The Beach House (10 page)

“No. Marriage and motherhood have been my greatest joy, and on most days still are. But like you with your career, I have not been fulfilled by them. Which is what struck me on my birthday. And it scared me.”

“It scared you?”

“Mm-hmm. When we got married, I was so in love, so happy to leave Chicago for a higher calling, and a year later so happy to care for my own child instead of a classroom of other people’s kids. It never entered my mind I’d want something different someday.” She paused. “And then I turned forty.”

“What exactly happened on your birthday?”

“Breakfast in bed was a sweet gesture. It was great. Then Scotty had to leave and I had carpool duty since he reneged on his promise to do it. Later, as I was eating cold pancakes and scrubbing frying pans—the eggs and bacon that
they’d
burned—I realized I wasn’t happy. Not really. The more I thought about it the more disturbed I got. I was fed up with being known as Pastor Scott’s wife, mother of Eli, Betsy, Abigail, and Hannah. Where was
Molly
? Obliterated by marriage and motherhood!”

“But at the airport you said life was great.”

“It was. Then all of a sudden, wham! I’m forty and guess what? I have succeeded: I
don’t
look like my mother! But I don’t look like Molly, either. I didn’t lose myself in a career like your mom or in the social scene like my mom. I wasn’t ever unavailable to my husband or kids. But I lost myself somewhere along the way. In being so
available
, I created five monsters. Well, four. Hannah’s too young; she doesn’t count. But the others depend on me for every single thing. I’m not just talking about picking up socks. I mean the whole kit and caboodle, every detail involving house and schedules and kids, not to mention running the Sunday school department.”

“So what happened after you scrubbed the frying pans?”

“I marched right into Scott’s office, interrupting his session with the guy who’d called and interrupted my birthday breakfast. And I let loose.” She wrinkled her nose. “Screaming mimi.”

“Eww.”’

“Eww is right. I said this stay-at-home business was supposed to be a joint effort. But while I’m doing laundry, he’s out there in the world getting fulfilled.”

“What’d he say?”

“He didn’t get it. Totally clueless. He didn’t understand how I could be perfectly content one day and ready for the funny farm the next. Truth is, I can’t either.” She shrugged.

“Maybe it’s like Andie said about herself turning a corner. Her perspective simply changed.”

“That’s it. Life no longer looked the same to me, but it did to Scotty, and he refused to budge. Pastoring consumes him.”

“He’s probably on call twenty-four hours a day?”

“And then some. Neither one of us was very well balanced.”

“Past tense?”

“Some days.” Molly smiled.

“How’d you get to ‘some days?’”

“I went on strike. Except for Hannah and myself, I didn’t cook, clean, or do laundry. The rest of them lived on hot dogs and cereal and wore dirty clothes. I didn’t remind anyone of schedules; I didn’t keep track of homework or personal items. Eli was late for school twice. Betsy missed a clarinet lesson and failed a spelling test. Abigail forgot about soccer practice and had to sit out most of a game. Scott lost his Bible and sermon notes. That was one interesting sermon, by the way, completely off the cuff. Lots of rustling in the pews that day.”

Jo doubled over in laughter. “They must have been begging you to come back. How long did this last?”

“A week.”

“And did it work?”

Molly tilted her head from one shoulder to the other. “It helped, but now I feel so guilty. I keep wanting to call home and check in on them. It’s like needing a fix.”

“Oh, Moll.”

“The good news is I started substitute teaching. I gave up running the Sunday school. I gave up my little job of after-school care for three other kids. I’ve given my four more responsibility. Scotty pitches in at home and tells me it’s okay to whine like some angst-ridden adolescent trying to find herself.” She paused. “The bad news is he feels he’s not giving a hundred percent as a pastor. And on the days I sub, home life is absolute chaos. I can’t imagine teaching full-time, which is what I want to do.”

“The chaos probably adds to your guilt.”

“Yeah. I didn’t even want to make this trip. I keep slipping into the old role, thinking the real ‘Molly’ should wear Superwoman’s cape. I forget it’s Christ who fulfills me, not what I do.”

Although the sun remained hidden, a brightness had begun to dispel the mist. Jo slipped on her sunglasses, not quite fast enough to hide a flicker of her eye.

Molly sensed she was losing a connection with her. She took a deep breath. That was the other thing that separated them: While her faith had deepened through the years, Jo had grown indifferent to spiritual things. It had begun in their college days.

Lord, give me the right words. Give her ears to hear
.

Molly said, “I don’t mean to preach.”

“It just sounds so flippant. ‘Christ fulfills me. He will take care of everything.’ But how?”

How to explain such an intangible? Molly reached into their common past.

“Jo, what do you remember from church? From when we were little?”

She pondered the question for a moment. “Candles, incense, and incomprehensible jargon. Endless words. Words, words, words. Words so familiar we rattled them off without thought.”

“They were Scripture, hon. And based on Scripture. They were alive, straight from a world we can’t see but the one where God moves, where He answers prayer.”

“I keep looking for something a little more concrete.”

“They’re kind of like…” She paused and lowered her voice to radio announcer depth. “The List.”

Jo’s quick smile was wistful. “Grandmère Babette. What would we have ever done without Andie’s grandma and her list?”

“Hopelessly floundered. Remember why she gave it to us? It’s not a list of dos and don’ts. She said if we took those words to heart and followed them the best we could, they would make a difference. They would help us grow into confident women.”

“I remember.”

“God says the same thing. It’s not about dos and don’ts but about His words infused with power and changing us from the inside out.”

Jo turned toward the ocean.

Molly knew the can of worms had indeed been opened. Now she could almost hear the contents being dumped into a Tupperware container, preserved for another time. She changed the subject. “So what was your favorite item on the List?”

Jo smiled and looked again at Molly. “‘A real woman has eight matching plates, goblets, and a recipe for a meal that will make her guests feel honored.’”

“I was there once, right after the wedding. Then Eli was born. I now have five of each. Only two of the plates aren’t chipped. My lasagna works every time, though, even on paper plates.”

“I own twelve and have used them twice. Maybe three times. I served a great salmon dish.”

“I like ‘a real woman has a set of screwdrivers, a cordless drill, a hammer, and a black lace bra.’ I trust you have those?’”

“Definitely. You?”

“Yes. Scotty has his own.”

“All four?”

She grinned.“No. By the way, my nest egg paid for this trip.”

“Ah, nest egg. Another thing a real woman has.” Jo raised her coffee cup.“Three cheers for Babette. You could say her list got me here too.”

“Which item?”

“The bit about how a real woman knows ‘where to go—whether her best friend’s kitchen or a charming inn—when her soul needs soothing.’ I’d already done the inn thing.” Her smile softened the bitter undertone. “Speaking of kitchens, we ought to go roust our roomies and hit the grocery store.” Jo’s demeanor snapped down the last corner of the Tupperware lid.

Molly accepted the hint and drained the last of her cooled latte.

Andie cradled a mug of tea in her hand and stood at one of the front picture windows. The ocean was silent this morning.

But that voice in her heart was not.

Mystery shrouded the silver-gray expanse. Perhaps the previous night’s thought that it called to her was fanciful, but she could not deny a new ache. A craving to spend time alone with God was awakened. She longed to meet His challenge to come, to let go, to receive His love.

Unsure what exactly that meant, she declined Jo and Molly’s invitation to breakfast in order to be with Him. Since they’d left, she had simply been waiting.

Recalling the precious sense of God’s nearness while standing at the seawall last night, she stepped over to the door and placed her hand on the knob.

That’s not a flattering style on you
. Paul’s voice stopped her cold.
Sweats? It’s broad daylight and there are people out there. Have you considered coloring your hair? Where’s my coffee? I need a blue shirt for tomorrow. This red tie has a spot on it. Marinara, I believe
.

“Dear Lord.”

Andie shook her head free of words that would continue to kill her if she listened to them. Better to think of Molly’s words of encouragement and God’s presence.

In a burst of energy, she pulled open the interior door and then smacked the screen door. It banged against the outer wall.

“Oops,” she whispered. “Sorry, Char.”

Barefoot, hair matted, tea mug in hand, face unwashed, not one stroke of blush on her pale cheeks, and clothed in baggy sweats, Andie Sinclair stepped onto cold flagstones. She marched across the patio and through the gate. With a smile and a hearty “Good morning” for a bicycler, she waited for him to pass, and then she walked across gritty concrete straight to the seawall. She sat on it, swung her legs over, dangled them above the sand, grinned at the ocean, and felt downright spunky.

“Good morning, Lord.”

She inhaled deeply several times and giggled to herself at the thought that some pedestrian might stop and ask if she needed oxygen.

“What a glorious, glorious morning,” she murmured.“Thank You.”

“Good morning, Andie!” Julian’s voice rang out from a distance.

Panic tightened her chest.

I’m such a sight!

Fighting down all-too-familiar unease, she turned to see him walk through the opening in the low wall that surrounded his patio. She called merrily, “Hi!”

He sauntered in her direction. Like yesterday, he wore cutoff blue jeans, a T-shirt—this one was white with faded lettering—and no shoes. He carried a large white mug.

And she felt safe.

What was it about him? The pitch of his voice was deep yet soft and crisp. So like her dear father’s, it drew her in. Even the accent added a sense of familiarity. Not that Julian’s Scottish lilt resembled her dad’s odd mixture of French and English with a New England twist. It was just that neither sounded like the average American.

Julian smiled as he approached. She wondered why she hadn’t noticed his gentle manner when they first met. Probably because she hadn’t noticed much at all except for the fact she still shook in terror, visions of crashing on the freeway at eighty miles an hour dancing in her head.

“How are you?” she asked when he neared.

“Great.” He slid onto the seawall and faced her, his back to the ocean. “Ready to dive in?”

Dive in to what? “Huh?”

“The ocean.”

She opened her mouth, but no words came to mind. What an absurd question!

“You know what they say about fears. Meet them head on and poof! They’re gone.”

“I stuck my toes in it yesterday.”

His eyebrows rose up and his glasses moved with them.

“That counts.”

“Oh, yes, definitely.” He crossed his arms and raised the cup to his mouth.

“It does.”

He swallowed.“No disagreement from me. But.” He leaned slightly toward her. “Does it take care of the situation?”

“Sure.” She sipped her tea and stared out at the ocean. The thought of entering it made her legs feel like jelly.

“I started with boogie boarding. It’s like a kickboard, only wider and longer. One just holds on to it and more or less floats. It’s quite simple. No muscle or skill required. No need to venture out as far as those surfers are.”

“Hmm.”

“Faith’s house has everything you need. The equipment is locked in that storage shed out back.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she asked in a low voice, “Equipment?”

“Boogie boards. Wet suits. Most novices find the water rather cold.”

Another pause. “Anybody can use this…this equipment?”

“Comes with the house. You’ll find a key in a kitchen drawer, far left end of the counter.”

She turned in time to see the passing twinkle in his brown eyes and the corner of his mouth lift momentarily.

At once he was the sibling, the older brother she’d never had, the confidant, the alter ego. He was the bridge that spanned the gap between Mousey Andie and Spunky Andie.