Seeing Julia (16 page)

Part of me is angry with him for his sense of entitlement to my time and part of me is intrigued to see the inside of his beach house, the place I’ve never been invited to before.

“Fine,” I say with a nonchalant shrug.

“Come on,” he says in that charming southern drawl of his.

I trail behind him along the beach for a few more minutes and follow him up an old set of stairs leading from the beach to a house. I’m not disappointed by what I see. The exterior of Jake’s home lies along the quaint spectrum of rustic with just the right amount of aging wood. He’s left the exterior alone, natural and unpainted, with the exception of the white-framed, oversized windows that run along the back of the house.

We traverse across the weathered planks of his deck, while I trail my fingers along the railing enchanted that its normally rough surface is smooth and worn. I revel in the structure’s permanence and its ability to withstand the elements of wind, water, and salt air. What a treasure. I sense this kindred spirit, this connection, to this place already. My smile is involuntary. This unexpected joy courses through me in just being here. Jake slides back the glass door, steps to one side, allowing me to enter first.

“Wow,” I say to him as I pass.

It’s the kind of beach house I always imagined having one day. It’s not pretentious at all. It’s welcoming, like a favorite blanket, so prized, it’s the one you always seek out to wrap yourself up in. The interior is adorned with all the right comforts and just enough disorder to be charming. One whole wall is made up of long shelves made of Birch wood that overflow with books and framed photographs. There’s a recent photograph of what must be Jake’s family.

“My family, last Christmas,” Jake says from right behind me.

“They’re lovely,” I say. “Your mother is beautiful.” I stare at the older women’s engaging smile and gold blonde hair. Jake has her blue eyes and his father’s darker blonde hair. His sisters are replicas of his mother, blonde and beautiful. There’s another photograph next to it with even more people. Spouses and offspring? There’s a little blond boy and girl, dressed alike in charming Santa sweater outfits. They look to be about three. I smile over at him.

“My niece and nephew,” he says after a long pause. “Lisa and Ted’s three-year-old twins. Kelly’s pregnant now; she and John are having their first in July.” He points to the taller blonde in the photograph standing with a good-looking guy in a blue sweater.

“Happy family.” I blush, realizing I’ve just anointed his family with the name of a Chinese restaurant dish. I ruefully glance over at him at my faux pas for this and discover him studying me intently as if prompting me to say more or something different about the photographs.

“Mom’s big on family,” he finally says.

I nod and turn my attention back to his book shelf, running my fingers along the spines, noting Shakespeare, Hemingway, some of the latest best sellers, along with a sundry of law school books I easily recognize.

“I didn’t finish,” I say. “I was at Columbia. Then, Evan and I met.” I shake my head side-to-side and grin over at him. “I got pregnant after missing only two pills. We got married.” My smile fades as I meet his gaze for a moment. I turn away, undone by a strange potpourri of memories of Evan and our life together and the haunted look on Jake’s face.

“I didn’t know you went to Columbia. How much more do you have before you’d be finished and get a law degree.”

“A semester,” I say in an uneven voice. “But, I’m not going back. Bobby wanted to be a lawyer. Maybe, that’s why I went. Now? Everything’s different. I have Reid to think of. I want him to have a normal life. I want to be there for it. Reid’s my focus.”

“In Paris?” Jake sounds disappointed.

“Paris,” I echo. “I’ll probably do the PR gig with Kimberley for awhile at
Liaison
; and then, I’ll need to decide what to do for the long-term. Right now, I just want to be with my…family.”

“Oh,” he says with an understanding nod. “That makes sense.”

I outline the black lacquer wood of another one of his framed photographs with my fingers, unseeing as my eyes fill with unexpected tears. I wipe them away and turn to him, sad, all at once. Jake has this strange look on his face as if he’s expecting another kind of response from me again. Disconcerted by his intensity, I move away from him.

“What about Evan’s parents? They’ll want to see Reid.”

“Uh-huh. We’ll work something out. I just need a little time.” I’m a little bit put off that Jake would be thinking of Evan’s parents. Of course, he doesn’t know the history of me and the Hamilton’s, their unwillingness to accept me as Evan’s wife. And now? Even less so. I’m disappointed he would
side
with them and consider their feelings, not mine. “I’m not Elizabeth,” I say without thinking, on edge all at once.

“No one said you were.”

“Uh-huh, well that would be easier.” He gives me a questioning look, but doesn’t say more. And God knows I’ve said enough already.

I continue my tour of his place, needing some distance from him. I’m off balance.
I should go, but this place and its owner just draw me in.
Jake’s home is the kind of sanctuary that no matter what time of year it is, winter or summer, it’s the only place I’d ever want to be. The place seems to wrap itself around me, making me feel right at home since I walked in.

The seventies-style sunken living room is an easy three steps down dominated by a long overstuffed sofa in dark brown leather with large red pillows strewn about. The walls are painted a crème white and the floors are a bleached hardwood. Birch, maybe. For the first time in a long while, I sense tranquility, something I haven’t really felt since the early days in L.A. with Bobby, Kimmy and Steph. Jake’s place provides some kind of unknowable respite from the chaos that my life has become and I secretly find pleasure in this.

I steal a look at my host. At first, he’s affecting a casual stance, but then, he’s going around, straightening things up, including magazines, books, CDs. He carries a stack of clothing he’s gathered from his first pass through the place and looks momentarily flustered. I smile, taken aback by his display of self-consciousness. The man is a god from the heavens or another galaxy; I didn’t think he did anything domestic.

“Sorry. I wasn’t expecting company,” he says with a slight grimace.

“You don’t have to pick up. It’s charming, just the way it is. It’s a fantastic place, Jake.”

“Thanks. It felt like home the minute I walked into it. I had to buy it, used every last penny I had to my name,” he drawls.

“But it’s so worth it,” I say.

“Yes.”

Our gazes lock.

I know this man, but I don’t know him. I should go.
I turn away from him and attempt to get my roller coaster emotions back under control. A covert side glance confirms Jake is just watching me explore his space. He gets this bemused look on his face, and then starts stoking the fire in the fireplace. He moves on to his stereo. It’s some technologically advanced electronics ensemble destined to intimidate all but its owner. Some pop song fills the air. I smile over at him, appreciative of the way he’s wired the room for sound.

I move on with my tour beyond his line of sight. “Great kitchen,” I call out.

It is ideal. The kitchen’s not overly pretentious, just admirably filled with some decadent Viking appliances I would be sure to put to good use. I run my fingers along the white marble countertop and admire the marbleized gold thread running through it. The design is tasteful; something I would have picked out. Light, bright. A true beach house theme. I look out the kitchen window and glimpse the sandy shoreline to the north. Jake comes in.

“This is an amazing place. It’s perfect. Just the right size, inviting, comfortable, really charming.” I’m remembering bits and pieces of our conversation about his starting over and still looking for some of those answers. I lean back against the counter and smile at him. “What’s so important in London that you would give up this life?”

He looks uncomfortable with my question. “I’m glad you like it,” he finally says, then shrugs. “I was starting over.”

“So you’ve said. And now?”

“Savannah … wants me to sell this place. She wants … wanted to settle in Austin, not London or Manhattan.”

My smile fades. “You can’t sell this place.”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do.” He runs his hand through his hair.

“It’s Saturday,” I say quietly.

“Yes.”

“You were supposed to get married today.”

“Yes.”

We share a long silence. A parade of emotions crosses his features: sadness, guilt, relief. I’m surprised to see the last one, but it’s there; relief just emanates from him. I consciously step back from him.

“At least I don’t have to sell the place for
her
,” he says with a slight laugh.

“Yes.”

“We should talk about London. The overhead for the office there is too high; we’re wasting money.”

“I thought you liked London. I thought you wanted to be there.”

“Everything’s different now.” Jake gets this troubled look.

“Everything’s different,” I echo back to him.

We look at each other with renewed intensity and the inexplicable connection between us comes roaring back to life. There’s a part of me that feels strangely at ease around him as if I already know him and another part that’s deeply aligned to the increasing anxiety that being around him, this virtual stranger, always bring. It’s like being near an electric fence: the logical part knows you shouldn’t touch it, but the illogical part just wants to reach out and confirm this.

“Coffee or something else?” Jake asks.

“Something else. Although you might have to take me home, I think I’m done with running for today.”

“I’ll take you home.” The way he says this makes it seem like a life-long promise. It must be that accent that has me so mesmerized by every word he utters. I shake my head, trying to clear it of these wayward, unfinished thoughts.

“I should call Lianne,” I say slowly. Because, apparently, I need permission from my nanny to be here, from
someone.
“I forgot my cell phone.”

“Call Lianne,” he says, handing me his phone.

His gentle tone causes me to tremble as I take it from him. Now, I can’t even concentrate and struggle to remember my home phone number. He finds this amusing and laughs a little as he easily recites my home phone number back to me. Completely undone by him now; I finally dial. As usual, my nanny is a godsend. Lianne has no problem with me meeting up with Jake for the afternoon to go over Evan’s estate and the associated paperwork.

Her reassurance steadies me a little bit; somehow, confirming for me that meeting up with Jake is a good idea, perfectly reasonable.
Permission granted.

Jake pours chilled white wine into two glasses and hands me one. He arches an eyebrow at me and I can’t decide if he’s questioning my satisfaction with the wine or this whole encounter all together. It would appear we’re both a little on edge.

I take a sip of the wine and furtively glance at him over the edge of the glass. He’s even more attractive today in his navy running gear than he was in the casual allure of jeans and a polo shirt from yesterday or his fine suit of two nights ago. My mind tabulates his attributes at an astonishing rate.

The song
Chances
by Five for Fighting filters its way to me. I break away from Jake’s concentrated, all-seeing gaze and my wayward thoughts related to his wardrobe, and drift back into his living room to hear it more clearly. The song’s lyrics reach at me. The clarity of such heartbreak eases me my own. I recite some of the words and retrace my steps, looking for answers.

Eventually, I find myself staring out the huge living room windows at the magnificent ocean and attempt to get my bearings again. Soon, Jake comes up to stand next to me.

“I think you’re closer to the beach than I am,” I say with a little laugh.

“An old house has its advantages. Different setbacks, different era.” He shakes his head. “Your house is four times bigger with an ocean beach view from every room.”

“Nothing beats the allure of this place. It’s fabulous.
Really
.” I sip the wine and remain at my post staring out at his view, but fully aware of him standing right next to me. The song ends and I turn to him. “Don’t sell it, Jake.”

I lay a hand on his arm. He startles at my unexpected touch and splashes some of his wine onto the floor. He retreats to the kitchen, returns with paper towels, and begins dabbing at the floor. I get the distinct impression that this is something he normally wouldn’t worry about so much. It appears he’s on edge as much as I am.

I smile at him and say, “No matter what Savannah wants, you can’t sell a home like this.”

He looks up at me. “Sometimes, we have to do things we don’t want to do.” He sounds so resigned. I look at him more closely, trying to decide what he means by that.

“Some things we just can’t
do
. Trust me. I know what I’m talking about. I’ve spent my adult life trying to find home. And, I walk into this place and …”