The Beach House

by Jolie Campbell

  "What do I know about Julianne? Nothing. I talked to her on the phone for a total of about eight seconds yesterday," I said. "And it's granola. But you knew that."

  I smiled at her over my shoulder.

  Shari was large and burly, with unruly dark curls dyed burgundy. Though she was only about 10 years older than my 29, she already had a grown daughter and a grandchild on the way. She was loud and brash and didn't know when to stop talking, and she often stuck her foot in her mouth, but she was also fiercely loyal, loving, big-hearted and wise.

  "Mmmm, save me some of the clumpy bits, will you Emmy?"

  "Of course I will."

  "So what did she sound like?"

  "Who, Julianne?"

  "No, my Aunt Fanny. Yes! Julianne!"

  "Jesus, Shari, keep it down. You heard Elaine, no gossiping. I need this job."

  "What a load of horseshit," Shari said, pursing her lips disapprovingly. "You're an awesome cook and you could work anywhere. Elaine sold you this bill of goods that no one else would give you a chance and you believed her. You don't need this job, she needs you. You think Oxnard is crawling with people who can cook like you and are willing to work for practically nothing?"

  "There are plenty of good cooks here. And I don't work for practically nothing. I do fine."

  "'I do fine,'” she imitated. “Oh yeah, Emmy, so ambitious! Maybe by the time you're 30 you'll make almost enough to break even every month."

  Hand on hip, she glared at me with exaggerated disapproval.

  "Ambition isn't just about how much money you make."

  She threw up her hands. "Oh come on, I know that, but you let Elaine walk all over you."

  "I do not," I retorted, but it sounded weak even to me. Shari was right. I felt lucky that Elaine and the inn’s owners had given me a chance to cook professionally, and I wasn’t convinced anyone else would.

  I had always loved to cook, but truly fell in love with it while doing prep work in the nicest restaurant in the area all through high school. Chef Garry had occasionally let me work during dinner service, mostly making salads and cold appetizers and plating desserts in the garde manger station. The atmosphere in the kitchen thrilled me: The way the line cooks hustled and weaved, the barked commands of the expeditor, the loud sighs and sneaked tastes of the elegant servers, all the snarky dialogue and drama.

  I wanted to go to culinary school right out of high school, but I had been awarded a partial academic scholarship to Carnegie Mellon, and had gotten a couple of grants as well. Between that, a work-study job and a few hours a week working in the prep kitchen at a local conference center, I only had to take on a modest amount of financial aid, and it was too good to pass up. Plus, my mother convinced me that I might change my mind about cooking, and if I went to college I would have more education to fall back on. I could always go to culinary school later.

  Though I was happy I’d gone to college, and gotten out of Oxnard for a while, now it was seven years later and I still hadn’t gone back to culinary school. I knew people worked their way up in the kitchen without it, but they had way more talent than I did. I needed the education.

  I had landed at the Beach House six years ago, basically fell into the job. I had graduated and come home, and was waitressing while I figured out what to do. I decided to take a 10-week baking course at a local community college for fun. The teacher, Billy, was a friendly sort who worked at the Beach House, which I had driven by and knew about for years, but had never been inside. After class one night we all went out for a beer, and with a few drinks too many in him, he cornered me.

  “Emmy, what are you doing with your life?” he slurred, pointing at me and arching one brow.

  I laughed, but then quickly stopped as I saw he was serious. He gave me a talking-to, told me that he could see I had talent, and I should be using it. He was just getting to the part about what I needed to do to get my career started when I felt his hand slip onto my ass. So much for me having “talent.” I removed his hand and left without another word.

  He called me at home the next day, invited me out for coffee to apologize, and offered me his job at the Beach House.

  “I have to get out of this town,” he said, “and you need to start cooking, for real. Not just playing around, taking stupid classes. You have a long way to go, but it’s all in there.” He pointed to my heart.

  “I don’t know,” I sighed. “I’m not ready. Maybe if I –”

  “Get ready. I already told Lauren Marx about you, she’s one of the owners. She’s expecting your call,” he shoved a piece of paper with her number at me.

  “No! I can’t. I –”

  “Shut up and say thanks, Emmy. This is what you have to do. You know I’m right.”

  So I met with Lauren and Dennis, and then Elaine, they hired me, and I had been working at the Beach House ever since.

  The first day was definitely a sink-or-swim moment. Elaine gave me a 3-minute tour of the inn, told me to “get something together” for the next day’s breakfast, and swept out, leaving me alone in the kitchen.

  It took months, but over time I felt more and more confident. I made a lot of mistakes in the beginning, preparing too much food, not enough food, forgetting to pick things up at the supermarket during my twice-weekly shopping trips. But as I figured out that Elaine had a drinking problem and was only half engaged most of the time, I grew less nervous about her discovering how clueless I was and found that I got better and better at the job.

  All the while I was paying off my loans, saving for culinary school, living frugally and socking away as much money as I could. Slowly, I was approaching my goal.

  CHAPTER 3

  I was usually off on Mondays, the inn's slowest day. So Tuesdays tended to be busy, since other people had been in my kitchen and they never left it just the way I liked it.

  As I puttered around, getting things back in order before doing my weekly inventory and menu plan, humming along with Adele playing in the background, Elaine stalked in. She went right to the computer and snapped off the music.

  "This is Emmeline Reid, our cook," she said to the tall, elegant blonde who was with her.

  "Hi," I said with a smile, extending my hand. The woman literally looked down her nose at me. She was easily over a full head taller than I, long-legged and graceful.

  "Hello," she replied crisply, giving my hand a quick, businesslike shake. I knew that voice.

  "I'm Julianne. Mr. Buckley's assistant."

  She was as haughty as Joan Crawford, but other than that, I couldn't have been more wrong in picturing her. Julianne looked like a capable, businesslike blonde supermodel.

  "You're too modest, Julianne!" Elaine practically shrieked. "Lauren and Dennis tell me you're Mr. Buckley's right hand. He simply couldn't survive without you."

  "Well, that's very kind of you, but I'm sure he would do just fine," she said, giving a tight-lipped smile as if to say that no, he actually wouldn’t.

  I guessed she was in her late 20s, impeccable in sleek black skinny pants and a crisp white button-down. Her silky hair was pulled into a perfectly wispy bun, setting off her stylish tortoiseshell glasses, and she didn’t teeter even a fraction on what had to be three-inch red heels.

  I felt short and frumpy by comparison in my blue cotton skirt and white Beach House-logoed shirt, with a white apron and clompy Dansko clogs. My wavy reddish-brown hair was always up in a ponytail when I was in the kitchen or serving food, and I was usually a little sweaty from cooking.

  Julianne looked like she never sweat. Ever.

  "So Emmeline, I wanted to discuss Mr. Buckley's dietary needs with you," Julianne said. "Can we sit somewhere for a moment?"

  "Of course. How about the living room?"

  I was about to offer her something to drink when-

  "Emmeline, aren't you going to offer Julianne a beverage?" Elaine sighed, as though exhausted by my incompetence.

  "Of course. What can I get you, Julianne? Coffee, lemonade, iced tea?"


  "Iced tea would be lovely, as long as it's unsweetened."

  "It is. Please make yourself comfortable," I pointed to the living room, "and I'll be right behind you."

  "Here, let me show you," Elaine purred, following Julianne out the door that led to the entryway, then the front desk, and the living room beyond that.

  "Elaine, can I get you anything?" I asked, resisting the urge to offer her a cocktail.

  "Thank you, Emmeline. I'd love an iced tea as well, unsweetened."

  I poured house-brewed cold peach tea into two ice-filled glasses, adding a slice of lemon to each and 3 Splendas to one. Elaine pretended to take her iced tea the way Julianne did, but I knew she wouldn't be able to swallow it unless it was pumped up with sweetener.

  I was carrying out the drinks, with a notebook tucked under my arm, when I heard them.

  “...a nice guy,” Julianne was saying in a hushed tone. I stopped to listen. “But his friendliness gets him in trouble. People mistake it for friendship. He doesn’t really want to form relationships with everyone, he’s just being polite. I’ve seen it over and over again. I’m telling you, Elaine, the only way to protect him is just to keep everyone away from him, except for fulfilling his needs. I’m counting on you to make your staff understand that he is not to be bothered.”

  “I understand completely, Julianne, and you have nothing to worry about,” she assured.

  I took that moment to walk in, and Elaine placed two coasters down on the table so I could serve the iced tea. I was about to sit down and pull out the pencil I had stuck into my ponytail when Elaine stopped me.

  "Julianne has been filling me in, Emmeline," she said. "I'll give you the rundown later on."

  "Oh, OK," I replied, surprised. "Are you sure you don't want me to jot it all down? So you don't have to bother with it later?"

  "No Emmeline, I've got it," she snapped, glaring at me. “That will be all.”

  Dismissed, I headed back to the kitchen without a word.

  "Thanks for the iced tea," Julianne called.

  "Emmy, do you have a few minutes to go over Mr. Buckley's needs?" Elaine swept into the kitchen a couple of hours later. I was cutting up a lemon tart for tea service.

  "Sure. Do you want a piece of this?" I pointed to the tart.

  She smiled at me. "You know I can't resist anything lemon, especially with that gingersnap crust. Sinful. Just a sliver, please."

  I caught a faint whiff of scotch on her breath. Elaine was an old family friend of Dennis’s, and we all knew her job was safe no matter what, but I often wondered if he or Lauren knew about her problem.

  After setting up the tart and the rest of the tea service in the living room, I picked up my notebook, poured us two glasses of sparkling water, grabbed a fork for Elaine and sat with her at the kitchen island.

  "Emmy, I'm sorry if I was rude to you earlier," Elaine began gently, placing her cool hand over mine. Hers were soft, the nails perfectly manicured, but the skin was severely wrinkled and splotchy.

  "It's just these movie people,” she sighed. “They have this sense of entitlement. You have to make them feel like they're the most important person in the world, even those who work for them, like Julianne. She expects to be treated like royalty because she works for a celebrity. It's all very silly. So I wanted her to think Mr. Buckley is only being handled by the boss and no one else. Do you understand?"

  "Of course, Elaine. Whatever you think is best," I said, keeping my anger inside.

  You need this job, Emmy, you don’t have the luxury of pride.

  "That's a good girl. You know how much I rely on you, don't you?"

  "Sure. So do you want to tell me about Mr. Buckley's special requests?"

  As it turned out, I didn't need my notebook. Elaine either barely remembered anything Julianne had said, or she decided not to tell me so she could watch me squirm. Either way, I was going to have to get the information another way.

  "Elaine, do you happen to have Julianne's cell phone number? Just in case any questions come up while I'm grocery shopping."

  "Here it is. But don't pester her, Emmy. You're only to use her number for an extremely important matter."

  "Yes, OK Elaine."

  "Julianne Williams," she said in her brusque, businesslike manner. No greeting, just her name.

  "Oh, hi Julianne. This is Emmy. Emmeline, from the Beach House. The cook."

  "Yes, hello, Emmeline. Or do you prefer Emmy?"

  "Oh, either one is fine. Emmy, I guess. I'm sorry to bother you, but do you have a few minutes? I'm about to go grocery shopping and I just wanted to make sure I had everything Mr. Buckley will want on my list."

  "I have just a minute before I have to get on another call. Didn’t Elaine fill you in?"

  "She did, but, well, I just wanted to double check."

  I wouldn't dream of telling Julianne that even if Elaine was capable of taking down reliable information, she’d never share it with me. But part of me hoped she read between the lines.

  "I'll tell you what. I have a memo that I sent to a hotel where Quinn stayed last year during shooting. You'll have to make a few adjustments for the season and the location, but I think it will be a good guide. How about if I email it to you?"

  "That would be fantastic. Thanks, Julianne. I appreciate it. We all want to make sure Mr. Buckley is comfortable here."

  "Thank you, Emmy. What's your email address?"

  The list she sent was far less finicky and involved than I was expecting. No wacky ingredients I hadn't heard of, he wasn't avoiding carbs or gluten or eating only 72 calories a day. He basically just wanted a lot of fresh foods: Vegetable omelets or granola with plain yogurt for breakfast, lots of fresh fruit and vegetables for snacking, a few nice cheeses. Soups and salad fixings for lunches and dinners, though he would eat many of those meals out. Organic popcorn kernels, a variety of nuts and a brand of nondairy coconut milk ice cream that I also loved, but rarely bought for myself because of the expense. This would be easy; basically it was the way I shopped for myself, or would if I had unlimited funds.

  I was about to head out to the store when the phone rang. Elaine had retreated down to the little bedroom next to the pantry, which meant she was either drinking or nursing a headache.

  "Beach House, this is Emmeline, how may I assist you?"

  "Hello Emmy, it's Dennis," said the deep, radio-announcer voice of half of the inn's married owners. They were both high-powered Hollywood lawyers and the inn was something of a pet project. I could hear that I was on speakerphone.

  "Hi Dennis. How are you?"

  "Oh fine, fine, Emmy, thank you. How are you? How are things up there?"

  "I'm doing great, thanks. The House is really good. Everyone's getting ready for our special guest."

  "That's why I'm calling, Emmy, I have some last-minute instructions. Can you put Elaine on, please?"

  Time to cover for her. Again.

  "Dennis, I'm sorry, you just missed her. She ran out to, uh, get some extra fresh flowers for Mr. Buckley's room. May I take a message?"

  "I can try her cell, I guess."

  "Oh, you know, she left it here to charge up. I'm sure she'll be back soon. Shall I have her call you right back? Or can I take down the information and give it to her?"

  "All right, Emmy. Do you have a pen to write all this down?"

  "Sure do. Go ahead."

  I took down detailed notes about a meeting Quinn would need to host at the inn in a few weeks, and there were a few other notes, mostly pertaining to how Quinn would manage business affairs while staying with us. For once I was happy to be doing Elaine's job for her. No doubt she would have gotten the details wrong or forgotten things altogether, and I or one of the other staffers would have taken the fall. That had happened more than once in the past, but the stakes were never as high as they were now, with Quinn Buckley as a guest and the hope for more VIPs in the future.

  The way I looked at it, it was good experience for me to basically ru
n the inn as I did. Even though I assumed I didn't get paid nearly what Elaine did and got none of the credit, I knew I'd be able to use what I learned in the future. Maybe after culinary school, I would open a restaurant or manage a catering company, or something like that.

  And in spite of all the abuse she heaped on me and all the other Beach House employees, I couldn't help feeling bad for Elaine. She was close to my mom’s age, and she was all alone—divorced, no children, with a younger brother kept busy with a family and a highly successful architecture business in Seattle, where they had grown up. Elaine’s mother, her only other family, was in a home in Seattle and had dementia. Elaine had a few friends, but they were in and out of her life and mostly other bitter women her age who drank too much. It seemed like a very lonely existence.

  CHAPTER 4

  "Hello?" I heard a familiar, deep male voice out at the front desk.

  Damn, where the hell is Elaine?

  It was 2:30 and I had to finish baking and get tea set up so I could do the additional chores to ready the kitchen for Quinn Buckley’s arrival, expected to be around 5. I had a loaf of Irish soda bread in the oven and my hands were covered in flour, as I was just about to turn out the dough for a second loaf to knead it.

  "Sorry! On my way!" I called. No time to wash up. I was looking down, wiping my hands on my apron as I came out of the kitchen and smack! I walked right into a hard male body.

  It was like walking into a wall, though a very warm, sort of sweet-smelling wall.

  I backed up, and saw that now the entire front of his dark blue T-shirt was covered with a dusting of flour. "Oh shit! I mean, oh no! I'm so sorry. I-" I looked up as I made it worse by trying to brush off the flour with my floury hands and—oh.