The Beach House (33 page)

“That doesn't make sense,” David said slowly, more to himself than to her. “He won. Why would he . . .” His head snapped up. “Well, I'll be damned. Could it be you don't like lying in the bed you made for yourself?”

“You always did use words as weapons, David.”

But never against her. At least not until today. “It's an occupational hazard.”

Carly pointed toward the back of the house. “Why don't we have our coffee in the kitchen?”

David nodded and motioned for her to lead the way. As they passed through the living room, he quickly scanned the pictures hanging there. Unless she'd stopped painting watercolors and her style had changed dramatically, and for the worse, none of the paintings were Carly's.

She turned to say something and caught him looking at a picture of a girl standing next to a tree. “Ethan collects turn-of-the-century artists,” she explained.

He gave her a questioning look. “Since when?” The Ethan he remembered had taste that ran to shopping-mall art.

“He started a few years after we were married.”

“I don't see anything of yours in here.”

“I got tired of looking at them.”

Something wasn't right. And then it hit him. “You're not painting anymore, are you?”

“I grew bored after a while. It's difficult to maintain enthusiasm for something that's third-rate.”

What was it about artists and critics? Of the hundreds of glowing reviews that had been written about his books, it was the half-dozen bad ones he remembered word for word. “And just who was the genius who told you your work was third-rate?”

She turned her back to him and continued into the kitchen. “Me,” she said, reaching into a cupboard for the coffee.

“I know what passes for art these days. I've seen too many paintings—hell, I own too many of them. I remember your work, Carly. You were never third-rate.”

“It's past history,” she said. “I hardly remember what it felt like to hold a brush in my hand.” With a forced brightness, she added, “At least one of us made it.”

Battling a streak of vindictiveness, he considered telling her how close he'd come to not “making” it, how after receiving her letter he'd dropped out of school and lived on the road, spending the next two years hitchhiking his way through South America and then hopping a freighter to Europe. The ship was ancient and painfully slow and only the cook spoke enough English to put more than a halting sentence together. Boredom had prompted him to borrow paper and start writing again—a cliché-ridden spy novel about Nazis who'd hidden in Argentina after World War II. The hours he spent working on the manuscript were the best he'd had since leaving school. After two years of trying everything from tequila to whores, he'd stumbled on the one way to escape her memory, if only for a few hours.

He crossed the kitchen and leaned his hip against the tile counter. She was thinner, almost fragile looking, a word he would never have used to describe her back then. From the time they were first allowed to cross the streets by themselves, she'd refused to be left behind in anything he and Ethan did, whether it was cross-country skiing or climbing trees. He liked that she'd finally let her hair grow and that she wore it loose; what he didn't like was that he could still remember the sweetness of its smell, and how it felt against his bare chest after they'd made love.

“I've read all of your books,” she said, again turning the subject from herself to him. “They're wonderful.” Softly, she added, “I'm so proud of you, David. You've done everything you wanted.” She paused. “Everything you ever dreamed.”

“Ironic, isn't it? I had the dream because of you and then succeeded in spite of you.”

She flinched but never lost a beat, going on as if the jab had been a loving stroke. “Remember how you used to say your books would never hit the bestseller lists because really good books never did?”

There was no place to hide from her. She knew all his secrets, every pompous thought he'd had back then. “Well, at least I was right about that.”

She whipped around to face him. “You can't be serious. Your books are as literate as they are exciting. Especially the last four. I couldn't put them down when I was reading them and then I couldn't get them out of my mind after I finished.”

A sickening thought occurred to him. It was like old times, each of them bolstering and defending the other. Only it wasn't old times; it was now and it was warped. Still, he couldn't stop himself from saying, “And your paintings were wonderful.”

“Even if I had the desire, I wouldn't have the energy or time. This house, three kids, a husband, and a dog are about as much as I can handle.” As if on cue, the dog stood, made a circle and lay back down in its basket.

“I can't believe what I'm hearing.”

She stopped filling the coffeepot long enough to give him a sardonic smile. “Surprised?”

“Not at all. I knew you would have kids someday—” A caustic laugh punctuated his remark. “Of course at the time I thought they would be mine.” Defensively, to cover his exposed feelings, he added, “What does surprise me is that you would use them as an excuse for giving up painting.”

She glared at him. “You always did try to put words in my mouth.”

“What really happened, Carly?”

“What are you trying to do to me, David? What do you hope to accomplish by pointing out how successful you are and what a failure you think I am?”

“When we were growing up”—he struggled for the words to express what until then had only been feelings—“our ambitions were so caught up together that at times I lost track of where yours ended and mine began. I've imagined you a lot of ways since then, but never once did I imagine you not painting.”

She went back to making the coffee. “Can we talk about something else?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Tell me about England.” A deep hunger to know what she'd missed seeing for herself, came through in her voice.

“On the surface, it's a lot like we used to think it would be—the double-decker buses, the tea shops, the museums.”

“And below the surface?” she asked eagerly.

He knew what she wanted, to live the experience through his eyes the way she had when he'd gone to New York without her. “What took me by surprise was the sense of history—the feeling of mortality, and the utter insignificance that I felt the first time I stood in the middle of Westminster Abbey. I went on a day when there was a blizzard outside and I almost had the place to myself.”

He searched for the words that would make what he'd seen come alive for her. “It was incredible, Carly. There I was standing in the Poets Corner, surrounded by memorials to Chaucer and Jonson and Browning.” He chuckled. “Talk about a humbling experience. I went home and threw out everything I'd written since moving to England.”

“Has it changed—your feelings, I mean? Have you gotten used to living there?”

“You mean, have I lost my sense of wonder?”

“Yes.”

He thought back to how he'd felt the first time he'd seen Trafalgar Square and the River Thames and how he felt when he passed them now. “I guess I have,” he said with regret.

“I suppose it was bound to happen.” She reached into the cupboard and took down two mugs.

He didn't say anything then. The silence grew until it became awkward and she looked up at him. Her eyes were dark brown pools of sadness and fear that contradicted the seemingly casual turn in their conversation.

“Why did you turn your back on me, Carly?” he asked, unable to stop himself. “And why Ethan? What did he give you that I didn't? Was it because I wanted to postpone our getting married again?”

Carly looked away, sheltering herself from the hurt she saw on his face. Now, even knowing how much it meant to David to hear what she would tell him, she found herself stumbling over the words. “I was lonely. Ethan was here when I needed him. He loved me. I fell in love with him. I never meant for it to happen—it just did.” Allowing herself a crumb of truth, she added, “I know it doesn't mean much for me to tell you this now, but not one day has gone by that I haven't regretted the way I hurt you.”

He walked over to the window and stared outside, taking in but paying no attention to the shimmering red and gold leaves still clinging to trees no longer willing to nurture them. “I threw away all of your letters but that last one. Every once in a while when I was feeling particularly lonely or lost, I would reread what you had written and it would shore me up with enough anger to see me through until the next time. But then that stopped working after a while when the memories of how it really was between us started to creep in and thread their way through what you'd written. Once I even went so far as to make airline reservations to come over and confront you and demand that you tell me the truth.”

Carly folded her arms across her chest and hugged herself. “What stopped you?”

“I met Victoria.”

“Your wife.”

“It took five months for that to happen.” He'd been her rebellion, she his entrance into a world that would otherwise have been closed to him. Her parents had been less than enthusiastic at the prospect of having a Yank for a son-in-law, especially one who made his living writing books. Theirs was a symbiotic relationship, unhampered by a romantic notion of love, fueled by a mutually satisfying sex life.

“But you're here now—”

He kept his back to her. “The choice was taken out of my hands. My father's last request was that he be buried next to my mother.”

“That explains why you came to Baxter, not why you came to see me.”

“The few hours my father was lucid enough to talk, he wanted to spend remembering. When he fell asleep and I was alone again, it was my own ghosts that came out to haunt me. I guess you could call my coming here today an exorcism.”

His pain had become hers and, added to her own, the weight became almost unbearable. “What can I say to convince you? What words do you need to hear?”

“I don't know,” he admitted, again facing her. He held out his hands in a helpless gesture. “I thought I knew you so well, Carly. No, damn it, I
did
know you. We spent—”

She couldn't take any more. “Stop it, David. You're only making this harder.”

“What I'm asking for isn't that complicated, Carly—just tell me the truth. When you do, I promise you'll never see me again.”

“You changed when you moved to New York. Every time I visited you it felt like the wall between us was getting higher and harder to climb until finally I couldn't get over it at all. You stopped calling and when you did, it was always about your problems, your disappointments, your failures. There was never time for me or what I was going through.” She was counting on his forgetting the love that had also been expressed, the hope and the loneliness. “Every time we set a date to get married, you broke it. You even forgot I was coming to visit you that last time and didn't come back to your apartment until I had to leave for the train. I just couldn't take it anymore.” It was all true but the last part. Her love for him, her determination to see them through the hard times, had never faltered.

“I didn't
forget
you were coming,” he insisted, resurrecting an old argument. “You never told me. For God's sake, Carly, you must have seen how surprised I was when you showed up the same weekend of your father's funeral. If I couldn't get time off to come home for the services, what in God's name made you think I could get it off to be with you if you came to see me? It didn't make sense then and it doesn't make sense now.”

“I shouldn't have brought it up.”

“Was what we had back then really that bad?” he asked.

“Why can't—” The rest died on Carly's lips as she froze at the sound of the front door opening.

“Mom?” a voice called out.

Panic gripped Carly.

“Are you upstairs?”

“It's Andrea—she can't see you here.” Carly's gaze flew to the doorway. Too late.

About the Author

GEORGIA BOCKOVEN
is an award-winning author who began writing fiction after a successful career as a freelance journalist and photo-grapher. Her books have sold the world over. The mother of two, she resides in Northern California with her husband, John.

 

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Books by
Georgia Bockoven

T
HINGS
R
EMEMBERED

A
NOTHER
S
UMMER

D
ISGUISED
B
LESSING

T
HE
B
EACH
H
OUSE

A
N
U
NSPOKEN
P
ROMISE

F
AR
F
ROM
H
OME

A
LONE IN A
C
ROWD

M
OMENTS

T
HE
W
AY
I
T
S
HOULD
H
AVE
B
EEN

A M
ARRIAGE OF
C
ONVENIENCE

Copyright

A rack-size edition of this book was published in August 1997 by HarperTorch.

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

THE BEACH HOUSE
. Copyright © 2009, 1997 by Georgia Bockoven. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

F
IRST
A
VON PAPERBACK EDITION PUBLISHED
2009.

Interior text designed by Diahann Sturge

ISBN 978-0-06-172764-1

Epub Edition © JUNE 2013 ISBN 9780062300423

Version 06072013

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