The Beach House Read Online Free Page B

know, you’re right. I can’t move them now anyway and I’m just fussing.” Her face clouded before she turned toward the door. “Come in. Let me make you that drink.”
    One step and Cara was inside the house, floating back in time. Her mother’s was one of the few remaining original beach cottages on the island. It was all cramped and worn, but comfortable. Tongue-in-groove walls and heart pine floors warmed the small rooms that her mother kept immaculate. Lovie’s eye for comfort and charm was evident in the muted, worn, oriental rugs, the ivory-colored walls adorned with family photographs and paintings of the island done by local artists, many of them old friends. Mismatched, plump sofas and chairs clustered in spare but cozy arrangements before a large front window that provided a breathtaking view of the ocean beyond.
    The family heirloom antiques were kept at the main house in Charleston, out of harm’s way from hurricanes, children and visitors in swimsuits. Only the “not-so-good” pieces were brought to the beach house. Cara’s friends had always wanted to come to her house to play because her mother never said, “Feet off!” “Careful!” or “Don’t touch!” Icy sweet tea was always in the fridge and sugar cookies in the pantry. Life here at the beach was so different than in the city. In so many ways.
    She followed her mother single file through the front room down a narrow hall to the two bedrooms at the end—hers and Palmer’s. As she walked she felt the pressure of memories lurking in the musty walls and darkened corners.
    “Your room is made up for you,” Lovie said, opening the bedroom door. A gust of ocean breeze whisked past them into the hall. “Do you want me to close the windows?”
    “No, it’s fine. I like them open.” How like her mother not to use the air-conditioning, she thought, inhaling the moist, sweet-scented air that seemed to soften the bones. They stood facing each other.
    “There are fresh towels in the bathroom,” Lovie said with a quick gesture.
    “Okay.”
    “Feel free to use the toiletries. There’s soap and shampoo. A spare toothbrush.”
    “I’ve brought my own, but thanks.”
    “The hot water’s slow in coming.”
    “I remember.”
    “Well then,” Lovie said, clasping her hands anxiously. There was a moment’s awkwardness, as though they were strangers. “I’ll just leave you to freshen up.”
    “That’d be great.”
    Her mother’s hand lingered on the bedroom door and there was such yearning in her face that Cara had to turn away from the bruising intensity.
    “Take your time,” Lovie said, closing the door behind her.
    The door clicked, and in the resulting privacy, Cara took a deep sigh of relief and dropped her suitcase. It landed with a thud. Round one went pretty well, she thought, considering the ruts they’d avoided. She was exhausted from the long drive and the tension of the duet with her mother brought a worrisome throbbing to her forehead. Rubbing the crick in her neck, she slowly surveyed her old room. Amazingly, it was exactly as she’d left it twenty years earlier. The old black iron double bed covered with a pink crazy quilt filled most of the floor space. Pink-and-white gingham curtains fluttered at the single window over her sturdy pine dresser with the rosy marble top. A narrow door beside the window opened to the screened front porch.
    It was a girl’s room, comfy yet spare. Her posters of rock stars had been replaced by paintings of palm trees, but all her old books were still here. She ran her fingers over familiar titles that had carried her through the summers for years: Nancy Drew, A Swiftly Tilting Planet, The Hobbit, Wuthering Heights, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Words that had helped form a young girl’s mind. What books did she need to add to her shelf to help her through this next phase of her life?
    She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and stopped short, surprised at the