The Beach House (4 page)

 

That afternoon the sun came at them from a dozen directions, off windows, and water, and the chrome strips on the Mercedes, as if trying to make up for the gray morning. Reluctant to be inside on such a glorious day, Julia worked on the flower beds while Eric took down the shutters. She'd picked up several new plants at the hardware store, ignoring the voice that questioned her reasoning. Not only wouldn't she be there to enjoy the fruits of her labor, she'd be putting the house up for sale in September. Still, by the time she was through in the nursery, she'd filled the back of Eric's car with flats of dianthus, snapdragons, zinnias, and dahlias, forgetting the other work she'd planned to get done in favor of being outside and digging in the dirt.

“That looks great,” Eric said as he came out of the garage.

She rocked back on her heels and looked up at him. “I've talked about replanting this walkway for ages. The nasturtiums were past their prime years ago.”

“Is that what I've got growing at my place—nasturtiums?”

“Andrew keeps them because they're low maintenance.” She smiled. “And he likes to use them in salads when he has company.”

“That reminds me, I'm starved. How about you?”

“Yeah, now that you mention it, I could eat something.”

“Sandwiches okay? I know a great deli in Aptos.” Before she could say anything he added, “It's the one in the shopping center at—”

“Sandwiches are fine. And I know which one you mean. There's a take-out place down the road from there that's even better.” She stood and brushed the dirt from her slacks. “My treat.”

He hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans and studied her. “This is none of my business—”

“I hear a ‘but' coming.” She sent him a look she hoped would relay how weary she was of well-meaning advice.

He either didn't pick up on her look or chose to ignore it. “From everything I've heard about you and Ken, he left you with hundreds of wonderful memories. Turning every place you went together into some kind of shrine could really be self-destructive.”

Her anger left her speechless. She'd known him less than twenty-four hours. What made him think he had a right to comment on the way she chose to mourn her husband?

“I can see that went over well,” Eric said. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything.”

“What is it about me? Do I have a sign taped to my back saying ‘Will work for advice'?”

“You make people care. And when they care, they want to help.”

“So it's all my doing?”

“You don't think I'm going to accept blame, do you?”

At the same time the idiocy of the argument hit, her anger dissipated. How could she expect anyone, let alone someone who hadn't even known Ken, to understand what he'd meant to her or what it had meant for her to lose him? Despite a concentrated effort not to, she smiled. “If you think it's fun to be around me now, you should see me when I'm really trying to be charming.”

Eric was caught off guard at the abrupt change. For an instant it was as if her abandonment of the battlefield had given him a glimpse into her mind. The depth of her loneliness shook him. She touched the “vanquishing hero” part of his mind, the childhood fantasy hero who told him all he had to do was wrap her tightly in his protective cape and she would be shielded from pain. Only the man he'd become knew there was no shelter from pain that came from inside. “Pickles?”

She frowned. “What?”

“Do you want pickles on your sandwich? I figured I'd go alone so you could stay here and finish the flowers.”

“Yes.”

“Yes what? The pickles or me going alone?”

“Both,” she said. “But not in the sandwich. On the side.”

“What kind?”

“Dill.”

“I meant what kind of sandwich.”

“Ham and cheese.”

“On rye?”

She nodded. “With lots of mayonnaise but no mustard.”

“Chips?”

“Barbecue.”

He made a face. “Anything else?”

“Macaroni salad.”

“What about dessert?”

She thought a minute. “Carrot cake. I'm willing to share, if you'd like.”

“No thanks. I'm having humble pie.”

She didn't say anything for several seconds. “What happened was my fault. You got hit with something that's been building inside me for months. It wasn't fair, and I apologize.”

“Don't. You were absolutely right to do what you did. I had no business interfering.”

“But you were right about what you said. The strange thing is that at home I've almost made it a mission to go back to all the places Ken and I frequented. I knew if I didn't, they would wind up holding power over me, and I refused to let that happen.” She turned away from him, put her hand up to shield her eyes, and looked at the ocean. “Then I came here and it's as if I'm starting all over again.”

“As busy as you must have been, you probably forgot all about this place.”

“No, I didn't,” she said softly.

Finally he understood. It hadn't been business or friends or family that had kept her away from the beach house. This was the one place she could not face without Ken.

Yet she had.

While Julia was looking away from him, Eric took the opportunity to study her. He tried to imagine the way she had been with Ken, before the sadness had stolen even the small joys that made up a day. He'd seen traces of what he'd assumed was the old Julia as they'd searched for sand dollars, both in her smile and in the way she'd accepted his challenge over who could collect the most unbroken shells. At times the looks she'd given him held questions; at others, mischief. But they were fleeting moments, gone before he could respond.

He wondered about the woman Ken had known. Was she hiding somewhere inside, or had that part of her died when Ken did?

Chapter 4

Julia heard a sound behind her and, thinking it was Eric back from the deli, said, “It's about time.”

“I would have come sooner, but I didn't notice your car until just a few minutes ago.”

She let out a squeal of delight as she dropped her spade and got up. “Peter—how wonderful to see you.”

He took her in his arms in a hug that lifted her off the ground. “I've been worried about you,” he said, putting her down again and looking directly into her eyes. “I haven't heard from you in weeks.”

“I kept telling myself I should call, but it's been crazy at work lately. You wouldn't believe what I had to go through just to get away this week.”

“Well, no matter. You're here now and you look wonderful.”

Peter Wylie was Ken's oldest friend in California. Tall and fit with a square jaw and intense blue eyes, his black hair untouched by gray, he looked more like a construction worker than an artist. He'd been the one she'd called to clean out the refrigerator and close the beach house that past winter, knowing he would understand why she couldn't do it herself. Born and reared in the area, he'd taught Ken to surf and sail and helped instill a California attitude that left him sounding and thinking like a native. They'd been drinking buddies back when they had to scrounge through car ashtrays and sofa cushions to come up with the price of a six-pack. Peter had sold his first watercolor the day Ken sold his first computer program. Their celebration had lasted for days.

Now Peter's watercolors were handled by some of the finest galleries in the country and collected by as many investors as fans. He could afford to live anywhere, but for ten months every year he resided in the small five-room house he'd been living in when he and Ken first met. The other two months he escaped the summer crush of tourists by going on the road to visit galleries and friends.

A couple of years ago Julia had asked him why he left for June and July and then returned in August every year in the height of the summer season. His only reply had been a shrug, as if it were a mystery to him, too. She had looked to Ken for an answer, and his response had been as inexplicable. In the end, she'd put it off as one of those “guy” things.

“Are you packed and ready to go?” Julia asked.

“Just about.”

An unfamiliar awkwardness overcame her. She didn't know what to say. For as long as she and Peter had known each other, Ken had been a part of their friendship. Since his death they'd been like two legs of a three-legged stool. “I'm thinking about selling the house,” she blurted out.

He nodded. “I figured you might. When?”

“Not until after the summer. I wanted everyone to have this last year.” She still hadn't decided how to break it to the families that had been coming there twice as long as she had. Telling Joe and Maggie would be especially hard. Ken had promised they would have their summer at the beach for as long as he owned the house. At the time he'd honestly believed his promise was good for as long as they lived. Somehow she would make it up to them.

“Let me know before you put the place on the market, would you?”

Julia gave him a questioning look. “Why?”

“I don't know. . . .” He rubbed his hand across the back of his neck. “After all this time I can't imagine having strangers living here.”

“You're not thinking about buying it yourself, are you?”

When he didn't answer, she pushed a little harder. “You couldn't paint here. The lighting is terrible. You've told me so a hundred times.”

“I was thinking I could live over here and turn my place into a studio. They're only two houses apart. I think I might like having some distance between where I work and live.”

The idea appealed to her, too much so. Had she told Peter about selling the house because she wanted him to come up with a solution that would make it easier for her to let go? “When are you leaving?”

“I have to be out by the first of next week. I told a friend of mine that his daughter-in-law could use the place while he's in town working on that movie they're shooting in Watsonville.”

“I heard that one of the actors was staying in the house up on the hill.”

“Rumor has it they're all over the place. If it's true, they're keeping a low profile. The first I saw of any of them was a couple of days ago on the beach. There were five guys—they told me only one of them was actually in the movie, and that the others were crew—playing volleyball and drinking designer water.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“Designer water? I'd always heard it got pretty wild on location.”

“Like the parties they throw for you at the galleries?”

He laughed. “An insomniac could sleep through the best of them.”

“When will you be back?”

“The last week in July.”

It was always the same. Peter might leave early, but he never came home late.

“We'll talk about selling the house when you get back,” Julia said. It occurred to her then that Peter might not want to stop by to see her before going home now that Ken was gone. “Unless—”

“I'll be there,” Peter said. “When did you ever know me to pass up a home-cooked meal?”

“I just thought it would be a good time to talk things over. Who knows, we could have both changed our minds by then.”

She wouldn't, but the summer would give Peter time to get used to the idea. “God knows I do that often enough. There are days I hardly know what I want anymore.”

“You look good,” he repeated. “Better than the last time I saw you.”

“Thanks.” She smiled. “I think.” He'd last seen her at Christmas, catching her by surprise an hour after Ken's present had arrived. Even though he'd had other plans for the rest of the day, he'd canceled them and stayed with her. Not once did he utter one of the standard empty platitudes she'd come to know by heart. He hadn't even flinched at her free-flowing tears.

She heard a car door slam and looked up to see Eric headed their way. Judging by the size of the bags he carried, he'd bought enough to feed the neighborhood.

“Hey, Peter,” Eric called out, “where have you been keeping yourself?”

When it became obvious Eric was there because of Julia, Peter looked from one to the other, his expression going from surprise to confusion to questioning. Guilt washed over Julia, leaving her feeling as if she'd been caught doing something wrong.

“You know each other, I take it,” she said, fighting an irrational urge to escape inside the house.

“Eric found me on the beach and took me to the hospital after some asshole fisherman shot me when I was out on my board. The fisherman said he thought I looked like the seal that had been eating
his
salmon.”

Julia's jaw dropped. “When did this happen?”

“A couple of months ago.”

“Are you all right?”

“It was just a flesh wound,” Peter said dismissively.

“Another half inch and he could have lost his arm,” Eric added.

Julia searched Peter's arms for scars. She found one just above his left elbow. “My God, you're left-handed . . . your painting . . .”

“That was the first thing I thought about, too,” Peter admitted.

She touched his arm as if to confirm the scar was real. “I take it they caught him?”

Peter smiled. “I repeated that boat number to myself all the way to shore. The cops were waiting for him when he docked in Monterey later that night.”

“Have you had lunch?” Eric asked Peter as he shifted the bags to keep them from slipping.

Again Peter looked from Julia to Eric and back again. He answered as if Julia had been the one who'd issued the invitation. “I'm meeting someone later.”

“How about a beer?” she said.

“I don't think so.”

She fought the urge to tell him what he was thinking was wrong, that there was nothing between her and Eric, that there never could be. He knew she would never look at another man. She loved Ken. He was her husband.

He had been her husband
.

Ken was no more. Her loyalty was tied to a memory.

“I'm going to take these in,” Eric said.

It was everything she could do to keep from physically reaching out to stop him. “Why don't we eat outside—on the back deck.”

His eyebrow rose in question. “Do you want me to get a couple of chairs out of the garage?”

“No.” She was only making it worse. “I forgot they were still in there. I guess we'll have to go inside after all.” There was no mistaking the lack of enthusiasm in her voice.

“Would you rather we went to my place?” he asked.

What was wrong with her? Eric had done nothing to deserve being treated like a door-to-door salesman. She turned her attention to Peter. “Are you sure you won't join us?”

“I really have to get going,” he said.

“I'd like to see you before you leave town.”

He leaned forward to give her a kiss. “Are you free for dinner tomorrow?”

“Of course I'm free. Why wouldn't I be?”

The silence that followed hung heavy in the air. Finally Eric saved her. “I'm going to put this stuff away while you and Peter work things out.” He headed for his house.

Five minutes later she was at his front door.

“What? No flowers?” He held the screen for her to come inside.

“I'm sorry.”

“It's okay. The ones you brought last night still look terrific.”

She looked up at him. “That's not what I mean.”

“I know.” He brushed a leaf from her hair. “Don't worry about it. I've done worse.”

“Peter and Ken go way back.”

“He told me.”

“You've talked to him about Ken?”

He nodded. “About you, too.”

Yet another surprise that day. “What did he say?”

“That you were the most beautiful woman he'd ever met and that you and Ken were the perfect couple. I think ‘made for each other' was the way he put it. I don't know about the perfect couple part, but he was sure right about the other.”

People had told her she was beautiful all her life. To her the words were as meaningless as saying the ocean was blue. What possible difference did it make how others saw her? Had her looks been a bargaining chip, she would have gladly traded them away to have Ken back, if only for an hour.

“I never know how to respond to something like that,” she said.

A teasing twinkle lit his eyes. “If it bothers you, you could always dissuade them of the idea. Picking your nose while they were telling you about your beautiful eyes would probably do the trick.”

She laughed, deep and full throated. It made her feel better than she had in a long time. “Will you be my friend?”

He put his arm around her and led her into the kitchen. “I already am. I think it happened last night sometime between shutting the water off and seeing you drip spaghetti sauce on your shirt.”

“I did not.”

“Gotcha.”

He had, and she didn't mind one bit. Actually, she rather liked it.