It Comes In Waves (17 page)

A
nd so, barely three hours after she'd left, Claire was back in Folly again. The taxi took her over the bridge, just as she'd steered herself and Lizzie along the same road a few days earlier; only this time her arrival was without fear or doubt. She glanced down at her phone in her hand. She'd left two messages with Lizzie to let her know she'd changed her plans. Nick needed to know too. He'd sent her a terse text the night before to assure her that Lizzie had arrived safely; Claire had texted him back immediately with more questions. He'd never replied.

Defiance coursed through her; no more texts, no more blow-offs. It was time for a call.

After five rings, Nick picked up. “Claire, she's fine.”

“Then why won't she call me, Nick? You need to tell her to call me. This is ridiculous.”

“I will ask her to call you.”

“Don't ask her, Nick.
Tell
her.” She worried her thumbnail. “How is she
really
?”

“She's a little mopey but she'll get over it. I was thinking it might help if we took her over to Breckenridge for a few days,” Nick said. “Stay in the village. Do it up.”

Claire swallowed a mouthful of jealousy, determined not to go down that sour road again. She would fix this with Lizzie, she would prove to her daughter she was wrong about her mother; it wasn't too late. Then she and Lizzie would get to have trips like that too. The mother-daughter trips Claire had always imagined.

Trips like what
this
one was supposed to be.

“When are you getting in today?” Nick asked.

“Actually, I've changed my plans.” Swaths of marshgrass came back into view. “I'm staying on in Folly for a few more weeks. I have an old friend here whose surf shop needs a lot of work and I want to help her.”

“Wait, I thought this trip was for the interview.”

They thumped over the bridge and passed the marina; Claire smiled wistfully. “It was.”

“So, how many weeks?”

“I don't know yet. As long as I want. As long as it takes.”

“Claire, is everything okay with you?”

You mean, besides the fact that my daughter blames me for something I didn't do, and her father whisks her away on a plane without even asking me?

“It's fine,” she said. “Why wouldn't it be?”

“This just seems a little manic, that's all. One minute you won't talk about a whole chunk of your life, and the next you're back in it trying to relive some kind of, I don't know, teenage fantasy.”

Claire closed her eyes. How could she expect him to understand?

“Tell Lizzie to call me, okay? Tell her that I love her and that I miss her and to call me.”

Claire hung up and sat back, taking several deep breaths. She asked the driver to take her straight to In the Curl, but when he delivered her to the parking lot and twisted in his seat, hand out for the fare, Claire felt the first prickle of apprehension. Had Ivy really been serious about her offer? In her impulsive fever, Claire hadn't even called Ivy to make sure.

“Ma'am?” The cabdriver shoved his opened palm at her.

“Right. Sorry.” Claire rummaged through her purse and found her wallet buried at the bottom. “Keep the change,” she said, handing him a pair of twenties.

She slid out with her luggage and waited while the taxi swerved back into the street.

The breeze picked up, ruffling the loose tendrils she'd been unable to stuff into a ponytail. Claire closed her eyes and filled her lungs with sea air, just the way she'd done at eighteen, when Foster had hurried her up the steps in his excitement to start their lives in earnest, working side by side in the shop that was to be his legacy, a legacy he intended to share with her.

So it was only fitting that his son should be there when she stepped inside.

Luke stood in the back of the store. An older man with a mop of white hair stood beside him and ran his hand reverentially along the edge of a long board. At the tinny sound of the bell, Luke looked over.

“Miss Claire?” He blinked at her. “I thought you left.”

Claire smiled. “Me too.”

•   •   •

E
ven though Foster had assured her she had nothing to worry about when he pulled the truck into the parking lot for her first official day of work at In the Curl, Claire was certain every one of her limbs trembled. Not even nine and already the parking lot and grass around the store were teeming. Young people, their age or just slightly older, milled about in shorts, barefooted or flip-flopped, their voices loud, their laughs louder. Reggae music swelled from the stereo of a roofless Jeep. A few young women in cutoff jeans and bikini tops wandered around, holding fountain drinks. A pair of dogs chased a ragged tennis ball along the rise.

Claire stared at it all like a child at a carnival, not sure where to look first or longest. Her heart raced.

Foster killed the engine and reached across the seat for her closer hand, gently loosening the fingers she'd kept fisted in her lap.

“You're not still nervous, are you?” he asked.

“Maybe a little,” she admitted.

“You could ride circles around any one of these guys. In an hour, they'll be coming to you for pointers. You wait.”

“It's not just that,” she said. “I'm not one of them. I'm not from here and everyone knows it.”

“You may not be from here, but you're here with
me
.”

Claire turned her gaze from all the activity to meet his smile, his periwinkle eyes, calmed at once by the confidence she saw within them.

But what Foster couldn't understand—what he never could, Claire would eventually decide—was that her nerves weren't over the job. After all, she had yet to see how selling boards and teaching people how to surf could be considered “work.” Her worries ran deeper. What terrified her, what had kept her up the night before and might very well keep her up many more, was the knowledge that this plan simply couldn't fail. Everything she wanted, everything she hoped to be, now rested on this life with him, and no one part alone could succeed without the success of the other parts.

“Ready?” he asked.

She wasn't, but somehow she managed a nod and to steady her legs enough to slide out of the passenger seat.

Foster raced to her side and scooped up her hand in his. “Here we go,” he said.

But she remained still. “Wait,” she said. “I just want a minute.”

“A minute for what?”

“To savor this moment.” She scanned the property. “To remember this.”

“Are you kidding? You'll be here every day. Most nights too. And then, when my mom wants to retire, it'll be our store. Yours and mine.” He took her hand and pulled her close enough to land a kiss on her mouth, the promise sealed. “Heck, you'll be so sick of this place you'll only
wish
you could forget it.”

She shook her head, her thoughts spinning. Never.

And as he tugged her forward, Claire closed her eyes and inhaled extra deep. As much as he wanted to understand, Foster King couldn't know that freedom had a scent, and dreams a taste. Those were flavors she'd waited a long time to enjoy. She wouldn't rush them from her senses.

•   •   •

C
laire came right out with it: “Ivy, I don't think you should sell the shop.”

Ivy stared at her, the smile of surprised joy still pulling up the ends of her lips. “What?”

“I'm serious,” said Claire. “It came to me this morning and I haven't stopped thinking about it since. It's obvious you're not ready to let it go, it's obvious Luke isn't either, and if you can swing the taxes, why not just keep it open?”

“Oh, honey . . .” Ivy gave her a weary look. “Sugar, it's not just that.”

“I know, I know; the repairs. Which is why I've decided to stay on a few more weeks and help you get it back into shape.”

“We're not just talking a coat of paint, Pepper.”

“So we'll get quotes. People do it all the time.”

“Pepper, honey, you know I love you, but you can't just pull out of your life—”

“Who said anything about pulling out of my life? My daughter's with her father for the next four weeks. I don't have any reason to hurry home. If that offer's still good for the pullout couch, I can stay on here and help you.” Claire smiled. “I may not be much on a surfboard anymore, but I know my way around the shop and I know the equipment. If we work fast, we could even have a grand reopening before summer's out. Show those punks at the network what they missed.”

Ivy came toward Claire with a loving smile, wagging her finger. “You sound exactly like that good-looking guy from Fins. I take it you've already been in his store?”

“Excuse me?” Claire set her hands on her hips. “What kind of traitor do you think I am?”

Ivy laughed. “He's not as bad as all that, you know. He actually offered to help me boost traffic to the store last year. Told me he wanted to see In the Curl busy as a surfing school again, wanted to bring in some West Coast guys he'd surfed with, said our stores could partner up. He was a real peach about it, but I just couldn't see it working out.”

“All I'm saying is, why not give it one more try?” Claire pressed, glancing at Luke and seeing the look of pure longing on his face.

“Come on, Grams. It's not too late.”

Ivy walked to the counter, her expression shifting as she deliberated. A myriad of emotions passed over her deeply wrinkled face—elation, concern, hope. Claire studied them like a gambler waiting for the reels of a slot machine to settle—which expression would win?

Impatient, Luke followed. “Say yes. You know you want to.”

“It's not about what I want.”

“Since when?” Luke demanded. “Don't you at least think it's worth a shot?”

“Just give it a few weeks,” said Claire, meeting them at the counter. “If it seems too much, I'll step back gracefully and get out of everyone's hair for good.”

Ivy reached out and cupped Claire's face, holding it firmly in her hands. Her eyes welled. “You rush off on me again, and this time I won't forgive you.”

I
t was bound to happen. Claire knew one day that first summer in Folly her parents would arrive unexpectedly and learn of her love for Foster without her having time to prepare them. There had been opportunities, of course, phone calls with pregnant pauses ideal for confessions, but Claire had denied them. So when a taupe Mercedes pulled into the Glasshouse's driveway on a bright August morning while she was watering the porch plants, Claire didn't recognize the car, but she definitely knew the chauffeur, a long-faced man named Harvey who had worked for their family for years.

Harvey swung open the door to the backseat and Maura Patton stepped out in a linen suit, blinking up at Claire.

“Mom?” Claire lowered the watering can so fast it sloshed over the side and soaked her bare feet. “I—I wasn't expecting you.”

Maura smiled thinly. “Clearly.”

“How did you find me here?”

“I went to your address, but no one was home, so I asked your neighbor where I could find the closest surf shop and he directed me to In the Curl. That is the name, isn't it?”

Claire reached for the railing to steady herself, dizzy suddenly.

She swallowed. “You went to the shop?”

“That Ivy woman seems to think the sun rises and sets on you. Interesting woman. Very
colorful
.” Her mother glanced at the railing, the row of pots still dripping from their recent drinks.

“This is just a friend's house,” Claire said. “I come over and water their plants when they go out of town.”

“How thoughtful of you.”

Claire looked around the porch, the driveway. What to do now? For any other visitor, she would have welcomed her inside, thinking nothing of it. But letting her mother into the Glasshouse was dangerous. Claire had left pieces of herself all over the living room, the kitchen.

In the awful silence, she madly cataloged the possible land mines of evidence behind the front door.

Her hesitation was her undoing.

Her mother stepped forward. “Would your
friends
mind terribly if I came inside for a drink of water? That is, if they leave you a key.”

Claire's stomach knotted.
Crap.

“Of course,” she said pleasantly, calmly, for what else could she do? But only after she'd turned the knob and pushed the door ajar did Claire realize she'd revealed the house to be unlocked. Too late now, she thought as she led her mother through the front room, seeing the mess of the men's interior freshly, clutter she'd never minded before. Now every pile of towels, every discarded shirt or shoe, every forgotten coffee mug, screamed at her as she walked by. Claire scanned the chaos, panicked. What items would signal alarm, suspicion? A fashion magazine on the couch, a purple cardigan of Claire's slung over the arm of a chair. Would her mother recognize it as the one she'd received last Christmas—or was her mother too horrified by the volume of litter to notice?

When they reached the kitchen, Claire took a glass from the cabinet. “We have filtered if you'd rather.”

We.
Shit.

“They,” Claire corrected. “I mean,
they
have filtered water. My friends.”

“Tap water's fine,” her mother said, surveying the kitchen with bald disdain. Dirty dishes stacked in the sink, bowls of uneaten cereal left on the table.

Claire shoved a glass under the faucet and willed the water pressure to speed up its trickle. With it three-quarters full, she handed the glass to her mother.

Her mother took a tentative, decidedly unthirsty sip, her eyes continuing to dance around the kitchen, two birds that couldn't decide where to perch.

At last, they settled on a spot behind Claire. She turned to see what had caught her mother's interest, and her skin burned.

A tilted strip of pictures from a photo booth; four damning black-and-white squares of her and Foster kissing. Deeply.

Claire stiffened, her secret out.

She fell against the sink. “His name is Foster and he's wonderful.”

“They always are,” her mother said dryly.

“You can meet him and see for yourself.”

“I already did. He was at the store.”

Claire blinked, feeling cornered, duped. “Then you knew,” she said. “When you pulled in here, you already knew why I was here. Why didn't you just say so?”

“Don't get indignant with me, Claire Louise. You're hardly one to point fingers just now.”

“Are you going to tell Dad?”

“And what exactly would you recommend I tell him? That his daughter has done exactly what he feared—what she promised she wouldn't do—and lost her heart, not to mention her mind, to a surf bum?”

“He's not a bum,” said Claire. “And I haven't lost anything.”

Her mother opened her purse, pulled out a fat envelope with the College of Charleston seal on the top, and thrust it at Claire. “I thought you'd want to look over your final schedule for next semester. It seems a little thin to your father and me. He thinks you need at least one more class.”

“I'm not going back,” Claire said evenly. “I've already withdrawn.”

“Yes, yes, we know about all that. You made some absurd phone call to the registrar, and thankfully, she had the good sense to contact Neil, who promptly contacted us and we assured him you'd been under a great deal of stress, which he completely understood, so it's fine—”

“I'm not going back to school, Mom,” Claire said again, firmer this time. “I'm not leaving Folly. I love it here. I love Foster and we're going to get married and run his family's surf shop together.”

Her mother set the letter on the counter. “Are you angry with your father? Is that what all this is about?”

Claire stared at her, incredulous. “Do you really think that's why I'm here?”

“I don't know what to think. How could I? You won't return our calls. You won't return to your home.”

“Folly
is
my home now.”

Her mother snapped her purse closed and shook her head. “I can't speak to you when you're like this. I just can't. But you are to call the school and confirm your schedule by Friday or you risk losing your first-choice classes.”

“Mom, wait.” Claire reached out to touch her mother's hand where it remained on her purse. “I don't want to fight, okay? I just want you and Daddy to be happy for me.”

Her mother slid the strap of her purse over her shoulder and held it there. “Then you've no idea what it means to be a parent. But of course, you wouldn't.”

The refrigerator shuddered as the ice maker spilled fresh cubes into the freezer, startling them both.

Claire smiled weakly. “We could walk the beach awhile.”

“Oh, Claire, really. I'm not dressed for the beach.”

“Then go barefoot.”

Her mother tilted her head, exasperated. “You can walk me out.”

At the door, Claire asked, “Why aren't
you
angry with him?”

Her mother stopped. “What?”

“You asked me if I'm living here because I'm angry at Daddy. But if anyone should be angry with him, it should be you.”

Her mother squinted out at the driveway. “I shouldn't keep Harvey waiting.”

But this time, Claire wouldn't be put off. “Not even a little bit?” she asked.

“Every marriage has its challenges, Claire. Mine are no worse or better than anyone else's.” Her mother smiled. “You'll see for yourself someday. And then we'll talk.”

•   •   •

F
ins was everything Claire had expected. Loud music, crowded with customers, and wall-to-wall merchandise. Gus Gallagher saw her before Claire saw him. When she rounded the display of rash guards and found him behind the register talking with a customer, his eyes—and smile—were already fixed on her. Three days ago she had refused to stand within ten feet of his store. Now she was inside and walking toward him, not sure if the hastening of her pulse was from the ride over on Ivy's borrowed bicycle or from seeing him again.

He excused himself from his exchange and came to the end of the counter to meet her, his eyes narrowing quizzically as she approached. “I thought you were supposed to be on a plane today.”

“I was.” She smiled at him. “Then it occurred to me I couldn't leave Folly without visiting everyone's favorite surf shop.”

“Ah. So that chill I felt this morning
was
actually hell freezing over.”

“I'll have you know I got approval from the top to be here. “I wouldn't have come otherwise.”

“That's because Ivy likes me.”

“So you said. I'm starting to wonder if there isn't a woman in Folly who doesn't.”

“I don't know. . . .” Gus rested his elbows on the counter and leaned forward. “I think there's one left who's still undecided.”

Claire met his teasing eyes. “Why didn't you tell me you offered to help her get In the Curl back on its feet?”

“She turned me down flat. Broke my heart.”

“I'm sure you healed quickly.”

“Does this mean I can take you out to dinner?”

“That depends,” Claire said. “Does it involve putting on a pair of board shorts?”

“Absolutely not.” He grinned. “Clothing is entirely optional.”

“Good, because I'm so sore from yesterday I could barely bend over to get on my shoes.”

“I could help you with that.”

“My shoes?”

“Your sore muscles.”

Claire would bet he could. She searched his face, his eyes. It had been a long time since she'd felt the flutter of attraction, the deep heat of flirtation. She'd forgotten how delicious it was.

“So.” Gus leaned closer. “Is that a yes?”

She had to be out of her mind, really. She had no business feeling so carefree, so reckless. But all she wanted was to have Gus Gallagher pour her a huge glass of wine and to sink into those gray eyes of his while she drained it.

Remember, Pepper: The curl doesn't care.

“Yes.” Claire wasn't sure if she said it or sighed it, so she answered again to be sure. “This is a yes.”