Return to the Beach House by Georgia Bockoven Read Free Book Online

real connection to the ocean too. He even insisted that when he retired he was—” She caught the look in Christopher’s eyes, and her heart sank at her thoughtlessness.
    “I’m sorry.” She touched his shoulder. “I really am trying to do better.” Her voice a gentle plea, she added, “Don’t give up on me.”
    He shrugged, dislodging her hand either by accident or on purpose. “It’s no big deal.”
    But it was. Enough so that he’d walked out of his own graduation party three weeks ago when she’d made the seemingly innocent comment about how much he looked like his father in his cap and gown.
    With foolish certainty that she was doing the right thing, almost from the moment Christopher’s father and grandfather died, Alison set out to do everything she could to ensure they wouldn’t be forgotten. She talked about Christopher’s father, Peter, and his grandfather, Dennis, as if they were about to walk through the door at any moment. Every day, sometimes every hour, she found something about them to integrate into the conversation, from their favorite books and movies to their favorite food. Reliving memories of birthdays and Christmases and vacations became second nature to her. She even used the weather—Peter loved rain, Dennis hated fog. Nothing was off-limits.
    Eventually this behavior became her unconscious pattern, a quilt she cut and sewed and put together as easily as she breathed.
    “You said there were bikes in the garage?”
    “Yes.”
    “And we can use them?”
    “Yes.”
    “Mind if I take off for a while?”
    A half dozen warnings darted through her mind like bees at a hummingbird feeder. She’d planned to have him take her to Monterey to pick up her car, but it could wait until after dinner. Kyle had purposely parked it at the back of the lot in case she got tied up and couldn’t get back earlier.
    “Of course not,” she managed.
    He grinned. “Good job, Grams—not one ‘be careful’ or ‘wear your helmet’ or ‘be sure to take a water bottle.’ ”
    He’d started calling her “Grams” six months ago instead of the more formal “Grandmother” he’d used all his life. She was getting used to it, but that didn’t mean she liked it. “I’ve got my finger in the dam. You better get out of here before it breaks and all my tired clichés start rushing out.”
    He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Would it help if I told you I’ll be careful and that I’ll turn on my phone in case you need to reach me?”
    “Immensely.”
    Before heading to the garage, Christopher dropped his duffle bag in the bedroom and changed into an old pair of shorts and a faded T-shirt with R OCK THE V OTE printed on it.
    His grandmother had texted him a dozen pictures of the house and the beach, but none had done them justice. There were views of the ocean from every room at the back of the house. For a kid who’d lived his first eight years in New York and the next nine in the middle of farm country north of the city, he’d never understood why being near the ocean felt like coming home.
    He went to the window and stared out, seeing up close what he’d caught glimpses of from the plane as it circled in a holding pattern, waiting its turn to land. The shore here wasn’t like Long Island, where he and his mother and grandmother had spent at least part of their summers every year in a rental house. This was more like the part of Maine where James had his summer home, where he and Christopher’s mother had been married.
    From what Christopher had been able to glimpse on the ride to the beach house from the airport, the shoreline was covered with rocks, with an occasional narrow ribbon of sand—a long way from the Hollywood version of California.
    This was the first place he’d gone where there would be no stories of his father or grandfather. Virgin territory. According to his mother, neither of them had ever spent any time on the West Coast. That gave him at least three states where he