The Last Beach Bungalow Read Online Free PDF Page A

It’s great.”
    “And when I show up you’re going to tell me, what? That someone’s died, someone has some incurable disease?”
    “I had a mammogram yesterday.”
    “I knew it.”
    “It was fine,” I said.
    “But if it wasn’t fine, you weren’t going to tell me, were you? You were going to wait until we picked out a paint color for the wall or maybe until after we’d had lunch and a stroll on the beach. You’re so bad that way.”
    “But it was fine.”
    “And you’re lucky, too, because you would’ve pissed me off if something were wrong.”
    “So can you come?”
    “I’ll be there in five minutes,” she said.
    While I waited for Vanessa to cross the street and walk up the stairs, I looked again at the colors. Light beige or dark beige? Sky blue or cerulean blue? How could this decision be so difficult?
    Vanessa walked in, walked right over, and grabbed me. She wasn’t tall or particularly strong, but she had a fierce hug. She pressed herself into you and gave you the feeling that she wouldn’t let go.
    “It was five years ago this week,” I said.
    "It was a Monday,” Vanessa said, " and this is a Wednesday, and five years is an amazing milestone so we should have a party.”
    “You know how I feel about parties.”
    “There should be margaritas. And a band. Wouldn’t it be fun to have a band?”
    “We’re moving in less than a week. Christmas is in a week and I’m on deadline for a piece on organic cotton lingerie. We’re not having a party.”
    “OK, then we’ll go out to dinner somewhere fabulous. Maybe Rick can get us into the dining room out at the golf course since he’s building half their houses. They have the most fantastic sushi salad.”
    "Rick and I haven’t had sex in three months,” I blurted. We hadn’t, in fact, had sex in more than six months, but six months sounded far worse than three and I wasn’t ready to admit it, even to my best friend.
    Vanessa laughed. She was certain three months without sex was an exaggeration.
    “I’m not joking,” I said. “We probably couldn’t even agree on how to do it. We can’t agree on anything. I do five hours of legwork finding tumbled marble tile to match the granite and Rick takes one look and says, ‘It looks washed-out to me.’ Last week, I gave him printouts of the Whirlpool washer and dryer I wanted, and he didn’t even look at them before telling me that he’s putting Maytags in his golf course houses, as if everyone knows that Maytags are better than Whirlpools. And don’t even get me started about the food thing. We’re spending four hundred thousand dollars on this remodel and he won’t spend forty dollars on dinner out.”
    “I bet he likes the beige,” Vanessa said, pointing to a swatch on the wall that was just barely off white.
    “It’s called Swiss Coffee,” I said. “It’s the color he’s painted every house he’s ever built. I think he gets a kick-back on it from Benjamin Moore—you know, paint three houses, get the fourth one free.”
    “But that turquoise is the best.”
    “It’s called Caribbean Blue.”
    “It’s perfect.”
    “I had to beg him to put up the swatch. He says it’ll take three coats of Swiss Coffee just to cover it up.”
    “So we’re just rubber stamping Rick’s beige?” Vanessa asked.
    “Basically.”
    “You should have married a lawyer.”
    “Or a banker. I bet the wives of bankers get to pick the color they want on their bathroom walls.”
    Vanessa looked at her watch. “I’m showing a house in Rolling Hills,” she said, then put her hand on my shoulder. “The beige will be fine.”
    “Thanks for coming.”
    “Hey,” she said, as she turned to go down the stairs, “as long as you’re out researching lingerie, maybe you should pick up something sexy for yourself. It sounds like you could use it.” She disappeared down the steps.
    “And about the party,” she yelled from downstairs, “don’t think you’re getting away without one.”
    Organic