House on the Beach

by Linda Barrett

  She turned from the window with the thought of making a sandwich of some kind—no tea, of course—when she heard a cry, a sound different from the sounds of the storm. She bent down, head to the windowsill, shut her eyes and listened hard.

  A baby’s cry. Her hands prickled, her breath shortened. Her whole body tensed, but she forced herself to focus on the sound. Again the cry reached her. Through the window. But from where? Now Laura didn’t wait. She clutched her flashlight with one hand and pulled open the front door with the other while her mind raced. How could a baby…

  The windblown, icy rain slashed against her, the roofed porch providing no protection. She pointed the flashlight on the ground near the window and saw nothing. She walked the length of the porch and back to where she’d started. The cry came again, soft and difficult to place. Laura headed down the steps hugging the banister with one arm. Her hair was plastered against her head; ice crystals pelted her face. The flashlight’s beam was like a vapor against the elements.

  “Hello,” she called, squinting against the rain. A pathetic bleat answered her. She twirled around and searched the ground beside the steps. And there, huddled in the corner, was a kitten. A kitten as dark as the night.

  Laura snatched it up and made her way back inside. She was relieved at the success of her search, but astonished that baby felines could sound so human. The house was a quiet refuge after being outdoors in the wind and freezing rain, and both the kitten and she were soaked. The poor little thing shivered uncontrollably. Flashlight in hand, Laura headed for the bathroom, grabbed some towels and wrapped the kitten in one. Then she made her way into the bedroom.

  The phone rang. “Of all the times…if Alison was calling with stories of wonderful Atlanta weather….” Although she was grateful that so far the regular phone lines hadn’t been affected by the storm, Laura kept muttering as she stumbled her way to the phone, kitten in one arm.

  “Hello,” she snapped.

  “What’s wrong?” Matt’s voice.

  “Not a thing.”

  “Good. I’m coming to get you. The electricity will be out for hours yet. Your house will be as cold as a tomb.”

  “I appreciate the thought, Matt, but I can get along just fine. Unlike what some people may think, I’m not an idiot who can’t take care of herself.”

  Silence on the other end. She wasn’t surprised at his reaction, only surprised at herself. She didn’t usually snap at unintentional insults, but he’d made her feel stupid when he’d left her house earlier and she hadn’t liked it.

  “I’ve got a wood-burning stove. A big one.” Matt’s voice was soft and coaxing. “With a lot more brightness and heat than those flashlights can give you. My living room is warm and dry. Any clear-headed, intelligent woman such as yourself would recognize the advantages on a night like this.”

  Laura grinned, suddenly happier. On a night like this, she could think of other warm activities. She looked at the kitten who was rubbing against her nonstop. “Hold on,” she said, putting the receiver down and wrapping the cat in another dry towel. She picked up the phone again. “Okay. We’ll come. But I need some time. I’m soaking wet.”

  “Wet? What’s going on? And who’s ‘we’?” The softness was gone. He sounded like a man who wanted answers.

  “I have a kitten. Do you have any milk?”

  “Good Lord! You were out in this nightmare rescuing animals? Laura, you need to wipe down right now. Down to the skin, you hear? Dry clothes next to your body, and dry your hair as best you can. I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  DESPITE HAVING A FLASHLIGHT, Laura could barely see into her dresser drawers as she scavenged for fresh clothes and grabbed anything that promised warmth. She’d be able to start her own line of winter wear and call it “hodgepodge.” The kitten watched her from the middle of the queen-size bed, where it was wrapped in an extra wool blanket Laura had hauled down from the closet shelf.

  “Sure glad one of us can see in the dark,” she murmured, struggling into the dry clothing. She looked at the kitten. “But you’re no help to me at all.”

  A pitiful meow answered her, and Laura chuckled as she again rummaged through the closet, this time to find a tote bag in which to carry the cat. “Come on, sweetie. You’ll be protected in here when we leave.” She gently placed the still-swaddled kitten in the bag and carried it with her to the bathroom, where she wrapped her own head in a bath towel, turban-style. It was the best she could do; her woolen hat was soaking wet and unusable. She gathered her comb and brush, tossed them into her purse, and then threw in her cosmetics case.

  Carefully making her way to the front of the house, she paused only to take her winter coat from the closet and put it on. With the tote bag on one arm and her purse on the other, she was ready. She aimed a beam of light on her watch. Matt would probably arrive at any moment, although she couldn’t imagine how any vehicle could grip the road now. Almost four hours had passed since the storm started. Much sleet and hard ice had accumulated on the streets.

  She stood at the sidelight, peering into the dark night on Beach Street. Freezing rain still pelted the ground. The tote bag jiggled on her arm, and she spoke softly to the kitten but didn’t lift it out.

  The house was chilly, the residual heat dissipating rapidly, and Laura shivered first from the plummeting temperature and then from concern. Where was Matt? Visions of his van sliding into a telephone pole flashed through her mind, and another shiver ran through her.

  A moment later, however, a pair of headlights pierced the darkness, but the vehicle wasn’t familiar. Disappointment hit her, until the car pulled to a stop in front of the house. The driver’s door opened and all Laura could see was a big black umbrella and then a pair of long legs and work boots walking toward her. Definitely Matt. Moving through the ice and slush almost as though they didn’t exist.

  “New car?” she asked, stepping aside when he reached the door.

  “The family car,” he corrected, walking inside. “An SUV with all-wheel drive. Good in slippery conditions.” He looked at her. “We’ll be all right, Laura. Don’t worry. You’ll be safe.”

  His quiet reassurance calmed a last nerve, and his sincerity warmed her. A ringing phone shattered her thoughts for the second time that evening, and Laura startled. She walked to the kitchen, Matt following her. “At least the phone still works,” she said.

  “For now.”

  She picked up the receiver and Bart Quinn’s familiar voice came to her over the cables. “I’m concerned about you, Laura McCloud. Have you any heat or light out there at Sea View House?”

  Out there? Laura grinned. The house was part of the town, wasn’t it? “No, Mr. Quinn, but I’m fine.”

  “Is that Bart?” asked Matt.

  Laura nodded in the dark, then spoke. “Yes, it’s Bart.”

  “Do you mind?” Matt asked softly, reaching for the phone. “Hello, Bart. It’s Matt Parker. I just got here and I’m taking Laura home with me now. She won’t be alone in this freezing mess.” He was quiet a moment. “Sure, I’m prepared. I’ve got chains on the rear wheels. We’ll be fine.” He handed the phone back to Laura.

  “You’re in good hands, my dear,” came the Irishman’s voice. “Matt’s got a sensible head on his shoulders. I always say it’s a lucky house, that Sea View House! Always believed in it myself.”

  Laura could imagine the old gent rubbing his hands together in glee. “Thanks for…” She hung up. “The line’s gone dead.” She looked at Matt. “Bart Quinn’s just a mischievous leprechaun!”

  Matt chuckled. “I’ve heard his Rosemary call him that more than a few times in my life! But he loves looking after this property, and he’s collected a lot of terrific stories about past tenants. Maybe he’ll show you the latest volume of the Sea View House Journal. Who knows? You might be writing in it yourself one day. Now, let’s get going.”

  She had no quarrel with that directive and followed him to the front porch. Then
she carefully locked the door, more out of habit than to prevent vandalism. Not a soul would be out on such a night. The big golf umbrella protected her a bit as they crept down the stairs, hanging on to the railing and trying to keep their footing on the ice. Finally they reached the SUV, and Laura almost fell into the front passenger seat.

  Hot air blew against her face. Delicious. Matt handed her the tote bag with the kitten, which was crying again. She scooped it out and started petting the dark fur. She felt the ridges of backbone and ribs. The poor thing needed food.

  Matt got into the car, threw the umbrella in the back and watched Laura whisper baby noises to the cat as she dried his coat. “Come here,” he said, switching on the interior light.

  Puzzled, Laura turned to him. He reached over and suddenly her turban was gone and her damp hair was jumbled everywhere. “What are you doing?”

  He nodded at the vents. “Might as well dry you, too. Give me the cat and get to work on yourself.”

  “You are bossy,” Laura said, nonetheless complying with his suggestion. She knew that without her gel and spray and other guck, her curls would definitely resemble a bird’s nest. Maybe Matt’s kids had a baseball cap she could borrow. The thought made her feel better and she leaned over to get the most of the air flow.

  It took a minute before she realized that Matt hadn’t started to drive, nor had he made any move to pull away from the curb. “Do you think it’s too dangerous?” Laura asked, sitting straight in her seat again, still finger-combing her hair.

  “No, I’m just waiting until you’re done and buckled up. No hurry.” His voice was rich and calm, lingering.

  She glanced up at him. His dark eyes glowed with warmth as he leaned back against the door, looking as though he could sit there forever.

  She felt herself blush at his undivided attention, at his admiration and interest. Needing a distraction, she snatched her hairbrush from her bag and tugged it through her strands, or tried to. “I may look like a wild woman, but at least it’s getting dry.”

  “Wild and wonderful,” he said softly. “I like it. Your hair’s the color of honey right from the hive. You’re a golden girl.”

  Totally unexpected, his words were sweeter than the honey he’d mentioned, a balm to her bruised self-image. She’d tried hard to bury all her feminine yearnings and desires as she’d gone through her treatments and afterward, but Matt’s one little compliment reminded her that she was still a woman. In every sense.

  She blinked rapidly to hold back unexpected tears, then took a deep breath. To what end were his compliments? To what end his admiration? She couldn’t allow a serious relationship to grow. Not with her medical background, not with her body. And not with someone she wanted as a friend for the long haul. As a friend to look forward to seeing whenever she returned to Pilgrim Cove. For she would come back. She already loved the town, the people and the memories it held for her.

  She needed a friend. Not a lover.

  DID SHE THINK she could hide her loveliness behind chatter and a mop of wild curls? Did she think he wouldn’t notice the beauty behind the despair in her big blue eyes? She’d been touched by his words—he’d seen her reaction—but it didn’t make sense to him. He turned off the inside light, then stretched and squared his shoulders as if for battle. He shifted the car into drive.

  Time was on his side. On his side for what?

  The rotten weather prompted extra concentration, a good excuse for Matt to shift his thoughts. Bay Road loomed just ahead, and he eased into a right turn. “Almost home,” he said. “I left the garage door open so we could drive right in. No use getting wet again.”

  “Thanks,” she replied. “And thanks for thinking of me.”

  The challenge was in not thinking of her! But she didn’t know that.

  “No problem.”

  For some reason, she started to giggle, and he was reminded of bubbles in a glass of champagne. Delicious. “What’s so funny?” he asked, feeling a smile stretch across his own face.

  “You.”

  “Huh?”

  “Matthew ‘No Problem’ Parker.”

  He made the connection. “I have a limited vocabulary,” he deadpanned, while mentally noting the irony. No problem? Laura McCloud was turning out to be the biggest problem on his horizon since Valerie had died and Casey had begun to stutter.

  “Right,” Laura said. “Now tell me something I’ll believe.”

  He didn’t have to think about that one. “How about, ‘I’m glad you’re here.”’ He pulled into the open garage and shut the motor.

  “I’m glad we’re both here,” Laura replied, “in one piece. So thanks again.”

  “No pro…” Matt began, but then changed to, “my pleasure,” and took pleasure in hearing her laugh once more.

  A minute later, holding the squirming tote bag and a flashlight, Matt led Laura into his house. It was after ten o’clock, and he hoped the boys were already asleep. No such luck. His dad’s scary storytelling voice carried through the halls.

  “…give me back my golden arm….”

  Ghost stories. Just what they needed for the kids to stay up all night. And probably the only thing that could have distracted them from his and Laura’s arrival. He led Laura to the living room and paused, appreciating the live portrait of his father and sons, wrapped in blankets and sitting around the wood-burning stove as though it were a campfire out on the open range. The doors of the stove were open, and the firelight cast a warm glow on all their faces. The boys’ eyes were glued to their grandpa.

  Matt looked at Laura, and she smiled back. “You’ve got a beautiful family,” she said. And instantly, the portrait disassembled. Two young boys in flannel pajamas jumped up and ran to him. Sam got out of his rocking chair and walked over, greeting Laura with words of welcome, urging her to warm up by the stove.

  “Laura, L-L-Lau-ra. You c-can hear the s-s-story, too.”

  “I think the story’s going to wait, sport,” Matt said, slipping off his jacket and holding the tote bag toward Laura. “Take a look at what Laura brought with her.”

  He watched as Laura removed the kitten from the bag and unwrapped the blanket. He watched as the boys crowded around her.

  “O-o-oh…a kitten.”

  “It’s awfully small,” said Brian.

  “It’s a b-b-ba-by! It’s go-gonna grow.” Casey looked at Matt as if to say, “right?” And Matt nodded, basking in his son’s grin, knowing he should appreciate the moment. In a few years, Casey would realize that his dad didn’t know everything.

  “I’m afraid it won’t grow if we don’t feed it,” said Laura. “I don’t know the last time it ate.”

  “How come?” asked Brian.

  “She found it outside in the freezing cold rain and got soaked rescuing it,” explained Matt.

  “Oh-h-h,” replied the boys in unison.

  “Did you hafta cli-i-mb a t-t-tree?” Casey’s eyes were two golden saucers, and even Brian looked impressed.

  For a moment, Laura wished she had climbed a tree! The children’s admiration felt unexpectedly wonderful. “No trees,” she said. “Just down some steps.”

  Matt leaned into Laura and whispered, “They’re your friends for life now.”

  Five minutes later, three adults and two children stared at the kitten while it ate a portion of tuna and dry cereal and lapped up a saucer of milk.

  “We-e-e never had a kitten before,” Casey said.

  “And you still don’t,” replied Matt. “The cat belongs to Laura.”

  “I know,” Casey said, his smile fading. “But m-m-may-be I can help you t-t-take care of it.” He turned to Laura, his eyes beseeching.

  Matt watched Laura speak to Casey, heard her voice calm and soft and relaxed. “I’d like that. But first, I’ll need to take him or her to the vet for a checkup. We’ve got to make sure it’s healthy.”

  “Her,” said Matt. “Definitely a female feline. Miss Puss-In-Boots.” He grabbed a section of newspaper and gave it t
o the boys. “First chore…tear it up in strips and make a litter box. And then we’ll toast some marshmallows.”

  “Yes!” said Brian.

  With the kitten curled in her blanket and the boys busy, Matt turned his attention to Laura. “You’re wearing your coat and you’ve been near the stove for a while. Are you still feeling chilled?”

  She shook her head and smiled at him. “On the contrary, I’m feeling toasty.” Then she nodded at the children, her expression soft and tender. “Your family is wonderful. And you, Matthew Parker, are a very lucky man.” Her sincerity rang clear, but her voice, that beautiful voice, trailed away on a note of…sadness.

  He was shaken by her tone. Shaken by the yearning on her face when she looked at his children. Had her mother’s death put the sadness in her eyes? Or was there something else?

  LAURA’S LIMBS FELT like rubber, so comfortable was she sitting on a floor cushion, leaning against the couch and staring into the open fire. The boys were still tossing in their sleeping bags, somewhere between asleep and awake.

  “Dad, sing something.” Brian’s voice.

  “Yeah,” whispered Casey. “Sing s-something nice.”

  Closer to awake, she thought, her eyes traveling from Casey to Matt, who was feeding chunks of wood into the stove. He glanced at her, then at the fire, then back to her and winked. Then she heard the quietly sung words, “‘Oh, give me a home, where the buffalo roam…”’

  She smiled at his choice of song, but there was nothing funny about his voice. The man could carry a tune! A beautiful tenor. She’d heard Bart mention that the Parker family all played the piano, but hadn’t heard they could sing, too.

  “‘And the deer and the antelope play,”’ Casey sang in a clear boyish soprano.