The Beach House by Georgia Bockoven

are some sort of tradition?”
    She picked up the clippers she’d brought out with her and started snipping pink cosmos. “It’s just my way of saying welcome.” On impulse, she handed him the flowers she’d just picked. “And good-bye.”
    He took them and held them upside-down at his side. “I’ll put them next to my computer. Maybe they’ll inspire me.”
    â€œConsider the garden yours. Pick as many flowers as you want.” She moved on to the daisies. “The plants actually do better if they’re thinned once in a while.”
    Eric stayed with her as she gathered more flowers, periodically adding to the ones she’d already given him. Finally, both bouquets complete, she moved to go inside.
    Eric caught her arm. “Take care of yourself, Julia.”
    She looked into his eyes and saw that it wasn’t a meaningless platitude, but said with genuine concern. “I will,” she assured him.
    He kissed her then, their lips touching longer than if he’d intended it to be purely platonic, but less than a lover’s. Somewhere in her mind, or maybe it was her body, she felt a stir of response and was bemused by it.
    He let go of her arm and held up the flowers she’d given him. “I’m going to put these in water.”
    She nodded. “Thanks again, Eric—for everything.”
    He didn’t say anything, just smiled, gave her a quick wave, and left.
    Watching him walk away, Julia was once again aware of how alone she was. The feeling had become as familiar as the road she would take back to Atherton. The odd part, what she hadn’t realized until that moment, was how often the past week she’d forgotten.

Chapter 1
    Margaret Sadler parked her ten-year-old Volvo in the driveway of the beach house and popped the trunk lid. She turned to her son and said, “Help me unload and then you can take that run on the beach.”
    Chris opened the door, got out, and stretched. “Feel that?” Salt-laden air swirled around them, riffling his hair and the narrow leaves of the eucalyptus overhead. “I swear I’m going to live on the ocean someday.”
    She started to make an automatic, flippant statement about the price of beachfront property but caught herself in time. Since her and Kevin’s divorce three years ago, Chris had assumed a role she’d never asked of him and could do nothing to stop.
    With the loss of his college savings and her income less than half what it was when she’d been married, Chris no longer talked about going to the University of Southern California or Stanford or Yale. He’d accepted that if he was ever to have a car of his own, he would have to pay for it himself. He had even taken a job in his uncle’s restaurant to pay his own way to wrestling camp despite her rule about working during school. He rarely talked about the dreams that had once been as much a part of him as his wheat-colored hair and lanky, muscular build.
    Margaret opened her own door and got out. The drive up from Fresno had left the car a bug-encrusted mess. She’d have to see what she could do to bribe Chris into washing it for her later. “Just remember when you get that house on the ocean . . .”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œBe sure it has an extra bedroom. You’re going to have to put up with me visiting—a lot.”
    â€œThat’s okay, you just have to remember to give me plenty of warning so I can clear out the beer and babes.”
    Margaret laughed. “How thoughtful.”
    â€œHey, I’m a thoughtful kind of guy.” Chris waited for Margaret to open the trunk and then started unloading.
    Ten minutes later he made his final trip. “What do you want me to do with this box?” he called out to her as he nudged the front door closed with his foot.
    â€œWhat does it say on the side?” Margaret answered from the kitchen.
    â€œC.S.”
    â€œCleaning