The Beach House (3 page)

Chapter 3

Eric zipped his jacket against the early morning fog as he stopped to examine a sand dollar that had washed up on a wave. The last time Jason and Susan spent their weekend with him at the beach, Eric had blithely promised Jason he would collect the fragile shells for him so that he could surprise his mother with a homemade wreath for her birthday, never suspecting how hard it would be to find them unbroken. In three days he'd be in Sacramento for their twice-a-month visit, and the box Jason had left to be filled held less than half a dozen shells.

Susan had requested he bring her a starfish, orange like the ones she'd seen in San Francisco with her mother and her mother's new “friend,” Roger. He'd already found a nice big one for her in a shop near the boardwalk in Santa Cruz.

Even after being divorced almost two years, Eric had still felt a moment of possessiveness when he heard about one of Shelly's dates, especially if that date involved the kids. Now she was engaged and about to be married, and he'd been forced to accept that they were never going to get back together. Still, he couldn't picture her with someone else. Just as he couldn't imagine himself ever loving another woman.

Some people were meant for each other.

He turned over the sand dollar, saw a large hole on the crown, and returned the shell to the sea.

And sometimes one of them was too blind, or too stupid, or too preoccupied, to realize that even something predestined needed nurturing to survive.

Behind him a lone gull landed in the cream-colored foam left by a wave. For several seconds it explored the popping bubbles, then shook its head and flew away, disappearing in the fog. Before he'd moved into Andrew's house, Eric had never considered himself an ocean person, preferring to spend his free weekends in the mountains, his vacations in Europe. But in the months he'd walked the beach and listened to the waves, he'd come to understand the lure and, finally, to be taken in by it.

Selfishly he liked having the beach to himself, which was why he came there in the early morning when it was him and one or two fishermen. He also came late at night, when he would happen upon the occasional lovers, but they were as oblivious of him as of their surroundings. Neighbors had told him how dramatically things changed in the summer, how the tourists filled every campground, hotel, and rental house in the cluster of small cities between their small cove and Santa Cruz, how they would come to the beach to stake out a section of sand for their day-long homage to sun and surf. He'd been forewarned about music that blared from untended radios and how often free-flowing beer led to strutting and puffing and the occasional fight between young men seeking to impress.

Eric always listened with what he hoped was a properly concerned expression. Although summer would mean the loss of privacy and his solitary walks, in a strange way he found he was looking forward to the change. In reality, he wasn't so far removed from those years himself that he'd forgotten their sweet misery or felt the need to condemn their excesses. Perhaps when his own children neared that age his fear would make him less tolerant and he would feel compelled to bluster and warn. Until then he would bask in the memories.

A wave lapped at his feet, reminding him why he was there. He toed aside a tangle of kelp and went back to searching for sand dollars.

 

Julia came to the previous night's high-water mark and stopped to roll up the pant legs to her khaki slacks before she stepped onto the cold, wet sand. She wasn't normally out and about this early, but the fog and the empty beach had been such a welcome sight when she'd looked outside that morning that she'd been lured to go for a walk even before she'd had her first cup of coffee.

Shoving her hands into the pockets of her sweatshirt, she moved forward to let the waves wash over her feet. As the water retreated, it stole sand from beneath her feet and forced her to readjust to keep her balance. It reminded her of the way her life had been since Ken's death. Every time she felt herself on sure footing again, something happened that left her scrambling to stay upright.

The Wednesday of the first week in December, when she'd actually begun to believe she would make it through Christmas without him, a package had arrived that Ken had ordered a month before he died. It was a Faberge piece he'd bought at auction, a lily of the valley spray made out of diamonds and pearls propped in a glass made out of clear topaz. Without question the miniature had cost a fortune, but for her the value came from the care he'd taken to find the gift, knowing how the flower would please her.

She'd waited until their anniversary in March to scatter his ashes at sea, believing the symbolism would help her say the good-bye she'd missed on the roadside. Instead she'd gone home that night with the quiet conviction she and Ken were bound by ties that could never be broken. Only in death had she come to realize how truly perfect a match they had been, fulfilling each other's needs with a joy that made the giving seem a gift. From the day they met they had inhabited a world of their own making, where understanding was expressed with a look and love with a smile.

It was her luck and her misfortune that they had found each other. Had they never met, she might have been able to settle for something less in another man. But now, having known the love of a lifetime, she realized more clearly with each passing day that she was destined to live the rest of her life alone.

Sometimes in the middle of the night when she couldn't sleep, an irrational anger would steal into her feelings of loss. She would question how Ken could abandon her after spoiling her for any other man. Why hadn't he told her that he had a grandfather and uncle who had both died of heart attacks before they were fifty? She would have forced him to take better care of himself, made him go to the doctor for more frequent checkups. Hadn't he known that it wasn't just his life he'd held in his hands, but hers, too?

She dug her toes into the sand to reclaim her position. The receding wave snatched the grains she'd disturbed, leaving her toes exposed again. Somewhere in the battle was a lesson, but she couldn't summon the energy to figure out what it was.

Something solid washed over her foot. She reached down and captured a plastic top from a six-pack of soda as it made a second pass. Before stuffing it in her pocket, she automatically tore the loops to keep some seagull or curious otter from inadvertently choking itself to death.

Was this something Ken had taught her, or had she always known?

She had no idea anymore where she began and he left off.

Her gaze fixed on the fog-shrouded sea, she froze when she heard her name being called, seemingly carried on an incoming wave. Rigid with anticipation, she waited to see if she would hear it again. When it came a third time, she realized with a stab of disappointment that the voice was coming not from the sea, but from somewhere to her left. She looked and saw a man heading toward her. For the length of a heartbeat she let herself believe it was Ken.

But it wasn't.

“I thought it was you,” Eric said as he drew closer. “Beautiful morning, huh?”

She studied his face to see if he was serious. “My favorite kind.”

“Me too.” He stopped beside her and brushed back hair the same color as the fog from his forehead. “I love mornings like this almost as much as a good storm.”

“I understand you had plenty of both last winter.”

“I missed most of the really good stuff. Things had settled down by the time I moved in. I was on my way up for some breakfast. Would you like to join me?”

She shook her head. She'd wanted to be alone this first morning at the beach without Ken, but she didn't know how to tell Eric.

He didn't push. “Guess I'll see you later, then.”

Oddly, now that he was going, she wanted him to stay. “What's that in your hand?”

He held up a lone sand dollar. “I promised my son I'd collect them for him, but I'm not having much luck.”

“Have you tried Sunset State Beach?” His puzzled expression told her that he didn't know what she was talking about. “It's the beach near Watsonville . . . where the Pajaro River empties into the ocean.” She still hadn't placed it for him. “Anyway, you should check it out. I've been there when you couldn't walk on the shoreline without stepping on sand dollar shells.”

“Thanks. Maybe I'll give it a try this afternoon.” He smiled and started to leave. Turning back, he said, “Would you like to come with me?”

She answered before she even considered the invitation. “No—I have a hundred things to do and not much time.” She was doing the same thing to him she had the night before. “And there's the plumber. I'm not sure what time he's coming.”

“Have you called one yet?”

He knew she hadn't. It had been barely six o'clock when she'd left the house. It couldn't be much past that now. “No, but I looked in the phone book and there are several listed. I figured I'd just keep trying until I found someone who could come out today.”

He flashed an intriguing smile. “I'll make you a deal.”

She had no choice but to respond. “What is it?”

“Come with me to find Jason's shells and I'll fix your faucet.”

Why was she resisting him? It was only a couple of hours he wanted from her, not the entire day. “I haven't even brushed my teeth yet.”

“You're going to have to help me out here. Does that statement mean you're going to come with me as soon as you do, or is it supposed to be a reason for not going?”

“I'll go. But I can't be gone long. I really do have a lot of work to get the house ready before next week.” She spotted a piece of glass in the sand and reached down to pick it up.

Eric opened his jacket pocket. “You might as well put it in here with the rest of this stuff.”

She looked inside and saw that he, too, collected litter on his walks. “One more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Coffee . . . I can't last the morning without it.”

He slipped his arm around her shoulder and gave her a quick, friendly hug before starting across the sand toward the stairs. “We'll stop on the way. I know just the place.”

Panic gripped her. Before she could reason it out, she came to an abrupt stop and asked, “What place?”

He frowned. Slowly a look of understanding appeared. “In Soquel, down the street from Carpos.”

“I don't remember a coffee shop there.”

“It's only been open a couple of months.”

“Oh.”

“I take it you and Ken used to go out for coffee.”

“He had this thing for mochas.”

“With me it's vanilla latte.”

She shuddered. “Real coffee should be strong and have a bite.”

“Could we talk about this on the way?” He motioned for her to get moving. “My last trip to Watsonville I got caught in a traffic tie-up because of that movie they're filming over there.”

“They're shooting a movie in Watsonville? What kind?”

“I think it has to do with migrant farm workers. Several of the people involved are renting houses around here, but they pretty much keep to themselves.”

“My brother is head of security for Kramer Studios. I wonder if this is one of theirs.”

“I've never heard of the people making this movie.” He considered what he'd said. “But then I'm not sure I could name half a dozen production companies if I tried.”

“Seems to me you'd better start doing your research. You don't want your book sold to some second-rate outfit.”

He chuckled. “I'll put it on my list of things to do—right after the laundry.” As he turned to leave her at her driveway, he said, “Bring your checkbook. We'll stop by the hardware store on the way back.”

“You mean the faucet isn't part of the deal?” Was this really her? She couldn't remember the last time she'd actually teased someone.

He grinned. “I'm just a poor struggling writer, remember?”

“Who just happens to drink expensive vintage wine for every day.” She liked that he gave as good as he got and that he wasn't intimidated or impressed by the empire Ken had built and left her. So many people were. When that happened, it created a barrier that obviated friendship.

“On the contrary, having you over for dinner was far from ‘every day.' ”

“I'd be more impressed if you hadn't opened the bottle before I knocked on the door.”

“Ouch.” He put his hand to his chest as if she'd wounded him. “I'll pick you up in five minutes.”

“Make it ten.”

“Eight.”

Laughing for the second time that morning, she left without countering further. With the shutters still in place, the house was dark, the feeling oppressive. Yesterday she might have welcomed it as a respite from the ceaseless smiles and optimistic attitudes that assailed her everywhere she went at home. Today she felt a flash of irritation that the house didn't share her newfound enthusiasm for the day ahead.