Whiskey Beach Part 73

Reaching over, she patted his hand. "Even when you turned your sights on the law, it was your writing that made you happiest."

"It seemed like too much fun to be a job. And now that it's a job, it's a lot more work. When I practiced law, it felt as if I had something important, something solid. More than daydreaming on paper."

"Is that all there is to it? Daydreaming?"

"No. Lindsay used to call it that." He'd nearly forgotten. "Not harshly, but ... a handful of short stories wasn't all that impressive."

"She preferred the impressive, and I don't say that harshly. She was who she was. But in that series of compromises, the plain truth is Lindsay rarely pulled her weight. Or not that I could see. People who say not to speak ill of the dead just don't have the spine to say what they think."

"You've got plenty of spine."

He hadn't expected to talk of Lindsay, not here, not with his grandmother. But maybe this was the place to put some of it to rest. "It wasn't all her fault."

"It's rarely only one person's fault."

"I thought we'd take our own steps, meld our strengths, weaknesses, goals. But I married a princess. Her father always called her that. Princess."

"Ah, yes, I recall that now."

"She always got what she wanted. She was raised to believe she could and would-and should. She was naturally charming, incredibly beautiful and absolutely believed her life would be perfect, exactly the way she wanted."

"And life isn't a series of fairy tales, even for a princess."

"I guess not," he agreed. "It turned out life just wasn't perfect with me."

"She was young and spoiled, and given the chance, she may have matured and become less self-involved. She did have charm, and an excellent eye for art, for decor, for fashion. With time she might have made something of that, and of herself. But the blunt truth is, she wasn't your match, or your mate, or the love of your life. You weren't hers."

"No," he admitted, "neither of us made the grade."

"The best that can be said is you both made a mistake. She paid too big a price for that mistake, and I'm sorry for it. She was a young, beautiful woman, and her death was senseless and cruel. It's done."

No, Eli thought, not until who caused it paid.

"I have a question for you," Hester continued. "Are you happy here?"

"I'd be crazy not to be."

"And you work well here?"

"Better than I expected or hoped. For most of this past year writing was more of an escape, a way to get out of my head-or into another part of it. Now it's my work. I want to be good at it. I think being here's helped me with that."

"Because this is your place, Eli. You belong in Whiskey Beach. Tricia? We all know her life, her family, her home's in Boston." She glanced back, through the terrace doors where Selina sprawled on the floor beside an ecstatic Barbie. "This is a place for her to come, to spend a weekend, a summer break, a winter holiday. It's not home for her, and never was."

"It's your home, Gran."

"You're d.a.m.n right it is." Her jaw lifted, her eyes went deep and soft as she looked over the heads of fluttering pansies and out to the roll of the sea. "I fell in love with your grandfather on that beach, one heady spring night. I knew he'd be mine, and we'd make our home in this house, raise our children here, live our lives. It's my home, and what's mine I'm free to give."

She turned to Eli now, and those soft eyes went steely. "Unless you tell me, and make me believe, that you don't want it, you can't make your life here, be happy here, I'll be making arrangements to deed it to you."

Stunned, he could only stare at her. "Gran, you can't give me Bluff House."

"I can do exactly as I please, boy." She tapped her finger firmly on his arm. "As I always have and intend to continue to do."

"Gran-"

She tapped her finger again, a warning this time. "Bluff House is a home, and a home needs to be lived in. It's your legacy, and your responsibility. I want to know if you're willing to make it your home, if you're willing to stay, when I'm able to come back, and when I'm gone. Is there somewhere else you'd rather be?"

"No."

"Well then, that's settled. It's a weight off my mind." With a contented sigh, she looked out to sea again.

"Just like that?"

She smiled, reached over to lay a hand on his, gently now. "The dog clinched it."

Even as he laughed, Tricia opened the terrace doors. "If you two can tear yourself away, it's egg-dyeing time."

"Let's get to it. Give me a hand, Eli. I can get down, but I still have trouble getting up."

He helped her to her feet, then just wrapped his arms around her. "I'll take good care of it, I promise you. But come home soon."

"That's the plan."

She'd given him a lot to think about, but dyeing Easter eggs with a toddler-not to mention her very compet.i.tive fifty-eight-year-old grandfather-made it difficult to think. So Eli just rolled with it. By the time the doorbell chimed, puddles of dye pooled and splattered the newspaper covering the kitchen island.

With the dog at his side, he opened the door for Abra. She stood with the straps of bags over each shoulder and a covered tray in her hands.

"Sorry, I didn't have enough hands to open it myself."

He just grinned at her, leaned over the tray to kiss her. "I was about to call you." He took the tray, angling so she could get by him. "I thought you'd be here before this-but I did, with great effort and canniness-manage to save some eggs for you."

"Thanks. I just had some things to deal with."

"Is anything wrong?"

"What could be wrong?" She set the bags aside. "h.e.l.lo, Barbie. h.e.l.lo." Better to hedge, she decided, than dump distressing news on a family party. "Pies take time."

"Pies?"

"Pies." She took the tray back, walked with him to the back of the house. "From the sound of it, everyone's settled in."

"Like they've been here a week."

"Good or bad?"

"Good. Really good."