The Beach House (46 page)

“Mm-hmm. That’s what I thought. How about fish tacos for dinner?”

She grinned. “Perfect. I have to make some calls.”

“I’ll lock up and be back in a flash. With extra guacamole.” Ginny shut the door.

Jo stood and turned her straight-back chair around to face the window. There wasn’t enough space in the office for her swivel recliner, but the chair she used was padded. And if she situated it just right, she could lean it back against the desk and prop her feet on the windowsill in between potted plants. Healthy potted plants, she added, marveling at the green thumb she never before knew she possessed.

She gazed through the prison-like metal bars that covered the window and saw a patch of autumn sky above a palm tree. The blue deepened. Somewhere quite a number of miles west of where she sat, nowhere near within her sight, the sun sank into the Pacific.

She reached for her telephone.

A Chicago suburb, Illinois

Char’s cell phone lay on the white linen tablecloth. She had left it out with its ringer set to vibrate. The date was September twenty-seventh and she hadn’t heard yet from Jo.

She sat alone in a booth at The Wilcox, listening to piped-in soft jazz, admiring the eclectic nouveau style of artwork and chinaware, smelling luscious garlicky pasta and roasted meat scents, and tried not to count customers. Cam admired her head for business, but she thought she sometimes got carried away. A night like this one with every table full, people waiting in the foyer, and waitstaff running expertly to and fro made her want to climb up on the seat and shout hallelujah!

She had done that one night after closing. The chef still teasingly referred to her as a closet Jesus freak. She wasn’t sure. She only knew that God had caused the impossible to happen. Cam called her honey-buns every single day of the week and the restaurant paid the bills. Her husband was carrying her over life’s mud puddles just as he’d promised all those years ago. Who wouldn’t shout an amen or two?

The phone buzzed like a bee. Before answering it, she read Jo’s name and number on the ID display. “Hi, sugar!”

“Hi, sugar, yourself! Happy birthday, Char!”

“Thanks.”

“I’m sorry to call late. Are you in the middle of dinner?”

“No. I’m sitting in our favorite booth with coffee, debating what to have for dessert. Cam’s over checking on Savannah. This is her first Saturday night on the job as hostess. Cole is so cute bussing tables and advising her on where to seat people.”

“And how is she taking that from Little Brother?”

“She is learning the art of being gracious. I imagine Cole’s willingness to share tips with her has something to do with it.”

Jo laughed. “Is the place bursting at the seams?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Isn’t that great? So how was your special day? Hopefully turning forty-one was not hazardous to your health?”

“Not in the least. First off, Cam remembered! Roses and breakfast in bed.”

“Aw.”

“Then we ate lunch downtown and shopped. He picked out a gorgeous red dress at Saks, which I’m wearing now, of course. He never in his life has chosen a dress for me! And I quit shopping at Saks months ago, but he insisted. Jo, it was a wonderful day. Oh my word!” She watched as an enormous cake was rolled into the dining room on a cart.

“What is it?”

“Oh, my—It’s a cake with
sparklers!
It looks like a wedding cake, it’s so huge. It’s even tiered. It’s beautiful. But there’s no reception—Oh!” She squealed. “Cam is pushing it this way!”

“It’s for you! Okay, I’ll let you go. Char, happy birthday!”

“Thank you so much for calling, Jo! Love you!”

“Love you too. Bye!”

The cake approached, sparklers sizzling, their light reflected in Cam’s smiling eyes. Waiters and waitresses, Savannah, and Cole approached from every direction, and they all began singing “Happy Birthday” to her. Patrons around her added their voices. As the song drew to a close, applause and cheers resounded.

Talk about hazardous to her health! She could scarcely catch her breath. She just might hyperventilate!

Cam leaned over and kissed the tears streaming down both her cheeks. “Happy birthday, honey-buns. I love you.”

Maybe health hazards could be good things.

Madison, Wisconsin

Andie closed the front door behind a client whom she had convinced to come for a reflexology treatment on a Saturday evening. She watched the elderly woman and her husband make their slow way down the sidewalk to their car at the curb.

“Lord, please heal her sciatic pain.”

The phone rang. She hesitated for a fraction of a second. Even quick prayers whisked her to another place. The fact that she had lived in the condominium less than six weeks added to her disorientation.

The phone rang again.

“Kitchen.”

Andie walked through the living room, into the kitchen, and picked up the cordless from the table. “Hello?”

“This is your therapist calling.”

She laughed. “Hi, Jo! Did you talk to Char?” Jo had asked for birthday reminders.

“Just now. Guess what’s going on.”

“I bet they were having dinner in their restaurant. Hmm. Let me think. I bet Cam did something special. What was it?”

“Well, as we said goodbye, he was pushing a cart across the dining room. There was a huge tiered cake on it.”

“No!”

“Yes. With sparklers!”

“Oh, wow! He is the peach, isn’t he?”

“Yeah. So…how are you?”

Andie did a quick self-assessment. Jo never asked the question frivolously. She understood that resuscitating Spunky Andie called for a major shot in the arm at times. And, bless her heart, Jo was there to give it.

The boys were fine. Surprisingly they lived most of the time with her in the small three-bedroom condo she leased rather than at the house with Paul. Jo thought it not all that surprising. And so the mothering part of Andie was fine.

Work was going exceedingly well. Old and new clients had found their way to her very own home office, aka the living room. The functional side of life was fine.

Bible studies, new friendships, and volunteering at a women’s shelter occupied her off-hours. Spiritually and socially she was fine.

Then there was Paul. He had rejected her efforts at reconciliation, moved out, and filed for divorce. The dynamic duo of Andie and Jesus was not something he had bargained for. In the end, she didn’t want the house. It was too big with too many reminders. It fed the mousey side of her. Using a different lawyer than his and a different real estate agency, she sold him her portion of it.

Last week, though, Paul’s marriage to the “other woman” who hadn’t even been the “other woman” in Andie’s life was a major hurdle. The boys said she had worn a white wedding gown.

Heart-wise, she wasn’t quite fine.

“I’m okay, Jo. Better than yesterday. Heaps better than last week.”

“Day by day letting go?”

“Yes.”

“Thatta girl. Hey, I have some good news. Well, not so good for Mildred.”

Andie walked into the living room and sat on the couch. Jo had moved into her apartment building when a tenant unexpectedly became engaged and wanted to move out. Mildred was another tenant and ninety-six-years old. “What happened?”

“She had one too many conversations with her imaginary friends and phoned her son—again—at three
AM
to come join them for tea.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Yes. They’re moving her into a home October first.”

Andie heard the implication in Jo’s silence, but played along, trying to ignore the delightful prickle of goosebumps. “Hmm. You’ll need a renter then.”

“Mm-hmm. I have someone interested in an eight-month lease. A Navy couple. When he ships out, she moves back to Kansas.”

Andie smiled. “Really? Then you’ll need another renter, say in early June?”

“Mm-hmm.” She paused. “Oh, Andie. Do we thank Him for dementia?”

Andie thought about it. Jadon was working, saving money for college. Zach would graduate from high school in May. They both had fallen in love with San Diego when she took them to visit the previous Christmas. They planned to attend college together in California.

And she wanted to live there.

She said, “We thank Him for Mildred’s good long life. We thank Him for the Navy couple. We thank Him for my friend who would welcome me as a neighbor and tenant.”

Jo breathed a contented sigh. “Okay.”

“Okay.” She grinned. “And amen.”

Southern Oregon Coast

“On your mark! Get set!” Little Hannah Preston popped up from her crouching position and shot down the hard-packed sand as fast as her six-year-old legs would carry her.

Eli sprang up, shouting “Go!” as he raced after his sister.

Betsy yelled, “Not fair, you two! Come back!”

Abigail stood up, spun around, and marched the opposite direction. “I quit,” she announced huffily over her shoulder. “I’m walking with Dad.”

Molly laughed so hard her bent legs gave way and she flopped backward onto the sand.

“Mom!” Betsy wailed, still crouching in start position. “It’s not fair!”

Molly laughed harder. “No, it’s not, hon.” She wanted to add that
life isn’t fair either, Betsy, you might as well get used to it
. But maybe that was too much information for her ten-year-old.

They were racing on the beach through twilight, one mad dash after another. Finish lines became starting blocks at rock piles, runoff streams that cut through the sand, and smooth, gray-white logs washed ashore.

“Hey!” Scott called out.

She turned to see him wave the cell phone.

Abigail and Betsy shouted together, “It’s Aunt Jo!” Another race ensued.

Molly would have to wait in line for her turn to talk. Jo called so regularly on Saturday nights the kids expected her. Even Eli spoke to the woman they now called “Aunt.” The honorary title evolved naturally during her Oregon stay. She spent five months in a small rental house down the street, spoiling them rotten like any respectable aunt should. They missed her.

Molly smiled at Scott as he approached. The two girls now brought up the rear, excitedly sharing the phone as they filled Jo in on their new school year.