“That’s it?” Ivy’s heart sank. She shielded her eyes against the sun’s rays, taking in the sprawling property perched on a knoll that swept to the beach. The house was dated, and the landscaping—what was left of it—was thorny and overgrown. No wonder there hadn’t been any offers.
“You’re lucky that Mrs. Erickson’s estate kept up the structural and system repairs, including the roof and electrical, before your husband bought it,” Bennett said.
Ivy caught her breath. The sound of his rich, slightly gravelly voice brought back a flood of memories. She recalled hearing him sing, strumming his guitar, on the beach beside a fire with her friends so many years ago. In an instant, she was seventeen again, with a heart so tender and so swiftly broken. This is why she’d never taken his calls, but only corresponded through email with him.
She slid on her sunglasses to study Bennett, surprised at his metamorphosis from long-haired surfer to successful citizen. He was dressed in resort wear as if he were planning a yacht excursion later today. His cropped hair had sun streaks, and his face bore light tan lines on his cheeks from his sunglasses. With deck shoes, light blue cotton pants, and an expensive-looking, casual windbreaker jacket over a white cotton shirt, he looked like he had just stepped out of an ad for sailing craft.
She wondered if he still sang.
Ivy turned away to focus on the house. She wasn’t there to look at Bennett Dylan.
The scene before her was a drab wash of dingy white and pale, straw-like grass relieved only by pink and purple bougainvillea blossoms that tumbled across the barren lawn like haphazard flower fairies. Just beyond where a grassy lawn should have ended, waves bubbled on the beach, and shore birds skittered along the water’s foamy white edge.
Yet as run down as the landscape was, Bennett gazed at the house with obvious pride.
“The original owners, Amelia Erickson and her husband Gustav, christened the home Las Brisas del Mar, which means ocean breezes in Spanish.”
“Lovely name,” Ivy said. At least that was appealing.
“That was the original name of Summer Beach when this part of California was under Mexican rule,” Bennett said.
“It was important to Mrs. Erickson that the name preserve the heritage of the past for the community’s sake. Most people around town call it Las Brisas, or the old Erickson estate.”
While the history was interesting, Ivy didn’t want to spend any more time with Bennett than necessary. She dropped her bag on the ground with a thud. She and Shelly had taken a ride-share here directly from the airport, though Bennett had offered to pick them up.
Shelly glanced at Bennett’s SUV, a large hulking vehicle with dark-tinted windows. “Can we put our bags in your car for safekeeping?”
“Sure, though the neighborhood’s fairly safe,” Bennett said in a confident, real estate agent tone.
“I live in New York,” Shelly said.
“Can’t leave a penny out in my neighborhood.” Her laugh rang out against the continuous, low vibration of ocean waves.
Ivy watched two women in colorful sundresses stroll by wearing twinkling diamonds on their wrists and at their throats. They were brilliant pools of color against a vivid blue ocean backdrop and looked as if they belonged in a LeRoy Neiman painting.
“Those two are unlikely to covet our well-traveled luggage. Still, I’d feel better if it were safe.”
Accommodating them, Bennett opened the SUV’s rear hatch. His eyes flicked toward Ivy and focused on her. “You seem awfully familiar. Did you grow up in Boston?
”
Ivy shot Shelly a look to squelch the comment she feared. “No, we grew up half an hour south of here near the beach, but I left a long time ago.” As she spoke to him, a rush of emotion seized her chest, surged up her neck, and exploded in her brain, sending a thousand sparks prickling through her nervous system. She didn’t want to relive her last summer after high school—or her crush on Bennett.
Of all people for Claire to stick her with.
“So how do you know Flint Bay?” he asked Ivy. “I noticed you’re connected on social media.”
While Shelly looked amused, Ivy dismissed his question with a wave of her hand, which was all she could muster for a moment. “He’s a relative. I don’t see him often.”
That was true. Ivy hadn’t spoken to her brother much in the past few years and had been surprised that he and his family had flown to Boston to attend Jeremy’s funeral. It wasn’t that they weren’t close. They’d just drifted apart, each of them busy with their own families. Aside from tapping a benign like on social media posts, they’d lost touch.
Ivy watched Bennett swing their suitcases into the rear cargo area with ease. He had the kind of solid, muscular build that men half his age aspired to. No muffin-top on that physique.
He’d bulked up since she’d seen him last, but then, that had been more than twenty-five years ago.
Yet, more than his build, it was his small movements that took her breath away. The way he angled his head to listen as if hearing the rhythm in a person’s voice. Or the way he tapped a finger on his thigh to some silent tune. These revealed the soul of a fellow artist she’d once fallen in love with.
Not that she should care, of course. She drew a deep, cleansing breath.
She hadn’t felt this way since Jeremy. No. If she were honest with herself, she’d never felt such intense physical attraction to Jeremy. Her husband had been more of a curiosity—an intriguing, mercurial puzzle to piece together. Yet over the years, she’d loved the life they’d built together and how he’d always cared for her. That was the true mark of love, wasn’t it?
She had no idea what this feeling was, but right now, it definitely wasn’t welcome.
Bennett shut the rear hatch. “I’ve been keeping up the grounds—what’s left to keep up, that is. The landscaping and the house need work to properly show your property.”
“I asked you not to spend any money on it,” Ivy snapped. She wondered how large of a bill he’d racked up on that.
“How much is the yard service?”
“No charge for my labor,” he said.
His flashy, white-toothed smile was a little too quick for her. “You mentioned that you were on a budget, so I did what I could to help the house show better. I didn’t do much except clear the weeds and debris outside and dust a few cobwebs inside. I turned on the electricity and water, but I’m afraid it’s like watering hay.”
“Oh,” Ivy said, now a little embarrassed.
“Well, thank you.” That was kind of him. With looming property taxes, she had to keep costs down. If the house didn’t sell soon, 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 video there, too.” His eyes brightened.
“Wait until you see inside. It looks better than the photos I emailed you. Even with good equipment, the photos fail to capture the grandeur of the spaces.”
“I didn’t really look at the photos,” Ivy said in apology. She had been so hurt and angry at her husband that she had never opened the photos or read the listing description. Or approved the costs of cleaning or staging. At that time, she’d also been grief-stricken, dragging herself out of bed only long enough to deal with the most pressing issues of his estate. Now she regretted her short-sighted decisions.
The door creaked open, and Ivy and Shelly followed Bennett inside.
As Bennett crossed the wooden floor, his rubber-soled deck shoes formed muted echoes in the empty room. He pushed aside old blue draperies on tall palladium windows to reveal a stunning ocean view. The sunlight illuminated shafts of dust mites swirling in the soft air currents.
Instantly, Ivy felt as if they’d stepped back in time.
“The drawing room is to one side and on the other, the ballroom.” Bennett walked through the room.
Waving her hand, Shelly sneezed.
Following Bennett, Ivy gaped at the cavernous rooms and the intricately carved coffered ceilings. Each panel was a work of art, mellowed with the patina of time.
“It’s still dusty, though not as bad as before,” Bennett said. “The drawing room was where the original owners received guests, and of course, the ballroom saw its share of dances. This was the summer house for the Ericksons, a wealthy couple from San Francisco. They were art collectors and appreciated quality.”
Art collectors. That Ivy understood. “I could easily fill a house this size with artwork.”
Ivy knelt to run her hand over the intricate, parquet pattern of the wooden floor. As she did, her fingers seemed to vibrate against the smooth grains, and she felt a peculiar sensation emanating from the wood as if her touch were returning life to it. Or maybe that was a vibration from the ocean waves. “The wooden floors are exquisite. They feel warm.”
Bennett carried on with his commentary. “Julia Morgan was the first female graduate of the Ecole des Beaux-Arts Paris, so you’ll see many old-world touches throughout. The Ericksons had owned homes on Mediterranean shores, so they asked Morgan to incorporate many features they loved. Built with love, Las Brisas is a truly unique home,” he added, his deep, melodic voice resonating in the vacant space.
Feeling drawn to the home through his words, Ivy drank in the heady details of the house. Curved arches divided the rooms and art niches punctuated the walls. Overhead, chandeliers hung motionless, laced with spider webs. Risers on the curved staircase were fitted with vibrant hand-painted tiles. Despite years of abandonment and the shabby exterior, the home’s fine interior fittings were well-preserved.
“The chandeliers are exquisite,” Ivy said, craning her neck. The one she’d seen in the foyer was a grand statement piece, with hundreds of crystal pieces arranged in a stunning design.
“When was the house built?” Shelly asked. She whirled around, taking in her surroundings with awe.
“In the early 1920s,” Bennett replied, returning his intense gaze to Ivy.
“Not long after El Prado in Balboa Park for the Panama-California Exposition. The styles are similar.”
Averting her eyes, Ivy filled her senses with an imaginary scene: A grand ball on a balmy summer evening, doors open to the long terrace outside. A lavish garden with white flowers that reflected the soft light of a full moon. The intoxicating scents of jasmine, gardenia, and plumeria perfuming the cool evening air.
“There’s a lot more to see,” Bennett said, interrupting her thoughts. He led them through a large kitchen that had two vintage O’Keefe & Merritt stoves, double sinks, and a large prep-island in the middle. Two hulking turquoise refrigerators stood like butlers on duty.
“Imagine cooking on these,” Ivy said, running her hand over the dusty porcelain stovetops and keeping her distance from Bennett. The kitchen was well-equipped for parties. “I miss having everyone gather in the kitchen for holidays.” She’d loved creating new dishes, planning meals, shopping for fresh food at farmer’s markets, and seeing the delight on faces around her table.
Shelly touched her shoulder. “We’ll do it again.”
Bennett continued, leading them through an atrium sunroom, a formal library, an expansive dining room, and an intimate parlor.
In the library and dining room, Ivy noted that the wooden floors were darker around the edges of the rooms. “Looks like there were large rugs in here. That must have been stunning.”
Ivy and Shelly climbed the stairs after Bennett. Upstairs was a long hallway of bedrooms, each one containing a private marble bathroom and claw-foot bathtub.
Bennett swung open each door. “It was rare back then, but each bedroom had its own en suite bath.”
Ivy peered into the intimate bedrooms along the long corridor. Most of the rooms were empty, though one had old Art Deco furnishings and another had a wicker and beach theme. In a rocking chair sat a stuffed bear with a striped sailor shirt, posed as if it were waiting for a child to claim it before bedtime. Vintage children’s books were stacked on a nearby shelf. She could almost hear the walls ringing with laughter.
“The owner’s bedroom is at the end of the corridor.” Bennett led the way and opened the door to a fully furnished Art Deco suite of curved furniture. Discolored splotches marked the walls where paintings must have hung.
Idly, Ivy wondered what they had looked like. The air was cooler in here, she noted, shivering a little.
“Cold?” Bennett shrugged out of his jacket and draped it across Ivy’s shoulders.
“I don’t need this,” Ivy protested, yet the jacket was warm on her shoulders. The fibers held the fresh scent of his cologne, and she felt herself sinking into it like an embrace. What she would have given at one time for such a gesture from him. She shivered again. Though the sun was out, April could still be chilly.
“It can get cool here when the marine layer rolls in.” Bennett crossed the room and lifted a window shade. “Here’s a good view of the pool.”
Looking out, Ivy sucked in a breath of awe. Below was a miniature-sized Neptune pool, complete with statues, though the pool was dry. “It’s stunning,” she said, aware of Bennett’s gaze on her. “The entire place is a work of art.”
“I’m glad you appreciate it. Las Brisas is a special, beloved landmark in this town.”
After returning downstairs, they made their way to the servant’s quarters behind the house. Adjacent to that, a stable-turned-garage still housed an old Chevrolet Deluxe convertible.
Ivy wiped dust from the curved fender.
“Cherry red,” she said, wondering when the car had last been driven. She could imagine careening down the coast with the wind in her hair. What a good life the owners must have enjoyed here.
“Goes with the house,” Bennett said, holding her in his gaze a little too long. “Along with the furnishings. You could call an antique dealer for a quote.”
“This is so swell,” Shelly said, grinning. “Feels like we stepped back into the 1950s.
”
Ivy nodded, but what she felt was even more powerful than that. She felt a surreal draw to the house, but then, she’d always liked history. That’s what had drawn her, in part, to Boston.
They walked back through the house, and Ivy and Shelly waited on the front steps while Bennett locked up.
Feeling sad to leave, Ivy faced the ocean drawing energy from the breeze—energy she’d need to make critical decisions. She turned back, facing Bennett.
“How long do you think it might take to sell?”
Bennett’s eyes darted between them.
“Most people are looking for modern houses, and rarely this large. It needs a lot of work. Since it’s a historic home, new owners can’t make many exterior changes. That’s one reason interest has been low.”
“So, what does that mean in terms of time?” Shelly asked.
“In this market, you should be prepared to wait for the right buyer,” Bennett said.
“A unique property like this could take a year or longer to sell. There haven’t been any serious inquires.”
That would never work, Ivy thought. “You said the historic designation is one reason why the price is lower. What are the other reasons?”
For the first time since they’d met, Bennett seemed flustered. “It’s not important. Just local gossip.”
Ivy and Shelly exchanged a look. Shelly pressed on. “What gossip?”
“About the previous owner, Mrs. Erickson,” Bennett said.
A warning chill spiraled down Ivy’s spine.
“Some say she had strange ways.” Bennett sorted through his pocketful of keys.
“Some people swear they’ve seen lights flicker inside, but that’s just talk.”
Shelly burst out laughing.
“Are you trying to tell us it’s haunted?”
Bennett chuckled. “Old houses often seem to have resident spirits. Nothing to it, though.”
“Did the former owner die here?” Ivy asked.
“No, Mrs. Erickson closed Las Brisas when Pearl Harbor was bombed during the Second World War,” Bennett explained. “The entire west coast was on high alert. She and her husband had fled Europe when the First World War erupted, and they feared another attack.”
“That was 1941,” Ivy said. “Has anyone actually lived here since then?”
“Mrs. Erickson’s husband died shortly after that,” Bennett said, taking a step closer to her. “So Mrs. Erickson reopened it to house troops that were passing through the harbor. There was a shortage of lodging then. After the war, she returned to Europe for health reasons. The house was kept up, and older neighbors tell me she would visit from time to time, but less often as she grew older.”
“Did she have children?” Ivy asked.
“None. However, after her death, the estate remained open. She had a young niece who had disappeared during the war, and she’d always prayed she would be found. Finally, the time expired, and the niece was presumed dead. That’s when your husband bought it from her estate, which then donated the proceeds to charity. Claire brokered that deal.”
Ivy shaded her eyes. Bennett was standing so close that the fine hairs on her arms prickled, and she stepped back, unnerved by her attraction to him.
Bennett pocketed the house keys and fished out his car keys.
“Now, if you’ll come back to my office, we can renew the listing and review the plan to sell it. Won’t take more than fifteen minutes.”
Ivy glanced back at the dowdy grand dame. She should let Bennett redouble his efforts to sell the house that had plagued her for months and was threatening her financial future.
Yet, after seeing the house, Ivy felt a peculiar kinship with it.
Las Brisas seemed to beckon her into its past. And as large as it was, it felt like a real home. The teddy bear in the rocking chair, the solid stoves in the kitchen, the exquisite pool. The love that had once been lavished on this home was evident. She felt strangely conflicted.
Bennett seemed anxious to leave.
“Would you like to wrap up the listing agreement today?”
“Not today,” Ivy finally said, drawing a hand over her face. How many bedrooms were there in the house? She added the servants’ quarters in the rear and did some quick mental math calculations, even as she could feel Shelly’s concerned eyes on her.
“Thanks for showing us the house,” Shelly said to Bennett.
He jingled his keys with impatience.
“I can arrange professional painting, cleaning, and landscaping for you. After the house is staged with new furnishings, it will have a better chance of attracting the right buyer.”
As Ivy contemplated the house, a breeze whistled through the palm trees, drawing her in with a swish of their skirts and a promise to share their secrets. Just beyond, pelicans soared against a clear, cerulean sky while waves roared to the beach and rushed out again. Amidst it all, Las Brisas had stood guard for a hundred years. She wondered what had transpired within these walls. And why did she feel so attracted to the majestic old home?
When she didn’t respond, Bennett said, “What would you like me to do?”
“Nothing.” Despite her desire to distance herself from him in Summer Beach, on impulse, Ivy shot out her hand. “
Actually, I’ll take those keys now. I won’t need your services any longer, Bennett. I’m moving into Las Brisas.”
