Page 24 of The Beach Trap

“I’ll be back on Sunday,” she says, before closing the door.

Moments later, I flinch at the sound of her trunk slamming shut. Apparently, I’m not the only one with anger issues—although I’m not sure why she’s so upset. Blake barely knew my dad, and she didn’t know my grandparents at all. It’s not like her memories are being divvied up and sold.

I stand up from the wicker torture couch and watch out the window as she turns left out of the driveway, heading in the opposite direction from the Rooneys’. For a split second, I wonder if she’s heading to a bar or something first, and I wish I could join her for a drink. Notherexactly, but the adult version of the girl I used to know.

Before the shadow of sadness can fully sneak up on me, I see Blake’s blue Subaru wagon pass by in the correct direction. I laugh and forget to be sad for a moment. But when the sound of my laughter fades, I realize just how quiet the house is.

I’ve never, not once in my whole life, been at the beach house by myself. When I was a kid, it was crowded and full of laughter and love, with my grandparents, my parents, and me. In later years, it was just my parents and me, and more recently—although not recently enough—I came down with a few friends. The last time I was here a few years ago, I brought Greg, an ex-boyfriend who never should’ve made it to boyfriend status.

The only reason I put up with him as long as I did was because my dad seemed to like him, and I thought maybe he saw something I’d been missing. But my dad didn’t have to listen to his pillow talk about the stock market or watch him clip his toenails in bed.

I always meant to ask my dad what it was he liked about Greg. What he thought I should look for in a life partner. Why he chose to marry my mom, or if he wished he’d married Blake’s mom instead. What was so special about her anyway? And why did he stay if he wanted to go? All the questions I thought I’d have forever to ask.

Of course, I’d give up knowing all the answers if I could know one thing—what in the world was he thinking by trapping us with the beach house? I can’t imagine why he threw Blake and me together like this without a word after all those years of keeping us apart. Why couldn’t he have just given the house to me and left something else to Blake, like his tie collection?

Although, come to think of it, he had some pretty nice ties.

I might be able to do something crafty with them—turn them into a skirt or a blanket. That could be a good project to do at the Peachtree Center. Sewing is a good life skill, and so is learning how to repurpose old materials.

Hopefully Mom hasn’t already put Dad’s ties in the “donate” pile. I should let her know I’m in Destin, anyway, so I head out to the back porch to call her. The chairs might not be any more comfortable than the wicker couch, but the view can’t be beat.

My mom answers on the first ring.

“Hi, darling,” she says.

Hearing her voice so far away while I’m standing in the middle of all these memories causes another seismic shift. My whole world feels out of balance, and I realize my mom should’ve been my first call when I needed someone to talk to.

After all, she’s the only other person on the planet who understands what I’m going through. Sooner rather than later, she’ll be making some of the same decisions about the Buckhead house as I am with the beach house. Of course, that’s not just a vacation home; it’s herhomehome.

“This is so hard,” I say, before unloading it all. I tell my mom about seeing Blake after all these years, how the house hasn’t held up the way it did in my memories, how I don’t want to let go but I can’t afford to hold on.

By the time I finish talking, my throat is scratchy and my cheeks are stained with tears. There’s nothing but silence on the other end of the line.

“Mom?” I ask, wondering if the call dropped.

“I’m here,” she says softly.

“Well?” I ask.

When she speaks again, it sounds like a long-suffering sigh. “I’m not sure what you want me to do, Kat.”

Even though I’m two decades too old for such a reaction, I pout. Sometimes you just want your mom to make you feel better, even if she has to lie a little to do it.

“You were in that lawyer’s office,” she says. “You heard as well as I did, the money’s gone.”

“I know,” I say. And I do know, in theory. But I’ve never not had money. We were never mega-rich like the Rooneys, but money wasn’t something I had to worry about. If I wanted to go out to dinner, I went. If I wanted a new pair of Tory Burch sandals, I bought them.

“I know you don’t want to hear this,” my mom says, “but I think you should sell the house, take your half of the money, and move on with your life.”

My jaw literally drops. This, coming from a woman who lives in a four-thousand-square-foot home by herself and, as far as I can tell, has no plans of downsizing.

“I know you have some money coming in,” she says, “but if something happens...” Her voice trails off and she doesn’t finish her thought. She clears the emotion from her throat and continues. “It’s good to have a nest egg. Security. It’s important.”

“I know it’s important,” I say, my voice sounding snippier than I’d like. “But so is my career. I believe in myself—”

“I’m not saying I don’t believe in you,” she says gently. “I’m just saying—”

“—that I should sell this house,” I say, finishing her thought. “I’m sorry, Mom, but I’m not going to. This is the last piece of Dad I have left.”

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