It Comes In Waves (4 page)

“Thank you but no,” she said, drawing her eyes away from his. “I don't really have time.”

“Kipper pours fast.” He nodded to the bartender, who looked up and offered her a quick wave.

Claire smiled, waved back. “I'm sure he does.”

“By the way, it's not a chain.”

“Excuse me?”

“Fins.” The man pointed his beer across the street. “I overheard what you said to Bobby just now. It's actually an independently owned shop and it's not as awful as you'd think in there.”

“Trust me,” said Claire. “Chain or not, I know what kind of phony opens a store like that. That hideous awning. It's like some kind of mouth trying to swallow up the whole street.”

The man chuckled, dimples cutting through the sun-tipped whiskers of his short beard. The bartender set down a pint in front of her, the beer's foamy head cascading down the side. Claire waved it away. “No, really,” she said. “I can't stay.”

“You sure?” he asked.

She met his eyes again, startled to feel the unexpected tug of temptation spark deep down, a forgotten place, the ripples and warmth of immediate sexual attraction.

“Your crab bites, ma'am.” The waiter appeared, rescuing her.

The man leaned back and smiled. “Maybe some other time.”

“Maybe.” Claire took the foam container quickly and thanked the waiter, glancing over her shoulder to give her neighbor a final glance as she rushed for the door.

Lizzie, she told herself. Her daughter would be waiting for her.

S
ome men made love at all hours, some only at night.

Shepherd Craven was a morning lover.

Jill hadn't known this about him until they moved in together. Before those lazy dawns when they'd had the space and privacy to explore each other whenever they wanted, their lovemaking had been dictated by darkness, and wherever they could find an available bed.

Now as the light of morning poured softly into their room alongside the creaks and sighs of a house rising with the sun, she felt his desire against her hip, then his hands around her waist to claim her in a drowsy but purposeful sweep. She shifted to allow him inside her, their bodies joining effortlessly, wordlessly, the silent symmetry of longtime love.

It was a curious thing, starting your sexual life with one lover, leaving him for a while, then returning to him after making love with someone else for almost a decade. In their early days together, before she'd fallen in love with Foster, she and Shep had struggled to find the balance in their tastes and needs. Shep was a cautious lover—athletic but quiet, agile and controlled. For Jill, comfort with sex had taken time. More than she would have imagined. For too long, she worried about everything she knew a woman wasn't supposed to worry about if she expected to derive pleasure from sex. In fact, it was years before she made love with the lights on. And then it had been with Foster. Which, of course, made perfect sense. For only with Foster had she let herself be seen in full, in ecstasy. Foster had inspired that kind of abandon. He had made love the way he'd lived: passionately, tenderly, and with his whole soul, every time.

Finished, she and Shep lay entwined, daring sleep to swallow them back up, but the day's list of responsibilities blinked in her mind like the flash of a traffic signal. There was too much to do to languish.

“I'm going to load up the cart,” Shep said, dropping a warm kiss on her shoulder before sliding out of bed.

Downstairs, Jill found Luke in the kitchen, leaning against the counter and shoveling in cereal with a soupspoon.

She stared at him. “Good Lord, are you even chewing?”

“The ESPN guys got here yesterday,” he said through a mouthful of Raisin Bran. “Amy's cousin works at the Breeze and she told me they all checked in, which means they might come by the store, so I gotta get there and tell Grams.”

Jill pulled the filter from the coffeemaker and crossed to the trash, a flutter of apprehension traveling with her. So everyone had arrived. Had Claire come too?

In the past few days, while the town had crackled and buzzed over the impending visit from the sports network, Shep had made inquiries with friends about Claire's possible involvement, her potential arrival, but no one had been sure, and the uncertainty unsettled Jill. She didn't know which worried her more: facing Claire again after so many years, or knowing that Claire's return would make her, Jill's, strained relationship with Foster's mother harder than ever. Foster's loyalty to Claire might have faded over time, but Ivy's never did.

“I thought Chuck wanted you to start on the boat today.”

Luke gulped down a last mouthful of cereal and set his bowl in the sink. “He said sometime this week.”

“Well today
is
sometime this week,” Jill informed him, smacking the filter against the side of the can to empty the grinds, harder than she'd intended.

“Ma, are you kidding me?” Luke exclaimed. “This documentary is the coolest thing that's happened to Folly since, like
, ever
, and you want me holed up at the marina mopping slips?”

Jill rolled her lips to hide a smile. Oh, the urgency of everything at seventeen. How she'd forgotten.

“I know you're excited, baby,” she said, returning to the sink, “but life can't stop just because of a surf documentary.”

“Of course I'm excited. Aren't
you
?”

Jill shrugged, drawing down the can of coffee. “I'm excited for the town, if it means business for everyone. But it's not like I was ever a surfer.”

“I don't mean all that,” he said. “I mean because you might see her. Your friend.”

Jill slowed her scooping and smiled at her son, reminded of how it was to be young and unaware of life's twists and turns, its painful discoveries, its heartbreaks. Everything could be so simple at his age. Once a friend, always a friend. Forever and ever.

Then she remembered, with a sharp pinch of remorse, that Luke didn't know the whole story.

“Gotta go, Ma,” he said, snatching his baseball cap off the chair finial and screwing it on his head. “Later!”

He flew out the back door, letting the screen bang behind him.

Shep came into the kitchen. “Where's the fire?”

“Word is the film crew rolled into town yesterday,” Jill said, reaching out to tuck in the exposed tag of his T-shirt as he leaned in to kiss her. “Luke's sure they'll be at the shop first thing.”

“Of course he is.”

Jill met his questioning eyes, knowing they shared the same thought.

“If Claire's coming for this, she's probably here now too, isn't she?” Jill asked.

Shep shrugged. “Maybe so. I'm sure Luke will have a full report when he gets home.”

Another flurry of nerves teased her skin; Jill wasn't sure she wanted a full report.

Shep pocketed his keys.

“You're leaving already?” she asked.

“I want to get a few loads in before the crowds show up.”

“But the coffee's almost ready.”

“It's okay. I'll pick up a cup at Bert's.”

She followed Shep out to the porch. “Make sure you get on Luke about this job at the marina. He's supposed to start this week.”

“You're the one who said not to rush him,” Shep pointed out.

“I know. But you were right. We don't want him to miss this chance with Chuck. I know other kids are waiting in the wings and Luke'll need that money when he starts classes in the fall. I'd hate to see him lose out, that's all.”

“I'll talk to him,” Shep assured her.

He swung the laundry over his shoulder and pulled Jill in for a quick kiss, leaving her alone on the porch with the comfort of his promise, and a nagging dread she couldn't quiet, or name.

•   •   •

P
elicans.

Standing at the balcony railing, Claire watched the five big-billed birds sail across the sky. She'd forgotten how wonderful they were, the curious grace in their otherwise clumsy mass. Watching them fly had always filled her with peace and calm, maybe because their expressions and the ease with which they drifted in the air made them appear enviably carefree.

Lizzie should be seeing this.

Claire squinted through the sliding door to see her daughter still in bed, the dark crown of her head the only visible part of her, the rest of her mummified in a tangle of blankets and sheets. She'd hoped Lizzie would wake in time to join her for her meeting with Adam Williams, but it was now ten to nine.

Stepping back into the room, Claire picked up her phone off the dresser and frowned to see the voice mail icon. Had the call come when she was in the shower?

She sat down on her bed and listened to the message.

“Hi, Claire. Adam Williams here. Hey, I'm sorry to have to do this to you at the last minute, but something's come up and I'm going to have to bail on coffee this morning. The good news is one of the show's sponsors, Gus Gallagher, has offered to go in my place. Gus owns the surf shop in Folly, Fins. He was a big deal in Santa Cruz, surfed competitively out there for years, so he knows his stuff. I told him you'd be at Salt's at ten. I've sent him the filming schedule so he can go through it with you. If you have any questions, give me a call. Otherwise, see you on set tomorrow.
Ciao!
”

Ciao?
Claire deleted the message, not sure if she was more annoyed to be dining with Adam Williams's stand-in, or that the show she was joining was funded by that god-awful surf shop. Even worse, she'd have to endure a breakfast meeting with the poser who owned the place. Her appetite waned. Maybe it was best that Lizzie
didn't
come.

Claire scribbled a few sentences on the hotel notepad, certain even as she did that her daughter was only pretending to be asleep. So much for her hope that a good night's rest would improve Lizzie's outlook. Still, it was just the first day. She'd bring back something warm and gooey with chocolate and try to sweeten her mood that way.

•   •   •

T
he crowd at Salt's Café was daunting. Claire squeezed through the bulk of customers that waited at the counter and scanned the tables beyond, hoping her host would have the good sense—not to mention courtesy—to wave her down so she didn't have to stand there looking like a total fool. Why hadn't Adam Williams described his replacement in his voice mail? She cut her gaze from one end of the room to the other, feeling lost. How would she ever find—what was his name again? Gary? Glen? Then, on a second sweep, her gaze landed on a familiar face two tables away: the man from the bar the night before. He sat alone with a coffee, scanning a newspaper. Before she could look away, he glanced up and saw her. Caught, Claire smiled weakly, not sure what else to do. He stood and waved her over.

He was even more attractive than she'd remembered him, Claire thought as she approached his table, or maybe it was just seeing him standing, the length of his body, the confident stance.

And God,
those eyes
.

“Good morning,” he said.

She nodded, as if he'd asked a question. “Hello.”

“Join me?”

“I can't,” she said, looking around. “I'm supposed to be meeting someone here.”

“I know.” He smiled. “Me.”

Claire blinked at him. What had he said?

“You didn't give me a chance to introduce myself last night.” He stuck out his hand. “Gus Gallagher. Owner of Fins, and proud sponsor of
To the Extreme
.”

Only after Claire had slipped her fingers reflexively into his and accepted his shake did she realize what this meant. Their last exchange, the disparaging comments she'd made about the store that he'd overheard—about the owner. A phony!

Claire yanked her hand free, the heat of embarrassment soaking her cheeks. “You should have said something.”

Gus pointed her to the empty seat across from him. “I would have but you rushed off.”

She frowned, sitting down. “How much time does it take to keep someone from looking like an idiot?”

He leaned forward. “In my defense, you made it kind of hard for me to come clean. You weren't exactly complimentary.”

“And if you think I'm going to apologize now and pretend I didn't mean every word, you can forget it.”

“I wouldn't expect you to. You were being honest. I like honest women.”

Good Lord. She stared at him. “Are you
flirting
with me?”

He chuckled. “If you have to ask, I must not be doing a very good job at it. Can I get you a coffee?”

Claire moved to stand. “I can get my own.”

“Sit,” he ordered, already up and stepping around the table. “How do you take it?”

“Cream,” she consented, sitting back. “Just cream.”

He wove through the crowded tables and Claire watched him, glad for the free moment to cool the rising temperature of her skin. God, what
else
had she said at the bar? She tried to remember and decided it didn't matter anyway. She stood by her opinions. Just watching the way Gus Gallagher smiled and backslapped his way to the front of the line was proof enough that he was more salesman than surfer. On his return, a woman at the table adjacent to theirs reached out to stop him. Gus obliged her request for an embrace, leaning down enough for her to press a kiss against his cheek.

She gave him a flirty shove. “I'm so mad at you!”

Claire rolled her eyes and dug into her purse for her phone, hoping to avoid overhearing their conversation, but the woman's admiration—and volume—was too effusive to be ignored.

“You promised you'd take me out on my new board last week, remember?”

“I know I did,” Claire heard Gus say, “and I'm sorry. Things got crazy at the store and I've been flat out with all these side projects.”

“How's Margot doing? She get her cast off yet?”

“Another week,” Gus answered. “Man, she's ready.”

“I'll bet. So, when's my rain check?”

“I'll call you.”

“Okay, but I'm leaving for Oahu in two weeks, so promise you'll make it soon.”

Claire glanced over to see the woman stroking Gus's arm, her hand lingering longer than Claire suspected Margot-who-was-another-week-in-a-cast would appreciate.

Men.

Gus returned and set down Claire's coffee in front of her. She scooped it up, hungry for the caffeine. “That was Liza back there,” he said, nodding over his shoulder as he lowered himself into his seat. “I promised her a surf lesson. And trust me, she needs it.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “She might be
the
worst surfer I've ever seen.”

Claire smiled tightly over her cup. “Then she's a lucky woman to have your
expert
instruction.”

“I'm sure she'd be just as happy to have
you
give her a lesson.”

“No, I'm fairly certain she wouldn't be.”

“Speaking of which . . .” Gus sat forward. “What do I have to do to get
you
back on a board while you're here?”

“Forget it. My daughter would be mortified. Besides, it's been too long. I'd wipe out before I ever got up.”

“Oh come on. . . .” He grinned. “It's true what they say, you know.”

“And what is that?”

“It's just like riding a bike.”