Return to the Beach House by Georgia Bockoven Page A

all this running around you’ve been doing. Aren’t you supposed to be taking care of me? Feeding me? Washing my clothes? Making my bed? What’s up with you taking off like you’re on vacation or something?
    “Just kidding. I’m glad you’re having fun. You are having fun, aren’t you?
    “I know we’re supposed to have dinner together tonight, but I was wondering if it would be okay if we made it tomorrow night instead. I forgot that Grace invited me to a party at her friend’s house and I said okay. Can you believe it? When was the last time I had a weekend I wasn’t competing or traveling when I was able to go to a party?
    “Call me.”
    Alison smiled as she used her shirttail to wipe fingerprints off her phone. “It appears I’ve been stood up. Christopher has a date tonight.”
    “Great,” Kyle said. Realizing it might not be the best response, he added, “I hope you’re not too disappointed.”
    “I’m thrilled,” she said. “He’s actually acting like a kid instead of a seventeen-year-old going on forty.”
    “So does that mean if I were to ask you to go out to dinner you’d consider it? Carmel has some of the best restaurants on the West Coast.”
    She looked down at her hiking boots and jeans. They were a good hour and a half away from Santa Cruz. By the time she picked up her car at Kyle’s house in Carmel and drove all the way home to get cleaned up, and then all the way back again, it would be midnight and even the European-style restaurants would be closing. “I can’t go like this.”
    “You’re perfect for the place I have in mind.”
    And she was.
    Kyle’s house was perched on a rocky outcropping overlooking the ocean. It was one of the few Carmel houses on the ocean side of Scenic Road that had direct water access. The view was as open as structurally possible, which made the house appear larger and a part of the landscape. Alison had fallen in love with the rugged, volatile coastline that marked this area of California.
    Inside, the house was decorated in tans, grays, and soft greens. The furniture was simple but classic, and beautifully finished to a soft shine. Alison had felt a welcoming warmth the minute she crossed the threshold, something that rarely happened in the overly decorated homes of her friends.
    “Ready?” Kyle asked, joining her at the window.
    “How did you do this?” she asked.
    “What?”
    “Create this feeling of peace.”
    He stood closer, their arms touching, their images reflected in the glass as if they’d stood that way a hundred times before. “It was important for the girls to feel a sense of home without seeing their mother everywhere they looked. I didn’t want this house to be a shrine, but a place where they could and would remember her without being overwhelmed by those memories.”
    “And the furniture?”
    “If it’s wood, I made it, including the fireplace mantel. The girls picked out everything else.”
    “I noticed you don’t have any pictures of Jenny.”
    “They’re in the hallway and bedrooms.”
    Alison thought about her house and how every room had pictures of Dennis and Peter displayed on walls, tables, and bookshelves. With the exception of a couple of upholstered pieces, the furniture hadn’t been replaced in twenty years. Without conscious thought, she’d created a shrine.
    She forced a smile. “So you’re a woodworker.”
    “Passed down from my father, who owned a cabinet shop for over forty years. When he retired, he and my mother moved to Africa, going wherever they were needed in over a dozen refugee camps. She’s a nurse and works in the clinics. Dad spends his time building classrooms and teaching carpentry.”
    “And they’re still there?” She did some quick calculating and realized they had to be in their eighties.
    “They come home once a year, at Christmas. I arrange meetings with as many businesspeople, church leaders, and friends as I can so my mother can solicit funds to keep the clinics