Summer Beach

she would lose it to a tax sale. This was her only remaining asset now. She scrutinized the exterior, trying to decide what could be done on a budget to make it more appealing.
Bedraggled palm trees thick with dried frond skirts lined the walkway to the house, standing like loyal, gray-bearded sentinels on guard. Sandy dust swirled in a little cyclone near Bennett’s For Sale sign.
She sighed. Her house was the neighborhood eyesore.
Down the block, neatly trimmed palm trees swayed above tiered fountains and picturesque beach houses. Farther down were local businesses, including a coffee shop named Java Beach and a hardware store called Nailed It, as well as resort fashion boutiques and beach gear rentals. Summer Beach had retained its lazy, beach village vibe despite homes that had soared in price and summer tourists who poured in for the golden beaches and nearby horse races.
Ivy frowned with concern. The faster she sold this house, the sooner she could get on with her life. What was left over would cover Sunny’s last year of college, a little nest egg, and a cozy little one-bedroom studio apartment somewhere in Boston. Not trendy Back Bay, of course. An outlying suburb would do, even if Ivy didn’t know anyone. She had to live somewhere.
An ocean breeze cooled her face. She filled her lungs with fresh air laced with the aromas of sea salt and kelp, which reminded her of the summer holidays she’d taken with Jeremy and the girls on Nantucket. She sighed. Those had been among their happiest days.
“This house was once a real beauty,” Bennett said, his tone reverent now. “I’ve seen old photos of grand parties held here. Hollywood celebrities, artists, and the horse racing crowd used to come here. She was stunning in her day. Could be again.”
At his words, Ivy’s thoughts shifted. She took in the wide stone steps leading up to the entry and a row of palladium windows facing the sea. In her mind’s eye, she imagined cocktail parties set against brilliant pink sunsets, languorous dinner parties held on the veranda by candlelight, and guests waltzing under moonlight reflected on sparkling waves.
Bennett’s voice brought her back to reality. “It’s been months without any showings at all. The listing contract is up for renewal, but we have to do something.”
Fighting the effect Bennett had on her, she turned to him. “Let’s reduce the price again.”
“We can, but that’s not the problem,” Bennett said, leading the way up the wide steps to the front door. “It has zero curb appeal.”
“I could manage fresh paint and landscaping,” Ivy said, calculating how much room she had on her credit cards. Could she get a loan to do more? Probably not on her income. She rested her hand on a stone balustrade, which radiated the sun’s warmth. The structure felt solid and enduring.
“Might be worth more as a tear-down,” Shelly added. “It’s a large lot that’s just steps to the beach.”
Bennett shook his head. “Even though Mrs. Erickson hadn’t lived in Las Brisas for years after the war, she had it designated as a historic building. The first licensed female architect in California, Julia Morgan, designed it.” Bennett cleared his throat. “Your husband was trying to demolish it in order to build on the lot.”
Ivy cringed. What gall. But knowing Jeremy, it didn’t surprise her. He’d traded in his car for a new model every year.
Bennett went on. “Jeremy was lobbying the city to revoke the historic designation, arguing that it’s a blight on the village.”
This news was startling to her. When had her husband had time to do that? Then Ivy recalled the trips to Los Angeles he’d been taking to advise a client.
Jeremy had been leading a double life, indeed.
Ivy ran her hand along the stone railing. Suddenly, a strange, protective instinct surged within her. This house had been left alone, just as she had been.
“I would never dream of demolishing Las Brisas,” she said, surprising herself. Where did that come from?
Shelly shot her a puzzled look.
“Then let’s go inside,” Bennett said with a note of relief in his voice.
Ivy gazed up at the two-story house and its stunning architecture. A round turret anchored one side, and a veranda wrapped around the house. Its position high on a knoll gave it an even grander appearance. The location on a sandy point was ideal, with only one adjoining property. Even in its current state, the house still had a graceful beauty about it that tugged at her emotions. She could understand why Jeremy had fallen in love with it and bought it.
Even why he’d spent every penny they’d had on it.
She only wished she’d known about it.
Her younger daughter Sunny’s criticism still haunted her. How could you have let Dad spend your retirement? Sunny was also angry that Ivy had withdrawn Jeremy’s offer of a new car upon her college graduation, but what could she do? Ivy gave Sunny enough frequent flyer miles to take her to Europe, where she was backpacking and visiting friends who had family or summer rentals. That had placated Sunny some and given them both space to heal.
Ivy paused at the top of the steps behind Bennett, who was sorting through a ring of keys. His cologne wafted behind him on the breeze. Sandalwood, she detected.
Pausing beside her, Shelly bumped her shoulder. “Reminds me of a Vanderbilt mansion.”
Bennett nodded. “It has features of Spanish Colonial Revival and Mediterranean styles, especially inside. The owners were from Europe.” Bennett slid a key into the old front door lock. “Julia Morgan designed William Hearst’s castle in San Simeon, too. He was a newspaper magnate in his day.”
“We went there as kids,” Shelly said. “The pool is spectacular.”
Ivy smiled at the memory. They were the two youngest daughters of a rambunctious family that had roamed the California shores from San Diego to San Francisco surfing, camping, and sailing.
“The Neptune pool at the Hearst Castle is used in a lot of photo shoots,” Bennett said. “Lady Gaga filmed a music