I prefer something a little more rustic. Warm oak, worn terra-cotta tile, creamy window treatments blowing in a breeze, and beyond the open window, miles of little more than pine trees and blue skies. Like the house I lived in for a while when I was a kid.
The beachside cottage I shared with my wife was her choice. And I happened to love her smile more than my design preference. There was no chance I'd argue with her, not on that day when she walked out of the black-paned French doors, the corners of her grin stretching toward her ears. Not even the diamond studs in those ears could sparkle as much as her eyes when she reached for my hand.
What kind of man denies his wife her dream home? I bought it. Right there, without a second thought, I turned to the realtor and told her we'd take it. Later, I learned she used the commission to take her recently divorced self on an extravagant beach vacation. Good for her.
I had Brea. And we had this cozy cottage, with its white walls and gray roof tiles and predesigned landscape. We ate alfresco in the evenings, both of us moving in our own lanes in the outdoor kitchen. I manned the grill, she handled the vegetables and salads. We sipped white wine and talked about our workday. We made love on the double chaise lounge, hidden from view by ivy-covered trellises on either side of our yard. Brea winked at me when she had them put in, and I immediately knew her intention. I eventually grew so used to the sound of crashing waves, it became little more than a low-level hum, like soothing background music. We no longer saw the ocean as powerful and mystical, but as a backdrop to our everyday lives.
Until the day it took Brea's body, folded it into its swell, and swallowed her.
Is it common for your wife to swim fully clothed?I wanted to slap the pity from the police officer's face but made a much wiser choice and shook my head.No.
Did you ever know your wife to be depressed?He continued on, asking questions that felt more like barbs digging into my cold skin. Maybe they were routine, but they felt intrusive.
The first time I lost the most important woman in my life, I was ten years old. Losing Brea marks the second time my heart has been ripped from my chest, and I'll save the sadness for later. The only way I can remain upright is to push the pain away, locking it deep inside. If I don’t, I might just follow my wife into the ocean.
"I refuseto put it on the market." My weight presses into my forearms as I lean forward on the dining room table at my dad's house. It's been six months since I've been back to the home I shared with Brea. I hired someone to clean out her half of the closet, her cupboards in the bathroom, her shampoo from the cutout in the shower. A second crew placed most of our belongings in storage. What’s left is a skeleton of a home.
My dad has enjoyed having me here, despite the passive-aggressive comments from his wife.
I wouldn't say I've been a good influence on my dad. At first I drank. A lot. Too much. He joined me. When Brea's toxicology report came back, it showed a high blood alcohol level. I was drunk when I read the email.
Her death was ruled an accident, which I already knew. I also knew she'd hate to see me getting wasted every night, so I quit. Cold turkey, for two whole months. I'm back to my usual glass of wine in the evenings.
Across the table, my dad pushes his empty dinner plate back and forth with his fingers. He shakes his head. "You must."
"It's not your decision," I point out. The house is mine.
"Don't let your grief cloud your judgment. That house is already worth double what you paid for it." He points at me. "And you know it."
He's right. I do know it. I know everything there is to know about the housing market. I'm the CEO of Tower Properties, the real estate investment trust my dad and I started ten years ago. Which means I'm very aware the current market isn't going anywhere but up and selling now would keep me from benefiting from its future value. But none of that matters to me. The home I shared with Brea has a value that cannot be counted in dollars.
A loud, metallic sound, perhaps a copper pot slamming down on the counter, comes from the kitchen. Renee's voice, determined and irritable, spits out, "Don't worry about me, I'm just in here working over a hot stove for you."
My dad and I share a quick look before he continues on like we never overheard what's going on in the kitchen. “At least turn it into a rental." His flattened palm slices the air vertically with his adamant statement, but then his stomach rumbles audibly, and we both glance down to the sturdy brown paper bag beside his seat. Its contents will most likely end up being our dinner. My dad's wife insists on cooking but has never actually learned how. Her failed attempts have done nothing to improve her skill.
My fingers flex and curl, and I tuck them under the table in an attempt to hide what I'm feeling. I do not want someone else walking barefoot through my house, placing their feet in the same places Brea's wandered. I do not want them to stand at the farmhouse sink, to push their hands through soapy water and gaze out at the churning blue monster that stole my wife.
My dad eyes me. He sits back. He is not overweight, or thin. He is your typical sixty-year-old, a body slackened by time. He takes a drink of wine, swallows, and says, "You aren't the only one who's experienced loss."
I blow out a heavy breath. I think Brea's death has brought out a lot of his feelings about my mother. The same is true for me.
I should ask him about it. I really should. But I can't. Seeing past my own suffocating grief is an impossible task.
"The way you feel right now…" He looks me over like he's evaluating me, determining if I'm ready for what he's about to say. "It's how I felt when we left Sierra Grande. Like a piece of me had been ripped away."
I blink. I wasn't expecting him to say that. We never talk about the town I called home when I was younger. Sierra Grande, more specifically the Circle B ranch where we lived, is a place I think about more often than I care to admit. The small town, with its quaint High Street and big grassy park, it's eclectic residents who somehow all knew each other, the mercantile that sold the best candy, it's all in my memory as a happy time in my life. It’s a shiny, clean memory, and I revisit it frequently.
When we lived there, we were whole. A three-person unit. Except for the very end, when we'd left town like we had fire ants in our underwear.
Just me, my dad, and my mom’s ashes. We came to California and spread the ashes in, of all places, the ocean.
My dad couldn't wait to be away from the place where my mom died. The opposite was true for me. All I wanted was to roll out my sleeping bag next to the tree she’d run into, and stay there forever.
"We still have the ranch there," he says, drumming two of his fingers on the table.
"I know. I've seen it in the portfolio."
"I was thinking you should go there and sell it."
