Return to the Beach House

by Georgia Bockoven

  Danielle knew where and to whom Bridget had lost her virginity. More importantly, she knew whether it had been worth the wait.

  She had been the maid of honor at Bridget’s wedding and was the first one at the hospital four years ago when Bridget had her second miscarriage, the one that ended any possibility she would ever be able to carry a baby to term. Danielle had arranged a flight, packed a bag, gotten to the airport, flown from Denver, and arrived in Dallas before Miles managed to leave his meeting in Houston.

  Danielle had never liked him before; she actively hated him after that trip.

  Bridget passed the tomato truck only to get stuck behind one hauling almonds. It was harvest season in the Sacramento Valley, and the freeways were filled with open and closed trucks hauling everything from watermelons to apples to peaches to plums. Later would come rice and olives and onions and garlic. “I knew you’d be upset when you found out about the cancer, but I was so sick, all I wanted to do was crawl in a hole and disappear.”

  “Did this happen before or after you dumped Miles?”

  “I know how hard it is to accept, but you need to get over it. He dumped me.” Bridget fought to show that she’d moved on, but the way her hands gripped the steering wheel, so tight her knuckles turned white, gave her away. She shrugged. “Pure and simple, he wanted kids and I couldn’t have them. He felt it was not only his right but his duty to find someone who could.”

  “What about adopting?”

  “Not good enough. Miles is convinced his sperm carries a genetic superiority that would be criminal not to pass on. He panicked when he read an article that said males have a biological clock too, and that his is ticking away his chance of producing wunderkinds. For a while he was willing to go the surrogate route if we could find someone suitable. But then I was diagnosed with breast cancer, and he said he simply couldn’t take the chance that I would die and scar his children with my loss.”

  Danielle groaned. “I will never understand what possessed you to stay with that asshole as long as you did.”

  “I put it off to my warped idea of love. Even after the four of us stole Miles’s car and we knew that if he ever found out what we’d done he’d see we all landed in jail, I made excuses for him. Not even you and Carrie and Angie pointing out all the reasons I should run like hell got through to me. Miles convinced me his screwing around had nothing to do with how he felt about me and that the love of a good woman—meaning me, of course—would change him.” She laughed at the thought of ever believing something so far-fetched.

  “And you have to remember,” she went on, realizing the conversation was long overdue, “when Miles screwed up, no one apologized better. He had contrition down to an art form. Forget the wine and roses, with Miles it was tears and a ruby bracelet.

  “Through it all, I managed to build a life that I could never have managed on my own. I loved the traveling and the opportunity to see museums and galleries. And on most of those trips, because of Miles’s connections, I had VIP access to places the public never gets to see.

  “Dubai was incredible. Our apartment was on the fiftieth floor of a marble palace. There were jaw-dropping views in every direction. I wore designer clothes and had live-in help. When Miles’s boss discovered I was interested in art, he arranged a private tutor to accompany me on expeditions to the best galleries in the Middle East.”

  Bridget sighed. “I was living a fairy tale.”

  “Some fairy tale,” Danielle said. “I will never understand why you married him. You are beautiful and smart and fun. Any man who thinks with the brain above his neck would be thrilled to have you in his life.”

  Bridget shrugged. “By the time it fell apart, I recognized that for all his faults, Miles had something I needed. He was emotionally safe because I no longer had expectations. I honestly didn’t care. I knew he would be unfaithful, and I honestly believed he couldn’t hurt me anymore. I was right about one and dead wrong about the other.”

  “We should have had this conversation a long, long time ago.”

  “To what point?” Bridget asked, sending Danielle a poignant smile. “My father screwed around on my mother the entire time they were married, and she chose to pretend it wasn’t happening. She cooked and cleaned and ironed his shirts and slept with him when he was between lovers and full of promises that it would never happen again. I had no illusions about Miles. I knew exactly what I was going to get out of the marriage. And I wasn’t wrong.”

  “Were you still sleeping with him after you found out?”

  She shot a glance at Danielle. “Finally—something you’ll like. I told him I wouldn’t sleep with him until he brought me a doctor’s report saying he was clean.” She chuckled. “He threw a fit and called me a few choice names and even resorted to threats at one point, but I didn’t budge. He gave in eventually.”

  “Why did he care when he could always pick up someone on the side?”

  “Oh, he did, but he couldn’t stand the idea that he couldn’t have me too.”

  “I’m surprised he didn’t just leave.”

  “Ah, there’s the key to all of this. Divorce is frowned on at Kelly and Bascome. Too messy. Not to mention too emotional and time-consuming. It gave me leverage and, for the most part, a life that was better than living in a loft.”

  Danielle didn’t believe her. There was too much pain in the telling for it to have been as simple as Bridget made out.

  “But when Miles’s mother got sick and he made a big deal out of exiting the fast track to rush home to take care of her, I thought things might be looking up for us. Then I found out his career was at a standstill and he had some major repair work to do to get back into the good graces of his boss, and everything slipped into place. Turned out that taking care of his mother was going to be my job while he perfected his role of self-sacrificing martyr.”

  Danielle frowned. “That’s why you moved back to the States? Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

  “I was too humiliated. And I knew what you’d say.”

  “I remember her funeral. It was years after you came home.”

  “Turned out her death wasn’t exactly imminent after all. Funny thing about heart disease. Get a doctor who knows what he’s doing and he can put in a pacemaker that keeps even the hardest heart beating.”

  “What was it—two years she lived with you?”

  “Three.”

  “Your life must have been hell.” Danielle shuddered. “So where are you now, divorce-wise?”

  “It’s done. I’m set up to start school next spring at California State University Sacramento. Not exactly the top school for a master’s in art history, but close to my doctors and the friends I’ve made while I was going through treatment. I wanted to give myself plenty of time before I jump into anything again.” Bridget adjusted her scarf, slipping a finger underneath the lavender folds and scratching.

  “Where are you with your treatments?”

  “My doctor says I’m in complete remission.”

  “That’s fantastic,” Danielle said. When Bridget didn’t immediately respond, she added, “It is, isn’t it?”

  “Of course it is.”

  “But?”

  “But nothing.” Bridget forced a smile. “I just need to get used to thinking of myself as a survivor.”

  Danielle put her hand over Bridget’s where it gripped the steering wheel. “I’m so glad nothing got in the way of our getting together. It’s obvious you need this. You need us.”

  “That’s me—needy.”

  “You aren’t the only one,” Danielle said, swallowing another urge to cry. “So dish, girlfriend. I want to hear all about the divorce.”

  “Okay, but after this, I don’t want to talk about it anymore. My gift to myself is to put the divorce behind me and explore the wonderful new directions my life is going to take.

  “California is a no-fault divorce state, so there’s not much to tell. Everything is automatically divided, including retirement accounts
. He could have negotiated some of the stuff and I would have backed off, but he was so scared that he’d come out sounding like the self-centered son-of-a-bitch that he is by leaving in the middle of my cancer treatments that he just kept shoving stuff at me.”

  “Whatever you’ve gotten,” Danielle said, “it doesn’t come close to what you deserve.” She toed off her heels and smoothed her slacks. “What did you have to give up to get him to go along with what you wanted?”

  Bridget glanced at Danielle. “You know me too well.”

  “I used to. Or at least I thought I did.”

  “I can’t write a memoir about our time together.”

  Danielle burst out laughing. “As if you’d want to. As if there was anything about him anyone would want to read.”

  “He’s convinced he’s going to be famous in the business world one day.”

  “For what?”

  “He’s still waiting for the revelation.”

  Danielle put her hand up for a high-five. “Way to go, girlfriend.”

  Danielle stared out the window at the fields of rich agricultural land being consumed by houses. She felt an almost overwhelming sense of guilt for not being a better friend to Bridget these past six years. She, Angie, and Carrie hadn’t known about the cancer, but they couldn’t hide behind the fact that Bridget hadn’t told them. There were clues in the abbreviated emails they exchanged on a daily basis, and in Bridget’s persistent nagging about the four of them finding a way to get together.

  All it would have taken was a quick flight. Denver wasn’t that far from Sacramento. She could have surprised Bridget on her birthday or just come for a day to take a friend to lunch.

  “How long does it take to get from Sacramento to Santa Cruz?” Danielle said, struck by a sudden impulse.

  “Who’s driving?”

  “Me.”

  “Three to four hours, depending on traffic.”

  “What time do we have to be in San Jose to pick up Angie and Carrie?”

  “Not until tomorrow. Why?”

  “I want to go shopping.”

  “In Sacramento? This is not the place someone comes to look for your kind of—”

  “Stop right there. I’m not that big a snob.” Danielle hesitated. “Well, maybe I am, but I can make do if I have to. You must at least have a Nordstrom.”

  “Several, but wouldn’t you rather go to San Francisco? It’s on the way, kinda.”

  “Well, yes, eventually. But before I take you anywhere, I’m going to get you some new scarves. And hats. And all kinds of fun things, including a sexy new bikini. It’s my gift to see you on your way for this wondrous journey.”

  “I’d rather spend the time catching up with what’s been going on in your life. You haven’t told me anything about the store or Grady or the new puppy.”

  “The new puppy is completely egalitarian, peeing throughout the house with no regard for tile or carpet. I’ve turned him over to Grady and told him I won’t be back until the two of them have worked things out. Then I want the house steam-cleaned from one end to the other.”

  “That takes care of Grady and the puppy, but what about you?”

  “Same old same old.” Not exactly the truth, but Danielle’s problems were an anthill compared to Bridget’s termite mound. And she really didn’t care that she should be on a tight budget. She and Grady would work that out when she got home. “About the shopping—indulge me, okay? I’m going to outfit you in bright colors and flirty shirts and skirts. I want you stopping to take a second look every time you pass a mirror. Remember the fun we used to have creating haute couture from the sales racks at Marshalls? We could both use a day like that again.”

  Bridget smiled. “You were always a lot better at it than I was.”

  “You’re just saying that because it’s true.”

  Bridget beamed in delight. “I have a spare room. You want to move in?”

  “If that puppy isn’t housebroken pretty soon, I just may take you up on that.”

  “What kind of dog is it?”

  “She’s round and fluffy and unbelievably cute—when she’s not chewing on cords or pillows or knocking over the hamper to steal dirty underwear. Her lineage is pure pound dog.”

  “I’m assuming she has a name?”

  “We’re saving that for the first time she asks to go outside to pee. Then we’re having a naming ceremony.”

  “I’m assuming you brought pictures?”

  “A couple. But they’re all the same—me holding her at arm’s length and making a dash for the back door.”

  Bridget laughed so hard she almost choked. She stopped just short of tears.

  Chapter 2

  Carrie Gordon glanced at her watch as she wheeled her fory-nine-and-three-quarter-pound suitcase through the San Jose International Airport to the Starbucks in Terminal A. She’d only gotten it under the weight limit and saved the extra charge by removing her jacket and wearing it on the plane.

  Taking into consideration the time it would take for Angie to retrieve her own suitcase after her plane landed, Carrie figured she had an hour to wait. Then, unless for once in her life Danielle would be on time when she picked them up, it would add another fifteen or twenty minutes. Which meant the four of them should be at the beach house in time for drinks before dinner. Hopefully there’d be a dry white wine and not one of the fruity creations Danielle favored.

  Carrie ordered her usual soy latte, this time making it a grande instead of a tall, and paid for it and a New York Times before settling into a chair she’d found that offered a 180-degree view of the passengers coming and going through the terminal. This way she could watch for Angie from both directions.

  Even though the four of them had shared pictures when someone thought to nag, it had been six years since they’d been together. Six years was a long time when you were leaving your thirties behind, both mentally and physically. For Carrie, the highlights she’d used for almost ten years to disguise the encroaching gray had stopped looking like a fashion statement and started looking like what they were. Now she was back to a reddish brown that her hairdresser insisted looked stylish, not desperate.

  At least she was waging the battle more successfully than Angie, who was the “baby” of the group. Apparently the requirements for being an Alaskan bush pilot included abandoning makeup and embracing any haircut that could be pulled into a ponytail and held in place with a red rubber band.

  Two years out of college, Angie had met a guy who had a bug to move to Fairbanks, Alaska, to work on the management end of the pipeline. On a whim, and believing she’d found the love of her life, she gave up a coveted job with Intel to follow him. It only took one winter for the guy to discover he wasn’t the wilderness type and for Angie to develop a connection to the wide-open spaces that went far beyond anything she’d ever felt for the boyfriend. He left, begging her to go with him. She stayed, not even trying to talk him into giving her and Alaska one more year.

  She became a pilot, first in Fairbanks and then in Anchorage, making her living taking fishermen to camps that were inaccessible by road or boat, and photographers to even more remote locations. A few years later, with the help of an unexpected inheritance from her grandmother, she bought a fishing service company.

  Carrie heard a squeal and looked up to see Angie maneuvering her way through a stream of passengers, a suitcase held together with silver tape wobbling off balance behind her. Carrie hardly recognized Angie the way she was dressed—in a navy blue jacket, matching slacks, and a bright yellow silk shirt. What happened to the plaid shirts, jeans, and lace-up boots?

  Carrie braced herself to keep from being knocked over by Angie’s wildly enthusiastic hug.

  “Oh, my, God,” Angie said, holding Carrie at arm’s length. “You look fantastic. Nowhere near forty,” she added with a teasing grin.

  “You do too,” Carrie said, meaning it for the first time in a long time. “I like your hair.” It was short and curly and provided a perfect frame
for Angie’s narrow face.

  Angie gave Carrie another hug before wheeling her suitcase next to the empty chair Carrie had saved for her. “I have to use the bathroom. Do you know where it is?”

  Carrie pointed toward the sign.

  “Be right back.”

  “Do you want a coffee?”

  “Decaffeinated green tea, if they have it. If they don’t, just get me a water.”

  “Decaffeinated green tea. What in the hell is that?”

  Angie laughed. “It’s something I’m learning to like. I brought my own in case I couldn’t find any here.”

  Surprisingly, not only did Starbucks have it, but the barista acted as if it was their best seller.

  Angie came back and reached for her wallet.

  Carrie held up her hand to stop her. “My treat.”

  “My turn next time.” Angie sat and put her feet up on her suitcase, showing off a pair of flats. Angie saw Carrie staring. “Cute, huh? I had a six-hour layover in Seattle, so I did a little shopping. There are times I miss wearing nice clothes.”

  “The earrings aren’t bad either.” The diamond studs were easily a carat each and so unlike Angie that Carrie found it hard to believe they were real.

  Angie reached up to touch one before bringing her hair forward to hide it. “They’re the main reason I had my hair cut.”

  “So you could hide them?” Now here was the Angie that Carrie knew.

  “They were a gift, impossible to return, stupid to toss in with my junk jewelry, so what choice do I have but to wear them?” She reached up and touched the other stud. “Actually, at times, I forget I have them on.”