The Beach House (29 page)

“It was a drunken flirtation that meant nothing to either one of us. I only saw him twice after that, at Char’s and Molly’s weddings. We never spoke of it or even hinted at that night. There were lots of other people around. A big party.” She caught herself before saying “other women.” Hard telling what the guy had gone on to do that night. “He probably doesn’t even remember anything. I’m sorry.”

“Well.” Andie’s breathing sounded uneven. “Why are you telling me now?”

“I need your forgiveness.”

“You didn’t cover this the last time you went through the Steps.”

Jo shook her head. “No, I didn’t. And I’m not going through the Steps now. I just…want to get right with you. And God.”

“He’ll forgive you.”

Jo waited.

“I…”She slid off the seawall. “I… it shouldn’t matter now. So long ago. And kissing you in a bar one time was a mere drop in the bucket. He, um, he hasn’t been faithful since…maybe never. I-I don’t want to talk right now.” She hurried across the boardwalk toward the house.

Jo’s heart pounded and she whispered to herself, “Hang in there, Spunky Andie. Hang in there.”

The refrigerator in the beach house kitchen was a nice one. It even had a light bulb in the freezer section. Like the noonday sun, that light illumined the compartment and the one item—besides ice cubes—stored in it, namely a carton of ice cream. Black raspberry chocolate ice cream. A half gallon. Unopened.

The container was turned sideways, allowing the label’s list of ingredients to catch the full impact of the light, making the fine print easily readable.

Fat grams. Saturated.

Carbohydrate grams. Not the complex kind.

Sugar.

Corn syrup.

Mono- and diglycerides.

Sodium phosphates.

Artificial flavoring.

Artificial coloring.

The fan kicked on. Frosty air blew on Andie’s face.

She closed her eyes and let the blast cool the hot anger that burned. Her cheeks must have been as red as her hair.

She had always imagined it had been Char. Char, the out-and-out flirt, turner of men’s heads, not yet engaged to Cam at the time of Andie’s wedding. Not cynical Jo, always disdainful toward Paul, so enamored with Ernesto Delgado she almost didn’t make it to the church in time for the rehearsal.

Well, in reality Paul smooching with Jo in a bar was not what happened the night before her wedding. True, that knowledge cut her to the core and she would have to deal with it, but it was not the main source of her pain.

No, he had been with someone else, maybe even Char. Not that he confessed such a thing. She just knew…The dark circles under his eyes…The exchanged snickers with the groomsmen… His uncharacteristically felicitous attention toward her, overmuch even for a wedding day…She had asked, “Okay, what’d you do?”

Joking.

“Andrea, I married you.” The wink. The grin that freed a mass of butterflies in her stomach. “That’s what I did.”

And she let it go.

Was that the first swing of the ax? The first leg to be knocked out from under her spunk?

Andie stared again at the carton, at the enlarged depiction of luscious fruit and chocolate chunks surrounded by thick textured raspberry-colored sweetness.

How could Jo…? Countless other times, her behavior had been easily forgivable. Who could blame her? She truly had never felt loved by her parents or siblings. She drowned her pain with alcohol. She had only her three best friends and Grandmère Babette.

But now, Andie wasn’t all that eager to forgive.

Jo and Paul could rot in Hades.

She slammed shut the freezer door.

Andie knocked on Julian’s patio door, the one facing the beach. Slivers of light shone around closed vertical blinds.

The blinds moved. Julian pushed them aside and slid open the door, concern immediately creasing his face. Music poured out. Majestic classical music enveloped her.

“Andie.” He spoke loudly. “Come in. Let me take that.”

She shrugged the large overnight bag from her shoulder into his hand and stepped inside. “Thanks.”

He shut the door behind her. “Have a seat.”

She gave the room a cursory glance. It was large and comfortable, lit by two floor lamps. Though sparse by Faith’s standards, it was nicely furnished. Blue tones dominated. Overstuffed couches and chairs and a sound system filled the front end. Behind a dividing counter, she spotted the kitchen area.

He picked up a remote from the coffee table and pointed it at the receiver. The volume lessened.

“Have a seat,” he said again.

She remained standing, feeling dazed. A short while ago she had looked at her overnight bag, already packed for tomorrow’s adventure, and was struck with the sensation of freefall, like how a baby robin pushed from its nest must feel. Instinct kicked in, activating limp wings of dormant faith. She flew to the nearest tree branch, trusting in the shelter available there.

“Julian, I need a place to sleep.”

“The apartment upstairs is ready and waiting.” His rental space.

“The couch—”

“Wouldn’t think of it.”

“I’ll pay—”

“I don’t charge friends.”

Look at the birds in the sky. They do not sow or reap or gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not worth much more than they are
?

He tilted his head to the side and studied her for a moment. “Do you want to talk?”

She shook her head.

“Cry?”

She hesitated. Well, yes, she wanted to cry. Above all she wanted to cry. And a shoulder reminiscent of her dad’s would be the perfect place to let her tears fall.

But Julian was not her dad.

Once more she shook her head.

“I’ll get the key.” He went into the kitchen.

Jo watched from the beach.

Earlier, after confessing to Andie, she had walked a long time, barefoot, at the water’s edge, soaking in the deep quiet, giving Andie space in the house.

Now she stood, rooted in the sand as her friend walked to the neighbor’s, a large bag hanging from her shoulder.

Julian opened his door. Andie went inside. He shut the door and the blinds.

Jo could hardly blame her. Why would Andie want to hang around her any longer? Why would she bother to pretend she didn’t want another man? Any other woman would have left that scoundrel Paul ages ago.

But she wasn’t any other woman. She was Andie. Jo had never known anyone else like her. Molly was good, solid, but earthy too.
Get out from under the pile
. Andie was good, not solid so much as shot clear through with purity.

Lord
.

Jo sank onto the sand where she stood. She dug her feet through the cool top layer, damp from the night ocean air. Beneath it her toes touched pockets of warmth where the sun’s heat lingered.

Why did it hurt so to do the right thing? It had been right to reveal her true self to Andie. It had been right to not give that abortion pill to the sixteen-year-old girl. It had been right to gather her old friends together.

Images flashed through her mind.

The liquor store three blocks away.

Her wallet on the dresser in her bedroom.

The tall plastic cups in the cupboard.

She would use plastic. Glass was prohibited on the beach. Of course, so was alcohol, but she wasn’t about to get sloshed inside Faith Fontaine’s house. Come to think of it, she doubted she could even walk through it in order to get money for the sole purpose of buying booze. That
presence
she felt in the house—whatever it was—kept chipping away at her desire to escape real life.

Maybe the salesclerk would extend her credit until tomorrow.

“God!”

Other images chased off pictures of herself sitting in the sand with a bottle and a plastic cup.

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?”

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?”