The Beach House (26 page)

“So how long do you think you’ll have to stay?”

“I have no idea.” Bee sighs. “Hopefully, we’ll know more tomorrow. How are the girls?”

“They’re wonderful.” Daniel smiles, looking over at Lizzie and Stella, who are standing on stools, cutting out pastry shapes for jam tarts, with Nan.

“Nan is having a field day having them here,” he says, aiming for a normal conversation, knowing that talking about their children is the only way they are currently able to pretend that everything is okay, to have a conversation that doesn’t end in a shouting match, with accusations hurled.

“We spent the afternoon foraging at the beach for clam shells and sticks to make fairy houses.”

Bee laughs, despite herself. “Fairy houses? It sounds like you’re running a day camp.”

“It feels like it. Nan’s got activities lined up for every hour, it seems. They’re in heaven.”

“Can I talk to them?”

“Of course. Hang on. Girls!” Bee smiles as she hears Daniel call out to them. “Mommy’s on the phone.”

Bee waits, expecting to hear “Mommy!” but instead she hears Stella saying, “I’m busy. I can’t talk now.”

“Lizzie—” Daniel’s whisper is audible—“talk to Mommy.”

“I can’t,” Lizzie says loudly. “I’m cooking.”

“Come on,” Daniel says firmly, and a second later a distracted Lizzie is on the phone.

“Hello?” Bee, so excited at the thought of talking to her children, now feels hurt, and empty.

“Hello?”

“Hi, darling! It’s Mommy!”

“Hi, Mommy.”

“Are you having fun? What are you doing?”

“We’re cooking.”

“What are you cooking?”

“I don’t know. Nan, what are we cooking?”

“Jam tarts,” Bee hears Nan say.

“Hello? Lizzie? Are you there?”

“Bee?” It’s Daniel again. “I’m sorry, but they’re distracted. Can we call you back?”

“Don’t worry,” Bee says. “I’ll try again in the morning.” And putting down the phone, she quietly goes back to see her father, trying not to think about the pain of her children not missing her as much as she’s missing them.

“Ooh look,” Nan opens the envelope, admiring the handwriting first, then proffers the invitation around the kitchen like a rare gift.

“What is it?” Michael looks up from the kitchen table where he’s making notes.

“An invitation! Jack at the garden center’s having a party. On Saturday night, at home, and it says bring houseguests. I think that means all of you.”

“A party?” Daff says. “What kind of party? I’ve brought nothing party-ish. Unless you can wear shorts and a T-shirt.”

“You can borrow something of mine,” Nan says. “We’re about the same size.”

“Thank you,” Daff says. “Although maybe I could buy something in town. It would be nice to treat myself. God knows it feels like I haven’t gotten dressed up in years.”

“Years?” Daniel laughs. “You’ve only been here a few days!”

“I know, and I’ve been living in ratty old clothes the entire time. You wouldn’t recognize me if you ran into me at home.”

Michael looks up with a smile. “Why? Do you turn into a pumpkin on the New York border?”

Daff laughs. “No, but I’m a bit more glam than this.”

“How much more glam?” Michael thinks of Jordana, immediately picturing Daff caked in makeup, glittering jewels in her ears, high-heeled boots on her feet, and he shakes his head. The picture doesn’t feel right at all.

“Just more respectable. You know, makeup for work and stuff. Smooth, glossy hair instead of this curly mess,” she says, gesturing at her curls falling out of a loose ponytail.

“I like you like this,” Michael says. “I’m sure you look great the other way, but I think most women look better more natural. I never understand why women plaster themselves with makeup and stuff to hide who they really are. I’ve always preferred the natural look.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Daff says, not meaning for it to come out nearly as flirtatiously as it does, and she quickly turns away, a flush rising, as Daniel raises an eyebrow with a smile, and Michael, embarrassed, suddenly thinks of something he has to do outside.

The days are lazily blending into one another, each day sunnier than the last, each person in the house finally feeling relaxed and at peace.

They have all established something of a routine.

Daniel is woken up at the crack of dawn each day by a small person’s face centimeters from his own. “Daddy? Are you awake?” Loud stage whispers from Stella that never fail to bring a smile to his face as he climbs out of bed and goes downstairs to make them breakfast.

Nan is always downstairs first. She had grand plans of being the hostess with the mostest, but she is tired these days and grateful that Daniel is so good in the kitchen, so at home. Breakfast has now become Daniel’s responsibility, and Nan plays with the girls as he whips up pancakes, or waffles, or French toast.

Michael is usually next, stumbling into the kitchen half asleep, his hair mussed up, the old, faded T-shirt that he slept in crumpled, a pair of cargo pants and flip-flops on as he yawns his way to the coffee machine, barely able to speak until that first cup of coffee.

Daff comes down last, breezes in clad in shorts and a T-shirt, wide awake and terminally happy.

They have taken to eating outside on the terrace, the girls and Nan setting the table every morning, thick glasses filled with cornflowers and hydrangeas taking pride of place in the middle of the old scrubbed table.

After breakfast, Michael has been taking off to run errands, or helping Nan fix something around the house, for there is always something that needs to be done.

He wishes there was a way to keep Windermere but, as romantic as he is, he is also a realist. He sat up with Daniel one night to discuss it, the two of them nursing large single malts as they sat at the kitchen table while the rest of the house slept.

“It’s a wonderful house.” Daniel looked around the kitchen as he sipped his whiskey. “They don’t make houses like this anymore, but it hasn’t been maintained, and it needs renovating.”

“What do you think?” Michael leaned forward. “A couple of hundred grand?”

Daniel was shocked. “No! I think half a million would be more like it,” he said. “If not more. Everything needs doing. It’s a gut job, and I’m not sure it’s worth it. Obviously, it’s worth it to you, and I hate saying you have to tear down something so wonderful . . .” He sighs. “I’m not sure what the alternative is.”

“Really? A gut job? You don’t think we could get away with fixing what needs to be done for far less?”

“I wish I could say yes, but it needs new bathrooms, new wiring, new plumbing. The shingles need replacing, it needs a new roof, the windows are all rotting. And that’s just looking at it now. With these old houses the minute you start working on them, the more you find out what’s wrong.”

Michael is aghast. “How do I tell my mom?”

“You don’t.” Daniel shrugged. “Not until you absolutely have to. I’ve been checking out the real estate here and the good news is that this is worth millions.”

“I know.” Michael sighed. “But where would she go?”

“With that money? You could build her something small and gorgeous, build something for yourself, I imagine, and still have enough left over so that neither of you would have to worry ever again.”

“But money isn’t everything. Mom’s never been motivated by money, and I think she’d be heartbroken at the prospect of leaving.”

“I understand.” Daniel nodded. “But it may not come to that. If my recent experience has taught me anything, it’s that things have a habit of working out in life the way they are supposed to, if you are able to just relax and trust in the workings of the universe.”

Michael grinned. “Funny,” he said. “I believe much the same thing. It’s very New Age of us, apparently.”

Daniel grinned back. “Well, it seems I really am a new man after all.”

“The window’s stuck in my room again.” Daff wanders into the garden to find Nan, on her hands and knees, weeding the tomatoes. “Any ideas?”

“I’ll send Michael up to have a look,” Nan says. “He should be back from town any minute.”

“Thanks.” Daff smiles. “I’m having a lazy morning in bed reading and waiting for the fog to clear.”

“It will be gone by lunchtime, then it’ll be a perfect day for the beach. Are you around for lunch?”

“Oh don’t worry about me,” Daff says. “I may go to the village and grab something.”

Nan shrugs. “Fine. Oh listen. That’s Michael’s bike on the gravel. Let’s go and ask him about that damned window.”

A few minutes later Daff perches on the bed as Michael starts to work and, again, she has that feeling she had just the other day. Lust.

Until the other day, when this first happened, she might have said that she fully expected never to feel this way again, that perhaps it wasn’t possible, once you hit your forties, to feel this, that it was just for kids, for younger people in search of a thrill.

But no. It is quite clear that this is lust, and Daff is stunned. She has been aware that she likes Michael, that she feels safe with him. She likes the way he places his hand in the small of her back to guide her into a room. She likes that he looks after his mother, that he seems to want to look after her too. She wakes up in the morning and smiles at the thought of seeing him stumble around the kitchen to refill his coffee cup; she thinks he looks like a cute little boy with his hair mussed up and his eyes filled with sleep.

“Ah-ha! I’ve got it.” Michael groans as he reaches up. “It’s this bit that’s sticking. Can you pass me that box knife?”

Daff goes to the toolbox and passes him the knife, feeling another shiver as her fingers accidentally brush his.

Oh for God’s sake, she tells herself, embarrassed. You’re a grown woman. Stop behaving like a teenager. But still, she has to fight the urge to glance at herself in the mirror on the other side of the room, checking that she looks okay.

“All done,” Michael says, and for a second they just stand there, looking at each other, the air suddenly charged as Daff fumbles for something to say.

“Are you going to the party?” Michael asks softly, and Daff nods. The party Jack from the garden center has invited them to is this evening. Daff is surprised to realize she is excited about tonight in a way she hasn’t been excited for ages.

Michael reaches out and slowly tucks a strand of hair behind Daff’s ear.

“Wear your hair down,” he says. “You look beautiful.” Then, turning, he walks out of the room, leaving Daff to sink down on the bed with a hand on her fluttering heart.

Jess scuffs around Wal-Mart, looking like any other young teenager, not meeting anyone’s eyes, covertly checking for security guards.

She doesn’t call it
stealing.
Jess would
never
steal, and anyway, this isn’t from a person, it’s from a huge conglomerate, therefore it doesn’t count. In the couple of weeks since she started, she has amassed a startling amount of goods. Both drawers in her bedside table are stuffed full, and she has taken to locking her bedroom door just in case her dad or Carrie should walk in and question her.

She lines up her wares in silence, feeling, in an odd way, safe when she is surrounded by this stuff that is hers and only hers, for only she knows about it.

Occasionally, as she looks at it all, she feels a pang of guilt, but she shoves it away by remembering the exhilaration, the burst of adrenaline and excitement when she first gets out of the store, the pockets of her coat containing some small thing, the fact that she got away with it making her dizzy with power.

Today she has decided to do things differently. Today is her first time at Wal-Mart, and why not get something for her? Something she actually wants, something she might want to buy?

She moves past the tables piled high with sparkly T-shirts, and stops, unfolding one, attempting to look nonchalant, look like every other girl as she slowly slides one from the bottom of the pile into her tote bag.

She leaves the T-shirts, shaking her head as if she has changed her mind, and moves on, to a table with hats. Again, the same motion, pretending to be focused on one thing as she covertly slips another item of clothing into the bag, looking around afterward to check no one has seen.

“I’m done,” she says when she’s walked over to her friend Alexandra, who’s browsing in the CD section.

“Wait. Which should I get? Beyoncé or Fergie?”

Jessica shrugs. “Fergie, I guess. Don’t you have an iPod shuffle, though?”

“I did, but I lost it and my parents refuse to get me another one. Have you got one?”

“Not a shuffle.” Jessica shakes her head. “I just remembered there was something else I wanted to look at. Wait here!” And she runs off toward the electronics section of the store.

Daff is not a woman who lives for shopping, but today she has an image in her mind of who she wants to be tonight, so she heads into town determined to find the dress she has created for herself in her imagination.

She has spent the morning daydreaming about the party tonight. She sees herself standing, a glass of champagne in hand, her lightly waved hair floating on her shoulders, in a gauzy, shimmery summer dress while Michael stands next to her, laughing at something she says before slowly leaning down and kissing her.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life,” he says, in her mind, and she snorts out loud and berates herself for suddenly regressing to her teenage years.

Nevertheless, she is filled with anticipation as she strolls up Main Street, turning onto Water Street where she seems to remember a number of small boutiques. The first two are shockingly expensive, and there is nothing there for her, but as soon as she walks into the next she knows she has found it.

A floaty chiffon dress in turquoise and sea-green, it sets off her tan beautifully. The owner brings out delicate tan-leather sandals, flat and plain, apart from a tiny enamel and gold turtle on each side.