Beach House for Rent Read online

  “I mean, I don’t know how we can make the payments. On our current combined income, we can’t. Simply put, Brett, that big luxury tour boat you bought is not bringing in the money projected when we took out the loan. In fact, it’s essentially bleeding money. It’s nothing but a huge financial drain. We have to find a source of money from somewhere to pay off the loan, or . . .”

  “Or what?”

  “What always happens when you don’t pay your loan. The bank will come after your collateral. In this case—our house.”

  “Are you talking bankruptcy?”

  She shrugged. “Possibly.”

  “Shit,” he said, and fell back against the sofa. There was a moment of silence as they both absorbed the impact of that word. “I bought the boat for a steal,” he said by way of self-defense. “Half its original value.”

  “A boat’s not like a house, Brett. It doesn’t go up in value over time. It sinks. No pun intended.”

  He nodded grimly. “Okay, then. I’ll sell the boat.”

  Cara had already thought of this and discussed it with a maritime company. “We have to do that,” she said in the same monotone that the loan officer had used with her when her own voice began to rise. “But it won’t be enough. Just in the few years we’ve had it, it’s taken a tremendous loss. What’s that saying? The two happiest days of a boat owner’s life are the day he buys his boat and the day he sells it.”

  Brett didn’t laugh. His face was filled with regret. “I’m sorry, Cara. I really thought—I hoped—it was a good idea.”

  He sounded so dejected her heart lurched. She’d been dubious about the investment at the time but, when faced with Brett’s unwavering optimism, she’d relented, even though a part of her had known it was a poor business decision. And now they were both going to pay the price.

  She scooted to his side of the sofa and put her hand on his thigh. “I know you did. You convinced me.”

  Brett smiled wryly. “Not really.”

  She laughed softly and shook her head. “Not really.”

  “So what do we do now?” he asked her.

  She sighed and leaned back against the sofa. This part was the hardest. “That’s what I spent the afternoon talking to the loan officer about. Basically, we have to make the payments, and to do that we have to come up with a new source of income, fast. We both know that the boat won’t sell quickly—if it sells at all. So the next thing to consider is laying someone off.”

  “Who?” Brett asked, alarmed at the prospect. “We’ve already laid off everyone but me and Robert. We need two to crew a tour at bare minimum. We have interns working in the summer. And you—”

  “I don’t get paid,” she finished for him. When they had purchased the boat, Cara had volunteered to give up her salary until the boat brought in some money. It never did.

  Brett’s smile was filled with love and compassion. “No.”

  Cara curled her legs up beneath her on the sofa. “We could sell the house.”

  Brett frowned and clasped his hands together. “Where would we live?”

  “We could move into the beach house.”

  “But it’s rented.”

  “Actually, being rented is not a problem. We’d just have to find a place to rent until the beach house is free.” She waited while he digested this. “This place should sell quickly, and for a good price. It’s on deep water.”

  “Well, why sell this house? The beach house will fetch more money. And we don’t live there. We wouldn’t have to move.”

  “True.” She looked at her hands. She’d known he’d fight to save this house. It was his home, after all. His name was on the deed. He’d lived in it for years. But not nearly as many years as she’d lived in her mother’s house. “Brett, I’ve gone over and over this at the bank, and our options are limited. It’s really very simple.”

  Cara held up her hand and began counting off. “One, we sell the boat.” She rolled her eyes. “That’s not likely to happen and, even if it does, it might not bring in enough money to dig us out of this rut. Two, we lay someone off. You just told me that can’t happen. Three, I quit and get a decent-paying job. Or should I say, a job that pays anything.” She paused and licked her lips. “At my age, that’s not going to be easy, but it’s possible. The downside? It might take too long to get a job that will pay me what we need for the loan. Four, we sell this house. Or five”—she paused—“we sell my beach house.”

  “I go for number five,” Brett said automatically.

  Cara tightened her arms around herself and stared at him with barely constrained anger. “Let me get this straight. You don’t want to sell your house. You want me to sell my house, an heirloom from my deceased mother, to pay off the debt from your tour boat.”

  “Are you forgetting how we got caught in this financial bind in the first place?” Brett said brusquely.

  Cara’s eyes flashed. “Of course I’m not forgetting. I’ll never forget. And it wasn’t just your money we spent. It was all my savings, too. We both invested everything we had into those in vitro programs.”

  Her voice choked up as she recalled the endless hormone shots, the ice-cold metal tables, the doctors’ furrowed brows as they gave her and Brett bad news, again and again, cycle after cycle. First hope, and then stubbornness, and finally denial had kept them coming back long after they should have stopped trying, and long after they could afford to. But the rainbow baby they’d so desperately longed for had never come. And when Cara had decided to turn toward adoption, she’d been shocked and dismayed when Brett—kind, caring Brett—hadn’t followed.

  He’d had reasons. He’d dreamed of having his own biological child—one that looked like a perfect combination of the two of them. He’d also wanted to enjoy a pregnancy with Cara, to hear the child’s heartbeat, to watch the ultrasound excitedly as the doctor told them whether it was a boy or a girl. Finally, he was firm that he wouldn’t feel the same way about an adopted child that he would about a biological child.

  Cara had been devastated by her failure to give Brett that child. But Brett had never blamed her. Instead he’d descended into what she could only call an early midlife crisis. He was determined to make his mark in life. He went gung-ho for his scheme of expanding his business—buying the luxury tour boat. By that point, Cara was numb with depression and really didn’t care one way or the other.

  It felt like something had just sucked all the air out of the room. Cara rose from the sofa and paced to diffuse the whirlwind of emotions. The anger was gone, replaced by a pervasive anguish that she knew both of them kept deeply buried.

  “I don’t want to fight,” she said wearily, worn out from the day’s back-and-forth maneuvers at the bank to try to come to some sort of workable plan.

  Brett’s anger dissolved in an instant. He came to stand by her at the window and wrapped his arms around her. “I don’t, either.”

  Despite their words, she still felt the residue of unresolved feelings. She stood stiffly in his arms, not daring to speak.

  “We’ll figure something out,” he said reassuringly. “We always do.”

  “I know,” Cara replied. But her tone belied her vote of confidence.

  After a minute, when it became clear nothing more was going to be said, Brett dropped his arms and took a few steps back. “Okay, then. I’m off. I can still get that run in.”

  Cara nodded, lips tight. It was typical of Brett to run off from a difficult money discussion, especially when it started to get heated. Money and emotion were never a good combination. She knew he’d worry about it, in his own way at his own pace. If she stopped him now the argument would only escalate into something ugly. So she said nothing and let him go.

  A moment later she heard the door close. Only then did she release the ragged sigh she’d been holding. She didn’t know what she was going to do. She was still too angry to make plans. But she felt the weight of the world on her shoulders.

  She strode into the kitchen and retrieved a wineglass.
This she filled with red wine. She took a long swallow. Then another. Then, because she couldn’t think of what else to do, she carried the glass and the bottle into the living room, turned on the television and plopped down on the sofa, tucking her legs beneath her. She didn’t care what she watched. She merely needed a distraction. Something to calm her down before round two began when Brett came home.

  That was what she was doing when the front doorbell rang a little later. She was watching some inane reality show about a hoarder. It was creepy to see how someone could hang on to so much worthless stuff. Rising to answer the door, she looked around the house as though checking to see she didn’t have too much clutter.

  She opened the door, and her breath caught in her throat. Two uniformed policemen stood on her threshold with somber expressions. She felt her heartbeat quicken.

  “Good afternoon, officers. Can I help you?”

  “Mrs. Beauchamps?”

  “I’m Cara Rutledge, but, yes, I’m married to Brett Beauchamps.”

  One officer looked at the other. This one cleared his throat and seemed to have difficulty speaking. “Can we come in, please?”

  “What’s this about?”

  “We have some news. Please, could we come in?”

  Cara swallowed thickly and stepped aside, allowing the officers into her home. She was aware of the television noise in the background. The half-empty bottle of wine and the glass on the cocktail table.

  The senior officer spoke again. “You should sit down.” He indicated the sofa with his hand.

  “I don’t want to sit down. What’s this about?” Cara replied in a terse voice.

  The officer cleared his throat and assumed a face of regret. “I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Beauchamps,” he began, using her wrong name. “There’s been an incident. Your husband collapsed on the street. Someone called an ambulance. Thankfully, that person also recognized him for an ID.”

  “Brett . . .” His name escaped her lips. “Is he all right? Which hospital did he go to?”

  “The ambulance took him to MUSC.”

  Cara was already hurrying toward her purse.

  “Ma’am,” the second officer said, going to her side as she snatched up her purse. He touched her arm.

  Cara wasn’t listening. She was in a panic. All she could think of was getting to the hospital as fast as she could. To get to Brett. She needed to be at his side.

  “Ma’am,” the officer said again, louder this time.

  Cara stopped and looked into his face. His eyes were downcast in sorrow, his skin pale with the news. With dreadful certainty, she knew what he was going to say. She began shaking her head. She didn’t want to hear it.

  “I’m sorry. Your husband, Mr. Beauchamps, had a heart attack. I’m sorry,” he said again. “He didn’t make it.”

  Chapter Seven

  DISCOMBOBULATED. HEATHER LOVED words, especially those that sounded like what the word actually meant. She snorted and scratched her head as she woke slowly. Discombobulated was exactly how she felt. When she opened her eyes, it took her a few minutes to remember where she was. She was steamy, covered in a sheen of sweat from another night with all the windows shut and locked. Heather wondered how long it would take before she woke up and felt the beach house was home.

  Sitting up, she looked around the bedroom. It was a pretty room, very Jamaican with white paint and dark wood. Lovie’s room, once upon a time. Then Cara’s. Two strong women. Heather hoped some of their strength would flow into her through some cosmic osmosis.

  This morning, however, the room felt foreign—and it was a mess. Her clothes were still in suitcases, and boxes cluttered the floor. Her stomach was growling and she didn’t have a clue what there was to eat for breakfast. She felt like a guest in her own house.

  Out in the sunroom, her canaries were chirping, and she smiled. At last, something she recognized! Looking at the clock, she saw she’d overslept again. The poor birds were still under their covers. She heard their insistent, demanding chirps as Wake up, sleepyhead! Where are you, you hopeless dawdler? Rise and shine! One of the birds had even started singing under his cover, a slave to his hormones and eager to start his day.

  “Coming, babies,” she called out, whipping back the covers of the large, spacious cages that Bo had put together for her. “Pavarotti, look at you, all alert and sitting by your seed dish. Don’t worry, fatty, I’ll feed you.” On to the next cage. “Good morning, sweet Poseidon! Hearing you sing made me feel at home. Thank you.” In the third cage, Moutarde was chirping stridently. He didn’t like being the last to be uncovered. “Such a fuss, Moutarde,” she called out, removing his cover. “We’re all a bit out of sorts this morning. But you don’t have to complain. I’ll feed you first, okay?”

  Heather enjoyed her chatter with the birds. For her, the seemingly meaningless exchanges were very meaningful. Talking to her birds, especially living alone and with her anxiety keeping her from others, connected her to other living creatures. She didn’t feel so alone in the world—or in this still strange house. Her canaries were her greatest allies. Her dear little friends that let her know in a thousand chirps each day that she was important to them. She was good enough. They cared for her unconditionally.

  Her mother had once told her that a canary in the house sang away the blues. It was true. One couldn’t be depressed when a canary sang in the room. Their music was all heart and joy. Throughout the day, no matter what room she was in, they’d connect with her through their song. Sometimes they sang so brilliantly that she had to stop what she was doing to listen, a smile on her face. At the day’s end when the sun lowered, casting shadows and changing the blue sky to deep indigo, she’d talk to them again as she covered their cages. The birds were her touchstones that marked the beginning and end of each day. And here at the beach house, they were her constant companions on this journey from dependence to independence.

  Now that the sun was shining she opened all the windows, allowing the fresh air to fill the room and finished feeding the birds. Then it was time to deal with her own hunger. Sunlight filled the small kitchen, and in the light she saw that she’d left the kitchen a mess as well. The counter was littered with her empty soup can, cups with dried, wrinkled tea bags in them, a wineglass with the last of her wine congealing in the bottom, and bread crumbs and jam. In the sink were dirty dishes. She wrinkled her nose at the fetid smell coming from the garbage.

  “There’s no maid for you in this house,” she told herself with a rueful sigh. “Welcome to the real world.” She rummaged through the cabinets to find soap and towels and quickly cleaned the kitchen, popping whole-grain bread into the toaster while she worked. Once the strong scent of coffee filled the room, she felt better. After a quick breakfast and final cleanup, Heather gathered up the garbage. Now, where should she put it?

  The obvious place was outside somewhere. She opened the front door and stood a moment blinking in the bright sunlight. The island heat was rising already. The unforgiving sunlight revealed the age of the house, but she could see that it was lovingly maintained. Fresh paint on the trim, new screens on the porches, and big pots of big cherry-red geraniums. Bending, she touched the soil. Needed water, she reminded herself. The dunes beyond the house were covered with wild grasses and flowers; most she couldn’t name. But she would start to sketch them and learn. On the ground she spotted the skittering prints of ghost crabs that led to their circular dens. A big spiderweb in the corner of the porch was covered with dew. There wasn’t a garage or shed, so she looked under the front porch and found the bins along with a rusting bicycle, a few garden tools, beach chairs, deflated beach balls, and a bocce ball set half buried under sand. So much to do . . . so much to learn, she told herself as she tossed the garbage in the bin.

  A nagging voice crept into her mind, telling her she didn’t have what it took to live on her own. That she was setting herself up for failure. She wasn’t strong or resourceful enough. She couldn’t even walk outdoors without looking over h
er shoulder.

  Heather closed the lid of the garbage bin with a firm slap and silenced the voice. Her therapist had told her that people with social anxiety often filtered out their own strengths by ignoring them or explaining them away. Instead they liked to tell themselves of their flaws and shortcomings, anything to make them feel inferior.

  “Yes, I can,” she said aloud, slapping dust from her hands.

  She walked to the tilting, rusting black mailbox affixed to a wood post. It squeaked when she opened it. Peering in, she jumped back as a small black spider scurried out.

  “It’s just a spider,” she said aloud, calming herself. “It’s probably more afraid than you are.” The spider was the only occupant of the mailbox. Not even junk mail. Closing the box, she looked down the street at the row of beach houses. It was a quiet back street with a mix of houses—some big and impressive, but many smaller cottages like the beach house she lived in. Some had cars in their driveways; others were hidden behind thick barriers of palm trees and overgrown shrubs. Not a person in sight. The reality that she didn’t know anyone here except Cara and Bo loomed large in her mind.

  Bo. . . . Where was he? She didn’t see him around the deck. Was he working on another job? Or had her nervous prattle scared him off ? She hoped not. She liked him. It was a novel feeling for her. Almost a crush. She tried not to think about him, but from time to time she’d see his face in her mind. Or if there was a noise outside, she’d peek out the window, hoping it was him. If she’d felt this way about a man five years ago, she wouldn’t have been able to be in the same room with him. She would have darted behind a closed door and ignored his presence, even though he was kind. So just the fact that she had invited Bo inside and conversed with him, albeit clumsily, was a huge sign that her therapy was working and she was getting better. That was something positive, wasn’t it?

  Heather went back indoors with a lighter step and dove into the task of settling into the beach house. She began unpacking her suitcases and boxes, finding the right place for everything. It was soothing work. She folded a shirt or pants, then placed them in the drawer. Bras, underwear, tops in the dresser. Shoes, dresses, jackets in the closet. Makeup, brushes, cleanser and moisturizer, hair dryer in the bathroom. Each space claimed made her feel like a pioneer in the new territories, setting down stakes.