The Beach House (30 page)

“Wait a minute. Just when did our marriage suddenly become important to you? As I recall, when you asked me to move out, you said it was the end, that there was no way we could ever get back together.”

“Let's not play the blame game, Katherine,” he said in a teacher-to-student voice.

She was cold and uncomfortable and needed time to think. “I'm going to take a shower.”

“Good idea. You'll feel better, more like talking, when you get out.” He leaned forward to kiss her cheek and pat her arm. “I'll make coffee.”

“How long are you staying?”

He clearly hadn't expected the question. “I guess that depends on you.”

If it really was up to her, he would be gone when she got out of the shower. The thought brought her up short. When . . .
how
had she gone from believing he was the source of her happiness to looking forward to a life without him?

Chapter 9

You can't do this,” Brandon said. “Not after all I've done for you.” His expression changed from worried to cajoling. “What is it you need, a little time? I can handle that. I can even understand why you might want to see me suffer a little before you come back. But you have to believe me, Katherine. It may not be obvious, but I've already suffered just as much as you have. I can't begin to tell you the number of nights I've lain awake praying I did the right thing or how much I think about you during the day and how much I miss having you greet me at the door when I come home.”

Katherine reached for her coffee. Her hands were shaking so hard, the hot liquid splashed over the rim and landed on her white slacks, leaving a stain the shape of a lopsided heart. She put the cup down again.

“I'm not going to live a lie for anyone, not even you, Brandon.” Knowing the real reason he'd come made everything so much easier. “You should have considered what a divorce would do to your chances to be on the council before you asked me to leave.”

She reached for a napkin to blot the stain. “And what about everything I've done for you? You could never have made it as far as you have without me.”

“You're right,” he said without conviction. “I've never given you enough credit for all that you do, but that's in the past. From now on I promise I'll do better.”

She'd never seen him like this. She tried the coffee again and managed to get it to her lips without mishap. A small but noteworthy accomplishment. “Tell me now, Brandon.”

“Tell you what?”

“All the things you say you now recognize that I've done for you.”

He seemed lost. “You're being unfair. I can't just come up with things. I need time to think.” He let out a defeated sigh. “What will it take to get you to come home with me? I'll do anything you want.”

“For how long?”

He recoiled. “Have I ever broken a promise to you?”

“You mean other than 'till death do us part'?”

“You made that same vow, Katherine. You know God would want you to do whatever you can to save this marriage. Even if it means you have to swallow some pride.”

“Is that what you think this is about? Pride?” For the first time she raised her voice. “And how dare you use God to try to manipulate me?”

“All right, I admit I made a mistake. Is that what you want? Now will you forgive me?” He took his cup to the sink, turned, and looked at her. “I've certainly forgiven enough of your mistakes.”

Whenever she felt herself beginning to falter, he managed to say something to boost her up again. To go back to him now would only delay the inevitable. Whatever glue had held them together was gone.

“Wonderful, Brandon—even with all my faults, you're still willing to give me another chance. I can't let you make that sacrifice.” Sarcasm was something new. She like it.

“After all that you do for everyone else, you deserve to be married to someone who will make you happy—
really
happy. I know that being on the council seems like it would be enough, but in two or three years when the newness wears off, we'd be right back where we are now. I don't want to go through this again. I won't.
I
deserve better.”

He shook his head. “I never would have believed you could be so vindictive. If you won't come back for me, what about Michael and Paul? Think what it would mean to them to have their parents together again.”

“Where was this deep concern for your sons when you told me to move out?”

He sat down again. “What could you possibly hope to gain by punishing me for that now? No, let's get this straight. If you insist on going through with this divorce, it will be Michael and Paul you punish, not me.”

A knock on the front door kept her from answering. It was Peter. His timing couldn't have been worse.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” he said, looking past Katherine and seeing Brandon standing in the middle of the living room. “I didn't know you were here. I must have missed your car.” To Katherine he said, “I just stopped by to see if . . . uh, to see if you needed anything from the store.”

“I'm fine,” she said quickly. “I went shopping yesterday.”

“Then I'll let you get back to what you were doing.” He made a small wave to Brandon. “Nice seeing you again.”

Brandon waited several seconds after Peter had gone before giving her a withering look. “You and Peter? What a joke. He's gay, you know.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” She moved to step around him. He blocked her way.

“I wondered why you would want to come down here alone. But I thought you knew. Oh, this is just too funny. Telling him Peter wasn't gay would only complicate things.

“I'm not going to dignify that with an answer.”

“I came here willing to do whatever necessary to work things out between us, but I can see now that my prayers are not going to be answered.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Perhaps this is God's way of telling me I'm not worthy to sit on the council.” He waited. When she didn't say anything, he went on, “I just hope for both of us that it's His hand making the decision, not yours.”

“If it's God's plan that you be on the council, He'll show you another way.”

Brandon moved toward the door. “I'll tell Roger to get things started as soon as I get home. There's no sense dragging this out any longer.”

“You're using Roger for the divorce?” He and his wife, Martha, were the first friends they'd made when they moved to Woodland. She felt as close to them as she did to her own family.

“He seemed the logical choice.”

How could Brandon be so sensitive to the most minor problem of one of his parishioners and blind to her feelings? “Please find someone else.”

He opened the door and stepped outside. “I'll think about it.”

She followed him out. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“My freedom.”

 

Katherine stayed in the house the next two days, venturing out only to pick up the newspaper. The dense morning fog reflected her mood, and when sunshine broke through in the afternoons, she closed the blinds.

There had never been a divorce in her family. Her mother and father would take the news hard, as would her brothers and sister. They knew about the separation but had refused to believe she and Brandon wouldn't work things out. All marriages went through rocky times. How could they expect hers and Brandon's to be any different? They adored Brandon and talked about him the way parents did when one of their children became a doctor or lawyer. There was no higher calling than to serve God.

Katherine didn't even bother wondering whose side they would be on—especially when they found out he'd asked her to come back and she'd refused. She had no hope they would ever understand her newfound need to discover the woman she was and the woman she wanted to be.

Had she really thought that? Did she honestly believe there would be sides to take? Her prayers changed from asking for strength to see her through the months ahead to being shown a way to keep friends and relatives from feeling they had to champion either her or Brandon over the other.

The third morning of her self-imposed exile, the sun greeted her as she climbed out of bed. She decided it would mark the end of her introspective depression. She'd touched bottom; it was time to get on with her life.

Fresh from her shower, dressed in her yellow terry-cloth bathrobe with a towel wrapped around her head, Katherine was headed for the kitchen for a cup of coffee when she heard a car pull into the driveway.

She went to the window and peeked through the blinds. Surprise hit first, then puzzlement, finally delight. She opened the door. “What are you doing here?”

“I got fired,” Paul said, grinning. “Old man Fielding caught me stealing grapes.”

“You did not.” She put her arms around her youngest son and gave him a longer-than-usual hug, leaving no doubt how glad she was to see him.

“What is it you think I didn't do—get fired or steal grapes?” He had a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

“Either one.” She smiled as she looked past him to the other two boys who'd gotten out of the Mustang. They were Paul's best friends, the bonds established in preschool. “I hope you're planning to stay awhile.”

“If it's okay,” Tom, the taller of the two, said.

She reached up to adjust the towel on her head as it slipped to one side. “Of course it's okay. Have you had breakfast?”

“We stopped on the way,” Charlie told her.

“That was two hours ago,” Paul said. “I'm starved. What've you got?”

“Pancakes? Or, if you'd rather, French toast.”

“Pancakes,” they said in unison.

“Give me a couple of minutes to get dressed, and I'll see what I can do to fill those hollow legs of yours.”

The morning turned into the best she'd had in months, filled with teasing and laughter and good-natured roughhousing. The pancakes disappeared as fast as she could make them, followed by the last of the milk and all of the juice. Charlie and Tom threw her and Paul out of the kitchen while they cleared the table and washed the dishes.

Alone on the deck, the ocean breeze directing their voices away from the kitchen window, Katherine asked Paul, “Now why are you really here?”

“I just thought you might like some company.”

“And what made you think that?”

He shrugged. “Dad was acting kind of funny when he got back.”

She was caught between curiosity and prying. “I like knowing how much you care, Paul, but I don't want you to feel you have to take care of me. What's happening between me and your dad is our problem, not yours.”

She thought about what she'd said. “I take that back, it's your problem, too. You had every right to think your dad and I would be together forever. And now you have to deal with your last year of school and getting ready for college and a mother and father who should be there for you but are—”

“Jeez, Mom, if you keep this up, you're going to have me feeling sorry for myself.”

She was filled with a love for her son so intense that it brought tears to her eyes. “I must have done something very special to deserve you.”

“Just remember that next time I forget to pick up my room.”

She laughed and wiped at her eyes. “Forget?”

“All right—postpone.”

“What are your plans for this afternoon?”

“Nothing special, maybe hang out here for a while, check out the chicks on the beach.”

“Chicks?”

He laughed. “You're so easy, Mom.”

“Since you don't have anything special planned, how about if the three of you help me make ice cream? I found a machine in the cupboard that looks brand new, and I thought it might be fun to give it a try.”

“Yeah, sure,” he said, obviously more to please her than out of any real excitement about homemade ice cream. “You want us to go to the store to get the stuff?”

“I'll take care of it.” He'd be the rest of the morning shopping if she sent him with her list. There wasn't enough food in the house to feed three boys another day, let alone a week. The groceries would take a big chunk out of the money she'd budgeted for the rest of the month, but she couldn't think of a better way to spend it.

Chapter 10

Katherine looked up from the bed of snapdragons where she was gathering flowers for a bouquet and saw a boy who looked to be eight or nine watching her. “Hi, there,” she said, and smiled.

“Hi,” he answered without returning the smile.

She sat back on her haunches, keeping herself at his level. “Were you looking for someone?”

“My friends used to live here. But they died.”

Now she understood the missing smile. “You must mean Joe and Maggie,” she said gently.

He nodded. “Do you live here now?”

“For a little while.”

“Do you have any kids?”

“I have two boys, but they're almost grown.” She cut a bright red snapdragon and stuck it in the pail of water beside her. “Do you live around here?”

“Me and my sister are staying with my dad over there.” He pointed to Andrew's house.

Peter had told her a writer was living in Andrew's house while he was away. He'd been gone when she first arrived and must have returned while she was holed up trying to get her life back in order. “I'm going to make ice cream this afternoon. Would you like to come over and have some? You can bring your sister and dad, too.”

“What kind?”

“Strawberry.”

“I like peach,” he said softly. “That's what Maggie made.”

Her heart went out to him. “I could make peach instead, but I have a feeling it wouldn't be as good as Maggie's.”

“That's all right. Me and my sister have to go back to my mom's today anyway.” He raised a small hand as he turned to leave. “Bye.”

She watched him cross the pathway back to his house. As much as she hated what her and Brandon's divorce would do to Michael and Paul, she was profoundly grateful they'd stayed a family unit long enough to see them through their childhood.

She moved to the giant marigolds that grew beside the gate, looked up, and saw Peter at his mailbox. He noticed her and waved. She waved back. When he returned his mail to the box and headed her way, her heart did a funny skipping beat in anticipation.

She stood and brushed herself off, wishing she'd taken more time with her hair and makeup that morning. Slowly, during the past two and a half weeks, barely more than a fleeting thought at a time, she'd begun to understand how connected Peter was to her feelings about coming to the beach house every year. He was as much a part of her August as listening to the waves, long walks on the beach, and the smell of salt-laden air.

“I haven't seen you around lately,” he said, stopping outside the gate. “Is everything all right?”

“Paul showed up with a couple of friends.” What was it about Peter that always made her feel special when she was with him? She had a feeling it had a lot to do with the way he actually looked at her when she was talking to him, as if whatever she had to say, no matter how inconsequential, were important. But he didn't just listen, he responded. And he cared. “They've been keeping me pretty busy.”

“I meant before that.”

She didn't know how to answer him. Their friendship wasn't one of private revelations, and she was afraid to take the chance that things might change if she unloaded her problems on him. “I didn't feel very good for a couple of days after Brandon left.”

“You should have called me. I make a great chicken soup.”

“I'll remember that.” She was tempted to tell him chicken soup was a personal favorite and that she would gladly let him make it for her anytime, but was afraid he would get the wrong impression. “How's the painting coming?”

“It's finished.”

The news was both exciting and a little scary. Not only would she be seeing herself through Peter's eyes, so would the rest of the world. “May I see it?”

“Anytime.”

“Now?”

“If you'd like.”

“Give me a minute to clean up.”

“You're fine just the way you are.” He held the gate for her.

“I really should wash up a little.”

He reached for her hand. “It's not a gallery opening, Katherine, just you and me.”

They were halfway to his house before she realized they were still holding hands. “I can't stay long. I told the boys I'd fix them lunch when they got back from swimming.”

“How long are they staying?”

“Until Friday. They're going to help me close the house.”

He pulled up and looked at her, a stunned expression on his face. “You're leaving Friday? Why so soon? Labor Day's a week and a half away.”

The strength of his reaction startled her. She slipped her hand from his and tucked it in her back pocket. “I have to get ready for school. I'm taking some refresher courses for my teaching credential.”

“You're going to be a teacher? I thought being a minister's wife was a full-time job.”

There it was. She either told him the truth and spent the little time they had left together talking about her problems or she danced around it and gave herself a few more days of freedom. “I thought it was time I branched out a little,” she said simply.

“Did you know Julia was thinking about selling the house?” It was a long shot, but perhaps if Katherine knew, she would change her mind and stay a little longer. He'd thought they would have more time. He'd counted on it. He wasn't ready to have her walk out of his life. He sure as hell wasn't ready to face the possibility of never seeing her again.

“I didn't, but I'm not surprised.”

“What will you do—about coming here in August, I mean.”

She started walking again. “Most likely, I won't do anything. It was hard justifying renting a three-bedroom house when I knew I would be the only one using it this year. I can't see ever doing it again.”

“What if I told you that I was thinking about buying the house from Julia?”

“Why? You already have a—”

“As an investment. August would be yours for as long as you wanted it. At the same price, of course.”

“That's crazy, Peter. You could get twice, maybe even three times as much as we're paying.”

If he wasn't careful, he was going to trip himself up and she'd know the real reason he was buying the house. She'd never come back then. Hell, she'd probably run home and pack her bags that night. “It's worth it to me to know the place would be taken care of.”

They'd come to his front door. “You have no idea how much I wish I could say yes.”

“At least tell me you'll think about it.” He opened the door for her.

She looked at him and smiled. “That's easy. It's probably all I'll think about while I'm lugging books around campus this winter.”

Peter followed her inside. “Can I get you something to drink? A soda? Iced tea?”

She shook her head. “I can't stay long.”

A sudden, uncharacteristic nervousness made him hesitate showing her the picture. It had been years since he'd looked to anyone for approval of his work. He painted to satisfy himself. But this was different. He desperately wanted Katherine to like what he'd done.

“It's in here,” he said, indicating his studio. When she started that way, it was everything he could do not to stop her. Gaining a semblance of control, he took a deep breath and followed.

She spotted the painting from the doorway. Instead of going in, she stayed where she was and stared, not saying anything. Finally, as if drawn forward by an invisible hand, she moved closer, stopping in the middle of the room directly in front of the portrait.

“This is how you see me?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

There could be no answer but the truth. “Yes.”

“But you've made me so beautiful.”

“You are beautiful.”

She shook her head. “Not like this.”

He wasn't looking at the painting but at her when he asked, “Do you like it?”

“It scares me,” she said, her confusion reflected in her voice. “But I don't know why.” She moved closer still. “How did you know what I was thinking?”

“I painted what I saw.”

Finally she looked at him. “How can you see what no one else does?”

“What are you really asking me?”

“I look so lonely. . . .” She turned to the picture. “What am I looking at out that window, Peter? Why do I want it so much?”

Not until that moment did he realize that he'd imagined her looking at him. “You tell me.”

“I can't.”

He would have given everything he owned to know what to say to her. Gut instinct told him there were words she needed to hear, but that they were in a language he didn't know. “What do you want me to do with the painting?”

“I don't know.”

“It's on paper,” he said. “Easily destroyed.”

“Oh, no. You can't.” She put her hand on his arm. “Promise me you won't.”

He was stunned to see tears in her eyes. “I never meant to hurt you, Katherine.”

“It isn't you, it's me.” A tear spilled onto her cheek. She immediately wiped it away with her hand. “I have to go now.”

“What can I do?”

“Nothing.”

He couldn't let her go. “There must be something.”

“It's my problem. I'll work it out.”

“Let me help.”

She touched the side of his face. “I love the painting.” Forcing a smile, she added, “When you sell it, I hope you make lots and lots of money.”

“I'm not selling it. The picture isn't mine, Katherine. It's yours.”

“You can't . . . I couldn't . . .” She looked at the painting, at him, and then back at the painting again. After an agonizingly long time she said, “Keep it for me.” Their eyes met. “Would you?”

It was a connection he hadn't expected. A gift. A promise. A golden cage where he would reside the rest of his life. “For as long as you like,” he told her.

 

The rest of the week Paul and his friends kept Katherine too busy to think, including her in whatever plans they made for the day, even insisting she go to the boardwalk with them, where, against her better judgment, she let them talk her into going on the roller coaster. She ate cotton candy, a candied apple, and a questionable-looking hot dog she was still burping six hours later.

Friday arrived with a thick roll of fog sitting offshore, a breeze to keep the heat from being oppressive, and a sky so blue that it begged to be filled with brightly colored kites. Because it seemed a crime not to take advantage of their last day of vacation, Katherine insisted the boys go swimming while she packed. After lunch they stripped the beds, cleaned the bathrooms, and loaded the car.

Paul made an endearingly sincere offer to ride back with her, but she convinced him that she was looking forward to the quiet of making the trip alone. The boys took off at four, hoping to get home in time for a party that night. She stood in the driveway and watched them leave, then went inside to finish cleaning.

As she worked her way through the remaining rooms, caught up in the mindless process of dusting, polishing, and vacuuming, her thoughts wandered in a dozen directions. Inevitably, no matter how circuitous the route, she wound up thinking about Peter. For days she'd looked for him whenever she was outside, but hadn't seen him since he'd shown her the painting. It was almost as if he were purposely avoiding her.

A glorious sunset chastised her for being inside when she looked out the window after finishing the kitchen floor, the job she'd left for last. She made one final inspection, then went outside, a reward for all her hard work. As she walked around the house, she checked to see if Peter's car was in the driveway. Finally he was home.

Smelling like pine cleaner and bleach, her hair in a careless knot on top of her head, her makeup a fleeting memory, she headed for his house, afraid to take the chance he might leave again if she took the time to clean herself up.

He answered her knock so quickly, it was almost as if he'd been standing on the other side of the door waiting for her.

“Hi,” she said, suddenly, acutely, aware how disheveled she looked.

“I thought you were gone already,” he said.

“The boys left around four.”

“Would you like to come in?”

She glanced down at herself. “I didn't come to visit.”

He waited and then asked, “Why did you come, then?”

How could she have rehearsed what she wanted to tell him the whole time she was cleaning and have forgotten it now? “About the painting . . . I love it, Peter. It's important that you know that.”

“But you still don't want it.”

She had a hundred reasons, but only one that mattered. He'd exposed something she didn't want anyone who knew her to see. “Maybe someday,” she said. “But not now.”

“Thanks for stopping by.”

She nodded and took a step backward. “I should go now. I've got a long drive ahead of me.”

He didn't say anything, just watched her leave.