It Comes In Waves (5 page)

Claire set down her coffee. “I haven't been on one of those lately either.”

“Then you should prepare yourself. Surfing's a very different sport now than the one you left.”

“Shouldn't we talk about the interview?” she said. “Adam said you'd have details for me about tomorrow.”

“He'll have a car pick you up at the hotel at a quarter to ten,” said Gus. “I'd bring some sunscreen and a good book. I'll bet they'll have you out there most of the day.”

Most of the day? “How much do they think I have to say?” she asked.

“Someone with your history and your talent? A lot, I'm sure.”

Claire glanced at his travel cup. “You always bring your own mug?”

“Are you kidding?” He snorted. “I bring my own
coffee
. Between you and me, I'm not a big fan of this place. It's trendy and overpriced, but Adam already had this lined up, so I didn't want to rock the boat.”

“Overpriced and trendy, huh?” she repeated pointedly.
“Really?”

“My store isn't trendy.”

“Just overpriced?”

Gus met her narrowed gaze, his gray eyes flashing with earnestness. “I'm not a bad guy, Claire. I'm just an ex-surfer who still loves the sport and loves helping people do it right. I won't apologize for that.”

“Even if it means putting someone else out of business?”

“Now, hold on. I haven't put anyone out of business.”

“Clearly you have. The waiter at the Trap said In the Curl was for sale.”

“That wasn't Fins' doing. Business has been slow for Ivy for years. She just felt it was time to retire, that's all.”

Claire bristled at the easy way he used Foster's mother's name, as if they were good friends.

“And Ivy told you this?” she asked skeptically.

“In so many words.”

Claire stared at him, unconvinced.

“But I'm sure you've been out there already and talked to her yourself,” he said.

Shame tightened her throat. It was, of course, damn nervy of her to question his affection for Ivy when she herself hadn't even put in a call to let Ivy know she was here.

“No,” Claire admitted quietly. “I haven't had a chance yet.”

Gus settled back into his chair and stretched out his legs. “When was the last time you saw it?”

When? God . . . Claire studied her coffee before she took another sip, unsure of her measure. She “saw” the shop long after her last visit there. For years its crowded interior was the constant backdrop of her dreams. Did that count?

She swallowed her coffee. “It's been a while.”

“From what I hear, it never changed.”

“I'm glad.”

“Don't be,” said Gus. “Change is crucial when you're trying to compete in a growing market.”

“Maybe Ivy didn't want to compete.”

“Trust me; everybody wants to compete.” Gus reached for his coffee. “You did once, didn't you?”

She met his gaze across the table, startled at the bald challenge in it. What did he know about what she'd wanted?

“Look,” Gus said. “I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

“You mean the one you let me insert directly into my mouth?”

“I'd like to make it up to you. Let me buy you dinner.”

“That's not necessary.”

“I didn't say it was necessary. I said I'd like to.”

Claire squinted at him. “I'm not sure
Margot
would appreciate you taking me to dinner.”

“You'd be surprised.” He smiled. “Margot's
very
understanding.”

“How nice for you.” She pushed out her chair and stood. “My daughter's waiting for me. I promised I'd bring her breakfast.”

“Let me order her something from here and put it on the network's tab,” he offered. “The huevos are out of this world.”

“Thanks, but I'll get her something from the bakery down the road.”

“If you mean the Flour Pot, it closed two years ago.”

“Oh.” Claire stared at him a moment, startled by the news. The Flour Pot, gone? Their apple turnovers had been everyone's hangover cure of choice in the day.

Gus rose. “So I'll see you tomorrow.”

“You're coming?”

“The famous Pepper Patton back at the Washout?” He grinned, matching dimples winking back at her. “Hell, I wouldn't miss it.”

The mention of her old nickname was as unbalancing as if he'd tipped her over with his hands. She turned to escape the maze of chairs and tables that surrounded them, colliding with several on her mad dash to reach the exit.

•   •   •

G
od, when had it turned so humid?

Back in the hotel elevator, Claire fanned herself madly with a to-go menu she'd pulled from her purse. Living in Colorado's dry heat all these years had made her soft. She plucked at the front of her blouse, wishing she'd brought lighter clothes. Walking toward the room, she steeled herself for Lizzie's continued silent treatment, sure her daughter would still be in bed, so Claire was pleasantly surprised to open the door to their room and find Lizzie awake and watching TV.

“You're up,” she exclaimed, setting down the bakery bag.

“Of course I'm up. It's almost eleven.” Lizzie gave her a quizzical look. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine; why?”

“Your face. It's all red.”

“It is?” Claire clapped both palms against her cheeks, feeling heat. “It must be the weather,” she insisted, moving into the bathroom to see for herself. Sure enough, her skin was every bit as flushed as she'd feared. She scrambled for a facecloth, dousing it with cold water. “I brought you back a croissant,” she called over her shoulder as she mopped her cheeks. She frowned impatiently at her reflection. It had to be the temperature.

And okay, fine. Maybe she
had
been a bit unnerved by Gus Gallagher. The way he had studied her across the table with those relentless gray eyes, the way he'd presumed to know all about her past—who she was and what she'd wanted from her life. Calling her by a name she hadn't been called in nearly twenty years—and with good reason.

Still, he had made her realize one thing: That she'd been in Folly almost twenty-four hours and not yet visited Ivy, or the shop, was downright shameful.

She'd correct that right now.

Giving her face a final splash of cold water, Claire walked out of the bathroom and scooped up her purse. “You can eat that in the car, Zee. There's someone I want you to meet.”

I
vy King brushed a long strand of kinky gray hair from her face and scowled down at the smoking slice of charred pumpernickel in the sink, the stench of burned toast already thick inside the apartment, which meant, of course, that within minutes the smell would make its way downstairs into the surf shop.

She'd have to get the stink out before Luke arrived. He'd smell it and have a fit. Or worse, Jill would drop him off, catch a whiff, and imply that Ivy had to be out of her mind to use a toaster in a building with outdated wiring and blah, blah, blah— Oh, that woman! It wasn't bad enough that her daughter-in-law had finally managed to force Ivy into retirement, but Jill was also determined to have her certified as incompetent in the process. Ivy leaned over the sink and threw open the sash. She needed a breeze to rinse out the smoke, but the sea air was petulantly still. Damn. She rummaged through drawers until she found a box of incense.

This always happened when she was in a hurry. Of all the mornings for Jerry to ask her to come to Edisto! Luke would be crushed. He'd plead for her to stay, but Ivy never dared disappoint Jerry when he had one of his panic attacks. She knew too well how dark episodes could swallow a person whole, and she was all Jerry had. Blood or not, they had worked side by side at In the Curl for twenty years, and if that didn't make them family, Ivy didn't know what did.

She perched the incense stick in its holder, lit the powdery twig, and watched the smoke drift around the kitchen, gently covering the noxious smell as it traveled.

And just in time too. She glanced out the living room window to see Luke sail into the shop's gravel lot. He screeched to a halt at the For Sale sign at the edge of the sidewalk and let his bike drop to the grass. After a quick look around, he gave the sign a hearty yank, pulled it out of the ground, and shoved it under his arm, walking it up to the steps, where Ivy watched him slide it under the stairs, out of sight.

God, how she loved that boy. Not a day—not a minute—passed in his company that she didn't think how proud his father would have been to see the young man he'd become, how caring, how responsible, how loyal. He was a marvel.

No, he was a miracle.

She heard footsteps in the store and then the creak of the door opening to the apartment stairs.

“Grams, you here?”

“Come on up!” she called, rushing to bury the blackened bread in the garbage and clap her hands clean in time to meet him at the door.

She held her breath as he stepped into the apartment, watching to see if he'd detect the odor, but his expression didn't falter. Relief filled her. “Ready for your close-up?” he asked.

“You know it.” Ivy gave him a loving pat on the cheek as he passed. “Just waiting for the makeup trailer to pull in any minute.”

Luke looked down at the overnight bag she'd left by the door. “What's that for?”

“Jerry's having one of his spells. I have to go.”

“What?” His face withered. “But you can't leave today. The film crew's here!”

“And they'll be here for a while,” Ivy assured him. “It's just one night, honey. You know how Jerry gets. I have no doubt the big show will go on without me. Want some breakfast?”

“No, thanks.” Luke followed Ivy into the kitchen. “I still think it's crap that no one asked you to be a part of it,” he said, reaching into the fridge for the orange juice. “Stupid Fins.”

“Now, now,” Ivy chided gently. “Gus Gallagher is an accomplished surfer who knows his stuff and, more important, knows a hell of a lot more people in the surfing world than I do.”

“Bull,” said Luke. “He has money, that's all. He bought his way in.”

“That is the idea behind being a sponsor, honey. You pay to play.”

“Well, I think it stinks and I think they suck for choosing Fins over In the Curl. So there.” Luke took a fierce slug of OJ from the carton and shoved it back into the fridge.

“No one wants to see an old lady talk about surfing, sweetie. Trust me.”

“You're not old,” he said. “And anyway, if Pepper Patton
does
come, I bet she'll make sure they interview you. How could she not?”

Ivy glanced around the apartment walls at her treasured gallery of surfing photos, still a few among them of her beloved Pepper. A rush of hope filled her, the same sort that had been rising and falling in the days since she'd learned of the planned filming. A show about women surfers, set in Folly? Who else would they interview if not Pepper?

“How long's it been since you saw her, Grams?”

Ivy smiled. “Too long.”

“You think you'd recognize her?”

What a question! A hundred years from now and she could pick out Pepper from a room of thousands. She had known that girl almost as well as she'd known her own child.

Not that Pepper was that girl anymore. A woman now, a mother!

“I think the better question,” said Ivy, “is would Pepper recognize
you
?”

Luke frowned. “But she's never met me.”

Ivy's eyes filled. She turned to hide her tears and used her fingers to dry them.

“By the way . . .” She tugged a sheet of paper towel from the roll and wiped her nose. “You better stick that ugly thing back in the ground before your mom and Shep see it missing and raise hell.”

“Yeah, I know.” Luke gave a sheepish shrug. “I didn't want those ESPN guys driving right by, thinking the place was empty,” he defended. “And if the sign just happens to get, I don't know,
lost
under the steps . . .”

“We've been over this, honey. We've had a good run here, but it's time to hang up our boards.”

“That's Mom and Shep talking.”

Maybe it was, Ivy thought, and maybe it wasn't. Ivy had held on to the shop with both hands for so long. When Foster and Claire had promised to take it over almost twenty years ago, she was ecstatic, relieved. Then when Foster had fallen under Jill's spell and turned his back on Pepper
and
surfing, Ivy was crushed. Luke's birth had given her hope—maybe she'd be able to pass down the legacy of In the Curl after all—but over the years, that plan had gone away too.

Then, just when she'd been feeling as if her fight was gone, the building inspection that spring revealed daunting code violations. Ivy had surrendered. Luke had been devastated.

“Admit it, Grams.” Luke stepped closer, his eyes flashing with an earnest hope that always stole her breath. “You know you still love this place.”

“I do, and I always will,” said Ivy. “But life goes on. Now help me get that bag in the car before Jerry sends out a search party.”

•   •   •

A
s Claire steered down Ashley toward In the Curl, few of the cottages looked familiar. But that shouldn't have surprised her. The night she'd left Folly, there might well have been skyscrapers on either side of her sputtering hatchback; in her anguished flight, she would never have noticed them. Her view had been blurry with tears and her focus of Ashley Avenue, once wide and vast and all-encompassing, had shrunk to that of a pinhole. She'd cared only about the tiny point of light at the end of the road, the one that had signaled escape.

She glanced over at Lizzie. Her daughter picked absently at her croissant.

“Aren't you hungry?” Claire asked.

Lizzie shrugged. “It's kind of stale.”

“Then don't eat it.”

“It's fine. Whatever.”

Whatever.
The mantra of a teenager. The most maddening word in the English language.

“Why are you so nervous, Mom?”

“Me?” Startled, Claire glanced across the seat, meeting her daughter's narrowed eyes. “Do I seem nervous?”

“Yeah, you do.”

Claire cleared her throat. Of course she was nervous. Ivy—after all these years. Lizzie couldn't understand; Claire didn't know where to start.

“I think I'm just feeling a little out of my element, that's all. Maybe thinking about tomorrow, what I'm going to say on camera.”

Lizzie continued her surgeon-esque peeling of the layers of her croissant. “So, how was your meeting this morning?”

The image of Gus Gallagher's broad smile came rushing back to Claire. She flexed her fingers over the wheel. “It was fine,” she said. “The guy thinks he's going to get me back on a surfboard before it's all over.”

“Oh my God, you wouldn't.” Lizzie's face drained. “Promise me, Mom. Promise me you wouldn't.”

“Good grief.” Claire reached over to tear off a hunk of Lizzie's croissant, tired of watching it be plucked like a chicken. “It wouldn't be
that
bad.”

“Are you kidding? It would be awful. It would be all over school. It would be like when Jenna's mom posted her belly-dancing routine on YouTube.”

“Elaine did that?”

Lizzie nodded, eyes rolling.

“Wow.” Claire turned back to the road, teasing a smile. “You know, Zee, I think that was the longest conversation we've had in weeks.”

“That's not true.”

“I think it is.”

“Maybe it's because all you ever want to talk about is how you don't approve of Colin.” Lizzie pushed out a frustrated breath, expelling with it any hint of lightness Claire had tried to infuse their car with just seconds earlier. “You used to like him. You used to make me feel bad because I didn't want him coming over and using my toys.”

Claire frowned at the reminder, not unlike the ones she'd been making to herself in the past few months. “It's different now. He's different.”

“How?”

“You know how, Zee.”

“Maybe you're the one who's different,” Lizzie muttered, dropping her head against the window.

Claire frowned, having no good reply.

They rode on in quiet again, her daughter's final words hanging in the air between them like a bad smell. Claire lowered her window, hoping to chase it out, but the warm sea air only seemed to force it back in.

Not so long ago, it had been she, Claire, riding silently along this same stretch of shoreline, stealing angry glances at her own parents from the backseat of her father's Cadillac, certain that he could never understand the longing in her own heart for change—and she never knowing that the change she hungered for, the one she couldn't name, only crave, was about to arrive. Collide, really. As all-powerful things eventually do when their point of impact is standing absolutely still.