Beach House for Rent

by Mary Alice Monroe

  “Of course we will,” Flo said. “We’re your friends. That’s what friends do.”

  “Where will you go?” asked Emmi. She was clearly worried and trying to keep up. “Will you rent a place?”

  “No. I really can’t afford a summer rental. Palmer very kindly invited me to move in with him and his family until I’m on my feet again.” She paused, then added on a wry note, “But I’d rather live outside in a tent than with my brother and Julia, bless their hearts.”

  Flo laughed heartily at this, having known Palmer since he was in britches.

  “I’ve given this a lot of thought,” Cara said, her voice wobbling. “I want to go home.”

  “To the beach house?” asked Emmi incredulously.

  “Yes, of course the beach house,” Cara replied. “It’s like Flo said. The beach house is where my mother went to heal after Russell Bennett died. Right?”

  Cara turned to Flo. The old woman said nothing, but her eyes filled with the sadness of memory. She nodded.

  Cara felt again the reassurance of knowing she was, in a sense, following in her mother’s footsteps. It gave her something to hang on to so she wouldn’t drown in her sorrow.

  “I’ll feel her spirit there,” she said, convincing herself as much as her friends. “I’ll heal there. It won’t be the first time I’ve found myself at that beach house.” She summoned a lopsided smile and glanced at Flo for affirmation.

  “No,” Flo said in a tired voice.

  “But . . .” Emmi gave Flo a worried look.

  Cara looked at her testily, not wanting her decision challenged. “But what?”

  “But it’s rented.”

  Cara sniffed quickly, and then put on her business face. “Of course. I know that.” She frowned and wiped away something on the table with brusque movements. “I’ll talk to Heather. Once I explain that I need to move back into my own house, I’m sure she’ll let me break the rental agreement. She’s a nice girl, and she can move back home. I don’t think she was too happy to be here in the first place.”

  Flo’s face appeared troubled. “I don’t think we’re talking about the same girl, honey. I saw her the other day, and she’s blooming, just like my roses. She’s happy here, out walking every morning sketching those shorebirds. And she’s in love.”

  Cara swung her head around. “She’s in love? With who?”

  “Bo,” Flo said with a big grin. “And you never saw a man so smitten.”

  “Bo?” Cara was stunned.

  “Why not? He’s a very good-looking young man with a noble heart. Not unlike Brett at that age.”

  Somehow that comparison rankled. “Regardless,” Cara said belligerently, “it’s my house, and I need to move back in.” She frowned and looked out the window again. “I have to go to the beach house. I have to find some way to start over. Just like Mama.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  THREE WEEKS PASSED in a blur and Cara was running on empty. She’d been pushing herself to get the house sold, her belongings crammed into storage and emptied in time to meet the new buyer’s aggressive close date. She’d had countless meetings with Robert and the bank to initiate the paperwork for the sale of the ecotour business. And with the sale of the house, to settle the equity loan. Thanks to John Denning and Palmer, the pieces were all beginning to fall into place. There was still much to do, more time would have to pass before papers were signed, but she had hope she’d come out on the other side still standing on her feet. Barely. On the upside, being busy kept her from constantly thinking of Brett and wallowing in self pity. On the downside, she was exhausted and heading for a crash.

  Cara’s felt the thin veneer of her mask crack when she pulled into the gravel driveway of the beach house. The yellow cottage with the Charleston green shutters, the screened front porch, the wide staircase, the lovely disarray of natural plants along the dunes . . . nothing had changed about this sweet place since her childhood. She’d returned here once before, broken. Now here she was again, life-weary and inconsolable, and she wondered if this simple little house could work its magic again. She had nowhere else to go but home, she thought, gathering her resolve. She had to remain strong a little longer. She had to get back home. In her heart she knew this was where she was supposed to be.

  She had meant to park the Gold Bug in its usual spot but saw Bo’s truck parked there. She squeezed in behind him and rolled up the windows. She took a moment to collect her wits. A dull ache pressed in the right side of her head and she groaned at what she knew was the onset of a migraine. She’d not had one in years but she’d awoken with the aura of flickering lights and felt light-headed. She wasn’t shocked, what with all the stress of making important, life-changing financial decisions at a time she should be left to quietly licking her wounds.

  She opened the door, grabbed her purse, and stepped out into the July heat. The bright sunlight exacerbated her budding headache, and she groped for her sunglasses. Slamming the door, she noticed the golf cart parked under the porch. She walked closer and saw that it was one of those fancy new street-legal carts, and already there were Center for Birds of Prey, Island Turtle Team, and Protect Your Local Shorebirds stickers on the back window. It occurred to her that Heather appeared to be settling in more than she’d suspected.

  Worry creased her brow, but undaunted she walked the familiar path to her front door. Standing there, she thought it was improper of her not to have called in advance. But she was here, so there was nothing left for her to do but knock. Taking a breath, she raised her hand and did just that.

  THE DOORBELL SOUNDED, followed by a quick knock on the front door.

  Bo looked at Heather. She shrugged and shook her head to indicate she had no idea who it might be.

  The knock sounded again, louder and more insistent.

  “Coming!” Heather called, wishing she had dressed. She and Bo had gone together to the beach at dawn, as they did often in the past few weeks. They’d returned, showered and only just sat down for breakfast. Running her hand through her unbrushed hair, she opened the door a crack and peered out.

  The last person she expected to see was Cara Rutledge. She was dressed in a black shift dress that looked two sizes too big for her, her dark hair pulled severely back in a clasp that only made her face appear more gaunt. Heather hadn’t seen Cara since the day after she’d arrived. She must’ve lost ten pounds since then, Heather thought. At least. She was a shadow of the vibrant, confident woman who’d welcomed her to the beach house.

  “Cara?”

  Cara presented a tired smile. “Good morning, Heather. I tried to call. Do you have a minute?” She lifted a white baker’s box. “I brought pastries.” Cara looked at her robe and down to her bare feet.

  “Uh, sure. Come in,” Heather stammered, and stepped aside. Closing the door, she turned to see Bo emerge from the kitchen in his pants but no shirt and barefoot. He stopped short, and his smile slipped to reveal his surprise when he saw Cara.

  “Hello, Bo,” Cara said, her eyes wide with surprise. “I didn’t expect to see you here. I thought the deck was done.”

  “Yeah, it is,” he replied as he reached up to scratch behind his ear.

  When Cara’s gaze met Heather’s again, there was no doubt she knew what was going on behind this closed door.

  Heather looked up as Bo approached and they shared a commiserating glance. What to say? A million excuses as to why Bo would be here, half dressed, filled her mind, but one was more lame than the next. Her training in etiquette kicked in.

  “We, uh, we were just sitting down for breakfast. Won’t you join us? I’ll open up these pastries.”

  “Oh, no. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt your breakfast.” Cara looked up at the hall clock. It was nearly ten o’clock. “At this hour.”

  Heather cringed and turned to Bo. He gave her a knowing half smile as though to say, Who cares?

  “Look, I’ll come back,” Cara said abruptly. “I came to talk to Heather about something important
, but . . .” She appeared lost for words and pressed two fingers to her temple.

  “No problem,” Bo said. “I have to take off. You two have your powwow.”

  Heather looked up at him, uncertain what to do next. Bo winked at her from behind Cara and gave her an encouraging thumbs-up as he left the room.

  “Maybe I will have that cup of coffee, then,” Cara said with a quick smile. “It smells so good.”

  “Be right back,” said Heather. “You know where to sit.”

  Heather hurried to the kitchen, where she found Bo gulping down a few spoonfuls of grits from the pot.

  “You don’t have to leave.”

  “Yes, I do,” he replied, then reached out to grab a piece of bacon and stuff it in his mouth. He spoke as he chewed. “It has to be important if she got up and came all the way over here to talk to you. The woman’s been in hiding since the funeral.” He gulped down some coffee. Putting his mug down on the counter, he added, “It wouldn’t be kind to send her away.”

  “You’re right.” Heather chewed her lip. “I wonder what she wants to talk about? I hope my father paid the rent.”

  “Only one way to find out.” Bo plucked more bacon from the platter, slapped it between two pieces of toast, and gave her a quick kiss. “I’ll grab my things and get out of here. I’ll call you later.”

  Heather paled and reached out to touch his arm, staying his progress. “You promise. Okay?”

  Bo’s eyes kindled as he took a step back to her. He lowered his head to touch her lips.

  She tasted bacon and kissed him back, fiercely.

  “You know I will. Now, you best go back in there with Cara’s coffee. And,” he added, patting her bottom, “eat your breakfast, too.”

  “Bo,” she said, worrying her lip, “what do I say? What do you think would bring Cara over here, unannounced, so early?”

  “First, it’s not that early. And who knows? Don’t worry,” he said and met her gaze.

  Bo stepped into the living room, and she heard him exchange a few words with Cara. Heather took the opportunity to hurry on tiptoe across the room; they paused to look at her, but Bo kept up the brief conversation. In the bedroom Heather threw off her robe and grabbed a sundress from her closet. She slipped it over her head, going commando, and stepped into her flip-flops. Dashing into the bathroom, she raked her hair with her fingers and pulled it back into a clasp. That was as good as it was going to get.

  Pausing at the door to take a calming breath, she entered the room to see that Bo had left and Cara was standing by the birds in the sunroom making soft whistling noises.

  “I’ll get our coffee,” Heather called and hurried back into the kitchen. Taking a breath to calm her nerves, she poured mugs of coffee, added cream. With a last longing look at the grits, she reentered the living room.

  Cara strode across the room and sat on the chintz sofa. She gracefully accepted the mug of coffee. Heather noticed how thin Cara’s arms were. “Are you sure you won’t have some breakfast? We could open the pastries.”

  Cara shook her head. “No, thank you. Please, help yourself. I hope you like them. I didn’t know what you liked.”

  Heather opened the box and breathed in the mouthwatering scent of a dozen freshly baked pastries. She picked up a scone, more for politeness’s sake than hunger. Her stomach was tied up in knots. She bit into it, tasting the sweet cinnamon flavor, then set it on a napkin on the table. Oh . . . she should’ve brought out plates, she thought. Brushing away a few flakes from her dress she asked, “Are you sure you don’t want any?”

  Cara only smiled and shook her head.

  Heather felt a renewed worry for Cara. She wondered how long it had been since she had eaten a decent meal.

  They each sipped from their mugs; looking over the rim, Heather felt all the relaxation and contentment she’d felt earlier dissipate. Once again she felt her shoulder muscles tighten and her stomach clench in anxiety as she worried over what Cara had come to talk to her about. It took all her willpower not to shake her foot. When the mugs were both placed on the table, there followed an awkward silence.

  Cara looked out at the ocean. “It’s a beautiful morning.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I hope you’ve been comfortable here.”

  “Yes, very.”

  Cara folded her hands in her lap. She paused, then looking up again asked, “Would it be terrible for you to consider breaking the lease and leaving early?”

  Heather’s brows rose and her mouth opened in a silent gasp. “Leave early? But—but why?”

  “It’s complicated,” Cara replied in a reserved manner. “My circumstances have changed, as you know. I’m consolidating my holdings. So I have to move back into my house. This house,” she emphasized to be clear.

  “But what about your house?”

  “As I said, I’m consolidating. Or, simply put, that house is sold.”

  Heather took a moment to speak. “But I have a lease until September.”

  “I realize that. That’s why I’ve come to talk to you. To ask you to break the lease. You’ll get back your deposit, of course.”

  “Where would I go?”

  Cara lifted her shoulders slightly. “Why, you could go home,” she replied evenly. “I believe you weren’t completely happy to have left there in the first place? That your father was the one who thought it was a good idea. Now you have an excuse to return. Isn’t that what you’d like?”

  “No,” Heather blurted out. “No, it’s not what I’d like.” This came out with more heat than she’d intended.

  Cara’s smile had slipped and her brows were gathered. “I see,” she said carefully. She lifted her chin while brushing away a piece of lint on her skirt. “Then I’m really very sorry. But I need to return here. It’s my home. I have my reasons.”

  Heather only looked at her.

  “So, I have to ask you to leave. Would the end of the month be all right with you?”

  Heather felt her heart rate zoom and the early signs of a panic attack flood her senses. She rose abruptly to her feet.

  “Excuse me.” Her hands were clenched at her sides as she walked quickly from the room into the kitchen. She bent over the counter and stood for a moment with her eyes squeezed tight, breathing deeply and swallowing away her nausea. Why did Bo have to go? She needed him here with her. To talk to and figure out what to do. How can I argue with Cara? She’s so calm and superior, and here I am, having a panic attack in the kitchen, trying not to throw up.

  Her inner critic was shouting at her: You’re not up to winning this argument. You won’t be able to get a word out. Why take the chance if it’s going to blow up in your face anyway? Someone like Cara wouldn’t be telling you that if she hadn’t checked with her lawyers.

  Heather pushed away from the counter and began pacing the floor, opening and closing her fists rapidly as her mind went through her options. Cara seemed so sure in her knowledge that she could effectively break the lease. But could she? Part of Heather felt powerless against someone like Cara. She was the landlady. She owned the house. But something was off. What rights did Heather actually have? She saw her phone on the kitchen counter and, thanking her stars, grabbed it. Immediately she started to call her dad. He’d always come to her rescue.

  Then her hand stilled. No, she told herself. No, no, no! Ya feel like vomiting? Afraid you might have a panic attack? Sweating profusely from every orifice of your body? Well, nobody has to know unless you want them to! You can’t cower in here. You don’t need your daddy to defend you. You don’t need Bo. This is your house. Your life. It’s up to you. You have to put on your big-girl pants and deal with this yourself.

  She looked down at her phone and went to Google. She typed in can a landlord break a lease. She quickly had legal information at her fingertips. She read through several sites, and when she finished the third she lowered her hand and felt her heart rate slowing. She set the phone back on the counter, her fingertips tapping on it as she though
t. According to what she’d read, Cara could not simply kick her out. She’d done nothing to break the renter’s agreement, so Cara had no grounds. Heather released a smile that felt like hope.

  Now all she had to do was go back in there and stand up for her rights. She felt a flutter sweep over her. That, of course, was her biggest obstacle. She thought of Bo’s parting words: “Don’t worry.” You’ve got this.

  She closed her eyes again and pictured Bo’s face. A series of images flashed through her mind. His knowing grin when he knew she could do something—drive the golf cart, catch a fish, talk to Cara. Bo rejected her belief that she wasn’t good enough. He showed her in meaningful ways that she was worthy of his love. Did she love him enough to believe him?

  Knowing she was valuable and worthwhile—that she was good enough—was a new feeling for her. But—and this made Heather catch her breath—she instinctively felt it was true. She just needed the confidence. Shutting out the negative voice, she tried to think of reasons she would succeed.

  She had proved she was successful when she put her effort into something. She was intelligent, capable. She ran her own small business. She could at the very least have a conversation about the subject and not just cower in the corner and do what she was told. Even if her confidence faltered again in the future, for now, she had to take the first step.

  She saw the worry stone on the windowsill by the pot of basil, where she had put it. She picked it up and, holding it tight, walked back into the living room.

  Cara was still sitting on the sofa, one elbow on the armrest and her head bent against her palm, eyes closed. She straightened when she heard Heather walk into the room.

  “There you are,” Cara said with a pained smile. “I thought for a moment you’d abandoned me in a fit of fury.”