Beach House for Rent

by Mary Alice Monroe

  “Thanks for ordering the pizza, hon. Did the trick,” she said, and began gathering the dishes.

  But when she reached for Brett’s plate, his hand rose to clasp her arm.

  “Feeling better?” he asked earnestly.

  She forced a short smile. The truth was she’d been feeling better over the cheesy pizza and easy conversation, but now the worries over her future were creeping back in, making her stomach turn. “A bit.”

  He nodded, accepting her answer. “Hold on a minute, Cara.”

  Cara sighed. “Let’s table this until tomorrow. I’m really tired and I want to take a bath.”

  “But we never finished our conversation. You brought up a couple of important subjects and we didn’t give them their full due.”

  Cara hesitated, but set the plates back on the table. Brett could be like a dog with a bone about unfinished business, work or personal.

  “Cara, I don’t care if you sell the beach house,” he told her. “Or keep it. I support whatever you decide.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Now . . . the other subject.” He pursed his lips as he folded his hands on the table. “If you’re unhappy working with me at Coastal Ecotour, don’t wait. Quit now.”

  Cara looked at him, startled. “I can’t just—”

  “Yes, you can. We’ll manage. And I can always ask you to help out if we run into trouble.” His laugh was good-naturedly self-deprecating. “And you know I will.”

  She looked at her hands, pensive. “But I haven’t a clue what I’d do.”

  “Then take the time to figure it out.” Brett’s smile was full of compassion. “I want you to be happy, Cara. I don’t want you to feel stuck. Or tethered.”

  She blanched when she saw the hurt spark in his blue eyes and realized he’d caught her meaning earlier. “I don’t feel tethered to you,” she said, grasping his hand. Then, looking at their joined hands, she laughed. “Well, I guess I am. We’re married. . . . I’d never feel stuck with you.” She squeezed his hand. “I love you.”

  He returned the squeeze, his hand so large it engulfed hers. “And I love you.” He pushed his chair back to stand, tugging at her arm to guide her to her feet. His ruddy, tanned face eased into a seductive smile. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s take that bath.”

  The pizza carton, the plates, and the wine bottle lay forgotten on the table as they made their way across the living room, still hand-in-hand. They’d just reached their bedroom when the front doorbell rang.

  Brett cursed under his breath. “Now, who the hell could that be at this time of night?”

  Cara fought the urge to duck into the bedroom. She wasn’t up to talking to anyone. But curiosity won out. She followed Brett to the front door and arrived just as he swung it open. Standing at the door was her brother.

  “Palmer!” Brett called out in a somewhat forced cheery tone of welcome. “Can’t get enough of us?”

  Cara peeked around Brett’s shoulder. “What are you doing here? Is everything all right?”

  Palmer had the faint sheen of too much alcohol on his face, and under the harsh light of the porch lamp she could see where his blond hair was thinning on his scalp. Palmer grabbed his handkerchief from his pocket and waved it in the air. “I’m waving the white flag,” he said. Chuckling, he tucked the handkerchief back in his breast pocket. He was smiling wide, bursting with news. “I had to come over and tell you in person. I’ve got news.”

  “Well, come in,” Brett said, and opened wide the door.

  As he entered, Palmer was shaking his head with disbelief. He stopped in front of Cara.

  “This afternoon you shouted so loud that the beach house was for rent I swear God must’ve heard it. What was that thing Mama always used to say? Something about God closing a door?”

  Cara looked at her brother, amused. “When God closes a door, He opens a window.”

  “That’s the one. Well, sister mine, God opened a window.”

  “Sit down and tell us all about it,” Brett said, slapping his hand on Palmer’s shoulder. “Want a beer?”

  Cara shot him a warning glance. It seemed Palmer had already had enough to drink.

  “Nah, thanks. I just came from a dinner meeting.” Palmer walked to the brown leather chair near the fireplace and unceremoniously plopped down into it. He looked up at Cara expectantly.

  She went to the leather sofa beside him and slid onto the cushions. Brett sat beside her.

  “So what’s up?” she prodded.

  Palmer spoke with intent. “First, answer me this. Is the beach house already rented out for the summer?”

  Cara shook her head. “Actually, no. I kept it off the rental market until we finished the renovations. You never know if there are going to be delays. I was about to put it back on.”

  “Well, don’t.”

  Cara glanced at Brett.

  Palmer had the look of the cat that had just swallowed the canary. “Not long after I left the beach house today—after you shouted at me the house was for rent and not for sale—I got a call from Devlin Cassell.”

  “As in Cassell real estate?” Cara asked.

  “The very one.” Palmer grinned with amusement and singsonged the firm’s slogan: “Your house is your castle.” He chortled. “Nice guy. You remember him?” he asked Brett. “Old surfing buddy from way back.”

  “Sure. Know him well. He flips an occasional house, and sometimes he contracts me for the odd job here or there.”

  That interested Palmer. “Does he, now? Well, hell, Brother, remind me to talk to you about that later. I have a few ideas I want to toss around. But for now . . . after I left you, I returned Devlin’s call.” He steepled his fingers and leaned forward. “It seems he’s got this banker from Charlotte looking to rent a small beach house for the entire summer.”

  Cara’s eyes widened. “For the summer?” Normally she had to schedule renters week by week, the usual summer routine. The relief—the luxury—of a single renter for the whole summer seemed too good to be true. “Does he have any idea how much a house rents for by the week?”

  “He does. Apparently money is no object. The problem is finding a place that’s available. This late in the season, most everything is booked for large chunks of time. Dev called me to ask if I knew of anything, and voilà!” He spread open his palms. “I thought of you. Destiny, don’t you think?”

  Cara leaned back against the cushions. “I’m stunned.”

  “Well, I’m relieved,” Brett said. “I confess I was worried we were entering the rental market late. After all the work we did, we could sure use the income.”

  “He’s willing to pay the going rate?” she asked.

  “He is,” Palmer assured her. “Dev says he’s as rich as God. So when that proverbial window opened, he got the word direct.” Palmer pointed to the heavens.

  Cara laughed and said, “Mama would say you’re being blasphemous.”

  “Hell she would. Mama would be dancing right now with this news.”

  “This is so unexpected,” Cara said, still in disbelief. “A whole summer rented to one person.” She paused as an unwelcome thought broke through her relief. “There’s got to be a catch. Is he weird or something?”

  Palmer shook his head. “It’s not for him. It’s for his daughter. The scoop from Devlin is that the daughter is in her twenties. Some kind of artist. Professional, not hobby, that much I got. I gather she needs a place to paint this summer for a project she’s working on.”

  “She must be doing well to be able to rent the house for a whole summer to paint.”

  “Who knows?” Palmer made a face. “She still lives at home with Daddy. But the father is getting married again. So . . .”

  Brett finished the sentence: “. . . he’s looking to boot his daughter out of the house.”

  “Could be.”

  Cara didn’t think that was unreasonable for the father. A woman in her twenties should be able to take care of herself. After all, Cara had left home at
eighteen without a dime of support. Her father sure hadn’t rented a place for her. But none of this speculation mattered. The salient point was that the father was renting the beach house for his daughter for the entire summer.

  “When does she want to arrive?” asked Cara. “I still have finishing touches to do on the beach house.”

  “The wedding is in early May, so I’m guessing as soon as possible.”

  “That doesn’t leave us much time,” said Brett.

  “We don’t have much left to do.” Cara shook her head in wonder at the whims of fate. Here she’d been considering selling the beach house, and suddenly a regular renter appeared out of nowhere. Maybe it was fate giving her a postponement on dealing with what she’d need to do to change her status quo. Cara was good at making snap decisions, and this one was easy. She’d do all the preliminary background checks, of course, but one renter for the entire summer likely meant less wear and tear on the house, fewer loud parties, and less worry about people squeezing in extra guests under the radar.

  “Oh,” Palmer interjected, “there is one thing.”

  Cara groaned softly. “I knew it was too good to be true.”

  “No,” Palmer replied with a light laugh, “it’s no big deal. She has canaries. She wants to bring them.”

  Brett guffawed. “That’s a new one.”

  “I guess a canary is okay,” Cara said.

  “More than one. I believe he said three or four.”

  “As long as she keeps them in cages and the seed swept up. We don’t want bugs. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “So I should say yes?” Palmer confirmed.

  Cara glanced at Brett, and he nodded. She turned to her brother. “Yes.”

  Palmer clapped his hands together in finality. “I guess that’s it, then. The beach house is officially rented out for the season.”

  “Wait. Who is this new tenant? What’s her name?” Cara wanted to know.

  Palmer lifted his phone and, after a few minutes of scrolling, said, “Name is Heather.” He looked up. “Heather Wyatt.”

  Chapter Three

  May 2016

  HEATHER WYATT SAT upright in the passenger seat of her father’s luxury black Cadillac SUV. She breathed deep, doing her best to contain the growing panic inside of her. Her hands were white-knuckled in her lap; her knees pressed together tightly so she wouldn’t visibly shake. Her mouth was set in a straight line, but inside she was cringing with fear, curled up in a ball as her mind screamed No, no, no!

  She could barely look out the window at the trees and billboards and countless exit signs on the highway as they whizzed by. It was May, and already the South was blanketed in a thick, lush green, especially the vines of kudzu that climbed the telephone poles and trees on the edges of the roads. They rode with the windows up and the air-conditioning on, as the humid, sultry heat that defined a coastal summer had already descended. She closed her eyes and tried to distract herself by singing along to the playlist she’d created titled “Journey to Isle of Palms.” Before leaving Charlotte, North Carolina, she’d packed her computer, books, art supplies, and work files into neatly organized plastic bins. She’d moved her three treasured canaries into special travel cages. Finally she’d notified anyone of importance of her change of address—even if it was only for the summer. This was the salient point. The one that gave her the strength to persevere. At weak moments she told herself she was returning to Charlotte at summer’s end to resume the comfortable, productive, safe life she’d enjoyed before her father had taken the bold step of renting her a beach house all the way over in South Carolina.

  This, in fact, marked the first time she’d left home alone. At twenty-six, Heather was well aware that it was long overdue. She was an adult. An accomplished illustrator. She’d been awarded a commission to paint shorebirds of the Atlantic Coast for the United States Postal Service. A heady accomplishment. She still couldn’t believe that her art would someday become stamps that people—millions of them—would affix to their envelopes. The award was hard-won and presented a tremendous challenge. Her pride in the achievement boosted her lagging self-confidence enough that she agreed to her father’s offer to rent her a beach house. But of course, moving to the beach house meant leaving the safety of home.

  Heather brought her fingers to her mouth and began chewing her nails. She didn’t like to think of herself as agoraphobic. She preferred to describe herself as shy. That’s what her mother had said whenever she had to push her young daughter forward to greet a stranger: “Heather’s a bit shy.” Yet she’d never outgrown her shyness, and as an adult Heather was well aware that her anxiety levels went far beyond normal. She wasn’t completely housebound, a classic sign of the disorder. She functioned pretty well, considering that her anxiety sometimes spiked through the roof. She was proud of how she’d managed, all in all.

  As an illustrator she was able to do most of her work at home. But she ran errands in town and visited shopping malls, and she and the FedEx woman were on a first-name basis. She regularly saw a therapist, took her medication religiously, and was encouraged that her last panic attack had been well over a month ago. Heather chewed another nail. Stressful situations, however, could still bring on a full-blown attack. And moving to a new house in a new city—a new state—certainly qualified as a high-stress situation.

  Her father wasn’t booting her out, he’d assured her. Heather snorted. Right. . . . She got that he wanted some time alone with his bride. To be fair, she couldn’t deny his argument that she needed to go to the shore for her work. But he was still firmly, albeit lovingly and generously, forcing Heather to leave the family home. She glanced over at her father.

  David Wyatt’s considerable frame filled the driver’s seat. He was a big man in stature but had a gentle spirit. He slouched comfortably, one long arm extended over the wheel, idly moving his fingers in time to the country ballad on the CD. His salt-and-pepper hair was expertly trimmed—short enough to befit his position as a bank executive and long enough to still be attractive to women. By any standard, David Wyatt was a handsome man, and as a widower, he’d been the most desired bachelor in Charlotte.

  Until his recent marriage to Natalie Sanders.

  Heather shifted in the seat to wrap her arms tightly around herself. Whenever she thought of her father’s marriage, she felt an acute sense of betrayal. Not only because her father was allowing some stranger to take her mother’s place as Mrs. Wyatt, but because her new stepmother was twenty years younger than her father. That made the woman more a contemporary, and it made Heather feel downright strange to think of Natalie as her mother—even her stepmother. She shuddered at the word.

  Her father pressed on the accelerator and shifted to the left lane, passing several cars as the big engine roared.

  “Daddy, don’t speed,” Heather said through clenched teeth, her hands immediately dropping, bracing herself against the seat. “Please.”

  David swung his head around to glance at his daughter. She couldn’t see his eyes behind the dark aviator shades. “I’m only doing seven miles per hour over the speed limit,” he said reasonably.

  “Seven over the speed limit is still speeding,” she insisted plaintively, hating that she sounded like such a baby but powerless to stop. She was already wired after hours of holding herself together. “You know how much I hate speeding.”

  “Honey, I’ll slow down, okay?” he said reassuringly. “Try to relax. Look”—he pointed out the windshield—“there’s the first sign for Charleston we’ve seen. Shouldn’t be too much longer now.” He craned his neck to get a peek at the sky. “Want to beat that rain.”

  Heather looked up as a sudden barrage of fat raindrops splattered the windshield. She sucked in a breath.

  “Now, come on, Heather,” her father said soothingly, noting her instantaneous reaction as he flicked on the windshield wipers. “We could use some rain, baby. It is spring, after all.” His tone was cajoling, and he turned his head and smiled in an attempt to
calm her.

  It wasn’t working. Lightning splintered the gray sky, followed by the guttural roar of thunder. Heather trembled as a rush of memories flooded her mind, as electrifying as the sky. Her heart beat in time to the accelerated metronome clicking of the wipers. Far ahead there appeared to be a veil of rain, and they were heading right for it. Traffic slowed and a line of brake lights went on for as far as she could see. She searched through the gray mist to read the road sign.

  “The next exit is Orangeburg. Maybe we should take it. Get off the road,” she said in a shaky voice.

  “We’re okay,” her father replied in a placating tone. “It’s just a cloudburst. It’ll pass.”

  Sure enough, they drove straight into the downpour. It rained with such force, thundering on the car roof with a deafening roar, that they couldn’t see more than ten feet ahead. The wipers clicked to their fastest gear, whipping back and forth in a frenzy. Heather startled as another clap of thunder burst seemingly overhead. Her father’s smile was gone now. He slowed to a crawl and turned on the emergency blinker. Heather saw his fingers tighten on the steering wheel as he leaned forward, peering into the road ahead.

  “Can’t see a damn thing.”

  Wide-eyed with fear, Heather curled her legs up onto the seat while her mind flashed back to the horrible car accident with her mother. . . .

  She’d been riding in the passenger seat that night, too. A similar cloudburst. The highway growing foggy and slick. It was the night of her high school graduation party. Her mother had come to pick her up because Heather had had too much to drink, but she’d been cool about it. She wasn’t a mother who lectured.

  “Do you feel tipsy?” her mother had asked. When Heather had replied a nervous yes, her mother took it in stride. “Remember what that feels like, so next time you know when to stop.” Then with a smile she added, “Okay?”

  “Okay,” Heather replied, grateful her mother was being so reasonable. It was her first offense, after all, and likely her last, the way her stomach was roiling. But she’d actually had a good time at the party—danced, laughed, felt like one of the crowd for once. “But to be honest, I kind of liked tipsy Heather. She’s a lot more fun. I mean, I actually talked to guys.”