It Comes In Waves (15 page)

“You told me you promised your daughter she wouldn't see you on a board,” Gus clarified. “Your daughter's back in Colorado. Seems to me your excuse just expired.”

“It wasn't an excuse.”

“Good. This one's yours.”

She stared at the thick surfboard he was handing her, then at him. “I said I needed a little refresher. I didn't say I had
amnesia
.” She shoved it back at him. “I want a real board.”

“That
is
a real board.”

“For a beginner. I want a short board.”

“Long boards are more stable and easier to paddle. You haven't been on a board in twenty years—why make it tough on yourself your first time back in?”

“
Seventeen
years,” she clarified hotly.

“Like I said, it's been a while.”

Claire glared at him, bristling with indecision, a part of her wanting to tell him where he could stick his damn long board, another part of her wanting to catch a killer ride that would douse the smug smile right off his handsome face.

She'd have thought whatever was left of her ego had been buried in the sand that morning at the interview. She was wrong.

“Fine.” She pulled the board against her side. “But I don't have a suit.”

“You don't need one.” He pointed to a basket of brightly colored fabrics. “Everyone wears rash guards and trunks now. Take a look through those floor samples and pick out what you want.”

•   •   •

M
inutes later, down to her bra and panties, Claire stared at herself in Gus Gallagher's bathroom mirror and couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry. What was she doing here? She'd never intended to get back on a board, and certainly not in the company of a stranger. What if Shep or Jill happened by and saw her out there, after she'd insisted on no interest in surfing again at dinner?

Claire frowned at her reflection. And so what if they did? Tonight all bets were off. She'd come on this trip to get closer to Lizzie and now they were farther apart than ever. Not to mention that the interview that was supposed to lionize her had made her feel older than dirt. Every part of this visit, a total disappointment.

Tomorrow she would be headed back to Colorado with her tail between her legs. All that remained was this final night. And this man who, to his credit, seemed genuinely reverential about her skills—ancient history though they might be. It had felt good to be reminded how hard she had carved, to be told she was—what was the word Gus had used—fierce?

Fierce.

Defiance returned, bolstering her. Why shouldn't she try to surf? She was forty-two, not eighty-two. Plenty of people surfed into their fifties and sixties. And anyway, wasn't forty the new twenty?

She took off the last of her clothes and stretched the purple rash guard over her breasts, pulling it down her stomach. The board shorts rode up her rear; she tugged at them, trying to force the cropped seat as far down her thighs as she could. She turned, surveying her body in profile. As strange as the new surfing uniform was, she had to admit it flattered. Even her breasts, never full to begin with and far less so after nursing, looked good, drawn up by the rash guard's tight fit. She slowed her pirouette in the mirror, feeling foolish. Back in the day, she would never have wasted a moment with this sort of review. Then she had pulled on and off her bathing suit without a thought of how the fabric clung to her body. No doubt those girls at the filming today were just as blissfully oblivious of their own perfect figures. Such was the luxury of youth.

She allowed herself one last survey in the mirror.

“Now or never,” she whispered to her reflection.

The day was waning. The sun's most unforgiving rays were long gone. Dusk was the kindest light. Everyone knew that.

And anyway, the curl didn't care.

I
t would be just like riding a bike.

As she followed Gus Gallagher down the wooden walkway, her board against her side, Claire told herself that the minute she threw her feet under her chest and got up, it would all come back to her.

Gus had changed into a sleeveless rash vest and shorts.

“I thought all you West Coast guys loved your wet suits,” she said as they walked.

“We do . . . when we're on the West Coast,” he said with a grin. “But this is
bathwater
compared to where I'm from. I wear trunks almost year-round here.” At the top of the beach, they slowed and lowered their boards to the sand. “They're not much to look at right now,” he said, nodding toward the low swells, “but I thought they'd be a good place to start again.” He held out his hand. “Give me your board. I'll get you waxed up.”

“Excuse me?” Claire set her hand on her hip. “I can still wax my own board, thank you very much.”

“My apologies.” He handed her a bar and stepped back to take care of his. They dropped down to the sand, side by side, and got to work. The motion came back to her at once, the even strokes, rail to rail, nose and tail, then the bumpy tack of the topcoat. She glanced over at Gus, warming at the sight of his tanned arm firmly guiding the bar of wax up and down, the movement rhythmic, sexual. He was fit, lean enough to impress but not bulked up: clearly a man who'd stayed active on the water. She wondered if Foster had kept in shape the same way; had he stayed agile on a board as he aged? She certainly hadn't. Doubt began to trickle in again. Just because she remembered how to wax a board didn't mean her muscles remembered how to surf. There was no faking strength and endurance. Years off the water would show the minute she tried to paddle out, and Claire knew it.

Waxed and ready, they walked down to the edge of the surf and stopped. Gus scanned the water, watching the breaks, searching for the best place to paddle out. He pointed them to the left where the surf was calm, where they'd face the least opposition for getting through the impact zone to the outside.

“Make sure to pace yourself,” he said as they attached their leashes. “There's not much white water to get through right now, but you'll still be surprised at how tired you get after a few duck dives. Especially with a long board. Remember, you can always paddle around it. Or turtle-roll.”

She nodded, grateful there wasn't a lineup; only the two of them in the water. Even with the tether of a surf leash, the last thing she wanted to worry about was having locals think her a reckless, clueless beginner—a kook—because she couldn't control her board.

The sea hugged her body as she walked in, the faint flavor of salt already on her mouth when she licked her lips. At chest deep, they climbed on their boards, and began to paddle out.
Rhythm and flow, rhythm and flow.
The mantra she'd used in her youth returned as soon as her hands cut through the water, her heart already racing with anticipation. Gus paddled out in front of her, his closed-fingered hands moving effortlessly through the water.

He glanced over his shoulder at her. “You okay?”

She nodded, too focused on her strokes to speak, her back arched, her head raised. Movements she used to do in her sleep, she now rehearsed in her head. Where to grip the rails, when to pop up. Her head swam with uncertainty.

When they neared the first break of whitewash, she watched Gus send the nose of his board under the wave in an expert duck dive. She gripped the rails, knowing she would have to do the same, but her timing and force were off and the wave thrashed her enough to send her sputtering backward, her board jettisoned.

She pushed to the surface and reclaimed her board, managing to scurry back on before the next break came over her, but she wouldn't have enough time. As the wave hit, she rolled her board with her body underneath it, turtling in the hopes of avoiding another pushback, but her strength wasn't sufficient. Her spin was incomplete and the force of the wave hit her fully.

Again, she pushed to the surface.

Gus called to her, “You sure you don't want to go back in and wait it out for a lull?”

She shook her head fiercely. Dammit, she could do this! She lay down on her board and began her strokes again, harder now. Her neck and shoulders burned, her muscles screamed, but pride screamed louder. She used to duck-dive through white water ten times heavier than this without stopping, and now she couldn't even get to the outside zone. Exhausted, she tried another roll, but her rotation still lacked and once again, the break thrashed her back into shallow water, bouncing her board off the bottom. When it popped to the surface, she felt a sting on her heel and winced. Jellyfish? She searched the water around her, seeing nothing, but the pain intensified. She grabbed her board and began back to the beach for a better look at her foot.

As soon as she could see the wound, she knew the weapon at once. It was a clean slice, just above her ankle, the cut nearly two inches in length.

Gus arrived, striding through the water with his board under his arm. “What happened?”

“The fin,” she said. “It must have cut my heel on that last wave. It's just a little nick.”

He pushed her fingers away from her heel and gave it a quick survey. “It's deep enough to quit.” He motioned up the beach. “No more surfing for you, hot stuff. We need to clean you up.”

•   •   •

B
y the time they reached the deck steps to his house, the sharp pain had shifted to a dull ache. Claire groaned with each tread. Inside at last, Gus ordered her to wait on the couch while he disappeared into the bathroom. Margot hopped up beside her and burrowed into a pile of towels, the Lab's soft brown eyes flashing with concern before she turned her head toward the sound of closing cabinets down the hall.

Gus returned with a handful of supplies and crouched down on one knee.

“I see my prep nurse is already here,” he said, grinning at Margot as he tore open a Band-Aid with his teeth.

“Her couch-side manner is stellar,” Claire said.

Gus took her foot into his hands and gently turned it. Claire cried out.

“Does it hurt?”

“Everything hurts,” she said.

“Just wait till tomorrow.” He reached for a soapy washcloth. “You'll be sore in places you forgot you had muscles.”

Claire watched him as he slid the Band-Aid carefully over her heel, rubbing the ends of the bandage flat with his thumbs before setting her foot back down. This close, she could see the flecks of gold in his beard, even more threaded through his brown hair. It would be nothing to reach out and run her fingers through one perfect, touchable—

“I think you'll live.”

She blinked, startled from her thoughts. “Good. Thanks.”

Gus laid a hand on her damp thigh; a tiny, hopeful sound escaped her throat.

He smiled. “I'll take you home.”

J
ill saw the headlights swing across the kitchen wall just as she was putting water on the stove for tea.

The side door opened; Ivy appeared in a floor-length sundress, her long gray hair loosely knotted in a side ponytail, and searched the room, her expression stricken. “She's not here?”

Jill and Shep exchanged a confused look.

“Who?” asked Jill.

“Who do you think? Pepper!”

“Claire's not here, Ivy,” said Shep. “She's probably at the hotel.”

“Well, crap, I just assumed she would be here.” Ivy continued to look between them, her gaze demanding. “Aren't y'all planning to see her before she leaves?”

“We
did
see her,” Jill said calmly. “She came for dinner last night. We had a lovely meal.”

“That's all you've seen her?”

Jill pulled down a mug from the cabinet. “She's here for this film, Ivy. It's not a social visit—we respect that. We're just glad we got to see her at all.”

“There hasn't been that much time,” Shep added, reaching into the fridge for a beer. “She's leaving first thing tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” The kitchen crackled with Ivy's intensity. Five minutes ago, Jill and Shep had been quietly winding down for the night. Now Ivy had blown in and infused every inch of peace with frantic energy. It was a trend Jill had learned to expect in her years of being married to Foster.

But tonight Jill was determined to settle things back down. “Can I fix you some tea, Ivy?”

“God, if I have any more tea, I'll float away. Where's Luke?”

“Out with Amy,” said Shep.

Ivy sighed. “I don't see the connection there, I really don't. And she never comes with him to the store. I don't even think she knows how to surf.”

“Why does that matter?” Jill demanded. “Luke cares for her. You should be happy he's found someone.”

“I didn't say I wasn't. I just wish she had a little more spunk in her, that's all.”

Jill closed the cabinet door, unnecessarily hard. “Not everyone wants
spunk
.”

“Clearly.”

The teapot blew out a soft whistle and a ribbon of steam. Jill moved to turn off the flame, feeling the heat of Ivy's gaze as she poured water into her mug.

Ivy shook her head. “I still can't believe you only saw her once this whole time I was gone.”

Jill squeezed her tea bag and set it in the sink, twisting to face her ex-mother-in-law. “It's not like Claire reached out to us, Ivy. I'm not sure we would have seen her at all if Shep hadn't run into her.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Ivy snorted. “Of course Pepper would have called you.”

Pepper.
It bothered Jill that Ivy continued to use Claire's old nickname. As if they were still nineteen. As if they were still best friends.

Jill spooned honey into her tea, choosing not to argue.

•   •   •

H
er hand out the open window and her fingers feathering the wind, Claire leaned back into the passenger seat of Gus Gallagher's truck and watched the soft lights of the waterfront cottages sail by.

She sighed. “I didn't think I could feel any more embarrassed today than I already did.”

“You had some bad luck with the board,” said Gus. “It happens to everyone.”

“Not to me. Bad luck with men, definitely, but never with the board.” She rolled her head toward him. “Still glad you pushed to get me here?”

“You bet. And for the record,” he said, “I'm only taking it easy on you because it's late. If you weren't leaving tomorrow, I'd have your back on that board so fast your head would spin. Cut or no cut.” He grinned.

There were those dimples again, and those eyes. God, she was a mess. She'd lost some blood, not to mention every bit of her dignity, and all she wanted was for Gus Gallagher to pull off to the side of the road, take her face in his hands, and kiss her hard enough to hurt.

Who was she kidding to think he had wanted to sleep with her? All those perky, eager young women around him all day, pleading for surf lessons and whatever else he was teaching—and he'd want
her
? She rolled her head back to the window, regret coursing through her.

When they reached the intersection of Ashley and Center streets, she said, “Just let me off at the light. I can walk from there.”

“No way; you're injured. I'll take you to the front.”

“Fine.” Claire smiled at him. “But if you pull into the handicapped parking, I'll
kill
you.”

The light changed and he turned them into the hotel, taking the truck up to the door and shoving it into park. She tugged on the door handle, but he'd already climbed out and come around to help her.

“I thought only Southern men held doors for women,” she said.

“California men hold doors for women who surf. It's a little-known distinction.”

“Lucky me, then.”

“I still owe you dinner, you know.”

“Yes, you do. I guess I'll just have to come back to collect.”

“I guess you will.”

They smiled at each other for a long moment; then Gus stuck out his hand. “Claire Patton, it's been my true pleasure.”

She slipped her hand into his. “Mine too.”

“Take care of that heel,” he said. “And the next time you're in Folly, I expect a call.”

“I promise.” But they both knew she wouldn't be back anytime soon.

She waited for him to pull out of the parking lot before she turned for the glass doors. She clicked her phone to illuminate the screen, hoping for a missed call from Lizzie or Nick. Nothing. She typed a text to her ex-husband, uncaring if her words were harsh or accusatory:
Did Zee get there all right? She said she'd let me know and she hasn't. Text or call me as soon as you get this.
She considered the demands and added a
PLEASE
before sending it.

Riding the elevator, she reached up to smooth her ragged ponytail, startled at the thickened, chalky feel of her hair after just a few minutes in the water. She held out her arms, seeing the powdery dryness of her skin. The weight and taste of the sea; she'd forgotten so much more than just how to ride. The water had thrashed her soundly and now her whole body ached, but it was a delicious ache.

She smiled. She'd forgotten that too.

The elevator doors opened and she stepped out, startled to find a man in the hallway, crouched against the wall beside her room door.

Déjà vu charged through her. It could have been Foster.

“Luke?”

Seeing her approach, Foster's son climbed to his feet. He shoved the hair from his eyes and smiled weakly. “I know I should have tried to call first, but I didn't have your number.”

“Is everything okay?”

“It's fine. I just thought we could talk.”

“Sure.” Claire fumbled through her purse for her room card. “Come on in.”

“We can stay out here,” he said, “if your daughter's sleeping.”

“She's not here.” Finding it, Claire slid her key card in and out of its slot and snapped the handle down. “She went back to Colorado.” They stepped inside the room. She flipped on the lights. “You want a soda or something?” she asked, tugging open the door to the minibar.

“No, I'm good, thanks.” Luke took a seat on the bed and pointed to her foot. “You okay?”

She waved her hand. “It's nothing. Just my penance for getting on a surfboard and thinking I was still twenty. Trust me, my ego was hurt far worse than my heel.”

His face lit up. “You were
surfing
?”

Claire laughed. “I think it would be illegal to call what I did surfing. I'm as rusty as an old plow. It was embarrassing. Two duck dives and I was wrecked.”

“Another day on the water and I'm sure it'd come back to you. That's what my dad always used to say anyway.”

The mention of Foster spread across the room like the smell of baking bread, instantly comforting.

She smiled tenderly. “Your dad was amazing on the water. He taught me a lot.”

Luke studied his hands on his knees. Claire sat down on Lizzie's bed, facing him.

“What is it you wanted to talk about, Luke?”

“My dad, mostly. I guess I just wanted to know about the way he was before I was born. I only knew him for eight years. I'd kinda like to add whatever I can to that, you know?”

He looked so much like Foster. A few times at dinner the night before, Claire had lost her train of thought when she glanced up and saw him across the table: a ghost chewing on bread and shrimp. Now, alone with him, the subject of Foster moving between them as gently as the tide, she found it hard to look him square in the face for too long.

“Does your mom know you're here?”

“She thinks I'm with my girlfriend,” Luke said, lowering his gaze. “It's not that I think she'd mind. It's just . . .”

Claire smiled, understanding. “I was sorry to hear about the store. But I can understand if Ivy's ready to let it go.”

“Are you kidding?” Luke blinked at her. “It wasn't Grams's idea. She'd keep that place open until they carried her out in a pine box. It's my mom and Shep who've been after her to sell it, saying it's run-down and not worth fixing. It's true, the place is kind of a mess. You saw it in there.”

“It
could
stand a little updating. . . .”

Luke snorted. “It could stand
a lot
. She's got this one room, crammed with all of Dad's stuff. She has no idea what's even in there. I've tried to get her to go through it, but she puts me off every time. And the only people who come around are guys from the old days. Mooches who just want stuff for free and she gives it to 'em. Pisses me off.” He glanced up, his expression repentant. “Sorry.”

Claire smiled. “It would piss me off too.”

His gaze deepened. “Are you still angry at my mom? Because it's okay if you are. I'd understand, you know.”

Claire held herself, chilled suddenly. His question was unexpected, uncomfortable. “Luke, I really don't think we should be having this conversation. I'm sure your mom wouldn't appreciate me talking to you about all this.”

“What does she expect? It's not like she tells me anything. She didn't even tell me the truth about you and my dad until a few days ago. She said
you
left
him
.”

Jill had said that? Claire rose from the bed and walked to the dresser, absorbing the news. Seventeen years later and Jill still hadn't taken responsibility for the pain she'd caused?

And what about Ivy? Why hadn't she dispelled Jill's lie? If Ivy hadn't, she'd only done so out of love for Luke, Claire was sure. Or maybe Ivy and Jill had finally mended the broken rails of their fences.

Claire looked back at Luke, willing him to rise, to understand the impossibility of his presence in her room and excuse himself, but he seemed stuck to the edge of the bed as if it were a life raft.

She could tell he would gladly have stayed there all night if she let him.

But she couldn't let him.

“It's late,” she said, gently but firmly. “You should get home. Let me drive you back.”

“That's okay. I have my bike.”

“But it's dark.”

“I'm used to it. It's not far.”

“No.” Claire swept up her purse. “I'm driving you home and that's that.”

•   •   •

B
efore they turned onto East Ashley, Claire decided she would only pull into the driveway of Jill and Shep's home. It was too late for a visit, and with her leaving tomorrow, what was the point? There was nothing left to say, and now with this added news of the real reason for Ivy selling the shop—not to mention Jill's bald-faced lie about how Foster and Jill came to be—Claire was feeling fresh pangs of anger. She'd kept her annoyance at bay during dinner, but she didn't trust herself to keep it quiet at this late hour.

When they passed In the Curl, it was Luke who saw the telltale glow in the upstairs windows.

“Hey, Grams is home!” he cried. “Let's stop.”

Claire glanced in her rearview mirror, a rush of excitement flooding her.

But it was so late. “I don't know, Luke. I can't just show up . . .”

“Of course you can.”

“What if she's asleep?”

“Before midnight? Are you kidding?”

At the next intersection, Claire turned them around and steered into the shop's parking lot. Luke was out of the car and up the steps before Claire could stop him. His advance did the trick; Ivy appeared and hurried down the store's front steps, arms out, before Claire had even exited the driver's seat.

“Pepper.” Ivy pressed her palms to her own cheeks. “Oh, honey.”

Claire never would have imagined she could sink into another person the way she melted into Foster's mother's arms. Whatever return she thought she'd made to Folly in the days since her arrival had only been a rehearsal.

Until this moment, this embrace, she wasn't yet back.

•   •   •

S
he and Ivy never had a proper good-bye. Her departure had happened so fast—after learning that Foster and Jill were in love and preparing for a baby, Claire had packed up that same day.

Months after leaving Folly, when she'd moved into a new life in Florida, Claire had sent Ivy a long letter, an apology, for what she wasn't even sure, but it had been important to her, Claire, that Foster's mother know how much she had meant to her. Unlike Claire's own mother, Ivy had been a source of strength and comfort. The pain of Foster and Jill's betrayal was doubled. Jill didn't understand. She hadn't just taken Foster; she'd taken Ivy too.

Now, seventeen years later, Claire sat at the same breakfast table where she and Ivy had shared a final pot of tea the night before the Folly Classic, the night before everything had changed. She watched Ivy maneuver her way through the apartment's tiny kitchen, the rich scents of coconut oil and spiced tea the same as Claire remembered.