The Beach House Read Online Free Page B

house located on the beach itself, midway between the pier and the roller coaster, within a certain price range, and with four bedrooms. Those were verifiable facts. The woman had thrown in the adjective “lovely” for free, an opinion Jo did not stop to question or truly even consider. Until now.
    The place was a dreadful one-story weathered cottage with reddish-orange shingles and dirt brown trim, the likes of which she would not have guessed still existed in that particular neighborhood. With beachfront property at a premium, buildings were packed together like sardines as far as the eye could see in either direction. But this house was literally scrunched between two homes, each of which soared to three-story walls of glass and gleaming white stucco.
    “I am so sorry,” she said. “It’s dreadful. It looks like a huge foot wearing a rumpled sock, and it’s so big it had to be shoehorned into place.”
    Andie looped an arm through the one Jo had propped on her hip and grinned. “Hey, we’re together in San Diego for an entire week. Right out there is the Pacific Ocean, which I have never, ever seen in my life. The sun is shining. It’s almost October, yet I’m wearing short sleeves, and flowers are blooming in all these pots like it’s springtime. And last but not least, we are not cooking tonight. Good heavens, what more could we possibly want?”
    Jo looked into her friend’s peacock blue eyes. They were laughing. But then, that was Andie. Compassionate, empathetic, not one to make waves. If she had a negative thought, no one would know it. Her vote didn’t count.
    Neither did Molly’s. Though she spoke her mind, her lifelong opinion toward material items was that they were not important. She would have been pleased with a tent on the beach.
    Char, on the other hand, could be finicky. After she cooed positive encouragement in a voice that carried images of white wicker, a large Georgia wraparound porch, and a tall glass of mint julep, then she would get to her point.
    Jo said, “Char, what are you really thinking? We can try to get another place. There are resorts nearby.”
    “Jo, hon.” She smiled. “You’ve gone to all this effort to get us together and find us a place. We don’t mind in the least that it wasn’t built in this century, do we, girls? Or even in our lifetime. Let’s take a peek inside. It’s got to be just as cozy as the exterior.” Her focus strayed over Jo’s shoulder. “Hello there.”
    Jo turned. A man stood a few feet behind them, on the other side of a low white picket fence that separated the patio from the public sidewalk.
    The corners of his mouth lifted slightly, crinkling his eyes behind rimless, rectangular-shaped glasses. “Hello. You must be this week’s tenants.” He spoke in a low, cultured tone. His accent sounded of British Isles origin. “Welcome to—” He paused and stretched his arm toward the reddish-orange monstrosity as if a drumroll should precede whatever it was he was going to say. “The Beach House.”
    Jo heard capital letters in his emphasis of the three simple words and nearly laughed.
Beach House, my eye
.
    Char immediately stepped over to him, hand extended. “Why, thank you. I’m Char, and these are my friends. This is Molly, Andie, and Jo.”
    They moved within handshaking distance and he shook each hand in turn. “My name is Julian. Hello. Hello. Quite pleased to meet you.” His voice was Sean Connery-esque, deeply resonant yet hushed with a Scottish lilt. He tipped his head to his right, toward the boxy tiered structure easily worth a couple million. “I live next door.”
    Jo had been drooling over the neighboring home, especially its glassed-in balcony perched atop the first floor. Behind it an immense wall of windows rose two stories high. Hawaii was probably visible from up there.
    Char turned to look at his home and said, “Oh, my! You live here full-time in all this splendor?”
    “Yes, I do have that privilege.” His