Beach Rental(64)

Adela’s eyes burned. Luke moved closer to her. “Don’t do or say something you’ll regret. This is an emotional time. We’re all stressed.”

Mr. Lawson shook his head. “Luke is right. This isn’t the time, and it’s a moot point in any case. It would have been up to Ben to revoke the contract, so unless you have some reason to believe—a very solid reason—that Ben intended to revoke the contract for cause, then there is nothing further to discuss.”

Juli forced herself to speak. “I want you all to leave now. You’re discussing me and my character, as well as private matters between Ben and me. If Ben had wanted your opinion, he would’ve asked for it. He didn’t ask for mine either, but he has made his wishes plain.” Juli stood, gathering her dignity, wishing it were armor. “I need to lie down now.” She turned to Mr. Lawson, “I hope it will be okay for us to discuss this later. Perhaps in a day or so?”

“That will be fine. Call my office.”

“This isn’t over, Juli.”

“Adela, I’ll take the house key.” Juli held out her hand.

Adela looked at Luke and at Fred Lawson, as if demanding they come to her aid. She stalked over to the end table and fished inside her purse, pulling out a key ring. She twisted a key from the ring, then threw it to the floor.

Luke hustled Adela out the door. Mr. Lawson stooped to retrieve the key. He placed it on the table. “Call me,” he said, and left.

On unsteady legs, Juli crossed the room and locked the door, deadbolts and slide bolts included. She leaned there, her face against the cool metal for a minute. Her head was spinning and nausea was threatening in a mild way, but impossible to ignore. She hadn’t eaten today. Juli pushed away from the door, then jiggled the knob on the other door. Locked, too. She was tempted to collapse on the sofa, but instead pulled herself upstairs. She stripped as she went, dropping her clothing wherever it landed, and fell into bed.

She slept heavily until three a.m. Frantic, confusing dreams woke her. She got up to use the bathroom. Lightheaded and shaky, she clung to the bedpost until the room settled down. The vertical blinds at the balcony door had been left open. Moonlight lit the open area of the room and across the hall the same moonlight touched Ben’s room. She followed the light into his room. It was almost as neat and impersonal as a motel room—like a weekly rental, like its twin in the duplex on the eastern side of the house—except for the shirt hung over the back of a chair.

Juli put the shirt to her face. Ben’s scent was faint. This was his white dress shirt, the one he wore to church. She put it on. It reached partway down her thighs. She buttoned a couple of buttons somewhere in the middle and went downstairs, fuzzy-headed, thirsty.

It was the pre-dawn hours of Sunday morning. The old renters would be gone soon and the new people would arrive later in the day. It reminded her of their wedding weekend, months earlier.

Drawn by her memories, she walked out the door and down the crossover, barefoot and careful of splinters. The onshore breeze—light tonight—plucked at the shirttail, flipping the hem around her thighs and hips.

She was alone again beneath the stars.

The waves rolled up the packed sand and over her feet. Their roar was no longer a novelty, but a constant presence.

She couldn’t hate the ocean for taking Ben. The ocean did what the ocean did, as did Ben when he chose to rush to the aid of the child, as he’d admired Juli for doing a few days before.

It was as much her fault as anyone’s. No one’s.

It was just what it was.

She stood silently, head bent against the wind, hair wrapping across her face, catching in her eyes and mouth. She reached up to pull it away and found her face wet. Tears had come of their own volition, running down her cheeks, into the crease of her neck and wetting Ben’s white shirt. She fell to her knees and shared her grief with the ocean.





Chapter Twenty



Morning beach walks began and ended earlier—in the translucent dark between night and day. Sometimes the morning fog cloaked Juli, sometimes the air was clear, but few people were up and about at that hour.

Pelicans skimmed the waves for breakfast before dawn. Sand pipers ran across the wet sand leaving miniature, twiggy footprints. One or two fisherman already had their lines out before the sun rose. No one wanted to chat in the pre-dawn hours. No one looked at her with curiosity—or worse, played and laughed, oblivious to what had so recently occurred. Among the transient population, memories of local events departed with the vacationers. History restarted itself for each new set of arrivals.

Before the light was strong, she was back in the house.