It Comes In Waves (25 page)

I
t had been an aimless afternoon, hours lost without responsibility. Claire couldn't recall the last time she'd whiled away a whole afternoon with no greater purpose than being on the beach. No, she could: The four of them used to do that regularly, without consequence, without guilt.

Like then, today she truly had nowhere to be.

Now the beach was winding down with the day, the crowds thinning, the surfers losing their breaks and emptying out of the water, their wet boards and bodies reflecting the rosy glow of the setting sun.

They'd loved this time of day best of all. The four of them making sure to schedule one night a week when they would meet on the beach with dinner and beer packed, build a raging bonfire, and then unload their work horror stories around its crackling, climbing flames. They'd design grand plans for the weekend ahead, ambitious plans that would always be derailed by the discovery of no more beer after sunset, when Foster and Shep would make a run to Bert's. In their absence, Claire and Jill would inhale whatever decadent dessert Jill had packed and get high on sugar.

It was rare for Jill to drink too much—that had always been Claire's forte. But one night, to celebrate Shep and Jill's recent engagement (Claire and Foster couldn't be far behind!), Jill had joined them all by getting thoroughly drunk on rum and Cokes.

One and a half Solo cups in, Jill was weaving like a palmetto frond.

By the time they'd gotten the bonfire roaring, the liquor was nearly drained. Refusing to sit around a bonfire without beer, Foster and Shep had charged up the beach for reserves. For Claire, the lapping, snapping flames of the fire were like a hypnotist's swinging watch, settling her excitement down to a relaxed level. She and Jill had sprawled out beside the warmth and stared up at the sky until the stars revealed themselves through the veil of smoke.

“It won't always be like this, you know,” Jill said.

Claire turned her head in the sand and searched Jill's profile in the fire's brightness, a strange panic piercing the cozy walls of her buzz. Moments ago, they'd been in hysterics, light as the sparks that rose to the sky. Now the air seemed colder, blacker. Claire wanted Jill to take the words back.

Claire sat up. “Don't say that,” she ordered. “We'll always make time for each other. We'll always make sure to have nights like this.”

“Not after we have kids, we won't.”

Claire waved her hand impatiently. “That's a long way away.”

“It only seems like it,” said Jill.

Dizzy from her speedy rise, Claire lay back down, twisting herself again into the groove she'd carved out with her rear and shoulders in the sand. “I hope we never change,” she said, looking up.

“You don't mean that.” Now it was Jill who sat up. “You would honestly want this forever? The four of us living like kids at sleepover camp? Never growing up?”

Claire smiled dreamily. “It has its moments.”

“But it's not real life.”

“What's real life?” Claire asked. “Marriages that turn ugly and combust? Jobs that make us miserable and fat? Houses we can't afford?”

Jill grabbed a handful of sand and let it sift through her fingers. “It's not all bad, you know. Growing up. Settling down.”

“We are settled down,” Claire said. “Look at the four of us. We have jobs, furniture, bills. We're already practically married.”

“It's not the same thing. It's not real.”

“Of course it is. It's real enough.”

“Not for me,” said Jill, looking longingly toward the dunes.

“This conversation is turning depressing.” Claire rolled over and reached for the Thermos. “We need to keep drinking.”

So they did. And in spite of the lingering weight of Jill's words, the palpable sense that something permanent had shifted between them to forever break the magic spell of their world, they'd laughed the whole way home, laughed until they'd dropped into their beds, dizzy and spinning and ready to dream.

In so many ways, Claire realized, it had all just been one long dream.

“Somehow I thought I'd find you here.”

Startled out of her memories, Claire turned at the man's voice and saw Shep walking down the beach toward her. For a strange second, her brain still stuck in memory, he was old Shep, returned from Bert's with more beer.

And for a beautiful, fleeting moment, the past few days and all their drama didn't exist.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked.

Claire smiled. “Not at all.”

He lowered himself beside her on the sand. They stared in silence at the water, watching a sandpiper skitter up and down the shore.

“Foss was so tired that day.”

Claire turned to Shep at the admission. So many times this visit she'd wanted to ask the details of Foster's death, but how could she?

She studied Shep's profile as he squinted out into the distance, grateful for the information, hoping for more.

“He only went in because I was having a shitty day, you know. He hadn't surfed in months before that—maybe a year. Then I ran into him filling up at Red's and he could see I was having a bad time of it, so he figured why not take a ride, for old times' sake. That was Foss for you. Always wanting to make someone feel better about himself.” Shep's smile thinned; his eyes darkened. “The chop was fierce and he was exhausted, I could see it.” A wash of tears filled his eyes, mottled the skin of his neck. He swallowed hard. “I never should have let him go in.”

Claire touched Shep's hand. “It wasn't your fault.”

Shep wiped his eyes harshly with the sleeve of his sweatshirt, but he didn't concur.

“You never hated him for loving her, did you?” she asked.

“Are you kidding?” Shep smiled through his tears. “You couldn't hate Foss. That was the lousiest part of it all. You
wanted
to hate him, but you couldn't. And man, I tried; believe me.”

“I know,” Claire admitted. “So did I.”

Shep reached down for a shell and pried it out of the sand.

“It had to be hard for you,” Claire said. “Staying here afterward. Seeing them everywhere. You never wanted to leave?”

“Every day.”

“So why didn't you?”

“My life was here,” he said. “My family. My house. My friends. Where was I gonna go?” He studied the unearthed shell a minute longer, then hurled it toward the surf. “Honestly, it always surprised me that you left, Claire. I always thought, no matter what, you'd never leave your waves.”

Her waves.
Claire felt tears of regret rise again and she shifted her gaze to the sea.

“Shep, the things I said the other day—about you being weak . . . I'm sorry. It's not true.”

He sniffed. “Yeah, it is,” he said. “I'm weak as hell. But I love her, Claire. I never stopped. I've always loved Jill and I always will. So if that makes me weak, so be it. I'd rather be weak with her than strong without her.”

“She's stronger with you.”

“Maybe. But it's not like before. I stupidly thought it could be, but of course it couldn't. In some ways, it's better. Little stuff. Knowing that thing you're so afraid of is behind you. Nothing seems scary—nothing seems untouchable either,” he added with a sad smile, “but there's peace in that too.”

Peace. Claire stared out at the water, hanging on that word, thinking how remarkable it was, how simple.

“I'm leaving tomorrow,” she said.

“Are you sure?” Shep frowned. “You don't have to rush out.”

She nodded. “This time I do. Jill was right. You both were. I had no business staying on here in the first place, pretending I'm still part of all this. I've been hiding, making excuses so I wouldn't have to fix what's broken in my own home. I've got a lot of work to do.”

“If you need a place to stay tonight, you can stay at the house.”

“I've got a place,” she said. “I'll be fine.”

“Then at least come back to say good-bye. At least something before you go away again.”

Claire searched his face, the confession so close to the surface, so nearly ready to come out.

Or maybe it did without her knowing.

“Don't worry.” Shep smiled. “She's missed you too.”

•   •   •

J
ill was in the kitchen when Shep led Claire inside, the smell of roasting chicken growing more fragrant with each step. Claire had waited while Shep called Jill from the beach, telling her that they were on their way home and that Claire was coming to say good-bye, giving Jill time to prepare.

So when Jill turned from the stove and saw Claire in the doorway, her face was relaxed.

Claire hoped hers looked the same.

Jill wiped her hands on a dish towel and threaded it through the fridge's handle. “Can I get you a glass of wine?” she asked. “Some sweet tea?”

Claire shook her head. “I'm fine.”

Shep touched Claire on the shoulder. “I have a few things to catch up on in the garage,” he said, walking off. “Give me a holler when you're ready to go and I'll give you a ride to Gus's house.”

Jill looked startled. “Gus who owns Fins, Gus?”

“Turns out he's the one who suggested me for the documentary in the first place.”

“Oh. I don't really know him, but he's well liked. And he's definitely attractive.”

Claire smiled. “That he is.”

The two women regarded each other a long moment. Twenty years ago, news like this would have brought their worlds to a halt. Whatever they'd been doing, they would have stopped immediately, slid into chairs around the table with a bottle of wine, and not risen until it was empty and Claire had spilled every last juicy detail of her new romance.

For a second, Claire believed she saw the same thought flash across Jill's face before she looked away.

“You can stay here tonight, you know,” Jill said.

“It's okay. I have an early flight. And I know you need to get that room ready for Ivy.”

Jill nodded, but it wasn't an impatient gesture. Her eyes were soft again, the way they used to be when she and Claire would confer alone, when they were closer than Claire had ever been to a friend.

Jill's voice was soft again too. The hard, defensive edge it had possessed for the last few days, gone.

“We'll take good care of her, Claire.”

“I know you will.” Claire saw Jill's glass of wine on the counter and wished she hadn't declined one so quickly. “It hasn't been easy, has it?”

Jill smiled sadly. “Which part?”

This should have been the moment, Claire thought as they stood there, the moment when they would apologize to each other, or burst into tears, even embrace.

But what had taken years to tangle might take years to unravel.

Neither moved; neither spoke.

She takes as long as she takes.

“I should get going,” Claire said.

“You sure you don't want to wait for Luke? He should be back any minute.”

“That's okay. Tell him good-bye for me.” She smiled. “And tell him I feel very lucky to have gotten to know him.”

“You'll see him again and you can tell him yourself,” Jill said.

When they reached the front door, Claire slowed, feeling a jolt of sadness again, reminded of the days when good-byes and hellos had never been strained between them, never forced, never premeditated. In time, maybe they wouldn't be again.

Claire picked up her purse from the bench in the entry and turned to Jill, struggling to decide what to say next, when a shudder of thought passed over Jill's face. Her eyes rounded.

“Can you wait just a second?” Jill asked.

Claire watched her dash up the stairs, listened to a quick pattering of feet, and then Jill was back, carrying an envelope.

When she reached Claire, she held it out. “This belongs to you.”

“What is it?”

Jill shrugged. “I don't know. I never opened it.”

Claire turned it over and read the impossible names on the front, hers, Foster's. She looked up at Jill.

“Foss tried to mail it to you the year before he died,” Jill said. “He never knew it didn't reach you.”

“You didn't throw it away?”

“Oh no, I did,” Jill said flatly. “For two whole days. Then guilt kicked in and I raced out to the garbage can in the middle of the night, tore open the bag, and rescued it.” Jill pointed to a dried brown stain along one edge. “Coffee grinds.”

Claire smiled. It was almost funny. “Thanks. I think.”

“Just do me a favor, okay?” said Jill. “Don't open it here. And don't tell me what it says, because I don't want to know.”

“Maybe I don't want to know either.”

“Then
you
throw it away,” said Jill. “Whatever is inside is yours.”

Claire stared down at the letter, struck at the irony of it. All those months she'd pleaded for Foster to send her a letter, just one for every ten that she was sending him.

He finally did.

•   •   •

T
he hammock creaked under the weight of their reclining bodies, the crackle of the aged braided ropes comforting, lulling as it matched the rhythm of the surf in the distance. Claire and Gus passed a beer back and forth, taking long, lazy sips. Above, the sky was a field of pinpricks surrounding the slivered moon. Claire smiled up at it.

“Ever made love in a hammock?” she asked.

Gus chuckled, took his swig. “Is that a challenge?”

She laughed and stole the bottle from him. “Maybe.”

The breeze picked up. Claire could smell someone grilling fish several houses away, smoky and tangy.

“Suddenly I'm starving,” she said.

“We could take a drive up to the Trap. Bring back a Captain's Platter and eat it on the beach.”