It Comes In Waves (19 page)

“No, I mean for everything,” she said. “For tonight. For getting me back here. Even if I had no business being on that beach yesterday.”

“Hey.” Gus leveled a stern look at her. “You had every right being on that beach. Anyone worth their chops knows that.”

“Maybe.” Claire tore off a piece of her sandwich and watched the threads of melted cheese thin. “My ex-husband thinks I'm having a midlife crisis.”

“This coming from a man who left his wife for one of his students.”

She smiled gratefully at him. “Maybe he's right.”

“What if he is?” said Gus. “What's so wrong with mixing things up?”

“Because I'm not that kind of person anymore.”

“And what kind of person is that?”

The kind that agrees to a date with a man she barely knows,
Claire thought as she stared back into his unrelenting gray eyes.
The kind who, just an hour earlier, sprinkled scented powder all over her skin like fairy dust because she hopes this man she barely knows will make love to her before the night is out.
She bit deeply into the fattest part of her sandwich, the bread soaked with butter, the cheddar still soft and warm, the sliced tomato slightly crisp.

A simple grilled cheese sandwich.

She couldn't remember anything ever tasting so good in her whole life.

Gus studied her. “The woman I saw that day on her board was fearless.”

Claire lifted her glass, considering the sprinkling of salt along the rim. “The woman you saw that day was a girl who didn't know better.”

“I know what I saw,” he said. “And I know what it takes to ride like that. That kind of nerve isn't something you lose. You can bury it but it's still there.”

“I was fearless then because I had no reason to fear anything. It never occurred to me to be afraid that something might not work out.”

“And now?”

Claire took a sip and shrugged. “Now I know how fragile everything is. How quickly it can all be taken away.”

“You asked me why I left the West Coast. . . .” Gus reached for his drink. “It wasn't just wanting out of the surfing scene. It was more like resigning before they could fire me.”

Claire considered him over the top of her margarita, wondering if it was the cast of the sun or the shift in topics that tightened his features, the easy rise of his smile nearly gone.

He took a sip and swallowed hard. “I was a kid when I got on the circuit, and I got big fast. Sponsors wooing me, money all over the place. I wasn't exactly well-behaved.” He looked at her. “Stop me if you've heard this one before.”

“Everyone's story is different.”

“I don't know about that,” he said. “I came here to hide out, just like everybody else who burns their bridges and wants to pretend they don't need them to get back.”

“Did you?”

“Absolutely,” he said. “It took a while, but I built them up again. Now you know.” He shook the ice around in his glass and took another swig.

She searched his face as he drank, moved by his confession, his honesty. It comforted her to know she wasn't the only one who'd seen dark days. Not that she imagined she was.

“Did you ever compete again?”

“A little,” he said. “Charity rides, mostly. Good causes, good people. Honestly, I was glad to quit the circuit. Now I'm the sponsor who has to put up with the punk kid I
used
to be.”

“Ah.” She smiled. “Karma.”

“So what brought
you
here?”

“You did, apparently.”

“No, I mean, what is it you wanted to do here?”

Claire shrugged. “At first, I just wanted to get away with my daughter for a few days, to get her away from her boyfriend. But now . . .” She looked at him. “Now there are other reasons. Other people.”

Gus nodded. “Ivy.”

“I want to help her keep her shop. It's everything to her.”

“Maybe it's still something to you too.”

His eyes searched hers; Claire felt certain he could see a part of her she'd lost. That girl who knew that timing was what you made it, that opportunity was something to be seized. The one who took on Harp Patton and didn't surrender. The one who cut her own path and carved her own wave. The one any daughter would be proud to have as a mother.

Claire wanted that woman back. She had left her here, on this beach. She could retrieve her. It wasn't too late.

She shifted her eyes to the water. Out there, her world had been exactly what she'd wanted it to be.

Out there, everything had been perfect and possible.

To know that kind of bliss once more, even for a second.

She clapped her hands clean of crumbs and grease and rose.

“I want to ride,” she announced.

Gus blinked at her. “You sure you're not too sore?”

She was, of course. Just standing up had brought with it reminding bolts of pain.

So what?

Claire reached for her margarita and drained it. “I'm sure.”

•   •   •

T
his time, she didn't stop to survey her hips or her belly or the cut of her rash vest or the rise of her board shorts. She slid out of her clothes and into her uniform with the speed she had possessed twenty years earlier. When Gus handed her a long board, she tucked it under her arm and carried it down to the beach, walking beside him toward the Washout. If he was right—that nerve was something you buried—then all she had to do was paddle out to uncover it. She squinted into the sky, the sun hanging in that sweet spot of dusk, its harshness faded. You could almost stare at it, its glow as soft as that of a flickering porch bulb.

She was determined not to exhaust herself getting through the surf, so she paddled around the waves she couldn't duck-dive or turtle-roll. Finally outside, she joined Gus in the stillness where he sat on his board, bobbing easily on the calm water. Nothing could touch her now.

When the first break neared, she dropped down beside Gus, turned to face the beach, and paddled hard.

This time, her body moved without a thought. In one smooth motion, she threw her feet under her chest with the speed she'd feared she'd lost. The day before, her pop-ups had been choppy, clunky, too slow. Once she was up, everything came back—and everything fell away. Fear, doubt, regret, longing—all of it blending into one big soup that washed into the break. Arms and feet moved in unison. All the moments she'd treasured returned: the sunlight through the wave, seeing the white water come down her back.

For nearly an hour, even as her muscles cried for her to stop, Claire kept pace with Gus until the fortunate breaks waned. Gus waved her to shore; she followed him in.

Out of the water, they climbed the beach to where the sand was dry, abandoned their boards, ripped off their leash straps, and collapsed side by side. For several moments, they didn't speak, only lay there, winded, blinking up at the sky and letting their breathing slow.

Gus rose on his elbows and looked over at her. “How do you feel?”

“Incredible.” Claire turned her head to his. “How did I look?”

He rolled toward her. “Fierce.”

“Liar.”

This close, she could feel the cool water on his skin, his breath. Droplets glistened on his beard, the curves of his hair.

“I told you I won't sleep with you,” she said.

He leaned closer and whispered huskily, “So we won't sleep.”

•   •   •

I
t was almost fully dark by the time they returned to the cottage. Gus laid their boards against the railing and led Claire up the steps to the deck. Margot waited by the slider and stepped back when they came inside.

“She seems nervous,” said Claire.

Gus pushed wet ropes of hair off her face. “So do you.”

“I'm not nervous.”

“Your teeth are chattering.”

“I'm cold.”

“You're soaked,” he said, cupping her cheek. “You need warming up.”

Claire stared at him as he traced her bottom lip with his thumb, her stomach as tight as her hands at her side. Why hadn't he kissed her yet? Didn't he want to? She felt young and foolish and unsure and a thousand other things that were pulling her farther and farther from the delirium she'd felt on the water and then the beach.

“Maybe I
am
a little nervous,” she confessed. “It's been a long time for me . . .” She looked up at him expectantly. “And this is the part where you say, ‘Don't worry, Claire. It's been a long time for me too.'”

Gus shrugged. “It's been two weeks.”

Two weeks? Color flooded her cheeks. “You really know how to make a girl feel special.” Embarrassed, Claire tried to wriggle free; Gus held her fast.

“Hey,” he said, his voice deep but tender. “Give me a break, okay? I didn't know you two weeks ago.”

She stilled, relenting. He searched her face and she let him, feeling her comfort return, her desire, her longing.

“I don't want to be alone,” she whispered.

He lowered his mouth over hers. “Then don't be.”

•   •   •

T
hey made love twice before they finally gave in to sleep, collapsing, deliriously spent, as they had done on the beach hours earlier. In the shower, he'd pulled seaweed off her skin where it had snuck under her rash guard, pressed into her rear, the backs of her thighs; he'd peeled off shell chips from the fullest part of her breasts and just below her belly button; he'd combed sand and salt from her hair with his fingers, turned her around, and scrubbed her scalp hard enough to make her moan. By the time they turned off the water and climbed into his bed, her body was a freshly lit match, every inch of her skin inflamed, and he knew what he'd done to her. He grinned as he did even more, licking off whatever salt remained, hard-to-reach places, and places all too easy to find.

Drifting off, she listened to the lullaby of sounds, the lazy crash of surf, the faint tapping of dog nails across the bedroom floor, the even breathing of the man lying beside her whose callused fingers remained curved over her bare hip. She felt a fleeting pinch of guilt for all she'd put aside to have this moment to herself, for herself, this night, fears that she was selfish and a bad mother, but then sleep rescued her, forgiving her so she didn't have to forgive herself.

I
vy woke to the sound of a lawn mower starting, a sluggish groan that could have belonged to a snoring lover or a hungry mosquito. She rose and dragged her hair behind her ears, slowing at the window to test the breeze that blew in. At eight thirty, the sun was already strong and the air thick with its heat. On her way to the kitchen, she stepped downstairs into the guest suite and smiled to see Claire's bed was still made.

Women could predict things about each other. Tiny signals, missed so often by men, even those men who imagined themselves psychic when it came to a woman's moods and needs; a look cut short; a laugh that started small and turned loud in an instant. To those who witnessed impending lovers, attraction was as apparent as a smell. The moment Gus Gallagher arrived, the breeze had hastened with electricity, like the thick air in those moments before an afternoon thunderstorm, when the light turns a silvery pink and nothing moves.

Ivy had felt that way about Foster's father, sure everyone within twenty miles of them had sensed their passion. She'd been chased by boys her whole life and grown accustomed to their clumsy urgency, boys who kissed as if they were trying to squish a bug on her lips, boys who touched her as if the end-of-the-quarter horn would blow at any second, which, at their undisciplined age, was an accurate comparison.

But Ladd King was a man. He was only twenty-six days older than she was, but he had already lived all over the world. He'd surfed Pipeline and Mavericks. He'd made love to women twice his age and claimed, when Ivy had finally dared to press, they had enlightened him on the beauty of leisure in bed. He'd told Ivy that making love wasn't so different from surfing, that he understood waves as he understood women, both unpredictable, needing total attention and focus, and that no two were ever alike.

Ivy had been seeing two boys when Ladd King rode into town the summer of her nineteenth year. By the end of his first week in Folly, she belonged to him as firmly as a star belongs to the sky. She hadn't known then that stars were nothing more than explosions of gas.

The first time Ivy met Claire Patton, it was like looking into a mirror. Claire was fearless, feisty, and unabashedly enamored of her son. Ivy had adored the girl at once. When it was clear that Foster did too, Ivy mothered their affection as if it were a rescued baby bird with slim chance for survival. Ivy knew how distance could cool the fires of young love, but with every letter that arrived, every phone call, Ivy watched her son's eyes ignite all over again. When Claire moved to Folly the following summer, Ivy was relieved but she wanted to be certain.

“You love her, don't you?” she had asked.

Foster had hesitated in answering; Ivy was sure she knew why. He worried that she, his mother, would feel unneeded, cast aside, that there would be a question of having to choose.

“I think you do,” she said, wanting to put his fears to rest. “She's one of us, Fossie. And she's so good for you. Anyone can see that.”

Still, he'd looked unsure.

“There are all kinds of love, baby,” she said, taking his hands. “One doesn't have to replace the other. They can all live in the same heart. You don't have to worry about that.”

Breaking someone's heart is a certain kind of pain—for both lovers. Ivy had grieved as much for her son having to hurt Claire as she had for Claire being hurt. It shredded her soul. And then, without a good-bye, Claire left.

Now she was back. And she'd returned with a dose of inspiration that Ivy had been missing. She, Ivy, had woken this morning with the same excitement she'd gone to sleep with the night before; the shop would remain hers, and they'd reopen it for business. She would have to tell Shep and Jill her decision, of course. She'd already spoken with Lee Reynolds, the Realtor, instructing him to remove the listing, so it was only a matter of time before the news made its way around. Shep and Jill would be contentious, maybe even outraged. Let them be, Ivy thought as she nursed a mug of green tea at the sink and stared out at the view of the beach. This was still her property, still her decision to make. Still her life.

Coming downstairs into the shop a few minutes later, she smiled to find Claire kneeling in front of a display of fins, carefully working a sponge over each one, a bucket of soapy water beside her.

“Good morning.”

Claire spun around. “I hope I didn't wake you.”

“How long have you been down here?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, judging by the fact that the lights are on and it's bright sun, I'll guess you got here when it was still dark, you crazy girl.”

“What can I say?” Claire shrugged. “I was excited to get started. It's been a while. I needed to reacquaint myself with the inventory.”

“I think the better question is why are you here wiping down fins when you could be eating scrambled eggs in bed with that yummy man?”

“I left him a note.”

Ivy sighed. “Oh, honey. You don't leave a man like that a note.”

Claire returned the fin to its slot and looked at Ivy. “I can't believe I'm here with you. I can't believe I'm here at all.”

She dropped the sponge into the bucket and wiped her hands on her rear. When she looked up, her eyes pooled with tears. “I'm sorry.” Claire swallowed, sniffed. “It just hits me every now and then, you know?” She swiped at her wet cheeks. “It's not that he's not here with me. . . . It's that he's not here
at all
.”

“But he is, sweetie.” Ivy came down beside Claire and wiped at the tear she'd missed. “He's all over this place,” she said, gesturing to the displays. “He's everywhere I look. Everything I touch. Why do you think I never changed a damn thing in all these years? This is my memorial. This is where I come to be with my son. Don't make me go to some hole in the ground.”

Claire's body shook with sobs, an unstoppable rush of sorrow that Ivy suspected she had been swallowing since she arrived. Ivy turned, arms out, and Claire fell against her.

Ivy stroked her hair. “Speaking of mothers . . . have you seen yours yet?”

Claire leaned back to meet Ivy's eyes. “Not yet,” she admitted. “I should. I
will
.” She looked away. “I didn't tell her I was coming.”

The complicated stitches of children and parents, Ivy thought: a sweater never quite finished.

Claire looked past Ivy to the wall, her gaze drifting over the photos of her and Foster surfing. “I think he just loved me because you approved of me. Because he wanted to please
you
.”

“No. His love was his own.”

“But it wasn't enough.”

“What's enough?” asked Ivy. “We love as deeply as we can. For as long as we can. Sometimes that measure isn't the same for two people. But it doesn't mean it isn't real.”

Ivy reached out and smoothed a loose lock of hair behind Claire's ear. The soft crunch of bicycle tires sailed through the open window. In the next minute, Luke appeared at the door, wearing a proud smile and holding up a pair of white take-out bags.

“Breakfast is served. Anyone hungry?”

At the counter, they unpacked egg sandwiches, bowls of cheese grits, and dug in. Between bites, they scanned the shop, but Ivy's eyes kept returning to one area of the store in particular, one door, to a room she hadn't ventured into for too long.

To Claire and Luke, she said, “If we're serious about getting this place back into shape, then we need to clean out more than just dust.”

Still chewing a chunk of his sandwich, Luke looked at her, his eyes shining with understanding.

Ivy reached out and stroked his cheek. “You up for it, honey? That room's a biggie.”

He smiled, tears rising. Ivy watched him swallow and take in a long breath, a swimmer preparing for a deep dive.

“I am if you are, Grams.”