The Shore (33 page)

She'd planned a different ending with Max—her terms, her rules.

But Max had gotten there first.

She hadn't expected it and she'd never understood it.

Damn him.

Guys were so easy. You didn't even have to like them as long as they got the job done. And they would do anything as long as you promised them a blow job. Linley's mouth curled in the dark.
As if,
she thought. Guys never reciprocated, so why waste the time?

If they complained, she moved on. Simple. Satisfying.

Max. Jodi. Poppy.

Thoughts whirled in her brain.

At last she stubbed out a final cigarette and stood up. “Fuck it,” she said.

She'd leave it all alone until the time was right. Jodi would come to her for advice. Max would return, and she'd finish what he'd started.

And then she'd see what happened with a little truth or dare.

Claire looked up from the kitchen counter at the view from the beach house without seeing the spectacular scenery. She looked back down at her coffee and the crossword puzzle from the
Times
. She'd never been big on crosswords until she'd started watching Joseph whip through them at the Stacked. She couldn't figure out how he did it. He wrote in ink and he never seemed to make a mistake. Good with words, he'd said. He hadn't been kidding.

She was still working on the one from the previous Sunday.

Damn Joseph. Not that she didn't like him. He'd turned out to be a decent boss, just as Dean had predicted. And aside from the other perks of the job, she'd met Finn, who . . .

“Hi.”

“Hey! Jodi! You're up early.”

Claire had barely seen Jodi or Linley for the past few days. Everyone seemed to be pinballing through the house as if they were all on their way to cram for a final in . . . what? Having fun? Having sex?

Were the two things the same, exactly?

“. . . a job,” Jodi was saying.

“A job,” Claire repeated obediently. Rewind. Replay. Beep. “But you already have a job.”

“I need another one, and the Vile Vickie says she can't give me any more shifts at Banger's.” Jodi sounded tired. She looked tired.

“You look tired,” Claire said. “How are you going to do another job? When do you plan on surfing? Or, more importantly, sleeping?”

“Surf first, sleep later. Gotta make the rent, right?” retorted Jodi automatically. She was fiddling with the spaceship/cappuccino maker on the counter. For a girl who could fix anything else in the house, Jodi wasn't very handy in the kitchen.

Not that Claire could motor around the kitchen any better. But then, she stuck with basic coffee making.

“Just don't blow us up,” she said aloud. The rent, she thought, and had a moment's pang. She was still keeping the fact that Linley and she were not paying into the rent a secret. And it made her feel guilty.

Why couldn't Linley just tell people? And what did she need the money for, anyway?

“What we make after we pay the bills is ours,” Linley had said. “We earned it.”

But how had Linley earned it? By being her uncle's niece?

“The rent's not that much, Jodi,” Claire said defensively.
Which was true. It wasn't like she and Linley were slumlords making a killing.

“Summer
and
winter. As in, I'm never going home again.” Jodi gave something on the machine a thump. “Wait . . . wait . . . I've almost got it figured out here.”

“In your dreams,” said Poppy, coming through the doors from the deck.

Jodi and Claire both jumped. Claire said, “I didn't know you were out there.”

“I went for an early walk on the beach,” Poppy said. “It's going to be another luscious day.”

Luscious,
thought Claire. I guess that means the sun is shining and the surf is good.

Jodi stood motionless, one hand clutching a lever on the espresso maker.

Had she broken something?
Claire wondered.

Poppy said, “Jodi, let me do that.”

“It's all yours,” said Jodi, moving quickly out of the way.

“I thought you preferred tea,” said Poppy.

Poppy was right, Claire realized. She flashed on Jodi slam-dunking three different kinds of tea into the shopping cart that very first day.

“Serious caffeine needed,” Jodi said. Going around the counter, she commandeered a bar stool. “Can you make me a double shot?”

With graceful efficiency, Poppy pulled a double shot and slid
it across the counter. Taking it, Jodi stirred in what looked like a tablespoon of sugar before tossing back the whole thing as if she were doing a shooter. She made a face as she slammed down the espresso cup.

“It's not medicine, you know,” observed Poppy.

“Whatever works,” Jodi said. “Gotta go.” She rummaged in the cupboard, and said unemotionally, “The next person who takes my Clif Bars without replacing them is dead meat,” and in hyper speed she yanked the last one from a twelve-pack, crumpled the empty box in the recycling bin, and headed for the door. “Later,” she said, and was gone.

Possibly, there was a whoosh of air as she left.

Poppy raised her eyebrows.

“Job search,” Claire offered.

“Oh. Coffee?” asked Poppy, motioning toward the machine.

“Sure, if you're making,” said Claire. “Cappuccino, if I have a choice. Chin in hand, she watched Poppy make two cappuccinos. She liked watching Poppy work. She did everything with quiet efficiency, a quality Claire admired.

At first she'd been nonplussed by Poppy's air of detachment and faint amusement, but now that she'd gotten used to it, Claire didn't mind. In a house of seven people, Poppy was the ideal roommate. She was low-key, self-sufficient, undemanding—and she cleaned up after herself.

“Jodi has a job at Banger's,” said Poppy, sitting down across the table from Claire.

“She wants two,” said Claire. “So she won't have to live at home next year.”

“I left home when I was sixteen,” said Poppy.

“Did you?” Claire couldn't imagine doing that.

My mother,
she thought wryly,
would have killed me.
“Why?”

“Things happen,” Poppy said with a shrug. She smiled, but for once she didn't look amused. “My family—my father, in particular—strongly encouraged me to leave. ‘Get the hell out of my house' were his exact words.”

“It . . . ah, must have been some fight,” Claire said.

“He strongly objected to my lifestyle,” Poppy told her. “Which I couldn't change. My father believed I could—like putting on a different dress. But it just didn't work that way.”

“He didn't want you to be an artist?” Claire asked.

“Something like that.” Poppy smiled, and this time it was genuine. “And I just had to be me.”

She took a sip of coffee. “But it worked out. My mother brought him in line. She's my biggest fan, these days. And my dad, he's getting pretty cool in his cranky old age.” She laughed. “They don't live too far from here. I see them two or three times a month now.”

“I wish I was really good at something, believed in something like that—like your art,” Claire surprised herself by saying. “But I'm not sure I have a talent for anything.”

“It takes longer for some people than others. You'll figure it out. And I'd be willing to bet you won't make as many stupid choices as some of us have.”

“Really?” Claire felt pleased.

“Yep,” said Poppy. She stood up. “I have to go open the gallery.”

“And where would the Stacked be without me?” Claire said. “It's a tough life.”

“But a good one,” Poppy said unexpectedly.

“Yes,” said Claire. “Yes, it is.” She grinned. “So far.”

Nine

“There's no such word,” Claire insisted.

“Stands to reason if it's in the puzzle, it's a word,” Joseph said.

“But what does it mean?” she said.

“What the clue says,” he said.

“‘A state of excitement' is ‘alt'?” Claire shook her head. “I've never heard of it.”

“Doesn't mean it's not a word,” said Joseph.

Coming up to where Joseph and Claire were bent over the puzzle, Jan cleared her throat. “I think this one is yours, Claire.”

Claire glanced up to look at the customer who had just come in. “Oh!” she said, and felt her face flush. He wasn't hers, but she was working on it. She walked over, trying to look cool, and said, “Hi, Finn. Hi, Barrel.”

She actually hadn't seen Finn in a couple of days. She was struggling to avoid being obvious, to not lurk around the house
waiting for him. He might keep her in alt, but she wasn't going to show it.

Finn smiled, his eyes crinkling.

“Lunch? We still have some good stuff left,” Claire said, motioning toward the specials board.

“No, thanks, not today. Barrel and I got comp'ed for lunch at the hotel,” said Finn. “Another satisfied customer. I mean, patron. That's what the hotel calls its guests.” He made a goofy face.

Instantly Claire was jealous. “Well, I'm glad you give satisfaction,” she said, closing her notepad with a snap.
Good grief, listen to me,
she thought.

But Finn remained oblivious to nuance. “Yeah, me too. This little dude, he might be a good surfer, if he could just stay in California. Or someplace with some surf.”

“A . . . little dude . . . took you to lunch?”

“Yeah, on his daddy's expense account. It was funny.” Finn nodded. “Stepped right up and ordered, added in the tip, signed the check. I think his dad's some kind of CEO, or something. Come to think of it, maybe the little dude is headed more in that direction.”

“Maybe he could do both,” suggested Claire.

“Maybe,” said Finn, considering. Then he shook his head. “No, you've got to do one or the other. Nothing halfway about the ride.” He made a surfing motion with his hand.

“I guess not,” said Claire.

“Anyway, I stopped by to see if you wanted a lift home,” he said.

“Sure,” said Claire.

“By way of a little break I know.” He made the surfing motion again with his hand to elaborate. “It's not much. Nice little waves. Thought you'd like a lesson.”

“Sure!” said Claire instantly, then tried to slow down. “But I don't have any . . . I don't have my bathing suit with me and I've never actually surfed before.”

“No,” he said. “But you can swim. I've seen you at the house. I bet you could borrow a shorty from Jodi or Linley, right?”

“Sure,” Claire said, and thought,
a four-letter word meaning yes, overused by people named Claire
. “I mean, yes of course I can. Wait here while I close out.”

Claire found the house completely empty and had a momentary vision of going back down to the van where Finn waited and saying, “Why don't you come up to my room?”

Then, before she could stop it, her imagination threw in the obscene gesture Linley liked to use—pushing the index finger of one hand back and forth in the circle made by the index finger and thumb of the other hand.

She snorted, knocked on Linley's door just in case, and went in. Linley's room was as usual almost obsessively neat. It didn't take Claire long to confirm as she passed the bedside table that Linley still preferred condoms in every color, relied on a variety
of birth control, and was reading erotica in French (or pretending to).

Rifling through the closet and doing a quick check of the attached bathroom with Jacuzzi (Linley had naturally claimed the master suite as her own), she discovered that the wet suit was nowhere to be found. Claire did find a stash of old photographs in a drawer that she'd yanked open randomly, looking for what? Clues that said, “X marks the spot where the wet suit is hidden”?

The photographs were mostly familiar, or of familiar subjects: Linley at parties, looking smashed or laughing insanely; a few of very fashionably and formally dressed people against formal party backgrounds featuring the same couple, which Linley I.D.'d as Linley's metaphorically AWOL parents; a couple of Linley's school pictures—elementary school, from the looks of them—along with a much younger Linley and an older girl on what looked like the deck of a boat, a cousin, Claire guessed, from the resemblance; and a surprising number of Max, including one of just Max and Linley.

Wow,
thought Claire.
Linley looks so . . . young.

Then she remembered Finn, and surfing, and took her search to Jodi's room.

Jodi's room was messier and also wet suit free. There was nothing hanging in the shower. Turning, Claire thought of the tiny back porch of the house, what in New England would have been called a mudroom. Of course. That's where the wet gear was generally left to air out. She was about to go when she
spotted the open plastic scrip bottle amid the jumble on Jodi's bathroom counter.

The bottle was old, the label faded into near-invisibility. Inside, Claire found a jewel-colored collection of pills. “Whoa,” she said, in early Keanu Reeves. And then,
“Whoa.”

She knew a couple from casual acquaintance—bumps that got you through the all-nighter and into the exam with your faculties more or less intact. She'd seen several more around dorms and parties, the pills ranging from stupid-laughter-inducing and high-speed chatter to one at least that probably should require filing a flight plan before ingesting. A couple of others were unfamiliar, but given the crowd they were hanging with, they were probably speed too. And wedged into the bottom of the bottle was a neat little plastic bag of white dust.

“Wow, Jodi,” said Claire aloud. “Who knew?” Then, feeling like Harriet the Spy, she put the bottle back carefully. Not her business, and what was she thinking, anyway?

Besides, Finn was waiting. Grabbing necessary gear, she raced back down the stairs and found both wet suits on the little porch. She took Linley's and, forgetting all about Jodi's pharmaceutical collection, tried to hurry back to the van without looking as if she could hardly wait to get there.