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The Beach House by James Patterson Rating: • (Read if your interest is strong)
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Nobody Home The James Patterson book factory had produced its latest product, The Beach House. Engineered just in time for summer reading, it contains more than the usual number of Patterson plot twists and surprises. The Beach House also contains more one-dimensional characters than usual, all of which are forgettable. In keeping with the usual short attention span of the Patterson audience, this book presents 113 chapters over 358 pages, so you can take a pause every five minutes or so, with no loss of retention of the little content that a reader needs to note. Here’s an excerpt from early in the book, all of chapter 2, narrated by Peter: “You wouldn’t think a motorcycle is a place for quiet reflection. And as a rule, I don’t go in for much of it anyway, preferring to leave the naval gazing for big brother Jack, the Ivy League law student. But lately I’ve been dredging up something different every time I get on the bike. Maybe it’s the fact that on a motorcycle, it’s just you and your head. Or maybe it’s got nothing to do with the bike, and I’m just getting old. I’m sorry to have to confess, I turned twenty-one yesterday. Whatever the reason, I’m slaloming through bloated SUVs at ninety miles per hour and I start to think about growing up out here, about being a townie in one of the richest zip codes on earth. A mile away on the Bluff, I can already see the party lights of the Neubauer compound beaming into the perfect East End night, and I experience that juiced-I feeling of anticipation I always get at the beginning of another Hamptons summer. The air itself, carrying a salty whiff of high tide and sweet hyacinth, is ripe with possibility. A sentry in a white suit gives me a toothy grin and waves me through the cast-iron gates. I wish I could tell you that the whole place is kind of tacky and crass and overreaching, but in fact it’s quite understated. Every once in a while, the rich will confuse you that way. It’s the kind of parcel that, as real estate brokers put it, comes on the market every couple of decades – twelve beautifully landscaped acres full of hedges and hidden gardens sloping to a pristine, white sand beach. At the end of the white-pebble driveway is a 14,000-square-foot shingled mansion with ocean views from every room except, of course, the wine cellar. Tonight’s party is relatively small – fewer than 180 people – but everyone who matters this season is here. It’s themed around Neubauer’s just-announced $1.4 billion takeover of Swedish toymaker Bjorn Boontaag. That’s why the party’s on Thursday this year, and only the Neubauer’s could get away with it. Walking among the cuddly stuffed lions and tigers that Bjorn Boontaag sells by the hundreds of thousands are a gross of the most ferocious cats in the real-life jungle: rainmakers, raiders, hedge-fund hogs, and the last of the IPO Internet billionaires, most of whom are young enough to be some CEO’s third wife. I note the Secret Service men wandering the grounds with bulging blazers and earphones, and I figure there must also be a handful of senators. And scattered like party favors are the hottest one-name fashion designers, rappers, and NBA all-stars the professional party consultant could rustle up. But don’t be too jealous. I’m not on the guest list, either. I’m here to park cars.” You probably know that the only senators who get Secret Service protection are the ones running for President. But aside from that minor, but typical, error, the writing in this book will leave you wincing on most pages. The narrator switches quickly from Peter to his brother, Jack, but there’s no improvement in dialogue or narration. If your ideal summer reading involves no thinking whatsoever as you read, The Beach House is the perfect book for you. Steve Hopkins, June 19, 2002
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