The Beach House
HARVEST HOUSE PUBLISHERS
EUGENE, OREGON
Scripture verses were taken from The Jerusalem Bible, Copyright © 1966 by Darton, Longman & Todd, Ltd. and Doubleday & Company, Inc., all rights reserved; from the New English Bible, copyright © Oxford University Press and Cambridge University Press 1961, 1970, all rights reserved; from the New American Standard Bible®, © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission (www.Lockman.org); from The Living Bible, Copyright ©1971.Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Wheaton, IL 60189 USA, all rights reserved; and from the King James Version of the Bible.
Cover by Garborg Design Works, Minneapolis, Minnesota
Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Ste #200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
THE BEACH HOUSE
Copyright © 2006 by Sally John
Published by Harvest House Publishers
Eugene, Oregon 97402
www.harvesthousepublishers.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
John, Sally, 1951–
The beach house / Sally John.
p. cm.—(The beach house series ; bk. 1)
ISBN-13: 978-0-7369-1316-4 (pbk.)
ISBN-10: 0-7369-1316-5 (pbk.)
1. Women--California--Fiction. 2. San Diego (Calif.)--Fiction. 3. Female
friendship--Fiction. 4. Seaside resorts--Fiction. I. Title. II. Series.
PS3560.O323B43 2006
813'.54—dc22
2005020521
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Printed in the United States of America
06 07 08 09 10 11 12 13 14 / BC-KB / 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
Fifty-One
Fifty-Two
Fifty-Three
Fifty-Four
Fifty-Five
Fifty-Six
Fifty-Seven
Fifty-Eight
Fifty-Nine
Sixty
Sixty-One
Sixty-Two
Sixty-Three
Epilogue
Grandmère Babette’s List
Discussion Questions
Other Books by Sally John
About the Author
For
Aliah Claire John
Welcome, sweetheart
Acknowledgments
As is true with all my stories, this one is the result of a joint venture. My heart overflows with gratitude to the following—
My readers: You are incredibly beautiful. Your gracious encouragement undergirds me day after day.
Contest respondents: Reading your real-life stories about fortieth birthdays was sheer delight. I laughed and cried and found a common thread. It was a turning point, either remembered by those over forty or anticipated by those not yet there. Thank you for the peek into your hearts. They are gold mines of feminine wisdom.
The suggestions for character names were much appreciated as well and carried me way beyond “name your baby” books. I used names provided by Carol L. Hoefs, Peggy McShane, Sherrie Kuster Burton, and Peggy Hadacek.
Bill and Jane Hull: for sharing your lives with us in so many ways, not the least of which has been through words, especially those “Hull-isms.”
Trisha Owens and Joyce Lax: for introducing me to reflexology, patiently answering questions, and keeping my nerves in order.
Kim Moore and Gene Skinner: for sashimi.
Harvest House: for the whole range of your tireless efforts toward excellence in editing, marketing, page and cover design, and sales. What a privilege to be part of the family!
Kim “the Exceptional Editor” Moore: for knowing my characters better than I do myself and for taking such extraordinary editorial care of them.
My family~
Sandy Carlson: for real-life research.
Tracy John: for boogie boarding and brainstorming.
Elizabeth John: for volleyball, a myriad of other researched information, and a last-minute, first-class editing job.
Christopher and Tracy: for introducing me to the Northwest.
Tim, Christopher, Tracy, and Patti John: for first read-through, critiques, and support.
And Tim, my anchor, for giving me San Diego.
The Beach House Ladies
Jo Zambruski ~
Lives in California; single; OB/GYN doctor
Char Wilcox ~
Lives in the Chicago area; married 17 years to Cam, dentist; mother of Savannah, 15, and Cole, 13; active as volunteer
Andie Sinclair ~
Lives in Wisconsin; married 20 years to Paul, real estate agent; mother of Jadon, 17, and Zach, 16; reflexologist
Molly Preston ~
Lives in Oregon; married 12 years to Scott, forester and pastor; mother of Eli, 11; Betsy, 9; Abigail, 7; and Hannah, 5; substitute teacher
“Let be then: learn that I am God.”
Psalm 46:10
Prologue
May
Del Mar, California
Dr. Josephine Zambruski studied the five-by-seven framed photograph in her hands and tried to remember when she had stopped displaying it on her desk.
Perhaps it was during that idiotic redecorating phase that had taken hold of her like a bad perm. There was no escape. She had to play along, even if it meant boxing up her entire past. Chrome sculptures and watercolors were in, funky photos were out.
“At least I saved it.”
She rose from the floor and stepped around the cartons that cluttered her home office. Settling into her leather desk chair, she propped her bare feet against the desk’s edge.
“Hi.” She spoke softly to the picture still cradled in her hands, to the four young women caught for eternity in the midst of a belly laugh.
Jo smiled as that raucous guffaw echoed in her mind down through the years. How many had it been? She and her friends stood on the sunny steps of Saint
Matt’s, their childhood suburban Chicago church. Obviously it was the day of Molly’s wedding which was…when? She glanced at the back of the frame and saw she had written July sixteenth twelve years ago.
The photo drew her attention again. Oh, they had known how to laugh. There was Molly in her billowy white wedding gown of a thousand and one rhinestones, the others in chartreuse taffeta. The bride was inelegantly bent over nearly double and leaning sideways into Jo. Petite Char clung to Molly’s other arm, mouth wide as all outdoors. Gangly Jo, with toothy grin and eyes squinted, hung on to Andie’s shoulder. Redheaded Andie clasped her hands at her chest, eyes large as saucers and lips forming a giant O.
A feeling of homesickness swept over her.
What a bunch of sentimental hooey!
Jo chuckled in surprise. The phrase was trademark Molly. Char would have responded with “Sugar, you’ve got your heartstrings all crisscrossed with your brain.” Andie would have gripped Jo’s arm, tears pooling in her eyes, and said she knew exactly what she meant.
Where had the dozen years gone?
She swiveled around and gazed through the large window behind the desk. The scene included the early evening sky, the Pacific Ocean, and little else. Miles separated her from the beach, but the home’s hillside perch eliminated other houses and much of the lush vegetation from view.
She watched the sun touch the water. The notion struck her that that was where the years had gone. Simple arithmetic. Twelve times 365 equaled one day at a time, melding into a blur of cross-country moves, work, and—for the other three—marriage and motherhood. Only the sending and receiving of annual, all-purpose Christmas notes broke the continuum.
The homesick feeling returned. She suspected it was more than sentimental hooey. Somewhere in the last twelve years she had lost touch with a basic part of herself. Was that why she had stopped displaying the photo? Because to look at her friends was to know something was missing from her life?
The thought struck a hopeful chord. If that were so, then the time had come to remedy the situation.
They would love her ocean view. Better yet, they would love the beach down in San Diego. They could rent a place near the sand and go barefoot and remember when dreams tickled their imaginations.
As the sun set on Jo’s fortieth birthday, she reached for her address book.
One
September 24
A Chicago suburb, Illinois
When her teenage daughter created a scene in the master bedroom at 7:10 on Tuesday morning, Charlaine Wilcox stopped folding the turquoise silk blouse. It lay half in and half out of the suitcase while she glided her tongue along the backs of her teeth. Slowly, she commanded herself. Feel each individual tooth bump…the flatness of the front ones. Top row. Bottom row.
Any old body can count to ten, her mama—God rest her soul—had said on more than one occasion. Georgia-born-and-bred Ellen Cummins Stowe née Wentworth learned the gliding trick from her own mama, Edith Huntington Wentworth née Cummins. Women in the family controlled their tongues. They did not spout off in anger like common riffraff. They did not even raise their voices much above a soft whisper.
“Mom!”
Char sighed inwardly. The legacy hadn’t quite taken hold of fifteen-year-old Savannah Stowe Wilcox yet.
Char glanced at her daughter. “I said no.”
“You are such a flaming fossil!” Her voice screeched her pet phrase of the week. “Dad said this outfit looks great!”
“Savannah, sugar, your daddy can’t see for beans at six-thirty in the morning.” She resumed folding the blouse as she spoke. “I am a bit concerned about his early-bird patient today. That man might walk right out of the office with a perfectly good tooth whittled away to make room for a crown.” She patted the blouse neatly into the suitcase, curved her lips upward into a tiny smile, and sat on the edge of the four-poster king-size bed to face her daughter.
“Ha-ha.” Savannah crossed her arms and scrunched her pretty face into a tight mass of wrinkles.
“Your hair’s lovely, all curled like that. It’ll look extra nice in a ponytail for tonight’s game.” Her daughter’s ash-blond hair and eyes the color of sliced almonds mirrored her own features. “But your makeup’s going to make funny lines if you keep up that frowning.”
“Mom! I need an answer!” Her voice rose again above the Today show on the television. “You’re the one who let me go shopping! Everyone wears these skirts from Abercrombie! And that’s what we decided to wear today! The whole entire volleyball team!”
“Skirt” was hardly an accurate term for the precious few inches of fabric hanging from her daughter’s hips. “Sugar, let me put it this way: You look like a strumpet.”
Savannah gave her a blank stare.
Char sighed inwardly. What were those schools teaching? Obviously not vocabulary. “A slut.”
“A slut? Mom! Thanks a lot!”
“Well, you know, the boys are going to get all hot and bothered. They won’t be able to focus on their geometry. And your teacher will ask why—in the name of all that is sane and holy—would a mother allow her daughter to step out of the house with the sole intention of disturbing every male who crosses her path?”
Char had already lost one battle over clothing the previous month. Hers had been the lone voice of reason against the girls’ so-called uniform, which consisted of T-shirt and spankies. Spankies! The name was as loathsome as the purple bun-hugging shorts themselves. On a diapered toddler they would have looked cute. Not so on a gaggle of young ladies with the muscular thighs of serious athletes.
No, she was not about to lose a battle in her own house over what constituted decent school clothes. She finished the lecture. “Go put on that nice new sage green outfit I bought for you last week.”
“I hate you.” Savannah turned on her heel and stomped out the door.
Heart pounding, Char remained seated on the bed, breathed deeply, and finger-combed her short hair. She was not in a popularity contest. She absolutely was not.
A scuffling noise came from the hallway.
“Get out of my way, brat!” The barked command was a typical Savannah address to her thirteen-year-old brother.
Cole laughed heartily. “Yo, mama! Lookin’ good!”
Char smiled to herself. His insolent compliment would send Savannah racing to her closet to pull out the first outfit her hand touched.
A shriek was followed by the stomping of feet. Cole entered the bedroom then, his distinctive lopsided grin in place, and leaned against the doorjamb. The child was far too rakish for his age.
“Cole, honey, I owe you one.”
He held out his arms, palms up. “Consider it a freebie. Reverse psychology zings her every time. So where’s C.P.?”
Not up for another battle, Char let the disrespectful reference to his father, Camden Pierce, pass without reprimand. Like Savannah’s angst, it was simply another adolescent phase, here today, gone tomorrow. “He had an early appointment.”
“So how are you getting to the airport? Your car’s in the shop.” He paid close attention to anything with wheels attached.
She opened her mouth to say “Kendra,” but she caught herself before making a peep. Kendra, dearest of dear friends, who—unlike a husband—did not get her knickers all tied in a knot at the mere thought of making a round trip out to O’Hare. Oh, puh-lease. Kendra’s eyelashes had fluttered. What was one more stop for a master car pool driver? Unload the kids at their respective schools, breeze through Starbucks, enjoy an extra gab fest on the 294, and arrive with time to spare. Duck soup.
Char was tired of duck soup. She wanted chateaubriand. Complexity and effort, aromas that defined luscious, food that danced on the palate. She wanted out of Chicago without further ado, even if it meant sitting at the airport an extra two hours.
She flipped shut the suitcase lid. “Taxi, Cole. I’m taking a taxi.”
And hang the extra cost.
Two
September 24
“You’re absolutely sure about this?” Paul Sinclair snapped his starched white collar upright and draped an electric blue tie beneath it, watching his reflection in the dresser mirror. “You could cancel this trip for a hundred bucks. Small price to pay for peace of mind.”
Andie stood in the doorway and watched her husband knot the tie with meticulous care. He twisted one half just so around the other, now up and over, creating a noose into which he tucked an end.
He gave the tie a smart tug and folded the collar back down into place. “I’m just thinking out loud. Giving you options you might not have considered.” Splaying his fingers across the silk, he patted his completed project. His well-groomed nails glistened, as did the diamond on his right pinkie.
The tie belonged to his “power collection.” It signified a lunch or dinner meeting would take place that day with high-level clients, the kind who paid for the ring through record-setting purchases of multimillion-dollar buildings.
He stepped into the walk-in closet momentarily and emerged with a black suit coat. Slipping his arms into it, he said, “We could use your ticket next spring. All of us could fly down to Florida over the boys’ school break.”
Andie followed him down the hallway as he elaborated on other possibilities. She heard his words through layers of nuances that disguised his meaning. What was he really saying? It couldn’t be a complaint about the money for her trip. She had gotten a great airline deal and paid for it from her own earnings. It couldn’t be because Jadon and Zach needed her at home. They were seventeen and eighteen, two of the most independent boys she knew. It couldn’t be that Paul would miss her all that much. With his crazy work schedule, most weeks they barely found time to talk beyond first thing in the mornings and on Sunday nights.
Was it concern for her peace of mind? True, she was a little nervous. She had never flown across the country by herself or even spent a night away from home without him, not counting hospital stays for the kids’ births. What would she do for an entire week with old friends who by now were practically strangers? In a huge place like San Diego? And there were her clients, who would miss their regular reflexology treatment with her; the elderly ones especially might suffer setbacks. Then there were school and church committee meetings she would miss, information she would have to catch up on. Maybe she should stay home. Life would be a lot simpler. It wasn’t as though she needed to go, to get away—