The Shore (29 page)

Claire looked up into eyes of a gray that was almost silver. They were fringed with the sort of black lashes that guys seem to have and never appreciate.

And he was definitely a guy. From her angle, there was no mistake.

A quick glance up and down the beach revealed that it was still as empty as a few minutes before. So where had he come from?

Then she played his question back in her mind and felt the slow burn up her neck and cheeks. “Worry,” she said. “I was talking about
worrying
.”

“Disappointing,” he said. “Or maybe not.”

“So why are you standing here, exactly?” Claire swept her arm out, channeling her mother the banker in no-loans-for-you mode. “Big beach. Plenty of empty sand. And water.”

To her indignation, he sat down. Ragged dark hair almost brushed his shoulders. He was wearing jeans bleached of all color and missing quite a few threads. The T-shirt had once, she thought, been red.

He wasn't
that
good to look at, she told herself, and made herself look away. Remembering her sunglasses, she pulled them down. There. Better.

The better to see you with,
she thought. And then realized he looked familiar.

Hmm. Minor TV celeb? Relative of same?

“The view,” he said. He looked back out at the water. A slight figure with sleek, bleached hair dropped in on a wave and went for a ride.

“Jodi,” he said. “Better than ever.”

“You know Jodi?” asked Claire.

“Yeah. I know her stuff, too.” He motioned at the scatter of possessions across the three beach towels.

Jodi had painted or sewn big scarlet “J's” on all of her gear.

And then something clicked. She'd seen his picture on Linley's mirror. One of a hundred photos of a hundred parties that Linley continually updated with a hundred more pictures of a hundred more parties. But this picture, lower left corner, half-hidden, had never changed. He'd had his arm around her waist; she'd been bending forward laughing, generous cleavage in a half-zipped hoodie sweatshirt, the light of a beach fire behind them in the royal blue darkness. On his other side, arm hooked through his, Jodi stood, swallowed in an enormous man's shirt, staring down at Linley. Linley's head was half-turned toward the guy in the center. He'd been looking out, past the camera, past whoever had been taking the shot, a thousand-yard gaze.

A Linley ex, she thought. Or maybe, Jodi's. But then why had Linley saved the photo? She had a couple of other
photos of Jodi and herself that she used as screen savers sometimes.

And Linley liked to throw things away. Traveling light, she called it.

But she hadn't thrown this picture away. It had stayed in the rotation.

Definitely Linley's ex.

Claire looked back out at the water. Jodi and Linley had both just dropped into a wave. They seemed to work together, dancing the boards in tandem over the face, crossing each other without getting in each other's way. They finished gracefully, sinking into the water as the wave played out. Simultaneously, they began to paddle out again.

“The Two,” said the guy meditatively.

Still channeling her mother, Claire said, “I'm sorry. I didn't introduce myself. I'm Claire. I go to school with Linley. Jodi and Linley and I are roommates this summer.”

She waited for him to say his name, but he was either dim or rude, or possibly both. He said, “I heard Linley was back for the summer. Where are you staying? At her uncle's?”

“Yes.”

“Tolerant guy. Always was. But then it's a big house.” His eyes had never left the water.

“He's away for the summer,” Claire said.

“Nice,” said the guy. And that's all he said.

Well, fine,
Claire thought. She turned to watch the water, too.

Jodi was standing at the ocean's edge, watching as Linley sank gracefully into the froth as she finished a final ride and headed for shore.

The two were laughing and talking as they ran up the sand.

It stopped abruptly as they reached Claire.

The roar of the surf made the cone of silence enveloping the four of them even more intense.

The guy stood up. “Linley, Jodi,” he said.

In one unselfconscious motion, Linley stripped off the top of her wet shirt and stood topless. Deliberately she reached down for a towel and began to dry her hair. “Max,” she said. Smiled. “Look at you.”

“Hi, Max,” said Jodi, her voice expressionless. She turned slightly away to pull off the wet suit and drop on her oversize T. Only then did she step out of the wet bottoms and into her shorts.

Linley began to rummage in her gear bag for a dry top. She took her time.

An ex, Claire thought. An ex for more than sex.

Still channeling her mother, this time as social-doyenne-in-difficult-situation mode, Claire pulled the cooler forward. “Anybody want a drink?” she asked brightly.

Holding her shirt in one hand, her eyes still on Max, Linley reached into ice and pulled out a beer. She tilted it up, arching her back.

“Good,” she said. She peered at Max over the rim of the bottle. “Want some?”

“I'll get my own, thanks,” said Max, and bent to the cooler.

Linley smiled more broadly and finally put her shirt on.

Hardly knowing what she was doing, Claire opened a beer, too, and took a drink. She choked.

She hated beer.

“It's been an almost perfect day, Jodi, don't you think?” Linley asked. She sank down, yoga style, next to Claire.

“Sure,” agreed Jodi, who'd remained standing. “Um . . . Max, this is Claire. Claire, Max.”

“We've met,” said Max. “Just now. Claire was worried.” He smiled suddenly at Claire.

Don't do that again,
thought Claire. Definitely good for way more than sex, but she'd bet he'd been pretty damn good for sex, too. She could ask Linley. She might ask Linley.

“I wasn't worried,” Claire retorted. “I believe that was my point.”

“Claire's the official house worrier. Like, you know, the house mom. If she doesn't approve, we all get grounded,” Linley said.

“House manager,” said Jodi. She scored a beer and settled onto the blanket. To Max, she said, “It's a big house. Join us.”

Again with his smile, Claire thought. Then she realized what Jodi had offered.

“A room of my own? That would be nice,” Max said. “Well, Claire. May I? Do you approve?”

“She'll get back to you on that,” Linley said quickly. Then,
reverting to her cat-with-cream purr, she said, “So, Max, what're you doing here?”

Max took a long pull of beer. He turned his smile on Linley. “Well, I
was
looking for a place to live, actually.”

This time, his smile was only for Linley.

Four

Linley held up her hand. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Jodi leaned forward and shouted above the din on the deck around them, “FOUR!”

“One. Two. Three. Four.” Pointing at each of them in turn, Linley said, “Four females.”

“So?” shouted Claire.

“
FOUR
FEMALES,” Linley enunciated loudly and carefully.

“GOT. IT,” Jodi said. “ONLY YOU CAN'T COUNT. THERE'RE ONLY THREE OF US.” She slammed her glass down and added, “THIRSTY!” Rising, she plunged directly into the melee on the tiny worn area of planking that seemed to be the unofficial dance floor.

The place was called Banger's, and its main recommendation was that it was within walking distance of their house.

Apparently it was convenient to every other house near the beach, too, Claire thought.

The music crashed to a stop as Linley shouted FOUR again.

No one even looked in their direction.

“So?” Claire repeated.

“We have four females at the house. And only
two
guys.”

“Two?” asked Claire.

“Dean and Max,” said Linley.

“I'm not sure I like Dean,” said Claire, enunciating way too carefully. “There's something sneaky about him, don't you think? Like he's waiting for something to happen and he wants it to be bad.”

“Don't we all,” said Linley. “We need Dean. Two guys, four girls. Bad.”

Claire gave up. Apparently, she was the only one who got a weird vibe from Dean. And she wasn't sure why. Was it because during that whole conversation, his eyes had never ceased moving? What was he looking for?

“Dean and Max,” said Linley again.

“I thought you said you'd let Max know,” Claire reminded Linley.

Linley made a face and waved four fingers vaguely. “What am I going to do? Kick him to the curb? He's an old,
dear
friend.”

“Uh-huh,” said Claire, not bothering to hide her skepticism.

Linley leaned forward. Her eyes were shiny, and Claire knew she'd been doing more than the specialty of the house, Banger Slammers. “You know what you need. More drinks. More drugs. More sex.”

“Like you had with Max?” asked Claire, before she could stop herself.

Linley jerked back, actually speechless for a nanosecond. Then she hooted. “Good one, Claire.” She leaned forward again and crooked her finger, beckoning Claire closer. “Here's a secret,” she said.

Claire leaned forward.

“Max is an old,
dear,
good friend,” she explained again, solemnly.

Holding position, Claire said, “As in good in bed.”

Leaning forward even more, Linley said, even more solemnly, “He was. All night. Not just quantity, quality. The boy had an appetite, you know?” She ran the pink tip of her tongue along her upper lip.

“Too much information,” Claire said, trying to sound bored rather than shocked.

Jodi returned and claimed the chair.

“Dean's here,” she reported.

“Everybody's here,” said Linley, waving at someone in the crowd. “It's like a big ole reunion. Hey, Kerri Lynn! Hey, Marie! And Micki! Hey, y'all!”

“You are messed up, aren't you?” said Jodi scornfully. “You're going all bad Southern belle accent. And you were born and raised in San Francisco, just like me.”

“Southern belle,
y'all,
honey,” drawled Linley.

“And he said,
honey,
that they were hiring waiters,” Jodi
went on. “Said we should come in tomorrow. He'd put a word in for us.”

“And the drinks?” Linley asked.

“Oh. I forgot,” Jodi said. She laughed uproariously, then sobered. “I'm not sure I like Dean.”

“That's what I was trying to—” Claire began.

A waiter interrupted by settling a round of Slammers on the table.

“On the house,” he said, and Claire realized it was Dean. He leaned a little closer. And leered.

Claire burst out laughing.

He smiled, winked, and was gone.

“Nice,” said Jodi, eyeing the drinks. “Okay, maybe he's not so bad.”

“Cheap,” said Linley.

“Easy,” retorted Jodi.

“Wait. What if these drinks have, like, date rape drugs in them?” Claire said.

“He's not like that!” Jodi said, shocked.

“He's like something,” said Claire. “I'm telling you.”

“You're right,” said Linley, and quick as a snake, she grabbed Claire's and chugged, then chugged her own.

“Now you're safe,” she said.

“Asshole,” said Claire. She got up to go in search of another drink. And sober up a little in what she knew would be an endless wait on the bathroom line.

She returned from the bathroom to a sea of people around the table, like shipwreckees clinging to a life raft. Everyone was shouting cheerfully and no one seemed to be listening. Someone bellowed introductions. Claire didn't bother to listen.

“Syllablitis,” Claire heard Jodi say suddenly.

“What?” Claire asked.

“Big words, use of, when approaching a state of inebriation. In Linley. A sure marker,” said Jodi.

“Indubitably,” said Linley, raising her glass.

“Lots of practice drinking together,” noted Claire.

“Yes. Friends don't let friends inebriate alone,” Jodi said solemnly. She leaned over. “One time, when Linley was grounded, we went and sat in her father's new car, right. In the garage. And we were passing this nasty bottle of cheap wine and we heard something, right?”

“Right,” said Claire encouragingly.

“So Linley got scared—”

“Did not!”

“And jumped out of the car and ran around to the trunk and threw the bottle inside and slammed it shut. And locked it.”

“It could've happened to anybody,” Linley said.

“Did you get caught?”

“Yes. Because Linley had locked the keys in the trunk.” Jodi rolled her eyes, and then she and Linley started to laugh.

Laughter bubbled up in Claire, too.

Then the band began on the back of the deck, and Claire was dancing and laughing and leaning against the railing and drinking some more, and once doing a definitely dirty grind with one of the guys from the table who clearly wanted to bump and grind without the interference of clothes, and then she was leaning against Jodi watching Linley and it was much, much later than it had been.

So late, it was early again. Except in Massachusetts, where it was . . . what? Dead. Yes, dead.

Sometime during the night, Jodi had switched to diet Coke. At least, that's what Claire thought it was. She squinted down at her own drink. Was she drinking margaritas?

“I like this place,” she said, speaking with great care.

“Yeah,” said Jodi. She sighed. “And thank God this year is over.”

“Bad?” Claire asked. She decided to use the shortest possible sentences. They seemed easiest.

“Are you kidding? Local college, living at home? I think there's a law against it, somewhere.” Jodi sucked on her diet soda. “Hated every minute of it, let me tell you.”