Beach Winds
Beach Winds
by
Grace Greene
Barefoot Books
Copyright © 2013, Grace Greene
Beach Winds
Media > Books > Fiction > Romance Novels
Category/Tags: romance, contemporary, beach, inspiration, Christian, barefoot
Digital ISBN: 978-1-62237-216-4
Digital release: November, 2013
Editing by Jacquie Daher
Cover Design by Grace Greene
Photo by Grace Greene
All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in whole or part, by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.
This edition is published by agreement with Turquoise Morning Press, a division of Turquoise Morning, LLC, PO Box 43958, Louisville, KY 40253-0958.
DEDICATION
Beach Winds is dedicated to those who struggle through disability and illness and to the ones who support and care for them. This book is dedicated to those who recover well enough to make it back home, and to those who don’t.
My great-uncle W.E. Ellen was career navy. He served on the USS North Carolina. Many years ago, in retirement, he suffered a serious stroke, but his dignity and courage, despite the disability he struggled with, inspired all who knew him. In the present, my aunt and uncle persevere together through that same adversity. This past year, our dear friends who were married in the same year that we were are now dealing with the challenge of a stroke—and I know they are equal to the job.
Beach Winds confirms the power of love. Love is not a matter of blood or genetics. Love is a blessing wherever you find it and should be tended as if it were the most delicate seedling, yet shared as freely as the most common plant. Like the dune grass that helps the dunes withstand the ocean and weather, so are we to those we love.
W.E., Jane and Billy, and John and Sue—this is for you.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Dear Reader…
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
TURQUOISE MORNING PRESS
BEACH WINDS
Off-season at Emerald Isle ~ In-season for secrets of the heart
Frannie Denman has been waiting for her life to begin. After several false starts, and a couple of broken hearts, she ends up back with her mother, with whom she doesn’t get along, until her
elderly uncle gets sick and Frannie goes to Emerald Isle to help manage his affairs while he’s recovering.
Her uncle’s oceanfront home, Captain’s Walk, is small and unpretentious, and even though Frannie isn’t a ‘beach person,’ she decides Captain’s Walk in winter is a great place to hide from her troubles. But Frannie doesn’t realize that winter is short in Emerald Isle and the beauty of the ocean and seashore can help heal anyone’s heart, especially when her uncle’s handyman is the handsome Brian Donovan.
Brian has troubles of his own. He sees himself and Frannie as two damaged people who aren’t likely to equal a happy ‘whole’ but he’s intrigued by this woman of contradictions.
Frannie’s mother wants her back home and Brian wants to meet the real Frannie, but Frannie wants to move forward with her life. To do that she needs questions answered. With the right information there’s a good chance Frannie will be able to affect not only a change in her life, but also a change of heart.
Chapter One
Frannie Denman stood at the sliding doors and stared beyond the glass, the porch and the dunes. She didn’t belong here—not at the beach and not in this dreary February world.
Angry crests foamed out of the churning, steel gray Atlantic and rode the waves to a cold shore swept by a frigid wind, the same wind that whipped up the sand and tossed the tall weedy dune grasses. An occasional super gust shook the house. She touched the glass as it shuddered.
A lone man moved along the wooden walkway that crossed over the dunes. With slow, determined steps, he hunched forward as he fought the wind. His jacket and hooded sweatshirt were inadequate, plastered against him by nature. She watched him, wondering if he’d end up at this door, but then he descended the steps and disappeared between the houses. It was where he should’ve been all along, using the houses as a buffer, instead of taking the wind on headfirst.
This was an inhospitable place and it matched her dark mood.
Why was this house, and Will Denman’s life, her responsibility? She couldn’t manage her own. How was she supposed to help anyone else?
She turned away from the window to face Mrs. Blair. “I am sorry about this.”
“So you said before.” The woman gathered up her purse and a bulky tote bag brimming with cleaning supplies.
“I’ll get the door for you. Let me help you with that bag.”
Mrs. Blair stood taller and scowled. “No, thank you. I’ve been finding my way in and out of your uncle’s house for fifteen years. I can manage one last time.”
“Yes. Again, I’m sorry.” She clasped her hands together. “What about the broken lattice? You said you had the name of Uncle Will’s handyman?”
Mrs. Blair stared with accusing eyes. “On the fridge. Name’s Brian.”
Frannie followed her out. At the top of the stairs, she clutched the rail. With her free hand, she held her sweater closed at her throat. Cold, salty wind blew her hair across her face and stung her nose and cheeks. She wished it could also blow the self-doubt from her brain.
If Uncle Will ever returned home, what would he say about Mrs. Blair being fired? She was a cleaning lady, yes, but one with a fifteen-year history. If he did come home, it wouldn’t be soon. More likely, never.
Back inside, she dialed the thermostat down, leaving just enough heat to keep the pipes from freezing. Had she left anything undone?
No. There wasn’t much to the place.
Her uncle’s furniture had no particular style or age. Strictly thrift shop. There was no elegance, no shine, not even the customary beachy wicker or white rattan.
It was a retired sailor’s home. Captain’s Walk, he’d named it. This house was small, only a ranch style, but here it was oceanfront and thus, had a grand name. This house, inside and out, was unremarkable except for the observation deck. The deck was unusual, perched halfway up the roof near the end of the house, but this time of year… Well, with a veritable gale blowing, the idea of sunning herself wasn’t appealing.
It’s just a house. No interest in dolling it up, Uncle Will had told her a year ago. They’d met for the first time—one meeting out of a lifetime of opportunities—and only then because he’d called and asked her to come see hi
m.
She’d visited him again after that and had meant to return sooner, but she hadn’t, and now he wasn’t here.
Magnets secured bits of scribbled paper to the front of the refrigerator. One magnet listed local emergency numbers. A smaller green magnet had a bank name and number. Another advertised a pizza delivery place.
There it was. Brian Donovan. His name and phone number were written in large block letters on a neatly torn square of paper.
She disliked talking to strangers, even over the phone, but she got lucky this time because the voicemail answered.
“Mr. Donovan? I’m Will Denman’s niece. Grandniece, that is. My uncle is ill and I’m…I mean, he asked me to take care of his house. I understand you do handyman work for him? Would you please take a look at the lattice on the west side of the house? Send the bill to Mr. Denman’s post office box.” She gave the number and finished with, “I’ll see you get paid.”
Done.
The lights were off. She gave a last tug on the sliding door to make sure it was locked. Now she could be on her way. It was winter in Raleigh, too, of course, and not exactly balmy, but without the deadly cold ocean and its bitter winds.
She slipped on her coat, wrapped the scarf around her neck twice, and picked up her purse.
The parking area was below and behind the house on the street side. Her car and her uncle’s old green van were the only vehicles.
It was freezing inside the car, but the leather seat would warm up quickly. She backed out onto a deserted Emerald Drive. She’d just hit cruising speed when the dashboard lit up and rang.
Laurel Denman, it displayed. Mother.
Frannie let it ring, determined to ignore it, half-expecting her mother to emerge from the caller ID screen like some half-formed specter of guilt and frustration.
There should be tender feelings between mother and daughter, shouldn’t there? Like mother, like daughter—maybe their capacity to care about each other had died with her father.
Almost three hours later, and after two more calls from her mother, Frannie drove up the long, curving, blackened asphalt driveway. The tall, straight pines, the bare, sculptured branches of the crepe myrtles growing in the perfectly landscaped yard, always welcomed her, but after these last few years she’d realized that was all it was—an empty offer. She braked to a stop in front of the house. Now, coming home was more a reminder of personal failure.
She opened the front door with as much stealth as she could. It wasn’t enough.
“Frannie.”
Her mother stood in the wide opening between the living and dining rooms. Her honey blond hair was precisely groomed. Petite and curvy, she was the opposite of her slender, brown-haired daughter.
Frannie’s best feature was her dark blue eyes, like her dad’s. Dad had called them ‘the Denman eyes.’ When she fastened those eyes upon Laurel, she knew it made her mother uncomfortable.
Laurel stared back. The firm set of her lips, and her hands held artfully in front of her waist, showed her anger. Unhappy words were imminent.
“Don’t do this right now.” Frannie shook her head and tucked a lock of her fine, flyaway hair behind her ear.
“Don’t do what?”
“I drove down to the beach for the day. I don’t need your permission.”
Her mother came to stand close to her. She smoothed the remaining strands of hair away from her daughter’s cheek.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I was worried.” She touched Frannie’s arm. “Let me take your coat. You’ll get overwarm and it’s time to dress for dinner anyway. Our guests will be here soon.”
“Our guests?”
She stared beyond her mother. Her dad’s chair still sat in front of the fireplace, empty for almost fifteen years. The worn chair was lost amid a roomful of newer, more expensive furnishings.
“Don’t sulk, Frannie, and don’t blame me. Will Denman had no right to ask this of you. I begged you to refuse. You agreed just to spite me.”
“I agreed because it was the right thing to do.” She shook her head. “The attorney is handling the difficult decisions like medical and veteran’s benefits and such. I’m doing the easy stuff.”
“It’s not your responsibility.”
“He’s dad’s uncle. How can you be so cold?”
“I hardly knew him. I think I met him once in all the years your father and I were married.”
“He was in the navy. At sea.”
“He’s been retired for years.” She shrugged and shook her head. “I don’t understand how you got pulled into his life at this late date, but he has a lot of nerve expecting you to put your life on hold while he’s… sick.”
“A stroke, Mother. Bottom line, he doesn’t have any other family. His attorney will be his executor when it’s time for that. Uncle Will needs me to deal with his house, bills and personal property in the meanwhile.”
“A realtor and a low-end auction house is all that’s needed. Or just call the Salvation Army.”
“There’s more to it than that. Besides, he’s not ready to sell.”
“You’re not up to this, darling—that’s my bottom line. As for going there today, you know I have a dinner planned and how much it means to me, yet you leave without warning and stay away until the last minute.”
Frannie gripped the stair rail, wanting to walk away. “I told you I’d be here. I shouldn’t though, because I know what you’re up to. You’re match-making.”
In a low voice, Laurel said, “I’m trying to prevent another disastrous choice on your part. Joel’s a fine young man.” She mumbled a few more words.
“What?”
Laurel stood taller, her neck long and smooth. “He won’t hold your past against you.”
Angry words tumbled in her brain, wrestling for an exit, but Frannie set her jaw and refused to allow them out.
“You’re an attractive woman and you have money. Joel might not be exciting, but he has money of his own. He won’t try to take yours, and he won’t abuse you.”
She moved to continue up the stairs, but Laurel stepped closer and rested her hand on her daughter’s arm.
“If you don’t show up, it will be embarrassing for me, which won’t bother you, but it will be cruel to Joel. You may be cold, but you aren’t heartless.”
Cold, but not heartless. That about summed her up. Frannie hurried upstairs, leaving her mother standing there, her hand suspended mid-air. She ran to her room. Her lifelong room.
“Still living at home?” someone had asked her recently. She’d tried to salvage a speck of pride by explaining, “My mother needs me.”
On her dresser, there was no dust but only the usual items, carefully replaced in the exact same spots each time Hannah came through with her feather duster, the lamb’s wool duster and her anti-static cloth. A photo of daddy and little Frannie was protected in its glittering crystal frame. The one next to it showed them in the garden. She was maybe two or three? The sun shone on them, both with their brown hair and deep blue eyes and big, happy smiles. Then the trio, her dad, her mother and herself. She’d been almost four, she thought. Back then things had been better between them. She turned that frame to rest face down on the dresser.
Despite appearances, and apparently despite the opinion of some, she wasn’t an emotional ice cube. The cold was her protection, her armor. Without the armor she was no more than a shy, awkward, almost thirty-one-year-old woman who’d never been able to make a go of independence.
She knew she was attractive. People told her so and she could see it with her own eyes, but that was on the outside. Inside was a different story. She was good at hiding the mess inside—could almost make it cease to exist—at least until someone reminded her, someone like her darling mother.
****
The light from the crystal chandelier reflected in the high gloss of the china. Frannie spread the linen napkin across her lap. To her right, Joel sipped his wine and smiled. Rather, he smiled at his plate. His short brown ha
ir was unremarkable, but his eyes were sweet, open and honest. He was attractive enough and he was kind, but there was no spark. No electricity. She’d been in love before and though it had ended badly, she wasn’t willing to settle for less, even if it meant she’d never be in love again.
She shouldn’t have agreed to this. The small group, with only Joel and his father, was too intimate. They were nice people, but under the circumstances, it felt like a lie.
Joel startled her, saying, “That dress is beautiful on you. That shade of blue, I mean. The color matches your eyes. What do you call it? Sapphire?”
Sapphire. In reflex she looked at the ring, deep blue and flashing with light. She refrained from reaching up to touch the drop earrings.
“Thank you, Joel. Sapphire blue was my father’s favorite color.”
“I remember. He gave you those at your sixteenth birthday party.”
She frowned. “That was a long time ago and a lot of people were at that party.”
“It was and there were, but it made an impression. Most of our friends got a car. You got the car and the crown jewels.” He laughed gently.
She didn’t want to go back there, not back to that dear memory while sitting here with these people. Father, beaming, happy to show his love and pride in her—she felt again the warmth of his hands as he’d fastened the necklace. Mother had been far from pleased with the gift.
She glanced up, sensing Laurel’s eyes upon her, staring. Involuntarily, Frannie touched the pendant. The platinum setting was cool against her skin; it reminded her to cool down. Joel’s father spoke to Laurel and her mother looked away.
Joel cleared his throat and blushed. “I heard you were down at the beach today.”
From Mother, of course. Who else would know or care?
“Yes, I was.”
“We have a house at the beach, too. At Hatteras.”
“I know.”
“Were you anywhere near there?”