It Comes In Waves (24 page)

“And Elizabeth was here with you?” asked her mother.

“Briefly. Now she's back in Colorado with Nick.”

“And that woman he took up with? She's still in the picture?”

“Nina.”

“I can't really call her a woman, can I?” her mother asked, rolling her eyes. “She's a child, for goodness' sake. But work is going well?”

“It was a good year,” said Claire. “I had some strong students. I can't complain.”

Pierce gestured to her with his glass. “They're lucky to have you.”

Claire smiled. “I don't know about that.”

“And the town house in Boulder?” asked her mother.

“Golden, actually,” Claire corrected gently.

“Oh, that's right.
Golden.
”

“It's fine,” said Claire. “Still comfortable.”

“Oh, I'm so glad.”

Claire reached for her wine and took a long sip, letting the room fall into a comfortable quiet, a safe and all-too-familiar silence. The same one she'd tried vainly for so many years to explode. Why had she wasted so much time on the fight?

•   •   •

W
e'll have our dessert and coffee in the courtyard,” her mother announced when they'd finished. Pierce excused himself to his office and Claire followed her mother through the French doors and down into the gardens.

“Terrible news about the surfing shop,” her mother said as they took their seats. “Just fortunate no one was hurt. What will she do now, Foster's mother?”

“I'm not sure,” Claire said.

Maura's expression turned wistful. “I'm sure she was happy to see you. I remember you and she always had a close relationship.”

So much closer than ours.
That was what her mother was implying. All these years it had never occurred to Claire that her mother might have been jealous of her bond with Ivy. Now Claire swore she saw the faintest flicker of hurt pass over her mother's face, and a pang of regret sparked within her, flashing and then fading, having nowhere to go.

Claire let the subject drift off into the cool evening air and added cream to her coffee.

“Elizabeth is doing well?” her mother asked.

Claire wasn't sure how to answer. She and her mother had never shared notes on the subject of raising children—doing so now felt unnatural. Her mother's world was built on an appreciation for all things veiled and unsaid; who was Claire to demand honesty from her now? Yet as she blew across the top of her coffee, the need to press and dig and confess tugged on Claire intently. If she had gained anything from these past few days, it was that life was too short to pretend things didn't matter. Everything mattered. Just that morning at the hospital, Claire had purged more in a few hours than she had been able to do in three times as many years. It had felt good, freeing. Maybe even terrifying.

Why stop now?

“Why did you let him get away with it all those years, Mom?”

Her mother's calm expression remained so untouched that for a moment Claire wasn't sure she'd heard her. Then came a deep and heavy sigh.

“Oh, Claire.” Her mother looked pained, disappointed. “We were having such a lovely visit. Is this really necessary?”

“Both of them,” Claire said, undaunted. “You let
both
of them get away with it for so long. Why?”

Her mother lifted her coffee and took a slow sip, her hand steady, even as Claire felt her own fingers tremble so badly she didn't dare lower her cup for fear of soaking herself. “No one got away with anything,” Maura said calmly. “I knew. We all knew. What's more, we all knew we all knew.”

“But you pretended you didn't.”

“You think so?”

Claire frowned. “Didn't you hate him for it? Didn't you hate
her
? Bibi was your friend once. You trusted her.”

Her mother tilted her gaze to consider the speckled bloom of a potted moth orchid at their feet. The glow of dusk now completely gone, they'd had to turn on the outdoor lights to see each other. Under the harsh light of the courtyard's bulbs, her mother looked especially tired, Claire thought. Not so pinched. Not so fraught. Just tired.

A burst of sympathy filled her.

Her mother shook her head gently. “You always wanted to make it harder than it had to be.”

“No,” defended Claire. “I wanted things to be real. To be honest.”

“You wanted fantasy.”

“I wanted to be happy.”

A door creaked open behind them; Pierce waved out. “Y'all need anything?” he called.

“We're fine, darling. You off to bed?”

“I'm afraid so. It's late for this old man. You ladies enjoy yourselves.”

“I'll be up soon, love,” her mother said, waving back.

Claire watched the brief but tender exchange with wonder, the look of peace on her mother's face lingering even after Pierce had returned inside.

“You seem happy, Mom.”

“Does that surprise you?”

“No.” Claire smiled. “It's just nice to see, that's all.”

“What about you, Claire Louise?” Her mother's gaze was searching. “Are
you
happy?”

Tears rose before Claire could slow them. Try as she did to pretend otherwise, there was something primal in returning to one's home, one's parent. Even if you imagined you'd moved far away. A plant given too much water, the soil unable to absorb it all in time; the excess will always spill over.

“Things are hard right now,” Claire confessed. “Lizzie's angry with me. She thinks I'm trying to keep her from having a life of her own.” She turned to face her mother, struck by the simplicity of her thoughts. “I just wanted it to be different between her and me.”

“Different than what?” Maura asked.

“Than us,” Claire said.

A glimmer of hurt washed her mother's features, then disappeared. “Of course you would.” Claire couldn't be sure if her mother meant to agree or argue her point. “So, is it?”

Claire lowered her head, the clarity of her thoughts clouding again.

Maura set down her cup. “I was proud of you for your accomplishments on the water, you know. And I was quite sad for you when you stopped surfing.”

Claire looked over at her mother. It was an unprecedented confession.

Her mother smiled. “You look shocked.”

“I am. You never said anything.”

“You were so busy steeling yourself for criticism you never gave me the chance.”

Was that true?

“You were sad for me?” Claire asked.

“Yes,” said her mother, “because I could never understand, and I still can't, why you loved surfing so much that you threw away everything else to have it, only to give it up because someone broke your heart.”

Claire shrugged. “I didn't have a choice, Mom. After Foster, I couldn't make it work anymore. I wanted to but I couldn't. Every time I got up on the board, it felt wrong. Off.”

Her mother considered her a long moment without speaking, and then she drew in a deep breath. “I know you don't want to hear this from me, Claire, but I'm telling you anyway: You blame everyone for the outcome of your own choices. You always have.”

“Only the choices I didn't get to make.”

“When you let someone else choose for you, that's still your choice,” said her mother. “At some point, you have to own your part.”

Claire turned in her chair. “And what about Dad? What about his part? He refused to even see me until I apologized—and for what? Living my life? He sent me away, his only child. What kind of person does that?”

“Someone who isn't used to being rejected.”

“That's pathetic,” said Claire. “He was supposed to be my father. Not my friend.”

“And yet you want your daughter to see you as her friend?”

“I want her to see me, period.”

Her mother rolled her lips together slowly, an all too familiar gesture of quiet disagreement.

“I know your father broke your heart, Claire. Most days, he broke mine too. But we all make the choices that suit us at that moment in time, and eventually our hearts heal. And after enough excuses for why you can't make your life the way you want it, maybe it stops being everyone else's fault and becomes your own.”

•   •   •

C
laire closed the guest room door and fell against it. Her stomach ached from their too-rich dinner; her head ached from too much wine; her muscles ached from all she'd asked of them. And her heart just ached. All evening, she'd kept her phone at her side, sure Lizzie would finally return her call, but still no word came. And in its absence, the truth thundered: For all her trying, Claire hadn't managed to have a better relationship with Lizzie than she, Claire, had had with her own mother. But it wasn't too late. Despite her mother's advice, Claire was going to do things differently with her daughter. She, Claire, wouldn't let her daughter drift away.

She left another message. She'd leave a thousand if it took that.

Alone, in an unfamiliar setting, Claire felt the morning's disaster returning with full force, the uncertainty of tomorrow's plan coming with it. What exactly was she going back to, and where? The shop was lost, her few belongings lost with it, but more important, what would become of Ivy now? Despite Jill's insistence that Claire's purpose for being there was gone, Claire felt more committed than ever to staying on. Ivy would need support, understanding, patience.

Jill.

Claire undressed, replaying her fight with Jill in the stairwell, the biting words they'd spat at each other, the ones that had been simmering for such a long time, just waiting for the snap of a gate to let them finally race out.

Jill daring to question Claire's reasons for coming back, for staying to help Ivy, for encouraging her to reopen the shop.

“If you cared so much about helping her move through something painful, you should have been here for the funeral.”

Claire glared up at the ceiling, wishing she'd had a better retort.

“You blame everyone for the outcome of your own choices. You always have. . . .”

She rolled onto her side, her head throbbing.

The clock blinked at her: Was it really just nine thirty? Claire stared at it, thinking she hadn't gone to bed this early since she was, well, twelve.

She climbed under the sheet and yanked it over herself, over her head.

Over everything.

J
ill ran a brush through her ponytail one more time before stepping out of the van into the hospital parking lot. Above her, the sky churned with stubborn clouds that remained from the morning's sprinkling of rain, and the air felt tight with moisture. How she wished for sun to help her wake up, to help her feel energized for what further emotional toll lay ahead. The previous night had been long and unsettled, she, Luke, and Shep nibbling at leftovers in silence, Luke finally rising from the table and closing himself in his room. Just before midnight, he'd emerged only to ask her to wake him in time so he could go with her to the hospital to see Ivy, but this morning Jill had let him sleep on instead. He'd wake and be angry—angrier—but he'd looked so peaceful when she cracked open his door at nine. He needed rest. Ivy and she didn't agree on much, but on that Jill had no doubt their opinions would align.

The hospital seemed quieter than it had the day before, or maybe it was she who was quieter, her heart having finally slowed its frantic beat after her not knowing Luke's whereabouts after the fire. Jill would swear she hadn't stopped shaking until she finally drifted off to sleep last night.

She wasn't sure why she'd wanted to come alone. Usually she feared Ivy's company without the safety of Shep or Luke, fearful of the tension between them, but today she'd been determined to face Ivy by herself. Ivy's cough hadn't improved and the doctor wished to keep her on a third day. Tomorrow, if everything checked out, Ivy would move in with them and hope the condo complex could move her into a unit earlier than planned. Ivy had been less than enthused with the plan when she thought she had time to spare. Under this kind of urgency, Jill worried her son's grandmother would refuse the plan altogether.

At the door to Ivy's room, Jill peeked in enough to see Ivy turned away, her body unmoving. She had to be asleep. Certain she was, Jill crept in and headed for the dresser to unpack. After unzipping the bag, she heard the rustle of movement, the sandpapery squeak of voice.

“Jill?”

“Oh.” Jill looked up. “I thought you were sleeping.”

“Just resting,” Ivy said.

“How do you feel?”

“Tired. Hungry for real food. But I'm here, so there's that.” Ivy glanced to the door. “Luke with you?”

“No, I wanted him to sleep.” Jill heard the edge of defensiveness in her voice. It was reflexive; seventeen years of being made to feel like a mother with poor instincts.

“He could stand to sleep straight for a week after everything he's been through,” said Ivy. “What about Pepper?”

“What about Claire?”

“Is she okay?”

“I don't know,” Jill said. “She left the hospital and we haven't heard from her since.”

“She isn't staying with y'all?”

“Like I said, Ivy, we haven't heard from her.” Jill turned her attention back to the bag, carrying it to the end of the bed so she could explain as she unpacked. “I couldn't find the blue socks, but I brought a pair that's thick and looked warm. The tan robe seemed thin, so I brought the plaid instead. And I wasn't sure if the pillow cover was soft enough, so I brought a flannel one just in case.”

“Flannel?” Ivy rolled her eyes. “Lord, I'm already sweating my life away in this place. The last thing I need is flannel.”

“Fine,” Jill said tightly, returning the pillowcase to the bag. Lord give her patience. Ivy had been through a lot. Now was not the time to draw swords.

“You need to get in touch with Pepper, Jill. She was staying with me—now she has no place to hang her hat. Where could she have stayed last night?”

“I have no idea, Ivy. Claire's an adult. She knows where we are if she needs to reach us, but I'm sure she can fend for herself. Her mother's still in Charleston. I'm sure she has plenty of room.”

“They don't get along, you know that.”

“That's her business.”

Jill yanked the zipper closed. This was a mistake. She could just as easily have asked Shep to make the trip, to bring the clothes, to see the doctor. She lifted the bag off the dresser and crossed for the door.

She was nearly there when she heard Ivy's voice behind her.

“You should be the one to reach out, you know. After everything. It really should be
you
.”

Maybe it was the lack of sleep; maybe it was the lack of sun. Whatever the reason, Jill felt the last bit of her reserve crumble away.

She let the bag drop to the floor and turned slowly back to Ivy. “I never had a chance with you, did I?”

Ivy frowned at her. “What are you talking about?”

Jill kept her gaze leveled with Ivy's, undeterred. No, ma'am. She wouldn't come this far and let Ivy deny the elephant that had been filling their rooms for nearly twenty years.

She pulled in a fortifying breath and crossed back to the bed.

“All I ever did was love your son with my whole heart, but I was never going to be good enough for him, was I?”

“I never said that, Jill.”

“You never had to
say
it. It was in everything you did. The way you looked down at me, the way you criticized my every move, my every word.” Jill swallowed, trying vainly to hold back the tears of frustration that threatened to well up. When the first few fell, she caught them on her thumbs and brushed them off. “I think after twenty years of being dismissed, I'm entitled to know why.”

Ivy looked away, as if she'd seen a bird fly past the window.

Jill stared at her profile, waiting for some sign of understanding, of regret, of anything.

But Ivy remained unmoving, and silent.

I told you she would blame me, Foss.

Jill lowered her eyes, defeated. Taking up the bag, she turned once again to leave and said as she walked, “We'll have the extra room ready for you tomorrow.”

“Jill.”

Her hand against the door, Jill stopped. As much as she wanted to fling it open and let it slam loudly and deliciously behind her as she marched off down the hall, she remained.

When Ivy began again, her voice was smooth, resigned. Soft. “I'm sorry.”

“I didn't ask for an apology,” Jill said without turning. “I asked for a reason.”

“Maybe it was because you were everything I wasn't,” Ivy said, her voice so quiet Jill wasn't sure she even meant the words to be heard. But Jill turned and hung on every one. Ivy's face was tilted to her, her eyes watery. “And if my son loved you, if he wanted
you
, then that meant there was something wrong with
me
. That he wanted to get as far away from the person I was for him as he could. Can you understand that?”

Jill stared, speechless, the confession too painful.

Ivy sniffed. “Don't look so shocked. I didn't say it made sense.”

“I always thought it was because of Claire,” Jill said quietly. “Because you loved her first.”

“No,” Ivy said firmly. “I loved my son first.”

Jill looked away, admonished, and not even sure Ivy meant her to be.

The room quieted again, but this time it was a silence Jill could bear.

“I lost him too, Ivy,” she whispered. “I lost him too.”

Ivy lifted her eyes to Jill's, just long enough for a flicker of understanding to pass between them, brief but true, before Ivy closed her eyes and rolled her face back to the window.

It was enough, Jill decided. A start.

And this time when she returned to the door, she walked through it.

•   •   •

A
s she'd promised, Claire called Gus the minute the cab crossed the bridge into Folly the next morning. Her mother and Pierce had insisted on driving her back, but she'd demurred, telling them she wasn't sure where she was headed, which hadn't been a lie. Much to her amazement, Claire realized it might have been the first time she
hadn't
lied to her mother in a very long while.

After they enjoyed a cup of strong coffee in Gus's office at the store, he gave her a ride to his house and left her there to relax. Claire had made herself toast and shared the crusts with Margot. Now it was almost noon, a perfectly reasonable time to call someone in the hospital, she decided.

She stepped out onto the deck with her phone and asked for Ivy's room.

“Pepper?”

Claire dropped into the closest deck chair, collapsing with relief. “God, it's good to hear your voice. I called the front desk to get an update yesterday, but they wouldn't tell me anything because I'm not family.”

“First of all, you
are
family,” Ivy said. “Second, as to how I am: I'm drowning in fruit punch, they tuck me in so tightly I look like a spring roll, and the only channel that comes in is an infomercial for a motorized cane. There. Consider yourself updated.”

Claire laughed helplessly, deeply, grateful for the levity. Even in a hospital bed, her beloved shop charred and collapsed, all her belongings gone, Ivy could still find the joke.

Claire squeezed her eyes shut to quiet her grief, not wanting to alarm her.

She might have known Ivy's hearing had never aged. “Everything okay, honey?”

Margot arrived at her feet. Claire reached to pat her. “I keep thinking this is all my fault. If I hadn't pushed you to take the shop off the market . . .”

“Hush,” Ivy ordered, firmly but gently. “You didn't push me to do anything. We both know it was a pipe dream. Even before the damn thing burst into flames.”

Ivy's resignation broke Claire's heart. As she'd made the call, Claire had imagined buoying Ivy with talk of how to proceed with the repairs, that maybe the damage wasn't as bad as they feared, that it didn't have to mean the end of their plan.

But Ivy never did need anyone to soften life's blows.

“Luke was so excited,” Claire whispered. “He'll be crushed.”

“He'll live. He'll get on with it. Now it's your turn.”

Claire glanced around the deck, letting Ivy's advice settle over her. She recalled Gus's words out here the other night. How he believed he'd come to Folly to face his problems when really he'd been avoiding them. Hiding out. Had she been doing the same? Throwing herself into Ivy's life, into the shop, into that world again to avoid having to go back to her own, the one so fraught with problems she couldn't seem to solve?

“It's been such a gift to see you, Pepper,” Ivy said. “I can't begin to tell you, having you back here, taking me back to so much joy. But you have a home that needs you. A daughter who needs you.”

Sadness swept over her again. “She
doesn't
need me,” Claire said with a teary laugh. “That's the problem.”

“Oh, you bet she does. Even if she doesn't know it right now.”

“Then when?” asked Claire. “When will she know?”

“Who can say? Time is one hell of a brat that way. She takes as long as she takes, honey. There's no pushing her. Believe me, I've tried.”

There was such comfort in Ivy's words. Claire wrapped herself in them like a bedspread and raised her face to the sky.

•   •   •

T
he air seemed warmer when Jill climbed out of the van and took the steps to the porch. Walking into her house, she felt different somehow. Lighter. Newer. As if someone had opened all the windows and blown every surface clean of dust.

She found Luke in the living room, reading on the couch, and she smiled before he saw her arrive, grateful just to see him, to find him home. She'd been so careful to hide pieces of her hurt from him, so sure she could reinvent the truth to spare his tender heart.

Now she moved to her son without hesitation, wanting him to see the evidence of her tears, the proof of her heartache and her apology and her fears. A parent's love was all these things, every minute. Her mother had taught her that.

Maybe, in very different ways, Ivy had taught her that too.

“Mom?” Worry flashed across Luke's face when he looked up and saw her approach. She took a seat beside him. “Is everything okay? Did something happen to Grams?”

“No, she's fine. I'm sorry I didn't wake you this morning.”

“It's okay. I guess I was more tired than I realized.” He looked at her a moment, his eyes fraught. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“Are you glad it's gone? Maybe not glad. Maybe relieved,” he decided. “So, are you?”

“I think I'm relieved it's over,” she admitted, speaking slowly, carefully—not because she feared her own honesty but because she wanted to embrace it. “I think sometimes we get stuck and we need life to tow us out, but no,” she said, “I'm not glad. I'm relieved and I'm sad. Because it
is
gone. Because it's really gone.”

Luke frowned. “I don't know what to feel,” he said. “The way Grams was these past few days, happier than ever, excited again. I wanted her to keep that. But then a part of me knew opening the shop back up was never going to happen. And then I feel bad for thinking that way, because it's like Dad still lived there and as long as it was here,
he
was still here too. . . .” He squinted. “Does that make any sense?”

“All the sense in the world.”

His eyes glistened. “Some days I can't remember what his voice sounded like.” She reached for him. He took her hand and held it. “It's been hard for you, hasn't it?”

“Sometimes,” Jill said. “Only sometimes.”

Luke looked at her and smiled. “I'm glad she came, Ma. Your old friend. I'm glad I met her.”

Tears flooded her eyes. “Me too, baby,” Jill said. “I'm glad I met her too.”