“Designer water? I’d always heard it got pretty wild on location.”
“Like the parties they throw for you at the galleries?”
He laughed. “An insomniac could sleep through the best of them.”
“When will you be back?”
“The last week in July.”
It was always the same. Peter might leave early, but he never came home late.
“We’ll talk about selling the house when you get back,” Julia said. It occurred to her then that Peter might not want to stop by to see her before going home now that Ken was gone. “Unless—”
“I’ll be there,” Peter said. “When did you ever know me to pass up a home-cooked meal?”
“I just thought it would be a good time to talk things over. Who knows, we could have both changed our minds by then.”
She wouldn’t, but the summer would give Peter time to get used to the idea. “God knows I do that often enough. There are days I hardly know what I want anymore.”
“You look good,” he repeated. “Better than the last time I saw you.”
“Thanks.” She smiled. “I think.” He’d last seen her at Christmas, catching her by surprise an hour after Ken’s present had arrived. Even though he’d had other plans for the rest of the day, he’d canceled them and stayed with her. Not once did he utter one of the standard empty platitudes she’d come to know by heart. He hadn’t even flinched at her free-flowing tears.
She heard a car door slam and looked up to see Eric headed their way. Judging by the size of the bags he carried, he’d bought enough to feed the neighborhood.
“Hey, Peter,” Eric called out, “where have you been keeping yourself?”
When it became obvious Eric was there because of Julia, Peter looked from one to the other, his expression going from surprise to confusion to questioning. Guilt washed over Julia, leaving her feeling as if she’d been caught doing something wrong.
“You know each other, I take it,” she said, fighting an irrational urge to escape inside the house.
“Eric found me on the beach and took me to the hospital after some asshole fisherman shot me when I was out on my board. The fisherman said he thought I looked like the seal that had been eating his salmon.”
Julia’s jaw dropped. “When did this happen?”
“A couple of months ago.”
“Are you all right?”
“It was just a flesh wound,” Peter said dismissively.
“Another half inch and he could have lost his arm,” Eric added.
Julia searched Peter’s arms for scars. She found one just above his left elbow. “My God, you’re left-handed . . . your painting . . .”
“That was the first thing I thought about, too,” Peter admitted.
She touched his arm as if to confirm the scar was real. “I take it they caught him?”
Peter smiled. “I repeated that boat number to myself all the way to shore. The cops were waiting for him when he docked in Monterey later that night.”
“Have you had lunch?” Eric asked Peter as he shifted the bags to keep them from slipping.
Again Peter looked from Julia to Eric and back again. He answered as if Julia had been the one who’d issued the invitation. “I’m meeting someone later.”
“How about a beer?” she said.
“I don’t think so.”
She fought the urge to tell him what he was thinking was wrong, that there was nothing between her and Eric, that there never could be. He knew she would never look at another man. She loved Ken. He was her husband.
He had been her husband.
Ken was no more. Her loyalty was tied to a memory.
“I’m going to take these in,” Eric said.
It was everything she could do to keep from physically reaching out to stop him. “Why don’t we eat outside—on the back deck.”
His eyebrow rose in question. “Do you want me to get a couple of chairs out of the garage?”
“No.” She was only making it worse. “I forgot they were still in there. I guess we’ll have to go inside after all.” There was no mistaking the lack of enthusiasm in her voice.
“Would you rather we went to my place?” he asked.
What was wrong with her? Eric had done nothing to deserve being treated like a door-to-door salesman. She turned her attention to Peter. “Are you sure you won’t join us?”
“I really have to get going,” he said.
“I’d like to see you before you leave town.”
He leaned forward to give her a kiss. “Are you free for dinner tomorrow?”
“Of course I’m free. Why wouldn’t I be?”
The silence that followed hung heavy in the air. Finally Eric saved her. “I’m going to put this stuff away while you and Peter work things out.” He headed for his house.
Five minutes later she was at his front door.
“What? No flowers?” He held the screen for her to come inside.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. The ones you brought last night still look terrific.”
She looked up at him. “That’s not what I mean.”
“I know.” He brushed a leaf from her hair. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve done worse.”
“Peter and Ken go way back.”
“He told me.”
“You’ve talked to him about Ken?”
He nodded. “About you, too.”
Yet another surprise that day. “What did he say?”
“That you were the most beautiful woman he’d ever met and that you and Ken were the perfect couple. I think ‘made for each other’ was the way he put it. I don’t know about the perfect couple part, but he was sure right about the other.”
People had told her she was beautiful all her life. To her the words were as meaningless as saying the ocean was blue. What possible difference did it make how others saw her? Had her looks been a bargaining chip, she would have gladly traded them away to have Ken back, if only for an hour.
“I never know how to respond to something like that,” she said.
A teasing twinkle lit his eyes. “If it bothers you, you could always dissuade them of the idea. Picking your nose while they were telling you about your beautiful eyes would probably do the trick.”
She laughed, deep and full throated. It made her feel better than she had in a long time. “Will you be my friend?”
He put his arm around her and led her into the kitchen. “I already am. I think it happened last night sometime between shutting the water off and seeing you drip spaghetti sauce on your shirt.”
“I did not.”
“Gotcha.”
He had, and she didn’t mind one bit. Actually, she rather liked it.
Chapter 5
The next two days Eric worked on his book while Julia worked off pent-up energy in a flurry of housecleaning, dusting, polishing, and scrubbing between visits from her neighbors. This particular type of physical activity, so different from her workouts at the gym, was something she did only at the beach house. At home every room sparkled, every piece of silver shone, and every flower knew its place because of the people Ken had hired to free her from mundane chores.
She had a degree in advertising with exactly nine months’ experience at an ad agency. Ken had never asked her to give up her job, he’d simply offered to take her with him to meetings in London and Paris and Munich and left the decision whether to go or not up to her.
Their courtship had lasted three months, the engagement two. Ken was known for his uncanny, unerring ability to pick people who would be with him forever, whether it was his wife, his friends, or his employees. Even in death their loyalty survived. Not one friend had stopped talking about him, not one executive had left the company.
Since she’d stepped in to run things, the entire company, from board member to clerical assistant, had shown her the same loyalty they had shown Ken. It should have made her job easier, but it seemed nothing could do that. The more she learned about
the business, the more she discovered she didn’t know. Perhaps if she had just a little of Ken’s drive and enthusiasm, she could pull it off. But no matter how hard she tried, going to work each day was just that. She continued because she felt she owed it to Ken to try.
She stood back to admire the change her efforts had made in the living room, to breathe in the traces of lemon oil, glass cleaner, and rug shampoo, and to take pleasure in knowing every book had been taken down and dusted. She could have called a service—her friends would think her crazy that she hadn’t—but she wanted to be the one who removed these last traces of Ken’s presence, no matter how small or inconsequential. As it was, the work had been cathartic, even satisfying in a way she hadn’t expected.
A knock on the front door drew her attention. It was Eric. She smiled and stood aside to let him enter. “You’re just in time to join me for a cup of coffee.”
He declined. “I’m on my way to the grocery store and thought I’d see if you needed anything.”
“Milk—a quart, nonfat.”
“Is that all?”
“You’ve probably been too busy to notice, but the neighbors have been plying me with food the last couple of days.”
“Several of them told me they’d regretted not being able to help when Ken died and wanted to do something when you came down again.”
“I don’t understand. . . . I made a point of telling everyone at the funeral that they were welcome to stop by the house or the office to see me anytime they were in the area, but no one ever took me up on it.”
“You honestly expected someone from this neighborhood to show up on your doorstep in Atherton to see how you were doing?”
“Why not?”
Eric shook his head. “That’s pretty rare air up there where you live, lady. You have to know how to breathe that stuff to feel comfortable in it.”
“I’m the same person there as I am here.”
“Are you?”
“What do you think I do, stop by someplace in San Jose to shed the Armani and put on sweats?”
“Hey, I’m not trying to pick a fight with you.”
“I’m not a snob.”
He grinned. “I never said you were.”
“Just because I have a little money—”
“Maybe a little to Bill Gates and the Catholic Church. To the rest of the world, it’s a hell of a lot.”
“Why are you baiting me?”
“Because you need a friend who isn’t afraid of you.”
He’d done it. She was at a loss for words.
“Now that we have that behind us,” he said, “is there anything you need besides milk?”
“No—I’ll be leaving day after tomorrow.”
It was his turn to feel the ladder tip. “So soon?”
“The Sadlers and McCormicks will be here on Friday.”
“I thought they weren’t due until June.”
His reaction was more than simple surprise. “I told them they could come a little early.”
“When did you do that?”
It seemed an odd question, but she answered anyway. “Weeks ago.” She decided she wanted to know what had prompted the query. “Why?”
“No reason,” he answered cryptically.
“Don’t do that.”
“I was wondering whether your leaving early had something to do with me.”
She considered his statement. The obvious conclusion didn’t make sense. “I don’t understand what you mean.”
“Whether being around me made you uncomfortable.”
“Why would it? I thought we decided we were friends.”
He stared at her for agonizingly long seconds, his gaze locked on her. “Never mind,” he said softly. “It isn’t important.”
This time she didn’t ask him to explain. “If you’ll wait just a minute, I’ll get my purse.”
“What for?”
“To pay you for the milk.”
He brought his hand up. “I think I can handle it.”
She closed the door. Burdened with the feeling that something lay unfinished between them, she went to the window to watch him leave. The way he walked with long, sure strides and the way he moved to keep his shoulders from brushing the roses on the arbor suggested he’d been an athlete, probably a runner or swimmer, something nonviolent, a sport that required discipline and a solitary commitment. Eric didn’t need people, he liked them, a difference she hadn’t understood until she’d met Ken.
Would Eric’s book provide clues to the man he was inside, hint at his dreams, or reveal the type of woman he admired? Julia considered the single women she knew and tried to imagine Eric with one of them. Perhaps Anne . . . No, Anne couldn’t handle a man who sat still long enough to read a book, let alone write one. Judy refused to date a man whose portfolio wasn’t as large as her own, and Eileen wanted someone so blinded by her beauty that he would never notice how much it cost to keep her that way.
From what she knew of Eric, he appreciated beauty but wasn’t overly impressed by it, had enough money to support himself and his children while he pursued a dream, but not so much he could buy a house at the beach rather than stay at a friend’s. From things he’d said she’d reached the conclusion he was someone who would as soon listen to the rain as attend opening night at the opera—definitely not Anne’s idea of fun.
Not a sterling accounting of her friends, but an interesting analysis of Eric. She had a feeling he and Ken would have liked each other.
But then everyone had liked Ken.
When Eric delivered the milk later that afternoon, Julia asked him in for a drink, but he declined, telling her he’d already taken off too much time that day and needed to get back to work. She didn’t see him at all the next day and had begun to wonder if he was avoiding her when he showed up at her front door early Friday morning and asked if she wanted to go for a walk on the beach.
“I’m glad you came over,” she told him as they descended the stairs to the beach. She stopped to zip her jacket when she reached the bottom. “I wanted to talk to you before I left, but didn’t want to disturb your work.”
He made a disparaging sound. “There wasn’t anything to disturb. When I turned on the computer this morning I wound up deleting everything I wrote yesterday.”
She shoved her hands in her jacket pockets and looked up at him. “Does that happen a lot?”
“No—thank God. There are a lot of times I don’t like what I’ve done, but I usually find something salvageable.” He moved toward the harder sand near the water’s edge. “You said you wanted to talk to me?”
“I have a favor to ask.”
“Ask away.”
“First I want you to know it’s okay to refuse. I know it’s an imposition, but—”
“That isn’t necessary, Julia. Just tell me what it is you want.”
“Andrew kept a key to the house in case something happened that needed attention right away. I don’t expect anything to go wrong, but it would be nice to know I could count on you if something did.”
“That’s it?”
“It’s a lot,” she insisted. “At least it is to me.”
“Consider it done.”
She saw a large wave building and moved to get out of its way. “I’ll let the summer people know that you’ve got the extra key. They all have their own, but Margaret’s been known to lock herself out occasionally.” She moved back to the packed sand as soon as the wave receded. “You’ll like her—and her son, Chris. They’re really nice people. I’m not as crazy about the McCormicks. Actually, it’s their daughter I don’t like. She’s—” Julia stopped herself before she could say any more. “I’m sorry. I don’t usually gossip this way. I don’t know what got into me.”
Eric froze. His eyes narrowed as he studied something floating in the water. After several seconds, he took her arm and turned her toward the sea. “Look,” he said, and pointed.
“Where?”
He pulled her to him so that she was standing
in his line of vision. “Right there. Do you see it?”
“No. . . .” But then she did. It was an otter, floating on his back and cracking a shell with a rock as he rode the swells. “Yes, I do,” she exclaimed. And then, her voice filled with wonder, “Oh, isn’t he beautiful?”
She leaned her back into his chest, the contact as natural as if they’d stood that way a hundred times before. Eric put his arms around her waist and she laid her own on top of them. “What a nice going-away present,” she said.
Before he could reply, a wave broke and came racing toward them. He grabbed Julia’s elbow and backpedaled as cold water licked at his running shoes. As soon as they were clear of the wave, he let her go. Through it all her gaze remained fixed on the sea.
“He’s gone,” she announced. “You look that way”—she pointed to the left—“and I’ll watch over here.”
They followed the otter’s path for over half an hour, until he’d moved past the cove and out of their sight.
“Thank you for asking me to come with you this morning,” Julia said as they headed back. The beach had begun to fill with fishermen and couples out for an early morning stroll. Soon the sanderlings and gulls would move on to a stretch of sand less populated where they could hunt in peace for their breakfast.
“You’re welcome,” he said simply.
“It seems as if I’ve been thanking you for one thing or another all week. It wouldn’t begin to pay you back for all you’ve done, but how about letting me take you out to lunch before I leave? I know a really great place in Aptos.”
“Are you sure?”
She understood what he was asking: was she sure she wanted to take him someplace where she and Ken had gone. “I’m very sure,” she said. “Is twelve-thirty okay?”
“I’ll be ready.”
After lunch they stopped by a hardware store to get a new hinge for Julia’s garden gate. She insisted on installing it herself but allowed Eric to oversee the operation.
“Well done,” he told her when she’d finished and was picking up her tools.
The simple task had given her an incredible sense of accomplishment. “I think I might like this handyman stuff,” she said.
“Next time you’re here, I’ll show you how to fix that cupboard door that’s sticking.”
The Beach House Page 4
