The Beach House (4 page)

The past rushed at her, and tears filled her throat again. The stale air closed in, a suffocating blanket. A passerby cannonballed into her and raced off without apology or even backward glance.

It was time to regroup.

She noticed a row of pay phones. “Hey, guys, I told Scott I’d call when we all got here. I’ll meet you at the escalators?”

“Yes.”

“Sugar,” Char said, “don’t you have a cell phone?”

“Last woman on the planet without one.”

“Then take mine.”

“I can use these—”

“Don’t be silly. Those take forever and a day.” She produced a slender silver contraption and placed it in her hands. “Just push the send button. Give him our love.”

“Thanks.”

As they walked on, Molly stumbled toward the sunshine.

Seated on a sun-drenched concrete bench outside the airport, Molly held the phone to her ear. All around her people moved about. Cars stopped briefly at the curb. Police urged drivers not to linger. She closed her eyes.

The answering machine in her kitchen picked up the call. All six Prestons said their names, then Scott finished with the requisite “Please leave a message.” She pictured the kids coming in after school, excited to see the blinking red light on the device she referred to as Gloomy Gus. Most times it delivered only cheerless news that demanded immediate attention from Pastor Scott.

Lord, thank You for Gloomy Gus, this wonderful invention that allows me to be there when they walk in the door. I promise never to curse him again
.

She chatted nonchalantly, describing her flight and what she had seen of San Diego so far. She spoke to each child individually, reminding them of school projects.

“Okay, that’s that. Love you, kiddos. Be good. Now let me talk to Dad. Scotty.” The lump returned to her throat and her chest tightened. She swallowed. “This is such an emotional thing. All at once I’m—I don’t know. I’m a forty-year-old body in a twentysomething head. It’s like my past just crashed into my present and they’re not gelling.”

She opened her eyes and glanced around. Was she making any sense to him? “It’s kind of…” She almost said scary, but realized curious Betsy would very likely still be listening to the machine. “Scary” would disturb her. “It’s kind of weird. But in a good way. So thank you for encouraging me to come. Bye. I love you.”

Through a process of elimination, Molly figured out which button to push and broke the connection. Lifting her face to the sun’s warmth, she shut her eyes again.

Lord, I’m waffling. Still. A doubter like a heaving sea ruffled by the wind. Is he really okay without me at home
?

The ludicrous question echoed in her head. A smile pulled at the corners of her mouth.

Amazing how His peace could wind its way even around malfunctioning hormones running amok in a strange city.

Jo groaned. “It’s hideous!”

“Nooo,” Char purred in disagreement. “On the contrary, it’s got character painted all over it.”

“It’s fire-orange,” Andie piped in, patting her reddish hair. “Everyone knows fire-orange indicates character.”

Molly laughed. “I vote with Char and Andie. It’s perfect.”

They stood at the edge of a flagstone patio. A short distance behind them the ocean whooshed peacefully, but their attention was glued to the monstrosity sitting before them: a so-called beach house.

Jo stared at her friends in disbelief. “Are we all looking at the same ramshackle house?”

They nodded, and Molly read the stenciled sign nailed above the door, “Thirty-four hundred Oceanfront Walk.”

“Ladies,” Jo said, “you will not hurt my feelings if you agree with me. It’s absolutely appalling.”

She had arranged to rent the place
by telephone
. Why, oh why, hadn’t she made the thirty-minute drive and visited it in person? Why had she entrusted the decision to a property manager she’d never met?

Maybe because she had been in the midst of an impossible work situation. Maybe because she had only asked the stranger for four things: She wanted the house located on the beach itself, midway between the pier and the roller coaster, within a certain price range, and with four bedrooms. Those were verifiable facts. The woman had thrown in the adjective “lovely” for free, an opinion Jo did not stop to question or truly even consider. Until now.

The place was a dreadful one-story weathered cottage with reddish-orange shingles and dirt brown trim, the likes of which she would not have guessed still existed in that particular neighborhood. With beachfront property at a premium, buildings were packed together like sardines as far as the eye could see in either direction. But this house was literally scrunched between two homes, each of which soared to three-story walls of glass and gleaming white stucco.

“I am so sorry,” she said. “It’s dreadful. It looks like a huge foot wearing a rumpled sock, and it’s so big it had to be shoehorned into place.”

Andie looped an arm through the one Jo had propped on her hip and grinned. “Hey, we’re together in San Diego for an entire week. Right out there is the Pacific Ocean, which I have never, ever seen in my life. The sun is shining. It’s almost October, yet I’m wearing short sleeves, and flowers are blooming in all these pots like it’s springtime. And last but not least, we are not cooking tonight. Good heavens, what more could we possibly want?”

Jo looked into her friend’s peacock blue eyes. They were laughing. But then, that was Andie. Compassionate, empathetic, not one to make waves. If she had a negative thought, no one would know it. Her vote didn’t count.

Neither did Molly’s. Though she spoke her mind, her lifelong opinion toward material items was that they were not important. She would have been pleased with a tent on the beach.

Char, on the other hand, could be finicky. After she cooed positive encouragement in a voice that carried images of white wicker, a large Georgia wraparound porch, and a tall glass of mint julep, then she would get to her point.

Jo said, “Char, what are you really thinking? We can try to get another place. There are resorts nearby.”

“Jo, hon.” She smiled. “You’ve gone to all this effort to get us together and find us a place. We don’t mind in the least that it wasn’t built in this century, do we, girls? Or even in our lifetime. Let’s take a peek inside. It’s got to be just as cozy as the exterior.” Her focus strayed over Jo’s shoulder. “Hello there.”

Jo turned. A man stood a few feet behind them, on the other side of a low white picket fence that separated the patio from the public sidewalk.

The corners of his mouth lifted slightly, crinkling his eyes behind rimless, rectangular-shaped glasses. “Hello. You must be this week’s tenants.” He spoke in a low, cultured tone. His accent sounded of British Isles origin. “Welcome to—” He paused and stretched his arm toward the reddish-orange monstrosity as if a drumroll should precede whatever it was he was going to say. “The Beach House.”

Jo heard capital letters in his emphasis of the three simple words and nearly laughed.
Beach House, my eye
.

Char immediately stepped over to him, hand extended. “Why, thank you. I’m Char, and these are my friends. This is Molly, Andie, and Jo.”

They moved within handshaking distance and he shook each hand in turn. “My name is Julian. Hello. Hello. Quite pleased to meet you.” His voice was Sean Connery-esque, deeply resonant yet hushed with a Scottish lilt. He tipped his head to his right, toward the boxy tiered structure easily worth a couple million. “I live next door.”

Jo had been drooling over the neighboring home, especially its glassed-in balcony perched atop the first floor. Behind it an immense wall of windows rose two stories high. Hawaii was probably visible from up there.

Char turned to look at his home and said, “Oh, my! You live here full-time in all this splendor?”

“Yes, I do have that privilege.” His full lips settled into a tiny smile.

Jo squinted against the sun shining behind him. He looked like a healthy specimen of an aging lifeguard, probably in his mid-fifties. His hair was dark brown, ultra thick and curly but neatly trimmed and brushed back off his high forehead. Tanned, barefoot, and dressed in cutoffs and a T-shirt, he carried the peculiar laid-back air of a Southern Californian who did not spend much time working.

Lifeguards didn’t buy million-dollar homes. Drug dealers did. Nor did lifeguards speak in cultured accents. Drug dealers probably did. Not that she knew any, at least of the illegal sort.

She said, “Your house is beautiful.”

“Thank you. I live in the lower portion.”

She turned her head and studied the house again. Windows covered much of the front side of the first floor, which extended out from the rest of the building, creating the balcony space above. French doors opened onto a narrow patio enclosed with a low stucco wall topped with plexiglass, protection against ocean breezes. Given the choice, she would have opted for the upper floors.

He went on. “I lease out the upstairs. It’s a separate apartment.”

Her neck nearly snapped. “Anyone there now?” And she thought Char forward! “We’re not too sure about this
Beach House
.
^”

He chuckled. “You’re going to hurt Faith’s feelings. Have you been inside yet?”

“No. Who’s Faith?”

“Faith Fontaine. The original owner. She was quite the lady, devoted to charity and the community. She passed away a few years ago. Her place defines character.”

“That’s like hearing your blind date has a good personality.”

“Jo, appearances aren’t that important to you, are they?”

Hearing her first name spoken in an almost intimate tone by a complete stranger bothered her. Somehow it made her feel chastised. She turned away.

She imagined her appearance told him she was a professional San Diegan. Well, what was wrong with that? Ninety-nine percent of her time was spent indoors, but her skin was lightly tanned, compliments of year-round unremitting sunshine. It gave her a healthy glow. The highlights in her hair, however, came from a hairdresser’s formula. She wore casual slacks and loafers, the labels of which were found only in boutiques because who had time to drive to a mall and shop? The delicate gold chain around her neck cost probably more than Molly spent on groceries in a month, but it was the only jewelry she wore. Her late-model cream-colored SUV, parked in the carport behind the beach house, easily accommodated luggage for four—four
women
—and two grocery bags of nonperishables. One couldn’t get more practical than that.

She probably struck all of them as a prig.

She looked again at the house. It truly was an unattractive place. Like a pair of large inquisitive eyes on either side of the front door, two picture windows reflected the scene behind her. The panorama included the little picket fence, people on the boardwalk passing by, and lots of sky and ocean. Definitely no view of Hawaii.

But the patio was neat and tidy, full of outdoor furniture and well-maintained potted plants.

Molly nudged her toward the door. Andie whispered something about needing a bathroom. Char, still chatting with the neighbor, sounded on the verge of inviting him to dinner.

And no, appearances were not all that important to her. Not really.

Jo went to the door, punched in the lockbox combination—conveniently programmed to correspond with the day’s date—and yanked it open. The key fell into her hand and she inserted it into the door.

Char cheered. “Yay! We’re in! Well, toodle-oo, Julian. Catch you later.”

“Enjoy your stay.”

Jo threw a polite smile over her shoulder and turned the handle.