee table and opened it to the first page. “I made a list of restaurants too. Since I don’t have a lot of experience eating at really expensive places, I had to ask my parents’ friends for recommendations.” She smiled. “Don’t worry, they’re the kind of friends who go to the snooty boutique wineries for the new releases and read the
Wine Spectator
the way an evangelical reads the Bible.” She added, “My dad’s words, not mine. Anyway, these people know good restaurants.”

Alison had never been interested in anything about wine beyond whether it was red or white, or sweet or dry. She glanced at the sample menus in the vinyl sleeves as Grace slowly turned the pages. Some were prix fixe, not the best choice for a soon-to-be-eighteen-year-old suddenly grown finicky. Others offered more standard yet elegant fare, everything from portabello sliders to wild-caught salmon with Béarnaise sauce.

Grace turned several pages at once, skipping the last of the high-end restaurants. “This next section has places I know really well and can recommend because I’ve been there. For instance . . . you can’t do better than Pizza My Heart. It’s a chain, but don’t hold that against it.” She flipped the page. “And hands down, the best place for a hamburger, fries, and milkshake is Carpos. They have a great salad bar too.

“I saved the best for last,” she said with a grin. “The bakeries. We have a lot of them around here, but I’ve whittled it down to the ones that are so good you don’t care how many calories are involved.”

Alison glanced at the dividers that had been labeled with Day-Glo tabs. It was impossible not to respond to Grace’s enthusiasm. “Do you have recommendations for the mundane things too, like grocery stores?”

“In the back.” Grace flipped the pages to the final tab. “It’s in the section called ‘Necessities.’ You’ll find things like pharmacies and cleaners, and there’s a couple of camera stores too. I included some maps to the best organic farmers’ markets. At least the ones my mom thinks are the best.”

“I’m impressed.” Alison smiled. “I don’t know how to thank you for all the work you’ve done.”

“It was fun.” Grace stood. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can do. Or if there’s anything else you need.”

“I can’t think of anything. But if I do, I’ll call you.”

Grace had already made Alison’s time at the beach house infinitely easier than if she’d had to discover all these places for herself. Then it hit her. She’d spent the morning trying to arrange a rental car for Christopher and had come away from every agency, even one that was the equivalent of Rent-A-Wreck, not only frustrated but empty-handed. She either had to get creative or spend the next thirty days wearing a chauffeur’s hat.