The Shore (27 page)

But she was good with that. She figured someday she'd own the company that they—or their husbands—would work for.

When Linley had burst into her dorm room that first day of
college the previous fall, Claire had winced. Black clothes and pink shoes—what was
that
?

It was, as it turned out, two of Linley's favorite colors. She'd looked at Claire in her khaki and navy and said, “Wow, your eyes are the most amazing color. They're, like, golden!”

“Brown,” Claire had corrected. “Light brown.”

“No, golden,” Linley had corrected back.

And somehow, they'd become friends. Not all at once. Claire had tried to keep her distance. But Linley didn't seem to notice. She'd made Claire join her on what Linley called her “party rounds.” She'd dragged Claire shopping and talked her into “colors, for god's sake.”

And then made Claire wear the fuzzy cropped sweater Linley said was “Caribbean blue” to a party. Had included Claire in nighttime pizza attacks.

She had a sudden memory of a weekend in Vermont. The snow had been perfect powder. Linley, in electric pink and several other colors unknown in nature, had stared down at the snowboard strapped to her feet. She'd looked up at Claire. “What the hell,” she'd said, and taken off.

She hadn't made it. But she almost had. Claire had boarded down to check on her and found her laughing at the bottom of the hill.

“You okay?”

“Oh, better,” Linley said. “That was amazing. Awesome. The absolute second best thing in the universe.”

“The second best?” said Claire. “And the first?”

She'd expected Linley to say “sex,” but Linley had surprised her. “Surfing,” she'd said. “And I can tell by the way you board that you're going to love surfing too.”

“Right,” said Claire, thinking,
Like I'm ever going to get anywhere near a surfboard.

“You'll see,” Linley had promised, scrambling to her feet. “Now, teach me how to get down that hill.”

She'd asked Claire to show her—not some cute guy, not some instructor. That, Claire thought, was the day they'd become real friends, because she'd realized she had something to offer Linley in exchange for the excitement and color—literally—that Linley brought to life.

That night, hanging out in the ski lodge, they'd swapped snow and surf wipeout stories. Claire described learning to ski from her mother, who had, as far as Claire could tell, never fallen off her skis.

“Didn't you just want to push her?” Linley had said, and Claire, shocked, had said, “No!” and then, bursting out into laughter, “Yes!”

Linley had talked, a little bit, about growing up in San Francisco and going with friends to the beach and then discovering surfing. Had laughed at how her parents had tried to make her “respectable” and then finally given in and let her buy her first surfboard.

Many nights of many drinks and talks and pizzas and old
movies had cemented their friendship, but that had been the beginning, the real beginning.

And now Claire was on her way to California, where, Linley had promised, she was going to learn to surf.

Friends,
thought Claire.
That's a good thing.

First friends, then a boyfriend. How hard could that be? And then she'd no longer be . . .

Nope. She wouldn't think about that now.

From somewhere, she'd acquired a blanket. She hitched it up over her shoulders and settled back in her seat.
Sleep,
she thought.
That's a good thing, too. And when I wake up, I'll be in California.

As she fell asleep, she vaguely heard the guy asking for another round of drinks.

When Claire woke up, she wasn't in California. She was in the dark.

Not total darkness, but the hushed darkness of a plane where people were sleeping.

Claire squinted at her watch. Two hours had passed. She felt peculiar.

Her drink was gone, her drink tray folded away. But next to her, Linley's drink sat half-full on the tray. Linley had disappeared.

Claire reached out and took a sip of watery, slightly warm cranberry and vodka.

Her whole stomach did a flip.

Barf bag or bathroom,
Claire thought frantically, and staggered to her feet. Barely noticing the startled faces peering up from books held in tiny pools of light, or eyes turned toward her from the personal movie screens, Claire lurched down the aisle, one hand over her mouth, the other grabbing at anything she passed for balance.

A woman emerging from a row of seats took one look and jumped back.

Claire grabbed the bathroom door and fumbled it open. She barely got it closed behind her before she lost it.

She didn't know how long she was sick, but when she was finally able to bathe her face and rinse her mouth, the face she met in the mirror had gone all-American hag. The French braid had started to unravel, and wisps of dark hair stuck damply to her forehead and neck. Sleep marks hashed one cheek.

The only solution was to go back to her seat and pull the blanket over her head. Lurking in the toilet was not helping, anyway. Resolutely, Claire opened the bathroom door and stepped out.

She came face-to-face with Linley.

“Claire?” said Linley. Her face was as flushed as Claire's was pale. And she had what Claire would have called bed head hair at any other time.

“Hi, Linley,” Claire said, trying to sound normal.

Glancing back over her shoulder, Linley hastily pulled shut the bathroom door.

She frowned and peered at Claire. “Did you just get sick?”

“No,” said Claire. “I'm fine.”

“Right,” said Linley. She clamped her hand on Claire's arm. “If that's fine, I don't want to see you on a bad day. I'm walking you to your seat.”

“I'm fine,” Claire insisted, but she was too whipped to argue and she let Linley steer her back down the aisle. She kept her eyes lowered, trying not to look like I-just-barfed girl to the whole plane.

They reached their seats, and Claire half-fell into hers.

“I'll be right back,” said Linley. A moment later she sat down by Claire and pulled the blanket around Claire's shoulders. Then the guy in the seat next to Linley was there, handing Linley a plastic glass.

“Thanks,” Linley said to him, then to Claire, “Drink this.”

“Not thirsty,” Claire croaked.

“Seltzer,” said Linley soothingly. “That's all. It'll settle your stomach. And take this with it.”

“But—”

“Claire,” said Linley. “Do it. Or else.”

Or else what?
thought Claire. “Drug pimp,” she said to Linley.

“Whatever,” said Linley, and practically shoved the pill down Claire's throat. “Now, count to a hundred,” she ordered Claire.

“Bossy drug pimp,” muttered Claire.

“One hundred, ninety nine . . . ,” Linley said.

“Ninety eight, ninety-seven . . . ,” said Claire.

“How bad is she?” the guy whispered.

“Shhh!” ordered Linley. To Claire, she said, “Keep counting.”

Claire kept counting. But she was losing track. Whatever Linley had given her was pulling her under. Fast.

She saw the guy reach down and pull something out of his pocket. He leaned into Linley and said softly into her ear, “You forgot something.”

Seventy-three, seventy-two
. . . Even in the semidarkness of the cabin, Claire recognized the scrap of silk underwear.
California pink,
she thought. Linley's.

Seventy-one, seventy
. . . Claire saw Linley glance at her watch, then smile up at her new friend. “Keep them,” Linley said. “Maybe I'll get them back later.”

He laughed. She laughed.

Sixty-nine,
Claire thought, and passed out.

Two

He stood, watching the house. He'd been there before, when he was younger. Much, much younger.

Okay, maybe not that much younger.

It had been a party house. A girlfriend-at-the-beach house. A “getting sex right” house.

Practice had made perfect. Or at least, that's what he'd thought at the time.

She hadn't.

Long time ago. Maybe not in ordinary time, but in his time. She'd been his whole world, although he'd tried to be cool about it. Had he failed? Is that why he felt the way he did now?

Not that he'd been totally faithful. But she couldn't have known. Not about that.

His whole world. Well, he'd seen a lot more of the world since then.

But he wouldn't mind seeing her again. Seeing her. And maybe more.

• • •

She woke up in California with the mother of all hangovers.

The morning light was fierce.

The smell was either delicious or disgusting. Or both.

Coffee and salt air.

Claire sat up cautiously. The room did not swoop or swim. Her stomach remained in place.
Let that be a lesson to you,
she told herself.
Never take unknown substances and fly. With or without an airplane.

Possibly, she would live. Maybe she'd even drink some coffee. If she could walk that far.

She could. Claire pulled on shorts beneath the T-shirt she'd slept in; ignored the luggage dumped, and apparently Dumpster-dived, on the chair and floor of one corner of the room; located the bathroom across the hall; and then began to follow her nose. The long hall took her to a flight of stairs, which led to another short hall that opened into an enormous room that was the whole front—or was it the rear?—of the house. The room was so big, it had a kitchen across the back; a wall of windows and glass French doors across the front, opening onto a deck that looked out over major sand and sea real estate; a stone fireplace on another wall; and plenty of room to walk around in between.

Two people sat at the counter that divided the kitchen from the rest of the space. One of them was Linley.

“She lives,” said Linley.

“Not yet,” said Claire and headed for the coffeemaker, something with dials and steamer attachments and who knew
what else—a sort of color-coordinated working monument to coffee enthroned on the granite kitchen countertop. And there was coffee in a gleaming carafe. Claire tried not to lunge for it, went heavy on the sugar and milk, then turned around.

There was Linley, all safe and familiar and not looking at all like a girl who'd spent a plane trip having sex in an airplane toilet. And who'd probably partied most of what was left of the night after she'd gotten to California.

And Jodi. Claire barely remembered meeting Jodi at the airport.

She remembered more about how Jodi looked from one of the photos Lindsey had stuck to her dorm room wall.

Today, however, Jodi looked like a small dandelion on acid. Claire hadn't noticed it on the cramped trip from the airport in the battered Subaru. She'd barely been conscious then.

But she couldn't help noticing now. Jodi's hair seemed to explode in bleached-white tips from her head. She had faint golden freckles across her cheeks. Her eyes were almost turquoise and were startlingly framed by pale, spiky lashes.

Little and takes no prisoners, she remembered Linley saying about Jodi. An amazing artist. An unfortunate only child. Why unfortunate? Claire had asked. Well, her mother who had made a bad second marriage. The stepfather from hell . . .

Come to think of it, Linley had told her . . . what else had Linley told her?

Linley interrupted Claire's thoughts by pushing back the
barstool next to her own with a practiced motion. “Have a muffin,” she said, indicating the bag on the counter.

“Not now,” Claire said. “My stomach has a headache. What are you wearing, Lin? Is that a wet suit?”

“A shorty,” Linley explained. “A short wet suit.”

“You should rinse it off,” Jodi said. “It's gross just to sit around in it.”

“We went surfing,” Linley explained. “I was trying to sleep and I heard a burglar crashing around in the kitchen. . . .”

“You knew it was me,” said Jodi. “You came downstairs dragging your wet suit with you as if it were a dead dog.”

“I've never dragged a dead dog. I wouldn't know . . . so I thought, well, Claire's gonna be sleeping it off all day, so I'll catch some waves.”

“Surfing,” said Claire, finally getting it. “You've been surfing? Weren't you up all night partying?”

“Sure,” said Jodi. “You don't surf?”

“New England,” said Claire. “Specifically, Lexington, Massachusetts—and not the Cape or the Island, though I summer there.”

“She's got some good moves, however,” Linley put in. She paused. “On a snowboard.”

Jodi studied Claire. “Balance. If you've got balance, you could learn, maybe.”

“Maybe,” Claire agreed noncommittally. She drank coffee, looked out at the blinding sun. Definitely not New England. She
said, “Okay, now that you've got your surfing out of the way for the day. . .”

“For the morning,” Linley corrected.

“We should get started on roommates. And jobs.”

Jodi raised pale eyebrows.

“Where's the computer? I can make flyers to put up,” Claire went on.

“Flyers?” Jodi said.

“For roommates,” Claire said.

“Ah, no,” said Jodi. “No flyers.”

Claire frowned at Jodi. “But . . .”

“We have an excellent house by the beach. And we're not charging outrageous rent. We'll have our choice of roomies. No worries,” said Jodi.

Linley said, “Claire, as the official house manager and rent collector, I applaud your, ah, diligence.”

“Oh, yeah, and the rent . . . ,” Claire began.

She stopped at the warning look Linley gave her. Linley had insisted that they collect rent from everyone except Linley and Claire. And that it be a secret. Linley didn't want anyone to know that she wasn't paying rent.