The Beach House

by Sally John

  Molly needing something more substantial than saltines. Soup. Toast.

  Char coming home. Alone. Scared.

  Andie extending forgiveness. Molly said she would. Molly’s word was synonymous with promise.

  I will stay sober for them.

  Oh, God. Only by Your help.

  She blew out a breath. “I guess that was a prayer. I wonder if He heard?”

  Forty-Two

  Char sat on the seawall at least a dozen doors south of the beach house, in a spot between the circles of light where the shadows were darkest. She clutched the little black beaded purse in her lap. Thanks to her mama’s admonition, she had stocked it as usual with the woman’s survival kit, an updated version of what a woman needed when faced with the unforeseen: lipstick, a fifty-dollar bill, her American Express card, and cell phone.

  “Oh, bother.” She reached up the sleeve of the itchy sweatshirt and scratched her forearm. Cheap fabric. No surprise there, considering she’d purchased it and the too-large matching black pants at a discount department store. Though the place offered convenient hours—good grief, it was open twenty-four/seven—it fell short in its selection of petite sizes.

  But the uncomfortable clothing kept her warm enough in the post-midnight air. She only hoped the pretty black dress wouldn’t snag on the concrete wall where it draped down behind her. How odd she must look. She wore the sweat pants under the dress, the sweatshirt over it, and floppy canvas deck shoes. Her heels lay next to her.

  Never, in her wildest dreams—or wildest nightmares—could she have imagined a worse fortieth birthday. Or any birthday, for that matter. And the ending was far too putrid to ponder. It qualified for a level infinitely beyond hazardous.

  “Char?”

  She jumped almost completely off the wall and spun around. “Oh! In the name of all that is sane and holy! Julian! Don’t do that!”

  “Sorry.”

  She placed a hand on her chest and tried not to gasp again. She thought she’d been paying close attention to the vacant boardwalk, but she hadn’t seen or heard him approach.

  He sat beside her, one leg bent so he faced her. “Are you all right?”

  “I have no idea.” She yanked the sweatshirt hood onto her head. Evidently Julian had recognized her by her hair or profile. Surely nothing else resembled her.

  “Incognito?”

  “It’s none of your business.” She looked at the ocean.

  “Just being neighborly. Can I help with something?”

  “No.” She gave a sharp laugh. “I think I’ve had quite enough help from men for one lifetime.”

  “Now, now. Don’t throw us all out the window.”

  “I will if I want to.”

  “Very well.”

  The quiet swish of waves filled the air. She watched skinny legged birds race about at the water’s edge. They’d stop momentarily and poke long pointy beaks into the packed sand.

  She could easily lose her mind if she sat there much longer.

  “So,” she said, “can I rent your apartment for tonight?”

  “I’m sorry, but someone is staying in it.”

  “Oh.”

  “Shall I walk you to your house?”

  “No. Thanks.”

  He didn’t move or say anything else.

  “Julian, you can go home. I’m fine.”

  “I’d rather not leave you out here alone. It’s two AM.”

  “They hate me.”

  “Who?”

  “Molly, Jo, and Andie.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “I don’t measure up to their prudish expectations. I went out with Todd tonight. They’re all in a snit over it. He was just being neighborly.” She glanced at him and quickly turned back toward the ocean. “Kind of like you and my birthday breakfast.”

  “Perhaps then it’s your imagination that they’re disturbed.”

  “I lied. He wasn’t just being neighborly. But I’m guilty as well. I encouraged him. Every day on the phone since I got here. In every conversation of the previous four years. I did everything short of hang a sign on my neck with ‘Available’ written on it. Why wouldn’t he put the moves on me?”

  “The only wonder is it took him four years.”

  She had questioned that too. She didn’t think it was because he was married most of those years. She suspected more went on during his business trips than he discussed. Or after PTA meetings, when that Penelope what’s-her-name was president, before she moved away.

  Which happened about the time Todd suggested he and Char go to the gym together.

  “Char, they’ll be worried.”

  “More likely they’re thinking good riddance.”

  “Has no one ever worried about you? Been concerned over your whereabouts?”

  If a semi had roared up from the ocean floor and charged across the beach toward her, Char could not have been more jolted into action. She spun around, away from him, sweeping her legs up and over the wall. She hopped down and planted her canvas deck-shoed feet onto the sidewalk. Hang the worry of snagging the dress.

  He caught up with her lickety-split. “You forgot your shoes.”

  “Thanks.” She accepted the heels from him without slowing her pace.

  He stayed beside her.

  “I don’t need an escort.”

  He silently strode along.

  She heard his questions in the dull thud of their hurried steps. Has no one ever worried about you? Been concerned over your whereabouts?

  “My mother was concerned. But a drunk driver took care of that.” Her voice rose to nearly a shout. “Broadsided her in the middle of the day. I was thirteen!”

  “I’m sorry. What happened after that?”

  She halted. “What happened after that?” She yelled now. “What a ridiculous question! My mother was gone! What do you think happened?”

  A lamp shone on his face. Even in her rage Char saw compassion in the line of his jaw, the set of his full lips, the eyes staring back at her.

  He said, “I think your world was shattered.”

  Her throat felt held in a stranglehold.

  “Char, did it ever get fixed?”

  She took off again and broke into a jog. Without a backward glance she hastened to the beach house and went through the gate and across the patio. An outdoor light was on; a lamp glowed behind the window curtains. A welcome sign?

  The doorknob turned in her hand. At least they hadn’t locked her out. She went inside and swiftly locked the door behind her.

  As if whatever pursued her could be kept at bay.

  Forty-Three

  Molly pulled the phone away from her ear. The distance failed to diminish the effect of Scott’s whooping and hollering. He was going to wake the kids. Then he’d have to explain to them that they were going to have a sister or brother, blah, blah, blah.

  His earsplitting response to her pregnancy news was not what she expected.

  Not yet out of bed, she slid back under the covers and waited for him to stop shouting praises to God.

  Praises. And thanks. For ruining her life?

  “Scotty.”

  “Oh, Molly! You are so precious! I love you! Hallelujah! Thank You, Jesus!”

  “Scotty!”

  “What?”

  “I don’t want to be pregnant!”

  That silenced him for a long moment. “But you are,” he whispered. “It’s a baby, Moll.”

  She cried then. It was unbelievable how many tears the body could produce within a twenty-four period.

  “Sweetheart, it’s okay.”

  “But don’t you understand? I’m forty! Eli is eleven! I’m going to teach! Full-time!”

  “Yeah?” His singsong tone said so what?

  “I am not Superwoman!” She wailed into the pillow, drowning his response.

  Long moments passed before she could speak again through her tight throat. “This changes everything.” She reached for a tissue on the nightstand and blew her nos
e. “I mean, we were starting a new season.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “I suppose I should just merrily say, ‘It’s okay, God. I don’t mind if You slam all those doors You just opened up!’ Oh, Scotty, I’ll never find myself again.”

  Still no response.

  “Scott? Are you there?”

  No reply.

  She looked at the phone. Its tiny colorful screen had gone black. She pushed the power button, but nothing happened.

  The battery was dead.

  She bounded from the bed and searched the nightstand and floor. No power cord! Why wouldn’t Jo leave that too?

  She opened her door and trudged down the hall, past Char and Jo’s closed doors. Should she wake one of them? Maybe Scott would call Char’s number. Knowing her, though, she’d sleep through the ringer’s rendition of a brass band playing “When the Saints Go Marching In.”

  Early morning gray afforded enough light to see that there was no cord or cell phone lying about the living room or kitchen. She went to the area off the kitchen where she could see Andie’s door. It was open.

  “Andie?”

  Molly noticed that the bathroom door was also open. She stepped into Andie’s bedroom. Could she be out in the ocean boogie boarding already? At six-thirty in the morning?

  She found a note on Andie’s bed and picked it up.

  “Started my birthday early. See you Sunday morning—your day, Molly. Start planning! Love, Andie.”

  Start planning. Sure. Like planning mattered.

  She didn’t even want a second birthday. “No thanks, Lord. One fortieth was quite enough.”

  Her stomach somersaulted. She sat on Andie’s bed and waited for it to right itself. It didn’t. Betsy’s gymnastics routine came to mind, the one where she did one forward roll after another, all the way down the mat, from one side of the gym to the other.

  Molly groaned.

  The crackers seemed to help. At least they had stayed down.

  She stumbled into the kitchen and found the box on the counter. She tore open the waxy paper around a stack of crackers, pulled out the top one, and took a bite. She hated saltines, but the instant salt and white flour turned mealy on her tongue, the forward rolls slowed.

  Fresh air would help. She found her sweatshirt left at the kitchen table the previous night and slipped it over her flannel pajamas. Barefoot, bag of crackers in hand, she went outside. The patio chairs were covered with condensation from the nighttime mist. Munching on her third cracker, she walked between a pair of joggers and a bicyclist to the wall and sat.

  While her stomach settled, Molly breathed in and she breathed out. There really was nothing else she could do.

  “Morning.”

  Molly turned around the seawall and saw Jo nearing. “Morning.”

  “How are you?” Jo plopped beside her.

  “Better, thanks.” She noticed Jo’s haggard appearance. “Are you okay?”

  “Mmm. Yeah.” Settling her bare feet atop the wall, she hugged her knees to herself and rested her chin on them. “No. Andie left last night. I waited up for Char. Two o’clock.”

  “What? Andie left? Char came in at two o’clock?”

  Jo closed her eyes and sighed.

  “Jo.”

  “I told Andie about…about making out with Paul. When is it she’ll forgive me?” She looked at Molly, her expression that of a lost little girl.

  “Aww. What did she say?”

  “More importantly, what didn’t she say? She didn’t say all was or ever would be well between us.”

  “She will come round. She sounded fine in her note.”

  “Note?”

  “In her room. She started her birthday early and would see us tomorrow morning.”

  “Okay.” The word was more a release of breath.

  “But she left last night? Where did she go?”

  “Julian’s.”

  “No.” Molly stared at the large white neighboring house. Glass nearly covered the entire three stories that faced the ocean. It was sleek and grand, probably beautiful to those who cared for contemporary styles.

  “I watched her from the beach. I saw him let her inside.”

  “It’s a huge place. Lots of rooms. Didn’t he mention something about renting out the upstairs?”

  “But they connected, Moll.”

  “Enough to sleep together?”

  “All I know is she desperately needed someone to connect with her. I guess we didn’t fit the bill.”

  “Sort of like you and that street pastor, Zeke.”

  Jo straightened, surprise on her face.

  “You connected, right? Before you really opened up to us.”

  “Yeah.”

  “If it’s that sort of connection, a spiritual one, then they’re not getting physically involved. He seems such a straight-arrow kind of guy, not into one-night stands. The voice is Sean Connery’s, but he’s no James Bond.”

  “Exactly. He’s just what she needs because Paul is such a jerk.” Jo lowered her chin again to bent knees. “Because I am such a jerk.”

  Molly touched her foot. “You’re not responsible. Neither are we responsible for Char. Two o’clock, huh?”

  “Two-eighteen. I heard her come in but didn’t talk to her.”

  “Did you hear Todd?”

  “No.”

  “I can’t remember the last time I stayed up until two—Yes, I can. It was three years ago. Abigail had the flu. She got sick right after dinner and kept on going straight through the night.” She remembered how then the other kids came down with it, one by one. It dragged on for a month. An eternal month. Add another child to the picture, and she could easily be looking at a lost six weeks every time a germ went round. Her heart sank.

  Jo stood. “I can’t face this without coffee. Are you up for our walk to Kono’s?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I’m not, either. I’ll go make coffee. Want some tea?”

  Molly nodded her head and said, “Herbal tea sounds great.”

  “Okay, I’ll make that too. Did you talk to Scott yet?”

  She told her what had happened.

  Jo tugged on her arm. “Come on. Let’s go plug in the phone. You can talk while I fuel my caffeine habit.”

  They walked toward the house. The morning gray and mist lingered, but a hint of desert warmth scented the air. Would that hot wind blow again? Molly hoped not. She wasn’t up for that, either.

  As a matter of fact, she wasn’t up for much of anything. Especially not for Scott’s inability to empathize. He related right and left to a congregation. He understood what trees needed. Turn her life inside out and he was once again—or still?—clueless.

  That shot any so-called new understanding between them right out of the water.

  Inside the house, Jo headed for the coffeemaker. Molly ignored her directions concerning the cell phone’s power cord and instead found a bath towel. She would dry off the patio chairs. They could sit in the fresh air and drink their tea and coffee.

  And then Molly would breathe in and she would breathe out.

  Forty-Four

  Char’s eyelids flew open. Startled, she sat up in the bed. Seven o’clock? Seven? Why was she awake?

  She touched her face. She’d forgotten to wear her eye mask, and now dawn intruded.

  Or was it a bad dream? Something hung in the foggy edges of her mind. What was it?

  Todd.

  Cam.

  Julian.

  Molly. Jo. Andie.

  Discount store sweats.

  She looked down, and a sweatshirt hood moved with her head. She brushed it off and glanced under the covers. Rough black fabric covered her from head to ankles.

  “Oh my word!”

  Where was the dress?

  She spotted it on a chair at the foot of the bed and remembered. In last night’s craziness she had removed it and put on the first thing within reach—the sweatshirt—in order to crawl into bed as quickly as pos
sible.

  Away from that unseen hounding whatever.

  Char sprang from the bed and whipped off the offensive clothes. Within moments she stood under the shower’s spray, vigorously scrubbing a loofah over her skin. She shampooed her hair and dug her acrylic nails into her scalp. Eventually the hot water cooled, and with reluctance she turned it off.

  She wasn’t ready to get out. She felt coated in…gunk, black as night.

  Char helped herself to coffee from the carafe in the kitchen. She spotted Jo and Molly through the window, sitting on the patio with mugs in hand.

  Her throat and chest throbbed. Her heart felt like a ricocheting pinball.

  Like that time in high school.

  They were sixteen years old. Or rather the others were sixteen and had their driver’s licenses months ahead of her. Jo’s parents bought her a fancy car for her birthday. Like always, they provided her with the trendiest, most expensive new thing on the market. She called them guilt gifts, purchased in lieu of the time they didn’t spend with her. She should have pranced about like a spoiled princess, but she never did. Though she had the superior attitude of most brainy rich people, it wasn’t the type that caused her nose to bruise from frequent contact with the ceiling.

  That September day Jo arrived at Char’s house. Molly and Andie already sat in the backseat of her sporty convertible. Char remembered seeing them as they drove up the driveway. It was a hot Saturday, ten days before Char’s birthday, and they wore shorts. They were going to the mall.

  Her heart pounded. Her throat ached from wild activity in her chest.

  She didn’t want to go. They didn’t really like her. They put up with her because Babette convinced them to do so and because, to put it bluntly, the cutest boys were attracted to Char. Given that their all-girls parochial school limited male attention, going to the mall was a significant event. Char’s attendance was a necessity.

  But she didn’t want to stay home either. Home…such as it was.

  Just a few minutes before the girls’ arrival, Char’s father had informed her he’d asked what’s-her-name to marry him. That woman in the kitchen. Her mother’s kitchen. The woman who cooked breakfast that day. The one who giggled when her father said the sunrise brought her.