She dug her toes into the sand to reclaim her position. The receding wave snatched the grains she’d disturbed, leaving her toes exposed again. Somewhere in the battle was a lesson, but she couldn’t summon the energy to figure out what it was.
Something solid washed over her foot. She reached down and captured a plastic top from a six-pack of soda as it made a second pass. Before stuffing it in her pocket, she automatically tore the loops to keep some seagull or curious otter from inadvertently choking itself to death.
Was this something Ken had taught her, or had she always known?
She had no idea anymore where she began and he left off.
Her gaze fixed on the fog-shrouded sea, she froze when she heard her name being called, seemingly carried on an incoming wave. Rigid with anticipation, she waited to see if she would hear it again. When it came a third time, she realized with a stab of disappointment that the voice was coming not from the sea, but from somewhere to her left. She looked and saw a man heading toward her. For the length of a heartbeat she let herself believe it was Ken.
But it wasn’t.
“I thought it was you,” Eric said as he drew closer. “Beautiful morning, huh?”
She studied his face to see if he was serious. “My favorite kind.”
“Me too.” He stopped beside her and brushed back hair the same color as the fog from his forehead. “I love mornings like this almost as much as a good storm.”
“I understand you had plenty of both last winter.”
“I missed most of the really good stuff. Things had settled down by the time I moved in. I was on my way up for some breakfast. Would you like to join me?”
She shook her head. She’d wanted to be alone this first morning at the beach without Ken, but she didn’t know how to tell Eric.
He didn’t push. “Guess I’ll see you later, then.”
Oddly, now that he was going, she wanted him to stay. “What’s that in your hand?”
He held up a lone sand dollar. “I promised my son I’d collect them for him, but I’m not having much luck.”
“Have you tried Sunset State Beach?” His puzzled expression told her that he didn’t know what she was talking about. “It’s the beach near Watsonville . . . where the Pajaro River empties into the ocean.” She still hadn’t placed it for him. “Anyway, you should check it out. I’ve been there when you couldn’t walk on the shoreline without stepping on sand dollar shells.”
“Thanks. Maybe I’ll give it a try this afternoon.” He smiled and started to leave. Turning back, he said, “Would you like to come with me?”
She answered before she even considered the invitation. “No—I have a hundred things to do and not much time.” She was doing the same thing to him she had the night before. “And there’s the plumber. I’m not sure what time he’s coming.”
“Have you called one yet?”
He knew she hadn’t. It had been barely six o’clock when she’d left the house. It couldn’t be much past that now. “No, but I looked in the phone book and there are several listed. I figured I’d just keep trying until I found someone who could come out today.”
He flashed an intriguing smile. “I’ll make you a deal.”
She had no choice but to respond. “What is it?”
“Come with me to find Jason’s shells and I’ll fix your faucet.”
Why was she resisting him? It was only a couple of hours he wanted from her, not the entire day. “I haven’t even brushed my teeth yet.”
“You’re going to have to help me out here. Does that statement mean you’re going to come with me as soon as you do, or is it supposed to be a reason for not going?”
“I’ll go. But I can’t be gone long. I really do have a lot of work to get the house ready before next week.” She spotted a piece of glass in the sand and reached down to pick it up.
Eric opened his jacket pocket. “You might as well put it in here with the rest of this stuff.”
She looked inside and saw that he, too, collected litter on his walks. “One more thing.”
“Yes?”
“Coffee . . . I can’t last the morning without it.”
He slipped his arm around her shoulder and gave her a quick, friendly hug before starting across the sand toward the stairs. “We’ll stop on the way. I know just the place.”
Panic gripped her. Before she could reason it out, she came to an abrupt stop and asked, “What place?”
He frowned. Slowly a look of understanding appeared. “In Soquel, down the street from Carpos.”
“I don’t remember a coffee shop there.”
“It’s only been open a couple of months.”
“Oh.”
“I take it you and Ken used to go out for coffee.”
“He had this thing for mochas.”
“With me it’s vanilla latte.”
She shuddered. “Real coffee should be strong and have a bite.”
“Could we talk about this on the way?” He motioned for her to get moving. “My last trip to Watsonville I got caught in a traffic tie-up because of that movie they’re filming over there.”
“They’re shooting a movie in Watsonville? What kind?”
“I think it has to do with migrant farm workers. Several of the people involved are renting houses around here, but they pretty much keep to themselves.”
“My brother is head of security for Kramer Studios. I wonder if this is one of theirs.”
“I’ve never heard of the people making this movie.” He considered what he’d said. “But then I’m not sure I could name half a dozen production companies if I tried.”
“Seems to me you’d better start doing your research. You don’t want your book sold to some second-rate outfit.”
He chuckled. “I’ll put it on my list of things to do—right after the laundry.” As he turned to leave her at her driveway, he said, “Bring your checkbook. We’ll stop by the hardware store on the way back.”
“You mean the faucet isn’t part of the deal?” Was this really her? She couldn’t remember the last time she’d actually teased someone.
He grinned. “I’m just a poor struggling writer, remember?”
“Who just happens to drink expensive vintage wine for every day.” She liked that he gave as good as he got and that he wasn’t intimidated or impressed by the empire Ken had built and left her. So many people were. When that happened, it created a barrier that obviated friendship.
“On the contrary, having you over for dinner was far from ‘every day.’ ”
“I’d be more impressed if you hadn’t opened the bottle before I knocked on the door.”
“Ouch.” He put his hand to his chest as if she’d wounded him. “I’ll pick you up in five minutes.”
“Make it ten.”
“Eight.”
Laughing for the second time that morning, she left without countering further. With the shutters still in place, the house was dark, the feeling oppressive. Yesterday she might have welcomed it as a respite from the ceaseless smiles and optimistic attitudes that assailed her everywhere she went at home. Today she felt a flash of irritation that the house didn’t share her newfound enthusiasm for the day ahead.
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.
Sh
e 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.”
The Beach House Page 3