The Beach House

by Sally John

  “Now don’t talk yourself out of it, Doctor. You turned a major corner last night. You know as well as I do the cleansing effect of tears.”

  Jo chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “Yeah. I suppose your God had something to do with that too.”

  Molly winked at her. Yes, of course God had something to do with healing Jo’s bottled up pain. Her friend never had taken her word for it, though. The seed was planted long ago. She let the matter rest, confident Jo’s softening heart was fertile ground.

  Molly said, “So now what?”

  “I want to shop in baby stores today and buy everything Maria could possibly need or want for her little one. I wonder if they have baby stores on Rodeo Drive?”

  “Char probably knows. But Jo, I’m talking about your work. What do you want to do after this sabbatical?”

  “I just said it. I want to work in the clinic full-time.” She took her last bite of pancake. “Open another space adjacent to it for women.”

  Molly heard hesitation in her tone. “But?”

  Jo chewed, swallowed, and sipped coffee before answering. “You saw my house. My office. You just heard me say I want to spend a fortune on designer baby clothes and accesories for an underprivileged teenage mother.”

  Molly waited.

  Jo drained her coffee cup and, after a moment, sighed.“Don’t you see, Moll? I like money too much. I always have. The clinic would pay a pittance, not enough to invest, not enough for a Del Mar house mortgage, not enough for a gas-guzzling SUV, not enough for boutiques and specialty shops. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve set foot inside a chain discount store.”

  “You don’t like money too much.”

  “I do.”

  Molly shook her head emphatically. “It was always a substitute for your parents, hon.”

  “Alcohol was.”

  “So was money. So is money.”

  Jo wagged a finger. “I subscribe to Babette’s list: ‘A real woman knows her childhood may not have been perfect, but it’s over.’”

  Molly thought of another, one she’d been pondering. “‘A real woman knows how to confront a friend without ruining the friendship.’ Give me a chance?”

  Jo set her jaw, its muscles visibly taut.

  “What if you stopped leasing a plush office? What if you moved to an average-type neighborhood? What if you traded in your fancy car for something basic?” The answer seemed obvious to Molly, but it was for Jo to find and to name in her own way.

  Through long moments Molly watched a myriad of expressions cross her friend’s face. Maybe she wasn’t ready to unearth it yet.

  Jo flicked her eyes in Molly’s direction.“Is this your new version of ‘get out from under the pile’?”

  “I’m only suggesting you ask yourself those questions. They seem to be the roadblocks to you doing what you really want.”

  Tightening her hand into a fist, Jo squished her paper coffee cup.

  Molly raised her brows. “I hope you’re not thinking about my neck?”

  “Mary Catherine, yours has always been the voice I’d rather ignore.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “I don’t want to go there.”

  “That’s okay,” Molly repeated. “Don’t.”

  “I mean, it’s over. My childhood is over. Why isn’t it over?”

  Inwardly Molly breathed a sigh of relief. “It can be, more or less, right here and now.”

  “Last night I didn’t want a drink before I went to sleep. I can’t remember the last time…I was probably ten.” Jo stood abruptly, scraping her chair across the uneven wooden floorboards, and gathered empty breakfast plates. Three quick strides carried her to the trash bin, where she deposited them. She loped back and sat again. “If I downsize—give up my lucrative practice, my office, house, and car—I will be a failure in my parents’ eyes.”

  “And in your eyes?”

  She took a long deep breath and exhaled it. “I’ll be a free woman.” The corners of her mouth lifted slowly even as tears pooled in her eyes.

  “Now it’s over, hon. Your childhood is over.”

  Molly did not lollygag with an unresponsive Jimmy Mack. With a brief greeting she set his breakfast on the bench beside him and excused herself. She and Jo hurried back to the beach house. The day’s schedule was tight.

  They found Andie in the kitchen, still in her swimsuit, a large beach towel draped over her shoulders, and her hair damp.“One sec.” She removed the carafe from the hissing coffeemaker and filled a large colorful mug.

  Giggling, the three made their way down the hall. Outside Char’s bedroom, Andie brushed her knuckles over the closed door. When no reply came, they nodded to each other.

  Jo mouthed, “One, two, three.”

  Andie pushed open the door and set the mug atop a dresser. They tiptoed across the shadowy room, and, as one, pounced on a sleeping Char and shouted,“Happy birthday!”

  Char shrieked and sprang to a sitting position, yanking off an eye mask.

  “Surprise!” they yelled.

  “In the name of all that is sane and holy, what are you doing?” She patted her chest. “Besides giving me a heart attack?”

  Molly went to the window and twisted open the venetian blinds. “Rise and shine, birthday girl!”

  Andie handed her the mug. “Fresh. In your favorite cup.”

  “Thank you. I think.” Her tone whined. “Jo, you said we didn’t have to leave early!”

  “Early for one is not necessarily the same as early for another. I think I mentioned nine o’clock?”

  She glanced at the bedside clock radio. “It’s seven-thirty!”

  “But we want you to shower first. Birthday treat! Full pressure, no running out of hot water.”

  “You ladies are too good to me.”

  Molly picked up the discarded eye mask, fingering the silky black fabric. “I didn’t think anyone really wore these things.”

  Char snatched it out of her hand.“It’s my birthday. You cannot make fun of me. Jo, we did not do this to you yesterday!”

  “That’s because I was the first one up. Enjoy your coffee. I have to make some phone calls.” She left the room.

  Andie sat on the edge of the bed.“You don’t really mind we woke you up early, do you?”

  Char plumped pillows and leaned back against them with a moan. “Ask me later.”

  “We wanted to give you a special start. None of us had a special start on our real birthdays. Well, I guess Molly did, but it turned out not to be so special since she had to clean up the kitchen.”

  Char leaned forward and grasped Andie’s forearm.“Andrea Sinclair, we’ve known each other since we were thirteen. You were my roommate for two years. What do you remember about our mornings?”

  Her eyes grew large.“But you have kids now.”

  “They’ve been making their own breakfast since they were five.”

  Andie blinked. “You want a bagel?”

  She glared in silence.

  “I’ll go wash off my boogie board and call my mom.”

  Molly followed her to the door. “I’ll call Scott.”

  “Molly.”

  She looked back and saw Char pointing to her cell phone on the nightstand.

  “I’ll just wait until Andie or Jo are done with theirs. You’ll be getting birthday calls.”

  “Take it,” she grumbled.“No one would believe I’m awake and civil at this hour.”

  Civil? Molly grinned as she unplugged the phone.

  Molly busied herself in her back corner bedroom. It was a cozy size with braided rug, one window, and two single beds covered with patchwork quilts the color of desert pastels. Like the living room, Faith Fontaine’s personality was revealed in knickknacks on the dresser and Georgia O’Keefe prints on the wall. Molly enjoyed Faith’s expression of nature’s subtle beauties.

  “Moll.” Jo spoke from the doorway.“Mind if I come in?”

  “Nope.” She shut the closet door. “I was just o
rganizing things, waiting for Scott to land before I call him. He should be dropping Eli off at school about now. It’s band day. He plays a trombone about the same height as he is.”

  “Hmm.” She sat on a wooden chair that matched those at the dining table.“Have a seat.”

  “You sound so formal. Oh!” Molly slid onto a bed. “Test results already? In less than twenty-four hours? You must know people in high places.”

  Jo smiled. “Well, yeah, I do.”

  “So where am I in this crazy cycle? Please, please tell me it won’t last much longer!”

  “Well,” she said again and stopped, her mouth partially open. She leaned forward, resting her arms on her legs.

  “Come on. When do we start the hormones? Just give a wild guess how long it will last. I won’t hold you to it.”

  “Molly. Hon.”

  She puzzled over Jo’s hesitancy.“You can’t possibly be like this with your patients, Doctor. Pretend that we haven’t been friends forever. Give it to me straight. I’m looking at ten years, right? I’m only in—what do you call it? The premenopausal stage.”

  Jo straightened and pressed her hands against her knees. “I know how long it will last.”

  Molly tilted her head forward, eager to hear.

  “Nine months.”

  “Not bad. From when?”

  “From whenever the egg was fertilized.”

  In spite of teasing about out-of-body experiences, up until that precise moment Molly would have denied such a thing could truly happen when one was healthy and in her right mind. Jo’s words, however, lifted a part of herself up and out. As if in a dream, she felt that other self walk smack-dab into the wall and have the wind knocked from her. While that one couldn’t breathe, the one sitting on the bed had blurred vision and a rushing noise in her ears.

  “Molly?”

  The two selves collided back into one and the room spun. “What does an egg have to do with menopause?”

  “Nothing.” Jo was beside the bed, kneeling on the floor and grasping Molly’s hands. “I know this is a shock, hon. You’re pregnant.”

  “It’s menopause! You said so yourself. I don’t feel pregnant! How do you know—Oh my gosh. Menstruation stopped being regular ages ago. I figured—Oh my gosh!”

  “I ran the test. It’s routine. These things happen. You think you don’t need birth control because your body fools you. I know this is a shock. Breathe, Molly.”

  “I can’t!” she gasped.

  “You have to. Come on. Let it out.” She squeezed her hands. “Hey! You’re the best mommy on earth! God knows what He’s doing.”

  “Uh-uh. He doesn’t.”

  “He does. That’s what you’ll say as soon as you start breathing. There’s a brand-new life growing inside of you. It’s His miracle.”

  Again her breath felt slammed back into her body and she wailed. “Jo! Hannah is six years old! I’m forty years old! Forty and a half! It’s too late to start over!”

  Jo sat beside her and wrapped her arms around her. “It just takes a little time to get used to the idea.”

  There wouldn’t be enough time in eternity to get used to the idea. Molly burst into tears.

  Twenty-Eight

  Char turned off the hair dryer and studied her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

  “Happy birthday.” She cocked her head and grasped the collar of her hot pink terrycloth robe. “Well, so far forty looks the same as thirty-nine. Maybe even thirty-four. Not bad.”

  There were three factors to thank for that. One: her mama’s genes for a Georgia peach complexion and a size two figure. Two: regular workouts at the gym. And three: the perfect hairdresser with a knack for keeping her blond hair very near its original shade without too many chemicals. He knew how to style it as well. The wind-tousled look had been his idea and suited her to a tee.

  She opened a jar of moisturizer, SPF 25, and applied it, trying not to think of Cam’s nonreaction to her haircut, her toned body, her success as chair of the Women’s Club annual fund-raising gala last July, her—

  She secured the jar lid with a quick twisting motion and surveyed her array of cosmetics. A hint of eye shadow would be appropriate for Rodeo Drive. The taupe color to enhance her almond brown eyes. Her outfit, too, should be understated. Probably the taupe slacks with a white silk blouse. She’d take along the new embroidered jacket in case they were gone late. Jo said Friday traffic might be extra heavy. Perhaps they would stay put in L.A. and have dinner before driving back.

  Friday.

  Todd was probably at the gym now. They sometimes rode together on Friday mornings, parting ways at the door as he went to the weight room, she to an exercise class made up of women who kicked and punched the air while savage music pulsated loudly.

  Eye shadow brush poised midair, Char paused, her face close enough to the mirror to see the beige flecks in her irises.“Mama would never approve.”

  But then, Mama was dead and gone, long gone. Twenty-seven years long gone. Char had known her for only thirteen years.

  Still, Ellen Cummins Stowe née Wentworth’s impact permeated. Char knew she would not approve of the flirting with Todd Brooks. There was Southern belle charm that encouraged a general sense of well-being in a man, and then there was something else. Truth be told, they’d been into the something else for quite some time. As a matter of fact, she could identify the precise night it happened.

  It happened on her birthday, one year ago. Cam treated friends to dinner at her favorite restaurant. The evening ended in their home. They’d scarcely begun a game of charades when Cam excused himself and went to bed. It was not unusual behavior, but for some reason it particularly stung that night.

  Todd noticed. Not that he said anything. On the surface things remained even-keeled between them. He must have known, though, as she did, that their banter had taken on an edge. His recent phone conversations proved it.

  A realization dawned within her. Todd Brooks wanted more than a flirting relationship.

  She blinked.

  What did she want? At forty, with two teenagers well on their way and a couch potato for a husband, who did not notice or seem to care whether or not she even breathed? What did she want?

  She pursed her lips and shook her head. No, her mama would not approve at all.

  Char heard a wail and opened the bathroom door just as Molly hurried past it, Jo on her heels. She followed them into the living room.

  Molly strode toward the front door, her arms upraised. “This cannot be happening!”

  Jo said, “I’ll come with you.”

  “No!” Without a backward glance Molly pushed open the screen door and stepped outside. She was halfway to the boardwalk before it slammed shut.

  Char asked, “What’s going on?”

  Jo turned to face her. “The test results came back.”

  Char caught her breath. Obviously Molly was upset. Would tests for menopause show something like cancer? “What is it?”

  “Molly’s pregnant.”

  “Oh.” Stunned, Char went to the couch and sat down. “Oh, my. She’s forty years old! With four kids already!” She herself would absolutely die. But then Molly was different. “Were they planning it?”

  “From her reaction, I’d say no way.” Jo sat in an armchair.“She figured she was in menopause.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “A walk down the beach.”

  “What should we do?”

  “I don’t know. She said she needed time alone. I imagine she’ll call Scott when she calms down.”

  Char recalled seeing a cell phone in Molly’s raised hand. Char’s cell phone, the one with the number that friends would soon begin calling to wish her a happy birthday.

  With a sigh, Jo stood. “She’ll get used to the idea and postpone full-time teaching a little longer. I’d better get back to my calls.”

  “Where’s Andie?”

  “Walking to the pier. See you in a bit.” She headed down the hall.

>   Char glanced about the empty room. Cool, calm Molly was borderline berserk—with Char’s phone—somewhere down the beach for however long it was going to take her to get used to the idea that she was pregnant. Plump Andie—who’d been content to sit for the past fifteen years massaging feet—was off walking all the way to the pier after already swimming. Jo—who had adamantly unplugged from work—was suddenly plugged back in. Two of the three still wore their early morning attire—dreadful sweat suits not fit for public viewing. More than likely Andie still wore hers as well; Char hadn’t heard the other shower running.

  And in less than an hour they were to leave for Hollywood!

  Char crossed her arms.“Happy birthday to me.”

  Twenty-Nine

  Back in April when she turned forty and realized life needed a major adjustment, Molly hit bottom. Learning she was pregnant redefined the word “bottom.”

  She strode from the beach house to the seawall, quickly scaled it, and sank her feet into the sand. Like mud, it pulled at her feet, cutting her stride to an amble. Annoyed, she tucked the cell phone into a pocket, rolled up her pant legs, and yanked off her loafers. Stubbing her bare toes the entire way, she reached the packed sand at the water’s edge and turned south. Her long quick steps soon propelled her into a jog.

  She knew the exact date it happened. In July. Up the Elk River. A picnic. Beneath seven-hundred-year-old trees. The nearest living mammals bear and elk. Outdoors, for heaven’s sake. Like two kids caught up in the passion of the moment.

  They should have known better.

  In their quest for recovering an old love lost somewhere between child number two and planting a church, she and Scotty worked hard at entering each other’s worlds. Never the traditional pastor’s wife, Molly did not play the piano or sing or do office work. She didn’t even visit sick people with all that much grace. He never insisted she take on tasks for which she was not especially gifted. God always brought someone forward to fill those slots. While she focused on the Sunday school and homemaking, he focused on being the pastor and breadwinner. Their paths diverged.

  That day in July they hatched a plan to converge those paths in a new way. She arranged play dates for all four children and joined Scott on a forest job counting trees or some such thing. They were going to work and talk. She packed tofu sandwiches and potato chips and did not imagine it necessary to bring along anything related to birth control.