The Beach House (24 page)

Chapter 1

Peter Wylie spotted Eric getting off the long-term parking shuttle at the airport just as his rental car shuttle pulled away from the curb. Briefly he wondered if Eric was leaving because Andrew had returned from his around-the-world voyage, then decided it was more likely a vacation or business trip that had them both coming and going at the same time.

He liked Eric; at least he'd thought he did. But running into him again gave Peter a strange, uncomfortable feeling that took him the entire ride to the rental car office to figure out.

It was seeing Eric and Julia together that he hadn't liked. They no more belonged together than rain and baseball. And it wasn't that he expected Julia to spend the rest of her life alone; he just didn't think she should settle for less than she'd had. Which, Peter had to admit, was a damn tall order. There weren't many men like Ken. Truth be told, he couldn't remember ever having met a single one.

Perhaps it was that he resented Eric thinking Julia might be available to him, and there was no mistaking that was what Eric had in mind by bringing her lunch and helping her out around the house.

God, where had that come from?

Could it be he really did expect Julia to spend the rest of her life alone out of loyalty to Ken?

The shuttle pulled to an abrupt stop, bringing an end to Peter's thoughts about Eric and Julia. He took his suitcases from the shelf, went inside, and arranged his rental. A half hour later he was on 101 headed south.

His usual routine was to stop by to see Ken and Julia before going home, the detour being a longtime habit started the year after they moved into their new place in Atherton. The three of them would have dinner and catch up on the happenings during the two months they'd been apart. Peter would spend the night and be off again in the morning.

He'd considered calling Julia to tell her he was going to skip that year, that the three-hour delay at Heathrow and the long flight home had left him feeling like one of the walking wounded. But he was afraid no matter what excuse he gave she'd know the real reason. He simply didn't want to be there without Ken. Every time he'd tried he'd discovered the memories were too painful, Ken's absence too obvious.

Even when Ken had been there, Peter never stayed more than a night. He'd tried once, but the thought that Katherine might have arrived at the beach house was like telling a punch-drunk fighter he could go into the ring one more time. After several years Ken and Julia finally stopped trying to talk him into staying longer, accepting his early morning departure as part of the routine. Sustaining the hope that Katherine would already be at the beach house when he arrived, despite the fact that it had never happened—not once—made about as much sense as falling in love with her in the first place.

Peter had never told anyone about Katherine. His feelings were too private, too lacking in hope, to share. He lived in fear she might find out how he felt someday, and that he would never see her again. Even knowing it would be a blessing to have it over and that telling her how he felt was the only way he could put his feelings behind him and get on with his life, he could do nothing to precipitate the confrontation.

In a perverted kind of reasoning, one of the things Peter admired most about Katherine was her dedication to her family. She loved her husband without reservation and was devoted to her two sons.

They were the perfect family.

Peter would have done battle with anyone who tried to break them up.

Why, then, couldn't he stop dreaming about her?

He pulled the car into Julia's long driveway, stopped beside the intercom outside the gate that Ken had had installed after a stalker decided Ken was the living Satan, and announced his arrival. The excitement in her voice let him know he'd been right to come. She'd lost so much already, he was glad he hadn't taken this small ritual from her, too.

The tree-lined road took him to the top of the mountain and a house generally acknowledged to be one of the most beautiful in an area known for beautiful homes. Nothing had escaped the architect's fanatic attention to detail or Ken's instructions that the house must blend with the land that surrounded it. There were breathtaking views from every window, none of which were obstructed by blinds or curtains.

For all its size, the home was as comfortable and welcoming as the beach house. There wasn't a chair that wasn't used, a cabinet that wasn't functional, or a locked display case.

Julia met him at the door, her arms open wide. “It's so good to see you. How have you been? You look fantastic.” Wrapped in his embrace, she leaned back and studied him. “No, you don't. You look like hell. Come inside and let me fix you a drink.”

He smiled. “It's good to see you, too.”

She led him into the living room. “Scotch?”

“Club soda. I'm afraid if I have anything stronger, you'll have to prop me up for dinner.”

She went to the bar and got his drink. “Where are you back from this time?”

“London. I was staying with some friends in Connecticut and they talked me into going over with them. We saw some plays and went to some parties.”

She gave him a questioning look as she handed him the cut-crystal glass. “Doesn't sound like your usual idea of fun.”

“Diplomatically speaking, the week was pure hell.”

Julia sat in the corner of the plush white sofa, kicked off her shoes, and tucked her legs under her. She motioned for Peter to join her. “So tell me what went right this trip. I can't wait to hear how the movers and shakers of the art world are doing.”

He stepped out of his shoes, too, sat down next to her, and put his feet up on the coffee table. When Ken and Julia first moved into the house, Peter had been slow to accept the lack of formality. He would sit on the sofa or a chair with his back as straight and rigid as the trunk on one of the pines outside. Finally Julia had told him to loosen up or she'd do it for him.

“They're still buying my pictures,” he told her. “My agent told me she's getting a little worried about me becoming too popular.”

“But I thought—”

“If you knew her, you'd understand. She couldn't function if she didn't have something to worry about.”

Josi sauntered into the room, sat across from them, and gazed out the window at the birds visiting the feeder.

“What's that?” Peter asked, startled.

Julia smiled. “A temporary houseguest. She's only been here a couple of hours and has already settled in.”

“When did you take up baby-sitting friends' pets?”

“This is a special case.” She put her hand out and called to Josi but was ignored in favor of the birds.

“Josi? Isn't that what Joe and Maggie call their cat?”

“This is their cat,” she said.

“What are you doing—” He had a feeling he wasn't going to like what he was about to hear. “Did something happen to them?”

She didn't answer right away. Then, in a voice filled with sorrow, she told him about their mutual, longtime friends.

For Peter, Joe and Maggie were inexorably tied to his friendship with Ken. Their history linked them to a time before his summer trips to avoid the fog and tourists, and Ken's mansion in the Atherton hills. Despite several years of seeing them only a few days each summer, Peter felt a very real and deep sense of loss. Still, he was too much a romantic not to see the poetry and rightness of Joe and Maggie writing for themselves the final chapter to what had been an incredible love story.

“You said Josi was your houseguest. I take it that means you're not keeping her?”

“I would have, but she and Eric seem to have worked things out already.”

“Eric Lawson?” The question was automatic. “The guy who's staying in Andrew's house?” He knew exactly which Eric she was talking about. For someone who'd come to the beach to get away from everything and everyone in order to write, Eric Lawson had managed to insinuate himself into the lives of a hell of a lot of people living at the cove.

“He was wonderful to them. I'm not surprised they asked him to take Josi.” Julia smiled when Josi looked up at the sound of her name and sauntered over to sit on the sofa next to her. Scratching the cat's upturned chin, she said, “I don't think I've ever known anyone who loved an animal more than Joe and Maggie did this one.”

“I take it you went down to visit them while they were at the house.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I just assumed it was Joe and Maggie who told you how wonderful he was to them.”

She stopped petting Josi to study Peter. “What's going on here? Do you have a problem with Eric?”

“Don't you think it's a little strange the way he's always showing up in people's lives?”

“Like that day you were shot and needed someone to keep you from bleeding to death?”

Agitated, Peter got up and went over to the bar to freshen his club soda. He wished he knew what it was about Eric that bothered him. He seemed okay on the surface, but underneath there was something about him that just wasn't right. “What do you know about Eric that he hasn't told you himself?”

“If you're trying to make a point, Peter, just make it.”

“There are a lot of con men out there who specialize in rich widows.” At last his suspicions had found form.

She blinked in surprise. “Let me get this straight. What you're saying is that you think Eric befriended Andrew when they were in college because he knew that someday Andrew would live in a house next door to one that Ken bought and that Ken would die of a heart attack at thirty-nine and leave a rich widow who would be an easy con?”

“I know it sounds pretty farfetched when you look at it that way.”

“Is there any other way to look at it?”

“Maybe Eric didn't plan what happened,” he conceded. “But that doesn't mean he's not taking advantage of an opportunity.”

“And you base this on . . . ?”

She had him. “It's a feeling. I can't explain it. It's just there.”

“He must have done something to create this feeling,” she insisted.

“I'm not imagining this, Julia.” He stopped to think and take a drink. “Anyone who saw the way he looked at you would have picked up on what he was thinking.”

“And that was . . . ?”

Peter shrugged before saying, “He was like a little kid whose best friend just won tickets to the World Series. There wasn't a dance he wouldn't have done to impress you.”

“I seem to remember you saying something along the same lines about me to Ken when we first started dating. You didn't think I was good enough for him, either.”

The accusation stung—because she was right. From the minute Ken laid eyes on Julia he was convinced he'd met the love of his life. “Maybe that's the problem,” Peter finally, reluctantly admitted. “Maybe I don't think anyone else will ever have the right to look at you that way.” He realized that in his mind, Julia would always be Ken's wife. For it to be any other way was tantamount to tearing down the pollution-damaged Taj Mahal to put a stainless-steel building in its place. Ken could not be, should not be, replaced.

The insight was as startling as it was abhorrent. What possible right did he have to expect Julia to spend the rest of her life alone?

“Forget I said anything,” he told her. “It's obvious I don't know what I'm talking about.”

“Give Eric a chance, Peter. Get to know him when he comes back. I think you'll like him.”

He put his elbows on the bar and took a drink as he looked at her. “Is this your way of telling me—”

“Eric and I are friends—nothing more. I'm a long way from letting anyone in my life again.”

“Why do you say that?”

Instead of the quick, easy answer he'd expected, Julia took a long time before answering. “You aren't the only one who thinks Ken is irreplaceable. Everyone I know believes it's a given that I'll become the business world's Jackie Kennedy—minus the Onassis mistake, of course. All of them expect I'll have a few discreet affairs eventually, and that would be all right. But to actually marry someone would be unthinkable. How could I settle for second best after I'd had Ken?”

How could he deny something he'd thought himself? “I had no idea . . .”

“No one does.” She got up and went over to the window. “The worst part is that I'm as guilty as everyone else. I don't fight being put into their nice tidy little mold because it's the way I see myself.” Turning to look at him, she added, “The problem is Eric doesn't play by the rules. Probably because he doesn't know them.” She shoved her hands in the pockets of her off-white silk pants and smiled disparagingly. “But he's a quick study. I doubt he'll try again.”

“Do you want him to?” Peter couldn't believe he was asking the question, let alone fearful of the answer.

“Sometimes—when I'm alone at night and realize that's the way it's likely to be from now on. The rest of the time I make sure I'm too busy to think about anything but work.”