The Shore (32 page)

“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.

It wasn’t much of a beach—a few families, gentle water.

Claire was grateful for that. She didn’t feel quite so dumb, standing on a surfboard on the sand, balancing.

Actually, it probably wasn’t possible to feel any dumber.

But Finn was a good teacher, calm and patient and willing to explain the reasons for his methods. So she surfed the sand for a long, long time until he was satisfied.

Then they went into the water. “Cold?” he said with his nice smile as he showed her how to get on the board and paddle out. “We’re not going far.”

“Not so cold,” she said, and it was true. Her family’s summer place on Cape Cod boasted much colder water in even the warmest months. People surfed, but it never occurred to her to try it. She was glad for the wet suit. For one thing, when she did an endo, she would not be leaving pieces of her bathing suit behind in the waves.

They didn’t go out far, although it looked far enough to her. Finn showed her how to look for the right wave, how to paddle into it—at least in theory—and let her try to ride one.

She fell. And fell. And kept falling until at last Finn called it quits.

“You’d be extraordinary if you got any kind of ride at first,” he said. “But it’s great, isn’t it?”

“Great,” she agreed, and might have meant it. But great also included being there with Finn. She drifted closer to him. A nice, romantic kiss, one surfer to another, might be interesting. “Finn,” she said. “It’s been so amazing . . .” She leaned toward him.

And flipped the board.

“Whoa,” said Finn, hauling her back up. “You want to keep your balance.”

“Right,” she said, hoisting herself ungracefully onto the board again. “Balance,” she said.

“So let’s take it in,” he said, and began to paddle for shore.

She glumly followed.

Do I have no pheromones? she thought. And if not, where can I get some? Her mind flashed back to that bottle of little pills. Did they make pills for that? Besides the Viagra that old men seemed to need?

Barrel was waiting by the gear, barking in excitement as if they’d just come back from months at sea. The families had cleared off, and yes, it was another glorious sunset.

“Isn’t there ever a bad sunset in California?” Claire asked crossly, toweling off and modestly putting on her own clothes beneath the towel.

Finn looked up from his joyful reunion with Barrel and said, “Yeah. Sometimes. Hawaii’s got some sunsets that’d put this to shame. You ought to see it.”

“Yeah?” She was still cross.

“Sunset Beach,” he said. “Big surf. Perfect. It’s . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Nirvana? Heaven?” Get the edge out of your voice, girl.

“All that and more. But Barrel and I can’t make that scene—can we, boy? Hawaii’s down on dogs from off island.”

“They won’t let Barrel in?”

“No. I mean, not without, like, months of quarantine. Barrel’d hate that—wouldn’t you, boy?” Barrel appeared to agree that he would.

“So maybe for short visits. But it’s expensive, Hawaii, any way you go. So Barrel and I, we’ll settle for places where we’re both welcome.”

“It’s great that you’re so loyal. Not everybody would be, to a dog,” said Claire.

“Hey, those that aren’t just don’t know any better,” said Finn.

Claire scratched Barrel’s ears, and he sighed in contentment.

“Barrel likes you,” said Finn.

“That’s good,” said Claire. “Because I like Barrel.” She paused, took a deep breath, and added, “And I like you, too.”

Finn’s eyes crinkled. He studied her for a minute. “That’s good,” he said at last. Then he leaned over and kissed her.

She didn’t exactly throw herself at him, but she kissed him back.

It was the best kiss she’d ever had—or given. She didn’t know how long it went on, but when she came up for air, she was breathing hard.

Finn was too. He looked down at her and said, “Wow,” and she echoed, “Wow,” and he looked up and down the beach and then grabbed a towel with one hand and her hand with the other and said, “Come on,” and Claire went with him pretty sure she was about to find out about sex on the beach.

Ten

Dean knew.

Coming out onto the deck and into the dusk with Finn behind her, Claire could tell by the way he looked up from the grill, looked back down again.

“Claire, where have you been? We’re having a party!” Linley called across the deck.

“I know,” said Claire. “We passed Margaritaville on the way in.” She was . . . automatically her mind started a list: thirsty, hungry, still a little stoned, her lips felt chapped, she was, well, a little sore, and oh yes, she wasn’t a virgin anymore. Couldn’t people tell? People besides Dean. But Dean hadn’t known she was actually a virgin, had he? He just knew, or strongly suspected, that she and Finn had been doing the deed.

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Get a drink,” he advised. “You look as if you could use one.”

“I’ll get it for you,” said Linley, swooping up exuberantly. She disappeared in the direction of the blender noise and
returned a minute later with Jodi. Both held drinks. Pressing a drink into Claire’s hand, Linley looked up at Finn and smiled. “’Rita?” she asked. “It’s strawberry. Very healthy. Strawberries are an aphrodisiac, you know.”

“Actually, I think it’s the chocolate they’re usually dipped in,” said Claire.

“Or the champagne you’re supposed to drink with them,” said Poppy from the shadows, where she was sitting on a rail with someone Claire recognized as An Artist.

“Champagne,” said Jodi. “Like when my mom remarried?” She made a face.

“You just haven’t had the right champagne,” said Poppy.

Jodi turned, took an enormous swallow of her margarita, and said, “You think? Because this margarita is working just fine.”

Poppy didn’t answer. She turned back to the artist, a handsome woman with kind eyes and short, dark red hair named Pat, Claire now remembered, a woman whose daughter had been pointed out to Claire as a chef.

“Looks like we’re all here,” Claire said, and immediately felt stupid.

“One big happy,” added Dean. He motioned to the grill. “Menu: dogs, burgers, veggie burgers, and organic chicken.”

“I wish I’d known,” Claire said. “I . . . we could have stopped and gotten something on the way.”

“Don’t worry. It just sort of happened.” Dean smiled. It
wasn’t a reassuring smile. Claire had the sensation of being watched—studied, almost. “Things do just sort of happen, don’t they?”

Finn said, “I’m not particular. A ’rita would be great. But Barrel here prefers hamburgers. Pretty much fully loaded except for onions.”

“Come sit with us, Claire.” Linley patted the seat next to her. “Catch up with the party.”

Claire glanced at Finn, but he was engrossed in menu negotiations with Dean on behalf of Barrel. Obediently, Claire went over to join Linley.

“This is Nicholas,” said Linley, motioning to the guy on the other side of her. “He’s a fan of Banger Slammers.”

“More of the people who serve them,” Nicholas said. He looked smooth and surfer preppy, as if he’d learned to do a lot of things well from expensive lessons. Claire had been in California long enough now to not be surprised at how ubiquitous the East Coast prep boys she’d grown up with really were.

Linley laughed. “Tell me about it,” she said.

Jodi slid down on the other side of Claire. “If everybody’s here, who’s working at Banger’s tonight?” asked Claire. I’m not a virgin anymore and it doesn’t even show, she thought.

“Others who are not us,” said Jodi solemnly. “Besides, I found another job today. At an after-hours sort of place. Booze and breakfast . . . Had to celebrate while I had the time. And how was your day?”

Claire felt herself blushing. But it was dark. So that was okay.

“Fine,” she said. She was fine, wasn’t she? She didn’t know. She’d wanted it to happen, but then it had all seemed to happen so fast.

“Claire? Hello?” said Jodi.

“Oh,” said Claire. She would not look at Finn. “I had a surf lesson. With Finn.” Saying his name, she felt herself blush again. She had to stop doing that.

It had been very surprising. Had she done everything right?

“How’d it go?” Jodi asked. “Are you totally hooked?”

“On . . . on surfing? Yes! Well, not totally, but. . .”

“Not totally. Not yet. But give it a few more times. That’s the way it is when you’re a virgin.”

“What?” Claire choked on her drink.

“A surf virgin,” said Jodi. She raised her glass. “Here’s to Claire, who’s not a virgin anymore.”

“Who’s a virgin?” The word had caught Linley’s attention. “Claire? Ha. She’s just a . . .”

“Watch it,” warned Claire, trying to keep it light.

“‘Careful girl,’ that’s what I was going to say,” Linley finished with mock primness.

“I bet you were. Jodi’s talking about surfing. I had my first surf lesson today,” Claire explained. She took a drink to steady her nerves.

“Ohhh. How did you like the feel of that nice big board
between your legs?” Linley was being impossible. But at least she didn’t seem to notice anything different about Claire. She went on: “Jodi, on the other hand, is a switch-hitter, aren’t you, Jodi?”

“What?” said Jodi sharply.

“You body board, too,” said Linley, her gaze now fixed on Jodi.

Jodi stared back with narrowed eyes. Her spiked hair made her look like a fierce porcupine.

“I would’ve liked it better beneath my feet. I kept falling off,” Claire answered. What was Linley up to? Sometimes she hated Linley. How could she be so, so insensitive?

Get a grip, she told herself. Linley doesn’t know.

She felt different. She was different. Quickly, Claire said, “Good margaritas. Oh! Max is making them.”

“He lives here, remember?” said Linley and turned immediately back to Ned. Or Nathan, Claire wondered. Nicholas? Whatever his name was—a generic Linley one-nighter. But then, he probably had the same goal in mind, Claire thought.