The Beach House (6 page)

“Whatever. Jo, I don’t mean to whine. I’m truly not complaining.”

“Andie, your voice is so sweet I don’t think I could recognize a complaint from you, no matter what words you use.”

“Paul would disagree. Anyway, I can’t tell you how glad I am to be here. It’s just so—how do I put it?”

“Overwhelming?”

“Yes. It is definitely not Wisconsin.”

“Molly’s overwhelmed too.”

“Molly is?”

“Yeah. I guess you two have left the big city far behind.”

“I used to love Chicago. Remember how we’d take the train downtown? We were only teenagers. Mere children! I don’t think I would let my boys—” She stopped in midsentence and clamped her jaw shut.

“What is it?”

She didn’t reply for a long moment. “Oh, Jo. You were always the strong one. Will you do something for me?”

The strong one? Now that was debatable…

Not waiting for a reply, Andie continued. “I keep slipping back around that corner I thought I turned on my fortieth. I feel like a scared mouse who turned it and saw the cat in a pet carrier being carted out the door by the owner. Hooray! The mouse can come out! Except once in a while she stumbles across a hunk of cat fur and panics. Is he really gone? Was it only her imagination that saw him leave?”

“Andie, what are you saying? Who’s the cat?”

She gazed out at the ocean. “That’s not the point. Will you just tell me to put a muzzle on it?”

“On the cat?”

She sighed. “On my mouth every time I sound fearful. I’m so tired of being fearful.”

“What are you afraid of?”

Andie turned to her. “Life.”

“Hmm. That covers quite a number of topics that may come up. Maybe we should literally tie a gag around your mouth.”

“Maybe.” She smiled in a self-deprecating way. “Right now I want to go hide in my little room. It’s the only place I’ve felt safe since…” She looked at her watch. “Since five o’clock central time, which would be three
AM
Pacific time, which means over fifteen hours of discomfort.” She lowered her arm and twisted her hands together. “Make that sheer terror.”

“But you’ve hung in there.”

She nodded once, as if unsure. “I guess.”

“Andie, you have. So congratulations on fifteen hours of courage.”

“Okay. But I’m about ready to bolt for my room. The only thing keeping me here is that I’d have to pass Julian to get there.”

Jo chuckled. “If necessary I will sit on your lap to keep you put. You have to watch the sunset. It’s a requirement. It…feeds the soul.” She reached over and squeezed Andie’s hands. “Let’s tell Molly. She’s the one who prays in this group.”

“But she—” Again she fixed her jaw shut.

“You’re doing a pretty good job of muzzling yourself, dear. Let me guess. Either prayer or Molly scares you?”

“Molly. You know how she is. She’ll just tell me to get out from under the pile and trust God more.”

Jo recognized truth in her statement. Molly never accepted excuses or shenanigans or whining. She’d always pulled them along, up to a higher level. It was why Jo knew Molly was the strong one, not herself. It was why she would have traveled to Port Dunmore if Molly hadn’t come down to San Diego. But she had sensed a change, a bending.

“Andie, I think our oak has become a willow. You’ll probably want to confide in her.”

Her brows went up.

Jo was pleased. Uncertainty was better than panic. “Watch the sunset, dear.”

On the horizon, the sun shimmered above the ocean’s flat periphery. Slowly the great ball elongated until a funnel emerged from its underside and touched the water. Orange liquid poured lazily into steel gray.

Andie’s breath caught. Molly and Char paused in their water play.

Jo smiled. It was working for her friends as well as for herself. For a few fleeting moments even she sensed God unveil Himself.

Andie whispered, “It’s the same color as the beach house. Fire-orange.”

Jo squinted at the melding horizon of colorless sea and sky, their meeting point defined by only a bright slice of…fire-orange. Exact same tint as those shingles behind her.

Swell. If that wasn’t enough to ruin a good sunset, she didn’t know what was.

The final glow vanished, and a sharp whistle pierced the quiet. Then came the noise of hands clapping.

Jo swiveled. In the twilight she saw Julian sitting on the seawall.

“Woo!” he called to no one in particular as he continued applauding. “Yes!”

On second thought, she did know what was enough to ruin a sunset.

Water lapping at her ankles, Molly laughed outright at the neighbor cheering the sunset. She added her own boisterous applause and turned back toward the ocean. “Bravo! Bravo!”

After the final shout, Char said, “Is all this clamor over a sunset a West Coast thing?”

“Not that I know of.” She stuck two fingers at the corners of her mouth and whistled.

A subtle shift in Char’s expression suggested her genteel manners were offended.

Molly smiled. “I can’t contain myself. I mean, wow. What a display!”

“Julian’s clapping?”

“No, the sunset.”

“Yes, that was incredibly lovely.”

“It was God showing off.”

“Molly.” A hint of skepticism laced Char’s tone. “You’re clapping for God?”

“Sure. I bet Julian is too. I wonder if he’s a believer?”

“Something’s going on with you. I haven’t quite figured it out yet. You don’t really look different, even after four children and living in the rain for years on end.”

Molly pressed her lips together to hold in a laugh and gazed at her old friend, waiting for a response. Char had always considered her peculiar and never hesitated offering that opinion.

Char studied her right back. “The Mary Catherine McDonnell I remember could outshout a gaggle of cheerleaders or any coach, including the head varsity football coach during a playoff game. She wouldn’t bat an eyelash yodeling at the top of her lungs outside the boys dorm on a dare. But as I live and breathe, she would never ever say God was showing off.” Her pale eyes grew wide and her mouth formed an O. “Don’t tell me! Our sweet Scotty has gone into preaching hellfire and brimstone.”

Molly could contain the snicker no longer. “Not quite.”

“Well, sugar, I must say your liturgical roots are definitely
not
showing today.”

“No, they are not. I’ve discovered I like kicking up my heels now and then.” She looked pointedly at Char. “Literally.” She watched the infinitesimal lift of Char’s eyebrows. “Out in the forest, anyway, where I can shout hallelujah at the top of my lungs and not disturb anyone. Of course, we practically live in the forest, so sometimes I just step into the backyard and let loose. To date only one neighbor has complained.”

“My, my. You are not joking. Well, as the saying goes, it would never play in Peoria. Nor Saint Matt’s, either.” She named the church the four friends had attended as children. “Nor Saint Mark’s, where we now belong. But, you know, different strokes for different folks. Whatever works for you is all right by me, hon.”

Molly sensed the elusive jump from open exchange to defensiveness. People usually got to that point the moment they learned she was a pastor’s wife. They felt a need to explain their approach to religion. But Char wasn’t “people.” Molly didn’t want that barrier to go up between them. Their time together was too short.

She said, “Yeah, well, the Charlaine Wentworth Stowe I remember had a certain unique way of letting loose herself. Of course, she only did it when she wasn’t concerned about being the prim and proper Miss Georgia Peach, Southern belle par excellence.”

The tease hit its mark. Char straightened her shoulders and gave her head a slight toss. “I am not
being
prim and proper. I
am
prim and proper, and there is nothing wrong in maintaining decorum.”

“But you’re dying to let loose.”

“Molly, you will not goad me into ridiculous behavior.”

The banter echoed from their teen years. No matter the height of the defensive wall Char constructed, Molly more often than not scaled it. She suspected Char of giving in for the same reason she wouldn’t give up the attack: The laughter they shared afterward was pure elixir. Life’s woes disintegrated on the spot.

“Char, we’re in San Diego, far from anyone who would recognize you.” She winked. “And we are forty years old.”

“I beg to differ on that second point.
Three
of you are forty years old.” Her birthday fell later that week.

“Whatever. Come on. Give it a go. The Charlaine Wentworth Stowe I remember never passed up an opportunity to fully express herself. I hope that hasn’t changed?”

“All I have to say is you are such a dip.”

“And you long to be one too.”

A grin finally split Char’s elfinlike features. “You think my rebel yell will suffice?”

Molly smiled. “It will more than suffice.”

Char took a deep breath, tilted back her head, lifted her chin skyward, and emitted the most horrendous, most unladylike whoop imaginable. She had created it one afternoon during an adolescent snit fit aimed at the other three for snubbing her. It rose and fell several octaves and combined the sounds of wolf, bobcat, elephant, and various other unidentifiable animals.

Overcome with laughter, Molly sank to her knees in the damp sand. Behind her Jo and Andie joined in.

Pure elixir. Molly imagined God was showing off again, dousing them with such a sense of happiness. She hoped she could tell Char about it before the week was over.

Their wild laughter continued throughout the evening. They strolled along the boardwalk, dark except for circles of pale light cast from evenly spaced pole lamps. At a nearby restaurant they teased their waiter until Char declared “poor thing doesn’t know if he’s afoot or on horseback.” Returning to the house, they still drew smiles from passersby.

With scarcely a break in the conversational trip down what Molly called the sunny side of memory lane, they changed into comfy sweats and pajamas. Molly built a fire in the fireplace, all that was needed to eliminate the damp night air. Jo rearranged furniture, muttering to herself about the crowded room. Her changes placed the couch and loveseat opposite each other on either side of the coffee table and perpendicular to the fireplace. Andie plumped cushions and pillows and shook the afghans that neatly draped every piece of furniture. Her murmuring referred to a tiny lizard she’d spotted sunning itself earlier on the patio. Char prepared tea, exclaiming over each find of bone china cups and saucers, silver tray, teaspoons from more than a dozen countries, and teapot complete with quilted cozy.

As they settled onto the couches, Char served them. “Jo, I have to say it again. This is such a lovely place.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Molly said, “Oh, come on, you old spoilsport. Enjoy it. Look around. We have real wood burning, not just some gas flame like what’s probably in those fancy-schmantzy condos. We have cups from England. Lace doilies from Belgium. Knickknack replicas of the Eiffel Tower, Big Ben, and a Dutch windmill.” She glanced around. Every European country was represented in some whatnot on horizontal surfaces. On the walls hung Delft Blue plates, a Black Forest cuckoo clock, and photographs of the Alps. “Obviously Faith Fontaine was quite a traveler.”